Underwear cricket, secret beaches, and other wonders from Margaret River
Letter #49 - Margaret River, WA
G’day!
Welcome to Letters From the Road, and letter number 49. This letter comes to you from Margaret River, which you knew from the title. But in addition to underwear cricket et al, it’s also the land of tall trees and unhomogenised milk, and all things beautiful to nomads, wanderers and gypsies.
Letters From the Road is the story of the road trip around Australia that I took with my wife and two boys back in 2019.
The story comes to you in weekly installments, featuring the journal entries I wrote during the trip. The journal entries are word-for-word, and you’ll see them highlighted in the letter.
If you missed any letters and would like to catch up, you can find the other 48 letters here, being read by a guy named Dave during a break in the cricket.
Hooroo!
Luke
If you live amongst gypsies for long enough, you might just realise that you’re one of them.
We had been travelling for nearly twelve months, but had not come across a small motley community of curious people like the one we did at the Big Valley Campsite. Somehow we ended up fitting in, and staying a while - longer, I think, than any place during our entire road trip.
You’ll find the entrance to Big Valley just off Wallis Road, amongst thick forest just east of the town of Margaret River. A long dirt road eventually opens up into the farm, and you drive for a few moments between paddocks filled with sheep before coming to a large white farmhouse at the end of the road.
Scattered to the north of the farmhouse are several long low slung farm buildings housing tractors and animals, the inner workings of the operating farm. Grand gum trees to one side provide shade for a lovely collection of rectangular and numbered grassy sites for tents and caravans.
This is the part of Big Valley where children run around freely, happily playing games and riding their bikes. The farmhouse was steps away, where you could buy local honey for your morning toast, or lamb for dinner that came straight from the paddock.
The farm dog roamed the area, saying hello to people, keeping an eye on the children, and refilling cocktails in the late afternoon sun.
Keep walking past all that, over the road and through some trees is the northside. The trees were less grand, the grass scruffy.
There are no numbered sites here, it’s more of a laissez-faire free for all. Tents and caravans are loosely organised amongst the low trees in a semi circle facing the open air camp kitchen. The kitchen and the large round fire pit to its front functioned as a kind of town square for the area.
When we had arrived a few days earlier, Katie and I were escorted past all the big green sites and up to this area. The owner scanned the space and pointed to an open square of flat ground in between a tent occupied by an old woman, and a tarped caravan that looked like it had been there for a while.
It did not take long for it to become apparent that this place was a bit different.
11th December 2019 - Big Valley
The Big Valley Campsite, it’s got a weird small country town kinda feel. Several of the people seem to be long term residents, though this isn’t the standard caravan park feeling. People gather, 3 or 4 or more of them, outside the camp kitchen each night, just to shoot the shit.There’s an old woman next door to us, she’s apparently living here in her tent until April. She gave one of the other residents, a French girl, a ride to work this morning.
The French girl and her partner cooked up some fish they caught yesterday and shared it with the talkative English bloke (from ‘the second capital’ of Manchester, he said) and the guy with long hair who lives on our other side in the old caravan that’s covered in a tarp.
They all talk like they know a little of each other’s business, saying things like ‘how was work today?, just like proper neighbors or housemates. We’ve not had either in nearly a year.
It’s weird, but I kinda like it.
Heading to Augusta today, I think, to see the spot where the Indian Ocean meets the Southern Ocean. Then hopefully we’ll go see the karri trees in Boranup forest. One day at a time here.
Did all that and went to Paul’s secret beach. The drive in, down a deserted one lane packed sand track, was awesome.
I had an old friend named Paul who had lived for a time in Perth. When I asked him for recommendations for what to do in Margaret River, he didn’t mention a favourite winery, a chocolate zoo or a hedge maze. He provided coordinates.
We followed the coordinates down a couple of offroad tracks, sometimes arriving at junctions and having to guess at the correct direction based on what we thought would head roughly toward the ocean, until we ultimately found ourselves at a spot where the road ended at a cliff overlooking a deserted stretch of white sand beach.
The lesson here is that if you ever have a friend who provides directions to a secret beach, you should take them.
From the beach you could spy a tall white lighthouse that sits on a spit of land jutting out into the ocean from the mainland named Cape Leeuwin. It is there where you can see two oceans converging.
At the Cape, there are several placards talking about the meeting of the two oceans, but even though there’s just the ocean to see, you can only guess at the churning currents that are colliding out there in the blue.
It’s also fun to spend a moment staring off to the south, where there’s next to nothing but water in between you and Antarctica.
The confluence of the oceans was nice, but windy as F. The lighthouse and surrounds reminded me of the Wilsons Prom lighthouse, though I think everything about Wilson’s was better, save for the actual lighthouse.
We rounded out our day by driving through Boranup Forest, and craning our necks to gawk at the tall karri trees that are amongst the tallest trees in the world. They are also unique to the area - the karri is one of several types of eucalyptus trees that live in southwest Australia and nowhere else in the world.
I could have wandered amongst these giants all day, staring at their smooth creamy white coloured trunks rising out of sight, but, you know, we had been visiting beaches and wondering at converging oceans.
It was days like this one that made us think we might stay for a while in Margaret River. Thinking ahead to the future, however, and my thoughts turned to Christmas.
12th December 2019 - Big Valley
I need to figure out Xmas. Fuck me. I’ve nothing for Katie, nothing for boys, though we’re saying that the Rottnest Island excursion plus summer camp is it. But that’s no fun.How to make it special? How to make it fun? We’ve only got a week to figure this out.
Christmas on the road is tough. You’ll be somewhere unfamiliar, your ability to cook up a special meal is limited, and good luck sneaking off to buy some gifts.
It’s possible my preoccupation caused me to go to sleep with my clothes on.
Katie complained tonight about finding a bunch of sand in our bed. Probably me, with pockets full of the stuff from digging holes on the beach with Oscar.
And for some reason I was sleeping in my shorts.
She also complained about finding ants, but that’s another story....
14th December 2019 - Big Valley
We’ve settled in here now, slowly becoming part of the woodwork. Extended our stay for two more days because we don’t know or care where we go next.
I had a long chat with Old Mate who lives in the caravan next door, and found out some interesting stuff, like the fact that he lived in the Kimberley in Broome and on the Dampier Peninsula for many years, and it was the ‘best time in his life’. And that his name is Dave.
It’s not hard to see that Dave’s a solitary guy. But he likes to talk if you hit him up. Maybe that’s the dozen Victoria Bitters he smashed today, starting in on them at about 12 noon. He’s been watching the cricket, a five day test* between Australia and New Zealand that he watches in his underwear from the comfort of the annex to his caravan that he built with an awning and some tarps.
It is really hot, but still. At least he puts pants on every time he comes out to get another beer.
I asked him why he drinks Victoria Bitter, a Melbourne beer, all the way out there in the corner of Western Australia.
VB’s not a thing where Dave grew up, he wasn’t from Victoria or something, he’s drinking it more so for ‘economical reasons’, and because a 24-can cube of VB fits well in his electric fridge.
Emu Export is ok, he says. Crown Lager has something in it that gives him a headache behind his eyes, and he doesn’t like Queensland beers like XXXX, except when he needs to drive, then he’ll drink XXXX Gold.*
Remind me not to let Dave drive me anywhere.
An old French woman appeared out of nowhere and made a lamb stew in the camp kitchen tonight, which she ate with the young Frenchies - bread, salad, lamb stew and lots of wine. Wow. That’s camping!
We also formally met the French girl, her name is Eva.
Eva and her French boyfriend worked at a dairy farm doing odd jobs. They were allowed to bring home some of the fruits of their labour, which usually meant jugs of milk. On this night, they shared some with us, which does not seem like much, the sharing of some milk. But this was not like the milk we buy at the store in three litre bottles.
This was unpasteurised, straight from the cow, and unhomogenised, so you got both liquid and a layer of pure cream. The pale yellow mixture was so creamy, rich and delicious, having some was like having dessert. I found myself sneaking little tastes each day.
*A five day test is one of the most heinous forms of cricket, where the game runs over the span of five days. No event should last five days. As I observed, Dave’s strategy of drinking heavily in your underwear could make it slightly more palatable.
*Your guide to Australian beers is here.
Becoming part of the woodwork also meant being accepted in as part of the little community living on the north side of Big Valley. Something happened the morning after my conversation with Dave that goes to that point.
We were sitting around our campsite after breakfast, trying to motivate ourselves to head out to do some more sightseeing. It was Sunday and camp was quiet, seemingly deserted. After the cool weather that welcomed us to the area a few days ago, the heat had come back and had pushed into the 30’s.
People were either gone or having a quiet time to themselves. Then the sun faded, like when a passing cloud blots it out and dims the light.
This wasn’t clouds, though, something else was going on. As stealthy as a teenager sneaking in the house after curfew, a gray smoke had slowly descended on our valley in an eerie blanket like London fog. The smell of fire was in the air.
More from smokey Big Valley in my next letter.
"Dave’s strategy of drinking heavily in your underwear could make it slightly more palatable"
very funny