Sleepless nights
I was quite proud the other day when I realised that not once since we got to Australia have we booked our accommodation in advance. Our tactic, which for the most part has served us well, is just to turn up somewhere and hope that they've got somewhere for us to sleep. If they don't, we move on to the next place until we find somewhere. Like I said, it's served us well for the most part, but it hasn't always...
For most of our jaunt up the east coast, we camped. It's cheap, it's cheerful, the weather was almost always agreeable and we got a load of camping stuff free with the car. So it was the best way to do things. There's alot of free camping areas in Australia, but when we were staying on the Gold Coast and visiting the theme parks, there were no free or even remotely cheap camping sites nearby as it's a big tourist area. So we went for the 'side of the road' option, which is pretty self explanatory. One night we found a particularly lovely spot overlooking a valley near a place called Mt. Tambourine, and I was beginning to warm to the idea of doing what the police don't like you doing. The next night, however, we couldn't find a particularly nice place and so ended up camping next to a reasonably busy artery running into the south of Brisbane, which was made worse by the fact that I'd managed to misplace the stopper for our air bed that morning, back at Mt. Tambourine. This was followed by a frown on Jen's face and an uncomfortable nights sleep.
The next evening just before sunset we drove all the way back up to Mt. Tambourine (it wasn't actually that far) so we could scrabble around in the dirt by the road looking for the stopper. By some small miracle I found it, and was calmly but sincerely instructed not to touch the mattress again.
Two or three nights later we as Jen and I lay giggling in the tent after polishing off several bottles of beer, I began to get ready for bed. As I undid my belt, I leant backwards all of an inch, when I heard a sound that sounded remarkably like how an air mattress would sound if it was pierced by something metal and sturdy. I looked down to see the poky bit of my belt completely embedded in the mattress. Luckily I had plied Jen with enough alcohol, so she merely repeated 'Oh my god!' before rolling about laughing.
I'm not sure how we managed it exactly, but somehow we found the puncture repair kit and successfully patched the mattress up. It was another small miracle, and I was calmly but sincerely instructed to undress at least three feet from the tent from then on.
Last week sometime, after leaving Adelaide en route to the Barossa, we stopped overnight at a place called Cudlee Creek, as there was a small wildlife park Claire wanted to visit. After over a week of sleeping in beds, the reaction to camping again wasn't what you'd call enthusiastic, but hey, it's not that bad. This 'get on with it' spirit soon waned after I discovered that I'd misplaced our sleeping bag - the bedding Jen had loving and expertly created in the Blue Mountains by stitching together a K-Mart duvet and a sheet borrowed from a hostel. I unpacked almost the entire car before I admitted that I had in all probability forgotton to pack it that morning. We ended up spending the night in the car shivering under layers of clothing and a thin blanket, and thought things couldn't get any worse until we realised we'd ran the car battery flat by leaving the lights on for too long. How I haven't been dropped from the expedition completely by now I'll never know.
Bearing all this in mind, the night before last I had the most uncomfortable nights sleep I've possibly ever had, in the wonderful (ie. it's a wonder the place hasn't been condemned) confines of Melbourne's 'All Nations' backpackers. We opened the door of our dorm to be greeted with a stench all too familiar to anyone who has lived with Jeff Davies and his atomic socks. The rooms are small and cramped, the paint is peeling off, a solitary, unshaded bulb hangs from a high ceiling like a snot ready to drop, and the mattress felt like it was filled with electrical cables and forks (all pointing upwards), and nothing else. Every time I manouvered my body into a position that was marginally comfortable, another fork decided that my ribcage was a fine resting place, or that my buttocks could use some night time prodding.
Needless to say we complained the next morning and to the credit of the All Nations, we were instantly moved into a room that wouldn't look out of place in a horror movie. It's not like us to complain but it was pretty bad - even for someone who has lived with Jeff's atomic socks.
For most of our jaunt up the east coast, we camped. It's cheap, it's cheerful, the weather was almost always agreeable and we got a load of camping stuff free with the car. So it was the best way to do things. There's alot of free camping areas in Australia, but when we were staying on the Gold Coast and visiting the theme parks, there were no free or even remotely cheap camping sites nearby as it's a big tourist area. So we went for the 'side of the road' option, which is pretty self explanatory. One night we found a particularly lovely spot overlooking a valley near a place called Mt. Tambourine, and I was beginning to warm to the idea of doing what the police don't like you doing. The next night, however, we couldn't find a particularly nice place and so ended up camping next to a reasonably busy artery running into the south of Brisbane, which was made worse by the fact that I'd managed to misplace the stopper for our air bed that morning, back at Mt. Tambourine. This was followed by a frown on Jen's face and an uncomfortable nights sleep.
The next evening just before sunset we drove all the way back up to Mt. Tambourine (it wasn't actually that far) so we could scrabble around in the dirt by the road looking for the stopper. By some small miracle I found it, and was calmly but sincerely instructed not to touch the mattress again.
Two or three nights later we as Jen and I lay giggling in the tent after polishing off several bottles of beer, I began to get ready for bed. As I undid my belt, I leant backwards all of an inch, when I heard a sound that sounded remarkably like how an air mattress would sound if it was pierced by something metal and sturdy. I looked down to see the poky bit of my belt completely embedded in the mattress. Luckily I had plied Jen with enough alcohol, so she merely repeated 'Oh my god!' before rolling about laughing.
I'm not sure how we managed it exactly, but somehow we found the puncture repair kit and successfully patched the mattress up. It was another small miracle, and I was calmly but sincerely instructed to undress at least three feet from the tent from then on.
Last week sometime, after leaving Adelaide en route to the Barossa, we stopped overnight at a place called Cudlee Creek, as there was a small wildlife park Claire wanted to visit. After over a week of sleeping in beds, the reaction to camping again wasn't what you'd call enthusiastic, but hey, it's not that bad. This 'get on with it' spirit soon waned after I discovered that I'd misplaced our sleeping bag - the bedding Jen had loving and expertly created in the Blue Mountains by stitching together a K-Mart duvet and a sheet borrowed from a hostel. I unpacked almost the entire car before I admitted that I had in all probability forgotton to pack it that morning. We ended up spending the night in the car shivering under layers of clothing and a thin blanket, and thought things couldn't get any worse until we realised we'd ran the car battery flat by leaving the lights on for too long. How I haven't been dropped from the expedition completely by now I'll never know.
Bearing all this in mind, the night before last I had the most uncomfortable nights sleep I've possibly ever had, in the wonderful (ie. it's a wonder the place hasn't been condemned) confines of Melbourne's 'All Nations' backpackers. We opened the door of our dorm to be greeted with a stench all too familiar to anyone who has lived with Jeff Davies and his atomic socks. The rooms are small and cramped, the paint is peeling off, a solitary, unshaded bulb hangs from a high ceiling like a snot ready to drop, and the mattress felt like it was filled with electrical cables and forks (all pointing upwards), and nothing else. Every time I manouvered my body into a position that was marginally comfortable, another fork decided that my ribcage was a fine resting place, or that my buttocks could use some night time prodding.
Needless to say we complained the next morning and to the credit of the All Nations, we were instantly moved into a room that wouldn't look out of place in a horror movie. It's not like us to complain but it was pretty bad - even for someone who has lived with Jeff's atomic socks.
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