This is Kermie’s perfect holiday
THIS is the time of the year where we look at getting some R & R.
School holidays are over and in turn, the cost of caravan parks drops considerably.
In previous years we headed for Kingscliff on the New South Wales north coast where we had an exquisite caravan parking spot that was absolute beach frontage and afforded us 180 degree views of the ocean.
Unfortunately the Tweed Council determined that 180 plus sites was more than the town (and its businesses) deserved so cut the number of sites to 35 with an equivalent number of super expensive seaside villas – which got the views in preference to the poorer caravanner.
Last year we tried Tuross Head on the NSW south coast. Whilst a lovely spot, it just didn’t quite capture our imagination.
So, late last year when discussing possible destinations, Rita suggested that we might look west, rather than north. Investigation led her to Brighton Beach Caravan Park, just south of Adelaide.
My two pennies worth was to proffer that, as we would be halfway there because of the Koroit Truck Show, we may as well keep going.
Now here’s a tip for you. Never book online! We had a look via those booking websites and were “told” that no beachfront sites were available and that we would have to pay all (non-refundable) fees in advance.
As we all know, the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray so I went Olde World and picked up the phone to talk to a person at the other end.
One night’s deposit? That’s fine. Beach front site? Of course. We have a couple available.
Staying for a couple of weeks? Buy six nights and have the seventh on us.
And by booking over the phone the caravan park is making more money than via these rip-off websites. A win-win I say.
So January comes around and it’s a trip to Tooradin (for the first time), followed by Koroit a week later.
Both are fantastic truck shows and are covered elsewhere in this issue.
With the Koroit show on the Saturday, Sunday was spent writing it up and sorting through the myriad of photos.
Monday was pack-up and time to move on towards Brighton Beach, via Robe (for three nights).
Of course, and true to form, the NavGod decides to take us across long miles of road where the tarmac is not much wider than the white line and where every jacked up, spotlight laden, truck-sized bullbar-endowed 4WD draped in Australia Day flags from their celebrations of the day before is heading in the opposite direction at 110 plus km/h.
Fuel is starting to become a bit of a concern as, on another occasion when towing and fuel was low, the car threw a wobbly. That was an extremely hot day but, and this is a pleasant 22.
“Yeah … nah,” decides Murphy, as he throws a spanner into the workings of the Territory and she starts coughing and spluttering in the middle of what we presume is bum – f--- – nowhere.
We are lucky to find somewhere to pull off the narrow ribbon of road.
Of course, when this happens the blood pressure rises in strict adherence to the elevated stress levels. And the first thing I want is a smoke.
Like I want one really badly! This is not a good thing because I have managed (yet again) to go without one for a full week – since mate Don passed on his lousy cough and the smoke levels from the bushfires made breathing more desirable than lighting up.
Murphy it seems, just likes to play around the edges with me these days and after a couple of minutes sitting on the side of the road, I fired the old girl up and she ran smoothly. Even better was that around the next corner and no more than 500 yards away was a servo so we could fill up.
Touch wood, we had plain sailing from there to Robe where I sit writing this piece. I even managed to fight the little Irish Bastard’s wish for me to shove a gasper in my gob.
So here we sit at Robe until the site at Brighton becomes available. We have a nice site overlooking the ocean and neighbours who insist on using our space as a walk-though – without acknowledging our existence.
“That’s OK,” I replied to an exasperated Rita. “I may have given up smoking but you haven’t. Light one up and that’ll get rid of ‘em.” Sure did! Lolol.
Chinese water torture is supposed to be just that – where the incessant dripping of water on your forehead becomes an anvil and ends up driving you insane. But there is something oh so soothing about being by the ocean.
The constant crashing of the waves on the shoreline is, to me anyway, blissful in its repetitiveness. I sleep better in the van by the seaside than anywhere else and that’s great for recharging the bod for the year ahead.
So the hols have begun for us and we intend to do as we always have – lots of sittin’ and lookin’.
I could say that I’ll be thinking of you lot out on the highways and byways, but I’m not that good a politician.
But I will at least say …
Take care of you.