Bacon, bum nuts and bourbon ... for breakfast. Beauty

When you get to my age, birthdays don’t mean a lot (to me anyway … it may have something to do with the fact that I’ve had so many of the bloody things).

My most recent anniversary, though, was a special one. Not for any particular reason other than the location and the company.

Day three of our camping trip dawned with yet another beautiful outlook (my philosophy is that every day is beautiful) once the fog had moved to greener pastures.

Once a smoke was rolled and a pee was peed, the fire was given a new lease of life and the billy was doing its duty, it was time to contemplate just where the past year had gone. And Christ, it had gone quickly (they do once you attain a certain level of maturity).

Any thoughts of the past disappeared when Liam suggested bacon, eggs and toast should be mandatory.

“I’ll make a pot of espresso,” I said, “That should kick-start things.”

“I reckon that, given it’s your birthday, we should celebrate with a strong coffee with a decent splash of Jack in it,” said Liam.

Bourbon and coffee? I was all for it, which I guess negates the suggestion of maturity I made a couple of paragraphs ago. No matter. It was to be our only strong drink for about eight hours so what’s the harm?

Bacon, bum nuts (they're eggs to the uninitiated) and toast, coffee and bourbon (yeah, it had a wonderfully warming effect), the river doing its thing just metres away, the fire warming our toes, cockatoos holding what seemed like ridiculously loud conversations … it’s hard to imagine a better start to any day.

A couple of cups and tea and a smoke or two rounded out breakfast before the dishes beckoned and then a trip to town to get supplies.

Once we hit the main road and got reception, my phone did its thing with a gaggle of messages (can you have a gaggle of messages? Don’t care if you can’t) and calls to wish me a happy birthday. Speaking of collective nouns, I had a great friend (he’s now propped up at the great bar in the sky) who had, to my mind, the best collective noun ever. Every day at the office at about 12.30, he’d say: “I’m off for a collapse of brandies.” Just thought I’d like to share that with you.

Given that we were in town, it seemed like a good idea to do the pub lunch thing. A country pub chicken parma was the order of the day for me and bangers and mash for Liam. While we waited for the kitchen to do its thing, we decided a game of pool was in order. Liam won. That in itself is not usually the norm. There’s history there. I have the inherent ability to get into his head when we are playing pool and he, there’s no other way to say this, chokes. Years ago when we were in Munich, we were in a bar playing pool and I beat him 14 games in a row, often from seemingly hopeless positions. He was a very angry young man. (About 12 years ago when I was a regular at the local pub, I played two games against former world snooker champ Eddie Charlton before interviewing him for a story, but that’s something for another day.)

With pool and lunch done, we headed to the supermarket to get supplies. Given that we’d indulged in a fair amount of dead beast during our time on the river, we decided to go healthy. I was going to make vegetable soup. We bought a shite load of same and wandered back to camp.

The afternoon seemed like a good time to lock the hubs and do some four-wheel-drive exploring (gathering firewood along the way) of the many and varied tracks around the area. We took both vehicles.

It was a good thing, given my lack of experience in 4WDing (Liam did plenty in Vanuatu). There’s no better way to learn that just doing it. I took the LandCruiser to places it had never been. “I’ve just run out of track,” I said to Liam on the UHF. “You’re in a bloody LandCruiser,” he said, “make a track.” I did.

By the time we were all tracked out (and had a good supply of firewood), beer o’clock loomed.

There’s something pretty special about having a beer, sitting by a fire and peeling and chopping vegetables. I filled the camp oven with river water, chucked in carrots, cabbage, potatoes, broccoli, pumpkin, peas, chickpeas, cannellini beans, parsnip, swede, a couple of bottles of passata (OK, I didn’t throw in the bottles) and some salt. A couple of hours on the fire and voila, it was done. It was as thick as an English soccer hooligan, and tasted bloody excellent. Each of us armed with a big chunk of baguette and a glass of wine or seven didn’t lessen the experience. We can play.

And play Liam did ... the guitar anyway and we tried to write a song based around the lone black swan that had been cruising the river in our neck of the woods. It was a great way to end the day.

The days rolled into each other with the sort of ease I’m looking forward to on the road. We did what we had to do. No pressure, no deadlines, no TV, no radio, nothing but good food, good wine and good company. About the only productive thing we did was give the generator a test run, which was great. It’s not as noisy as I thought it would be.

The lightest moment of the whole trip (and there were plenty, including a mouse doing the breaststroke in a bucket one morning and me doing a Homer Simpson impersonation by treating a glow stick as a cigarette) came when Liam said: “Bugger it. I can’t be here by the water all week and not have a swim.”

It was beautifully sunny although the water, I reckoned, was at the wrong end of the temperature scale. He put on his boardies and, with a determined look on his face, marched into the water. OK, he was ankle deep. “Shit,” he said, “this is painfully cold. It actually hurts.” They’re not words I usually hear from him … he’s a fearless bugger. He splashed himself and then turned and said: “Nah, I can’t do it.”

We did give the LandCruiser a chance to do its stuff one afternoon and took it on a track along the river bank. The beast climbed over fallen trees, up rises that I once wouldn’t have dreamed of doing, and ended up negotiating terrain that could only be done in a four-wheel-drive. Shit, it was fun.

As always, though, the fun comes to an end, as did our week and before we knew it, it was time to break camp and point the vehicles in the direction of home. I suggested that rather than cook breakfast, we should pack and head to Yarrawonga and let someone else do the cooking. It was a good move.

We were sitting on the footpath outside a cafe, waiting for our food to arrive, when I heard my name. It was my friend, Tom, who lives in the town. I hadn’t seen him for a while. We used to go camping together with our young families. Tom hadn’t seen Liam since he was about 10. It was a great catch-up before we hit the road, bound for Toolleen to catch up with our great friends Jodie and Stef, with whom we’d stay the night and have a bite to drink.

I can’t say we enjoyed the drive. The traffic in Shepparton was shitful, not helped, I guess, by the police and media throng at a siege being staged by some bloke dressed in a Medieval costume. I can’t remember seeing so many coppers in one place.

The view as we negotiated the road to the farm was a cracker and worth the price of admission.

It was wonderful to see Jodie and Stef. It had been Pfarr (that’s their name) too long between drinks, something that was rectified immediately we’d arrived.

If the drinks were good (and they were), then Jodie’s food took things to a whole new level. Simply, it was the best vegetarian food that Liam and I had ever eaten. The girl’s a genius.

I opted to sleep in the swag despite the offer of the couch in a warm room (it must be a bloke thing) while Liam had the spare bed. It was good to be reacquainted with the swag … and waking to the view was a bonus, but not as big a bonus as Jodie’s breakfast. Poached eggs (we went to get the eggs from a woman down the road), homemade hollandaise, toast and the best homemade baked beans with feta. Again, the girl’s a genius.

As is her husband, Stef, who arrived back from a neighbour’s vineyard armed with a grapevine cutting. “This is the start of our vineyard,” he said. They are going to plant out a few hectares and give it a serious crack. All power to them.

All too soon, it was time to head for the big smoke, armed with bottles of Jodie’s homemade (with home-grown ingredients) kasoundi, and capsicum and courgette chutney, both of which are delicious.

Then came the sad part of the week. It was over. Time for a reality check and time to hit the office again. Roll on the next camping trip.

More old man, river, son still shining

Night rolled quickly into day, but what a day it was.

Surprisingly, I was first to shed the doona (OK it wasn’t cold, just fresh) and indulge in a drover’s breakfast … aka a pee, a cigarette and a bit of a look around. That involved taking in the fog. It was quite heavy between us and the bright blue sky … a long narrow band of fog (can you have a band of fog?) snaked its way along the river. It was beautiful.

The first official task was to breathe life into the fire (easily done cos I’m a bag of wind) and fill the billy from the river. It was tea time.

I wandered to the water, billy in hand, and then realised we’d left our baited lines in all night. I retrieved Liam’s unharmed worm and then started on mine. Snagged, I thought, because the line had drifted from the deepish middle of the river to the bank.

No, it wasn’t snagged; there was a beast attached and he was still intent on a fight. I reeled in a decent, better-the-pan-sized yellowbelly. Guilt, not joy, was the order of the day. Had this poor bugger been on the line all night? I hoped not and rather that he’d had a fit of the early-morning hunger pangs and hadn’t been discomforted for too long.

Liam emerged from his tent and came down to meet my latest acquisition. “We gonna cook him?” “Nah, reckon the poor bastard has had enough grief being on the line for maybe the whole night. Time to let him go.” Liam grabbed him and ran plenty of water through his gills and away he went, full of fight for another, hopefully fairer to him, day. We felt good about it.

It’s a bloody good feeling, sitting by the fire with a cup of billy tea, a smoke and pondering what to do with the day. That inherent feeling, of not having to do anything other than what we wanted to do, ran wild.

“Reckon bacon and eggs on toast and more tea would be a good place to start,” said Liam, “I’ll cook.”

Done.

While he was busy in the kitchen, I grabbed a shovel and wandered off to do what I had to do. It was a good time to reflect on what was looming as a problem with my three-way fridge. I’d cooled it on 240 volts the night before we left, and run it on 12 volts in the ute on the trip up. It is obviously having trouble keeping its cool – something that was never going to afflict us on this trip. I’ll get it checked out by someone who knows these things. It was a faithful servant during my 10-month trip a couple of years ago, so I’m quite fond of it. But given that I’m hitting the road at the end of the year for a rest-of-my-life road trip, I’m gonna need something that reliably keeps its cool. Sure, I have a big (think a size for giving the kids a bath) icebox but given that I’ll hopefully be spending big slabs of time without ice being an option, I need to rethink. A Waeco three-way fridge-freezer is on the radar if the old girl fails to pass muster.

Breakfast did its job … the boy can cook. And he did the dishes.

We sat by the fire … it was just for the ambience, it certainly wasn’t cold … and another cuppa did its thing.

“What about we take a long walk into the bush?” said Liam, “Maybe an hour or two. Have a good look around.”

We hadn’t come all this way to ignore what was around us, so we reluctantly (the holiday mood had well and truly kicked in) extracted ourselves from the comfort of a chair by the fire and headed to our digs to dress the part.

What followed was another lesson from Liam. “Got to get my adventure pack,” he said. I looked quizzical enough, so he explained. “I bought a backpack with a bladder in it. You can never have too much water with you. And it’s bright red, deliberately, in case I get lost. I always carry a first-aid kit, a cigarette lighter, some kindling, a water bottle ... you never know. You should get one for your big trip.” It’s on the to-do list.

As we were walking through the bush, scouting for a ready supply of firewood and keeping an eye out for a wild pig or whatever, he said: “I reckon we should do a first-aid course.” He was right. I’m gonna be by myself in the bush a lot and a first-aid course is nothing to carry. We’re booked in for a one-day course in Melbourne next weekend.

Wild pigs were missing from the landscape although, the shotgun blasts in the distance from the night before were an indication that there may be the odd one about. Claypans, with a high but intermittent grass presence, we also another indication.

Instead of porkers we made do with the odd (OK, maybe it wasn’t odd, it’s their home) kangaroo or three, although they weren’t that keen on sharing their space with us. I still get a real kick out of seeing roos in the bush.

After an hour or so, we wandered back to the river and sussed out a couple of likely fishing spots (there were deep holes and lots of fallen timber) tucked in under the willows at the bend in the river near out camp.

We’d spotted enough firewood on the walk to warrant a trip with the LandCruiser into a spot where there were no tracks but the omnipresent fear of really soft, swampy ground. Liam walked ahead to suss it out. No problems.

We threw heaps of fallen timber onto the back of the ute, some of it hanging a metre or two over the tailgate. It’s a good thing to retrieve fallen branches and help to keep the forest floor a bit cleaner … bushfires readily spring to mind.

Getting the ute out of the bush was a breeze, even for someone with my limited four-wheel-driving experience (it’s all about learning), and we headed back to camp to unload and chop enough to keep the cold at bay for the night.

Time for another Liam lesson. Sure, we each had an axe, but I’d also brought the Vanuatu bush knife and a WW2 machete that saw service with my old man in New Guinea. The bush knife is standard for most locals in Vanuatu - people carry them on the streets – and they use them for everything from chopping down trees to slashing excessive greenery, probably even as a toothpick. (OK, I made that up.)

With a solid base in place, he carved through smaller branches (think an inch or two in the old money) most times with a single blow, clean as a whistle.

“There’s a sweet spot about a third of the way down the blade [I’ve included this picture with one of my size 11s to give an idea of the size of the thing] … I got to be pretty good with one while I was over there. Not up to the locals’ standard, mind you, but pretty good,” he said. Then he set about the bigger stuff … think about eight inches or so, again in the old money. It was shades of the Time Warp … it’s a cut to the left, it’s a cut to the right … and he smashed his way through a huge amount quicker than I could have done it with an axe. Still, he’s young and fit. I had a few cracks and liked what I saw. It does work a treat, although rings on fingers are not the ideal accompaniment to such activity and I retired hurt (it was pride, not pain) with a bloody finger.

We decided after the fire was strutting its stuff to give the yabbies and worms another swimming lesson, not that any fish would take any notice.

“Shit, I just got worm in my eye,” said Liam as he threaded a wriggler onto a hook. A spurt of worm (now they’re not words often used together) had gone straight into his eye (that’s Liam, not the worm). Perhaps it was revenge.

Enough fishing. There was certainly no catching involved … the fish simply weren’t hungry but we were.

Slow-cooked lamb casserole with lots of veg and some noodles was the order of the day, but not before a couple of pre-dinner beers and then we attacked a magnum of 2007 Chateau Tahbilk shiraz with the food, a better than fine way to see out the day … and night.

It was doona time.

Old man, river and the son shining

There's nothing like boiling the billy in the morning after cranking up the fire again.

“Shit, I just got worm in my eye.”

 “Sorry, I just kicked over your drink.”

“Oops, I just got soup in my eye.”

 “Bugger, I just knocked over my drink.”

 “Sorry, I just kicked over your drink.”

“Shit.” “What’s wrong?” “I just sat down too fast and now I’m sitting in a puddle of overproof Bundy and Coke.” (The rum was in a cup holder on the chair and, yep, the glass was full. So, I suspect, was the occupier of the chair. But I’m not telling.)

Yeah, my son, Liam, and I had some unusual conversations during our recent week-long camping trip on the Murray River. We also shared some quality bonding time (not that we have ever needed it), some good food, some good wine, meeting up with old friends (OK, they’re not old) and everything else that’s good about camping.

The hardest part of camping, to my mind anyway, is the drive to get there. This one was a breeze, made all the more easy for both of us (we took two vehicles: a HiLux twin cab ute and a LandCruiser ute towing my camper trailer) because we each have a UHF radio, so a chat was never out of the question.

“Reckon a roadside bacon and egg sandwich and a cup of tea followed by a smoke is the order of the morning.” Done.

We even took the time after breakfast to roll a few smokes each to eliminate a few stops and after a couple of hours’ easy driving (the traffic was light all the way) we were in downtown Yarrawonga bound for the supermarket to grab some supplies before making a beeline to a spot about 20 clicks down-river from the town, aka Bruces Bend track.

There are two beaches – Bruces Bend No.1 and No.2 – and after a fair bit of to-ing and fro-ing, exploring other tracks and sites, we opted for a flattish spot on No.2. (And before any pedant complains, not one of the Bruces signs has an apostrophe.)

During this early exploration, we stopped and walked around in search of firewood, which was plentiful if you walked far enough into the bush. Lots of suitable, dry kindling and a few decent-sized fallen branches that would become fire-sustaining logs for what we reckoned would be a cold night.

Liam cuts a fine figure of a bloke, walking out of the bush with a four-metre log on his shoulder (I have just a chip on mine) without so much as a sign of straining to carry it. Wish I had his strength. Maybe if I was 30 years younger. Just maybe.

As always, when you find a suitable site, you position the camper trailer and tent so that when you open the door/flap/whatever  you’re facing the river, the first thing you do is … open a beer.

I find it always helps with set-up.

And set up we did in not a lot of time (OK, maybe two beers each time) and then, with the help of the bush knife I brought back from Vanuatu, we got the chairs positioned and started a fire. Done. The light looked likely to fade within the hour, so the timing was right.

Just enough time before dinner to bait a hook each (we had small yabbies, earthworms and witchetty grubs as bait options), get another beer and sit on the bank to ponder our surroundings. It just doesn’t get a lot better. 

The river was running at a slightly-quicker-than-my-jogging pace, the huge stand of willows to our left offered a lot of yellow foliage to offset the majority brown/green landscape, which at times was punctuated with the occasional kangaroo checking out its new neighbours. The fish? Obviously they had been well nourished during the day because our lines were not offered so much as a polite inquiry despite the presence of live yabbies. Perhaps we were auditioning to become members of the yabbie preservation society. No matter.

Being the well-prepared people we are, dinner was easy. A week before we left, I’d cooked some bolognaise sauce, which I taken from the freezer the morning that we hit the road. A little gentle coaxing in a saucepan to expedite the thawing, a big pot of boiling, salted water for the pasta and pretty soon we were tucking into a feed while we warmed our toes alongside the occasionally roaring fire (a constant supply of fresh, dry wood will do that). It’s impossible not to relax when your stomach is full, you’ve got a beer in hand, a smoke rolled and going, a river running by and a fire at your feet ... and excellent company.

It’s difficult, too, not to want to hit the hay by about 7.30, so we toughed it out until 8.30. OK, it wasn’t tough because we’d watched the sun set directly opposite our site … through a nice gap in the tree line. As the light dimmed it was almost like our own natural TV, a shimmering patch of eerie (think good UFO-type), fading light. It was beautiful.

Sleep came easy, courtesy of an opened-up sleeping bag and a doona each (Liam has just returned from Vanuatu and is getting used to the cold again. Me? I'm just getting old), the deafening silence and the fresh air. Roll on day two.

Bedroom visit was most unwelcome

If there’s a better way to start a day than this, then I’m all ears.

After a few hours’ kip, a cup of tea and a smoke, Liam suggested that we visit his fish pond.

“Fish pond,” I asked. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s where I often go after work or first thing in the morning with a cuppa. It’s like a little coral grotto with all sorts of coloured fish in it. I sit there for ages just watching them.”

The water was its usual 28 or so degrees … it doesn’t or can’t get a lot better.

The three of us headed for and early lunch at The Summit, a restaurant/garden sanctuary not too far away. It’s a very steep driveway, sometimes demanding four-wheel-drive, but worth it when you get to the top … just for the views and the gardens.

It is 20 hectares (probably swapped for a new Hi Lux ute) of beautifully landscaped gardens. The boys enjoyed pizzas while I tucked into a prawn wrap … both set us up for a drink at what was Liam’s work farewell party.

It was great to see all the blokes he’d worked with over the past five years or so … a lot of then made speeches, while a couple gave him very special wood carvings that they’d done. There were other gifts, plenty of beers, the strongest kava I’ve tasted and lots of love in the air.

Pretty soon it was wrapped up and we three were headed for some Chinese food where after a good meal, I offered a card to pay. “Sorry, the phone lines are down. Can you pay cash?” said the woman behind the counter. I had no cash so Liam took care of it before we headed home for a good sleep to prepare for the farewell party.

The whole day was just gearing for a party that didn’t take long to get into full swing. The band was belting out lots of loud music, drinks of all sorts were being downed at a rate of knots.

I spent a goodly amount of time in the pool, also getting wet on the inside courtesy of small buckets of vodka. The rest of the party was getting off its face courtesy of some mushrooms from Russian bikie chick Paulette.

I reckon the vodka almost did me in, so I thought perhaps an hour or so napping would give me a new lease of life. I headed off to my bedroom.

Sleep came pretty easily. About 45 minutes into the nap, I heard the bedroom door open and two blokes discussing gang rape. “This is not good,” I said to myself and I stood up from the bed. The two blokes, one a Ni Van, the other (I think) an expat Aussie, kept walking towards me, so I suggested that perhaps they should stop, turn around and leave.

The Ni Van bloke had raised his fists, so I raised mine and said to him: “Mate, don’t be stupid cos I’ll kill you.” Then I offered a fist in the face of the white guy and I said: “Same for you, now fuck off.”

It took a bit of sweet talking on my part to convince them to go. I followed them outside, again putting a fist in the white bloke’s face and saying: “If my fist is gonna be this close to your face again, it’ll be travelling fast enough to sit you on your fat arse.”

I had my new lease of life and reacquainted myself with the pool and the vodka bottle.

Then the karma gods kicked in. The local visitor to my room took a tumble and ripped open his forehead. There was blood everywhere. Then he fell again and busted his arm. Luckily there was a paramedic at the party. OK, almost luckily. Although she had arrived there in the ambulance, she was off her trolley on mushrooms and had misplaced the keys.

All’s well that ends well. The keys were found, the paramedic did an excellent patch-up job and all was well with the victim being whisked off to hospital. His wife drove into a tree on her way out of the party.

Yeah, it was a big night in many ways.

THE BIG CLEAN-UP

Sampson, the gardener, and I were the early starters and got the 7203 bottles and cans (it could have been more) into boxes and basically cleaned up. I managed the dishes and the sundry shit inside the house.

Liam finally surfaced with a girl called Zoe, who had camped somewhere in the house for the night. Cups of tea and coffee all round and then hew set of to take her home.

He was gone for ages and I figured he was getting a “thanks for driving me home” lay.

Not so; the car had overheated on the way home and he had to get his mate, Matty, to come and pick him up. Joel, Liam and I spent the rest of the day lazing, recovering, having a quiet beer and watching DVDs.

SNAKES ALIVE

The next morning involved a return to the grotto to have a last hurrah with the coloured fish. It was an experience made the more worthwhile by the appearance of three sea snakes in various spots. Beautiful creatures all. It was a very special moment to be up closed and personal with them.

I was packed and ready to go by lunchtime … so too was the car ready … it was back in town and so were we as we caught up with Matty for a farewell lunch before I had to flee to catch a flight to Oz.

Duty-free shopping involved getting for booze (some Jack and some Ricard that was $19 a litre), then some Chanel Egoiste for me (my favourite aftershave … you can’t get it in Oz) and some Estee Lauder Beautiful for the love of my life.

The Air Vanuatu flight was, as usual, good service although, in a shock twist, I couldn’t vouch for the quality of the wine. It was my first alcohol-free flight (OK, alcohol-free anything) .

The usual shit fight ensued at Brisbane after clearing Customs … getting from the international to the domestic terminal. Thank god the flight was delayed … the pilot eventually blamed the weather and air traffic control in Melbourne.

So there I was outside having a quiet smoke, killing some time (and no doubt myself) waiting for lift-off.

The relative quiet was shattered by a fishwife … I make no apology for saying that … who, with her family, had just got off a bus. With a baby-laden pusher she bolted towards the terminal. The other child, aged about four, was having none of mum getting away and ran after her.

The fishwife stopped, turned and screamed (and I mean screamed) at the little girl: “You bloody well get back there and help your father with the bloody luggage.”

The little girl looked devastated. I really felt for her as I headed for the terminal.

Everything about the Qantas flight (it was my first in a lot of years) was fabulous … the staff, the smile factor, the service, the whole kit and caboodle.

It was a great way to end a four-day extravaganza.     

Yep, they really forgot the plane

Ah, Vanuatu, what a land of contrasts you are.

My son, Joel, and I were Vanuatu-bound to celebrate Liam’s farewell party after five and a half years there. At check-in, we snaffled emergency aisle seats, a must given that we are both tall units. Then after a final smoke (not, thank god, for Joel who is also a teetotaller) we did the right thing and breezed through immigration and onto the strange mix of bargains and bullshit that is the duty-free precinct.

I say strange mix because the prices on certain things are, well, sometimes no better than you can get outside this supposed fantasy land of bargains.

Given that I’m no stranger to wine shops (regular readers will be only too aware) I reckon there were more than a few drops that were priced as much as, and sometimes more, than I could have got them at several places.

No matter. I wasn’t buying vino. I was, however, buying a couple of litres of vodka for the party and some tobacco and papers.

I grabbed the vodka, then a five-pack of Champion Ruby and made a beeline for the checkout, where the till man did his thing. I handed him my debit card as he scanned the vodka (20 bucks a litre) and then one pouch of tobacco. He then said to me: “Is that credit of savings?” I thought he said that’s incredible savings and I agreed with him. Joel choked back some laughter as I paid $17 for five 50-gram packs (about $200 in the outside world). Score. Had it been a stallholder at the local market or a shopkeeper, I would have pointed out the error of their ways. This time, no, I took the goodies and ran.

With the 60-odd bucks in perceived savings, I decided to buy a Swatch watch, something that would handle the rigours of camping and being dipped in rivers, etc. Done.

A good Thursday night flight with Air Vanuatu (they usually are) and we were scheduled to touch down on time … at 2am in Port Vila … which would be drink o’clock regardless of how I felt.

Joel and I managed to be in about fifth spot in the queue in Immigration. This is gonna be a breeze, we thought. Not so, on so many counts.

After about 10 minutes standing there waiting, finally someone appeared to explain, aided by a huge, pearly white smile, that there were no immigration staff available and would we mind waiting for five or 10 minutes. I asked him somewhat grumpily whether we had any choice. Pretty sure the F word slipped out.

It seemed that they’d forgotten there was a plane coming in and had sent the staff home. It was half an hour before someone finally got their arse into gear and an unpleasant half hour it was, given that all the ceiling fans in the area were switched off (maybe they forgot to pay the bill, who knows?) and everyone was hot, especially under the collar.

Finally we got through Immigration, I collected my case (Joel’s had gone missing) and through Customs to light a welcome cigarette after giving Liam a hug. Joel’s bag finally made an appearance after 20 minutes; it was (I think) found on the plane … of course, they’d forgotten to take it off the plane.

We did the only sensible thing and headed to Liam’s house for a few hours of catch-up chat and some strong drink before being pillow bound by about 5am. Yeah, it had been a long day.

Sheepyard Flat a cracker site

I gave the camping gear a hit-out with friends Maria, Harb and Max at Sheepyard Flat, a super spot just a short drive out of Merijig. Reckon it’s about 17 kilometres off the main road on a dirt track that probably wouldn't be a lot of fun in the wet.
We snaffled a spot right beside the Howqa River and, as you can see, it's beautiful. I'm pretty keen to get my kids there before the big cold settles in.
It was good to shake down all my gear and it only served to make me even keener to get back on the road. More (much more) to come on that score.
But first, there's a trip to Vanuatu for my son Liam's farewell party. He's heading back to Oz after five and a half years there.

Let's get this show on the road

It has taken a while for me not to judge myself through other people’s eyes.

LIFE UNDER CANVAS BECKONS

Cars and camping gear have been front and centre of late … and that costs a quid. It’s worth it though because it means that I’ll soon be a one-car bloke. And have a near as goddam, I’ll have self-sufficient camping set-up.

I managed to squeeze in a service for my Subaru, which included a new battery, a new windscreen (there was a chip and a scratch that would have meant no roadworthy certificate) and next week it’s a set of tyres, then it’s ready to go (OK, I’m gonna get it detailed as well) … not for me to drive, that is, but to someone who’s going to get a bloody good car. It may be seven years old, but with just 49k on the clock, it’s a bargain. Anyone interested?

My Landcruiser ute has also had a bit of work … i.e. getting a UHF radio fitted and some powerful driving lights … it’s ready to rock and roll.

Then there was the camper trailer. Two new deep-cycle batteries were installed, a new 12-volt lead was fitted on the three-way fridge (I’m buying it from my ex-wife’s husband), I had a new 12-volt extension cord made up so I can power up things like the fridges (I have two) on the back of the ute.

Reckon I’m set up now for trouble-free camping (I’m going away for the next two weekends) … enough power to last a week or so (I’ll supplement it with some solar panels), enough water (the trailer can carry 160 litres and, of course, two fridges because I’m planning to have a thirst. If anyone’s interested, there’s a link to my “life of the road” blog somewhere on this page (http://mickontheroad.blogspot.com.au/).

Next weekend, my mate Ed and I are heading to a friend’s bush block to give all of our camping gear a shakedown … the plan is to assemble every piece of camping equipment, clean it, service it, whatever, and be ready to hit the road at a moment’s notice. And anything that is superfluous to me needs will find its way into the back of Ed’s ute.

The moment’s notice will happen the weekend after next when a bunch of like-minded people from the office are getting away to Sheepyard Flats on the Howqua River. It’ll be good to get out of town, set up a decent site and spend a few of days wetting a line, wetting a thirst and whetting the appetite for more time on the road. Can’t wait.

SHOTS IN THE MORNING

Here’s a good tip.

A while ago when my friend Gaynor and I used to walk five kilometres each morning before work … yeah, we were fit … at the end of the walk we used to stop for a coffee and a smoke (I said we were fit, not healthy). The bloke used to serve the coffee with a shot glass filled with soda water. It was a tough look for anyone passing who had not visited the café … a bloke and a girl having a coffee and a shot before eight in the morning.

The deal is, though, that after the coffee, you have the shot of soda water and it eliminates coffee breath and is a real palate cleanser. Reckon I may give it a try the next wine I’m tasting wine. OK, it’s a thought.

TAKIN’ CARE OF YOURSELF

Dhav Naidu is The Weekly Review beauty writer and a damned fine bloke he is. He’s forgotten more about beauty products that any of us will ever know.

At the end of last year, he listed his best products of the year and one, Lancôme Visionnaire, was something I’d tried after Dhav recommended it earlier in the year.

He wrote:

Lancôme Visionnaire (30ml/50ml, $115/$165)

“Once in a blue moon, something is launched in the beauty world that makes you sit up and take notice.

“Lancôme Visionnaire (LR2412 4 per cent) is one such product. Released last September after 12 years of research and tested on 800 women, this serum is just short of a miracle. Lancôme counters cannot hold enough stock.

“The serum is suitable for all skin tones and works like a dream, so much so that one in two women planning non-surgical procedures are said to have postponed them after trying it.

“So what makes this product different from other “miracle” creams? It is the patented molecule LR2412. It has been independently tested and verified by dermatology professor Chris Griffiths and Dr Rachel Watson from Manchester University, who concluded that this molecule is as effective as, or more so, than retinoic acid but without the side effects. LR2412 is able to propel itself into the many layers of the skin, targeting various concerns. This allows Visionnaire to be billed as an “advanced skin corrector”. It’s engineered to reduce wrinkles, minimise pores, correct pigmentation irregularities and restore radiance regardless of skin tone, sex or ethnicity. Men are also flocking to it in droves. The product is light and absorbs into skin very well leaving skin nourished.”

When I first became aware of it, I headed to Myer, half full of red ink after a farewell lunch for a workmate, and bought some. It was a positive shopping exercise because the woman who sold it to me also asked for my phone number … not that she ever phoned, but it was nice to be asked. They never phone.

I mentioned to Dhav, after he filed his end-of-year yarn, that I had tried it, loved it, and thanked him for steering me in the right direction. He was pleased. So was I when he sent a replacement bottle to me at the office. It was timely because I had just run out. Thank you, Dhav.

I’m also trying Wrinkle Venom (with syn-ake). I use it every night and I reckon it works. I found something on the interweb, first published in Health and Fitness, to support my opinion.

“If you want to find a cure to wrinkles, you should consider snake venom cream. This great cream can make wrinkles disappear and make that face nice and smooth. http://www.wrinklecreamdirect.com/synake This article, What You Need To Read About Snake Venom Cream is available for free reprint.”
I reckon I’ve got this far with any wrinkles to speak of (no crow’s feet either), so I must be doing something right. You (blokes especially) owe it to yourself to have a crack.

DAYS OF WINE AND …

Talking of having a crack, there’s been more than the odd drink to pass the lips of late.

Because it’s summer, the drinks of choice (OK, for starters when I get home from work) have been vodka and tonic with fresh lime, gin and tonic with fresh lime, Pimm’s (see the recipe for the perfect one somewhere on this blog) and Campari and soda with lemon. (OK, there have been cans of bourbon and cola involved too). Nightcaps, by the way, have come in the form of Riccard Pastis in a long, skinny shot glass with two small pieces of ice. I kicked myself for not getting two litres when I came through duty-free in Port Vila recently. It was a snip at 18 bucks a litre.

Oh, there has also been some Dandelion Vineyards 30-year-old Pedro Ximenez sherry. Straight out of the fridge, it’s a great way to ease into dinner.

I’ve also been having a regular crack at Swords Full Fare arneis, savagnin and riesling blend, which, as always, is fresh, fruity (think citrus, apricot, florally and bloody good.

There’s also been lots of rose (it’s French and I can’t remember the name of it … that’s a tell-tale admission), some Cotes Du Rhone grenache-syrah blend (M. Chapoutier Belleruche) and some aged durif (Date Brothers near Swan Hill) to keep the flow regular.

Among others there has been Witchmount Barbera 2006, which weighs in at a handsome 14.9%, 2010 Rosabrook Chardonnay (14%), 2009 Shark Tooth shiraz, 2011 Stump Gully chardonnay and a bit of a find.

Hardy’s Nottage Hill point noir, best described as a good second bottle. Dan Murphy’s sells it for about $7.50 a bottle and says about it:

“The Nottage Hill range stands for value and quality, and the Pinot Noir delivers in spades. Medium bodied, with cherry, raspberry and a touch of mint, it makes a great drink without breaking the bank.”

I’m not gonna say that it delivers in spades, but at that price, it’s a damned fine second bottle.

Oh, and there’s a dozen Crown Lagers in my fridge (OK, there’s 11 … yeah, I tried one and that was enough). I was out the front talking to my next-door neighbour when Phylis from across the road asked me to give her a hand … to wit, picking up a small table from a few blocks away. No probs, that’s what neighbours do. I carried it into her backyard and then went on a tour of all her plants. She grabbed cuttings a heaps of them and then insisted on giving me the Crownies.

“Michael, you’re a good neighbour. Take these with you.” I protested but she’s a strong-willed woman (are there any other kind?). Now all I need is a beer-drinking visitor; God knows, I’m not gonna have ‘em.

What I am going to have, however, later this afternoon with a piece of eye fillet cooked on the barbie, is a bottle of Lightfoot & Sons Myrtle Point 2012 rose. I tasted it yesterday morning (it was just a taste, true, while I was at the market) and it’s a bloody fine drink. The fact that the girl from the winery, who was hosting the tasting, was drop-dead gorgeous and (in the old money) about six feet tall … I was always gonna buy a bottle or two.

THE HEAT IS ON

My olive jam is still getting good reviews … there hasn’t been a taster yet who hasn’t liked it. It’s almost time to whip up a new batch, this time with a touch of chilli.

I had a good look at the chilli bush this morning while I was watering (yeah, I was watering the garden at 6.45 on a Sunday morning) and I reckon there’s a bout a kilo of little firecrackers that are about a week or so away from harvest.

Then it will be time for my mate, Ben, the wine writer (@senorthomas on Twitter) and I to have a crack at making our own version of Tabasco. Roll on harvest time.

SOUNDS IN THE BEDROOM

My son, Joel, has organised me a sound system for my bedroom, hooked up to some decent (for a bedroom anyway) speakers and with a remote for the iPod.

There are about 25,000 songs on it, so there’s a bit of choice. Now, if I could just find someone who has my taste in music.