A night at the Royal Exchange

Burra

At the far end of town you’ll find the old Royal Exchange of Burra heights. Horse had previously called ahead and booked us a room for the night in an attempt to escape the execrable easterly.

The two double doors were held fast by a bent coach bolt and screw-driver. On discovery Horse booming in laughter as he dislodged them and made his entrance. Key in hand (from the twenty something son of the lady proprietor), we clattered our way with panniers, bags and bits up the weathered wooden stairwell, making sure to keep a safe distance from time beaten balustrade. Then meandered through dim hallways to our equally dim room.

The crack of the light socket and the single overhead bulb revealed two crusty creaking single beds and an electrical multi-plug, that flickered orange like the remnant glow of previous occupants last cigarette. The room taller than it was wide, its nearly 200 years of history peeling from its plastered walls. A true classic.

I drew the stiff curtains to lift the gloom. Above the air conditioner scrawled into the dusty glass were the words ‘Hi’ and ‘Help me!’ I burst into hysterics. “Christ, let’s get a beer” said Horse.

A night to remember

It wasn’t quite five pm when we made our way to the pubic bar. Empty, but for me, Horse and the twenty something son of the lady proprietor.

I walked to end of the corrugation and collapsed into one of the few available bar stools. Like the original memory foam of 100,000 previous posteriors, I didn’t so much as sit, but be absorbed into the stools broken vinyl and moist decaying sponge. As we melded as one, it became clear I wasn’t moving far this night. “Two pints of the black stuff please mate.” requested horse.

The regulars began making their way in, throwing cursory glances our way as they placed their orders and stayed a safe distance. Horse and I at one end, and a mob of locals squeezed in at the other. Then they heard us, our accents I mean and it was all on. Especially from one grim bearded beanie wearing bugger in the middle of the mob.

img_2803He took particular delight at ‘taking the piss’ out of Horse’s follical impairment. I removed my buff in brave support, only to receive an explosive crackle from the bearded bugger, as he tugged the top of his beanie and to our surprise, he also shared the same barber as us. The evening had now only just begun.

Damn good buggers

The bearded bugger was called Phil’. Local legend, only he wasn’t a local. Born in Clare, only a few ‘biscuit throws’ from Burra where he’d been living for the last twenty years.

img_2805-1

We all drank pints of the black stuff with a seasoning of salt n’ pepper, and talked absolute rubbish for half the night. The other half was spent talking to Dave the Barman and partner of the ‘Missus’ (the lady proprietor with the twenty something son). Now Dave was a special kind of Legend. He was a former Seargent serving at her Majesty’s pleasure as a British Paratrooper. More to the point, Dave had served in the Falklands war and escaped the United Kingdom shortly after for a new life in the lucky country.

The night wore on and awash with beer, I eventually prised myself from the seat, chin up to keep it all in, we both clattered back up that weathered wooden stairwell under the cover of a single naked sixty watt bulb.

The day faded fast, but not its memories.

Burra or bust

Birdwood to Burra (via Kapunda)

“Screw the plan Horse” I said as I threw a stack of maps on the table. He’d just pushed back after devouring a steak bigger than his head. With a nonchalant “How so?” he reached for a glass of the black stuff and a toothpick.

All day long we’d talked about what would be required to catch up on time lost. We both wanted to get up north east, way beyond the Burra. Where the maps turn from green to rust orange. That had to be the boundary where wild things are.

We were way behind and the elements were testing. Today’s headwind was only a precursor of what we could expect. We sat well into the night. warming in the Blumberg hotel considering our options.

Beyond vineyards

Cool eddy’s spun gum leaves Iike marionettes down Shannon street as we headed out on trail. We’re following the Mawson through back roads and forests to the Barossa.

It was all familiar green, but not. Everywhere mobs of ‘Roo crossed trails as we slowly crawled our way up into the chill blast. Before eventually bursting through the saddle just east of Pewsey Vale Peak, then down down down to the warmth of the valley floor.

After a feed of eclairs from die Barossa wurst haus bakery so large they had their own gravitational pull, we pushed on for remainder to Kapunda.

Earthy roads

No seal, all is red, red dirt, red dust and red rain. A rustic blusher that penetrates the very core. Old ground, ground into the very DNA of every Australian. A quintessential genome.

We peered into the high contrast landscape of a setting sun and entered the beautiful Kapunda. Late, loved, but worth it.

Onward to Burra

Burra was still a day away and the wind was worse than previous. Horse hatched a plan. We’d go off trail and direct to our destination. ‘Better to have the wind at our rear shoulder than our front’. He said. Wise words from the road.

We collapsed within the lee of the Marrabel pub mid morning. A wind weather old grey man yelled across the tinder burnt stock yards that ‘the pub don’t open till eleven’. I smirked and yelled back ‘bugger’, knowing full well my next beer wouldn’t be served here.

Pushing on.

Seal turned to stone, then red dirt. The wind, it never changed. We made good to Waterloo and rest. Now in old Tom Kruse country we were officially in the ‘back of beyond’ (or so the movie goes).

One more wind weathering push and we made the big B’ and beer. Now for a place to stay. Well that would have to be the Royal exchange in Burra heights. Now there is a story…

Todays top track: Led Zepplin – Black dog

(The Royal exchange really should be ‘Hotel California’)

We blew it

Adelaide to Birdwood

The overnight squal had abated but it’s companion the breeze was here for the day. A constant twenty knots blowing from the south east chased us up the coast to the mouth of the Torrens.

It was there that we turned inland and the sanctuary of overhead acacia and gum. Following the river as it meandered lazily into the heart of the great formal city – Adelaide.

“Mate this place is impeccable” muttered Horse, and it was. It has beautiful trashless trails that open up onto wide manicured fields and open public spaces. All the way from sea to summit.

We blew it

After all the delays our original plans were a complete shambles. So we decided to improvise and follow the coast as best we could north to Port Wakefield then overland to Wallaroo before heading god knows where.

This required us to turn off the Adelaide river trail just prior to the Hope valley. But we blew it. In the bliss of a good back wind we’d blown right past that deviation. And now the shadow of the Black Hill loomed.

In the silence of our collective smirk we knew the right decision. We pushed on up the trail to the Mawson. ‘The mission was still on.’

Claw and crawl

We turned off Torrens Gorge and began the crawl up Stone hut Road. We were at the trail head with a 450m climb in a little under six k’s. “’Rude’ I thought, but I’ve been here before.

Everything I’d read prior reinforced my current demeanour – this was going to be a mofo section.

Gravel was soon replaced with rust coloured soil and mobs of kangaroos. We scrambled our way up, at times pushing and coaxing the heavy bikes through the soft stuff.

Then startled, we burst through the forest at its crest to be greeted by a tortured live rendition of old Tom Waits Rain dogs.

Like a beacon in the roughage to a world civil, we followed its source to Andersons vineyard. Shiraz shortly followed.

The drop and drivel

It grew close, cold and quick. We had already reached todays temperature high of 11 degrees, but without the wind chill. Our blood now thickened, we set off for the drop to Lobethal, shelter and a much needed feed at the Rising Star.

Horse found god at the Rising Star. It came in the form of a cheese toasty and accompanying bowl of liquid garlic butter. As I read the deep fried menu with growing alarm, I couldn’t help but reminisce at the sight of last Friday nights salad.

After prizing Horse from the bar, we made good ground north to Birdwood and the nights shelter. Escorted on route by a squadron of Galahs. who chasing the last of the days light, skipping and swooping through the trees, the lightning flashes of crimson under wing.

Day over, we were pleased to have finally put some distance behind us.

Today’s top track: Tom Waits – Rain dogs

No time to spare

Marooned in Adelaide

11:27am

Confirmation. The bikes are here somewhere, but for now that may as well be nowhere. So we’re instructed by the airline to remain at the motel to take delivery.

1:34 pm

A sea fog rolls over my malcontent. What was once a sunny trail has been replaced with the cool grey cling of uncertainty as we continue to wait well past noon.

Boredom. Killing time reconsidering routes and staring out into the empty forecourt of the Genelg motor inn. I’m not sure what’s gloomier, the atmosphere in here or the fog out there.

2:53 pm

Two battered bike boxes arrive along with some pissant courier. He was doing his best to be obstructive by refusing to deliver them anywhere else but the reception. Creating no end of consternation with management that was clearly audible from the forecourt of the Genelg motor inn.

3:52 pm

Reassembled, checked and rechecked we were off. Horses helmet (destroyed in transit) needed replacement. We burst through the bike shop doors with minutes to spare. Bought. Gone.

4:02 pm

Now we needed to bike across town to get the last of our provisions from ‘Anaconda’. I wasn’t sure who Anna Conda was, all I know is she had a sexy voice on the phone.

4:37 pm

We made the serpentine temptress, but Anna had been replaced by a spotty teenager. Oblivious of my requests and obviously more interested to escape in his four wheeled wet dream at five.

Provisions sourced, we retraced our trail in the failing light and fog of the Genelg motor inn.

5:21 pm.

‘Bugger this’ muttered Horse, ‘let’s get a beer’.

8:41 pm

It arrived. A fierce south easterly squall made good what it was threatening all day. It arrived with a banshee howl and throat rattle of an old smoker.

I didn’t care. Horse didn’t care. And I doubt Anna Conda cared. For tomorrow we ride.

Where to? Well that was a question neither of us knew the answer to.

All I knew is we weren’t going to spend another day at the Genelg motor inn.

Not where we want to be

Marooned in Adelaide

“Sheeeeet!”.

I’d just sat down after check in with a coffee when the text appeared; ‘flight cancelled’. The day didn’t get any better.

With that news came the realisation we had lost the opportunity of getting on trail today. Instead we were being rerouted via Sydney on two back to backs to Adelaide. We were split up, squeezed in and driven mad running from an already late leaving flight onto the next.

We waited. Gripping fearlessly on the handles of our empty trolleys in the oversized baggage area. Like formula one racers we lined up, licked our lips and stared out over the passengers in customs hall. We had to navigate that chaos with two boxed bikes and a deadline, I was taking no prisoners. And the only thing standing between us and the finish line was a rotund and moustacheod oversized baggage handler in a blue boiler suit. He waited. We waited. The clock ticked.

Then with a squark clearly audible over the conveyor we heard a sharp nasel quip ‘no bikes on board fight 102 mate’.

It’s fair to say we made the second flight with only seconds to spare and completely bikeless.

So here I sit, cycle shorted and shod staring aimless out over the scorch that is the great southern land. I’m melancholic and considering what might have been. Smirking at the irony; I’d just spent the last few days in a workshops discussing ‘adaptability’.

So there’s nothing else for it… beer on the beach. I think we just lost the Mawson.

Today’s top track: Tom Waits – Tom Traubert’s blues