Fish Fever

By now you’re probably quite over my long winded descriptions of life on the road, since the daily cycle goes a little something like: waking up-eating-exploring/beaching/fishing-eating-driving-chilling-eating-sleeping. Fortunately, we’re settling into this new circadian rhythm of life quite comfortably. Sure, we go to bed with the senior citizens, but we rise with the roosters. It actually allows us to utilize the precious minutes of sunshine we have each day, because there really isn’t much to do in a camper when the sun goes down!

Let’s talk about Margaret River. This area is renowned for its wineries, but unfortunately we were quite disinterested with ‘wine-touring’ after our lengthy episode in Denmark. We rocked up into town and quickly sussed that there wasn’t too much to do besides wine tasting. (Twist my arm!) We stayed at the Riverview Holiday Park, indulging in showers, tacos and laundry. 

The next day was when we really discovered the gems in MR. Strolling through town and fiend-ing for a coffee, we found a little café simply titled “The Bakery.” The quaint cottage-y/vintage/hipster/jolly-old-England vibe immediately reminded me of my sister Riley. She’s an aspiring baker with dreams bigger than the meringues down here, jostling around the decision between an English degree and nurturing sugary carby delights into the world. Quite simply, I don’t think she would have left the place had she been there with us. Steve had a salted caramel sugar doughnut while I sipped on some Chai tea out of a delicate purple teacup.  The time did come where we had to give up our table and hit the road – one pot of tea only lasts so long. Luckily memories last forever.

 Steve was itching to visit a liquor distillery in the area so we headed up into the hills to taste some of their goods. The Grove is a neat little place that produces their own liqueurs, spirits, ports and beers. Steven, being a collector of bottles from around the world (in hopes of stocking a bar that looks like the UN one day), was keen to find a unique flavor. After many tastings, including: coconut-white chocolate-cream, macadamia nut-coffee-cream,  limecello with ginger beer, and chili-vodka with coke, he finally settled on Turkish Delight liqueur.

The drinking didn’t end there I’m afraid. Tim, reading in the van this whole time, was keen to see that we overindulge, so he turned right into the next venue with tastings – Knotting Hill winery. Steve and I went through the whole song-and-dance and ended up buying a delicious bottle of chilled Shiraz. Just on our way out, we looked over the deck to the lake and noticed Silver Perch swimming around. The owner kindly asked if we had a fishing rod with us (OMG, if he only knew!), and said we had free reign of the lake. He even brought us local bait! We thought a catch was a shoe-in, so the boys put in a few hours of casting before we got discouraged. We had been eager to catch something since the Australian Salmon, but apparently our luck had run out.  We drove away with our heads hanging low and pouting for fish.

We ended up at a beachside café in Yallingup. We arrived near sunset and took a looooooong walk down the beach in search of seals, but only found gnarly surfers shredding some huge barrels.  Our walkabout took some time, so when we got back to the café, we called it a night and packed it in. Tim, frustrated with the angling from earlier, set out to cast under the moonlight while Steve and I had a little jam with the ukulele. Y’all should know that Steve played his first song - “In the Jungle!” Surprise, surprise, Tim returned with no fish and we just ended the day right then and there.

When the sun rose, Timmy was on a mission. He had had it with his score count in the fishing world. At the crack of dawn, we pulled out of the lot and beelined it for the Busstleton Jetty, a spot some locals had suggested. Being the longest pier in the Southern Hemisphere, its picket-white-fence-like posts extend something like 3km off the shoreline.  The fish gods did not hear his prayer however, as time and time again, his hook revealed itself empty. Steve actually made away with a small squid! The slimy thing shimmered and changed colours on the jetty, its eyes like giant marbles on the sides of its head. The fish-famine was temporarily over – Steve ate calamari on a bun that morning for breakfast!

After our shenanigans at the jetty, it was time to head into the metropolis that is Perth – the most isolated capital city in the world.   Of course, we would have stopped here anyway, but the whole visit was made much more enjoyable due to the fact that we were visiting some newly made friends. Steve and I had met a great bunch of people when we went Whale Shark diving in Exmouth a while back. They had insisted we stay with them on our giant roadie, and true to their promise, we did! We spent that afternoon shopping and exploring Freemantle, home of the Dockers before we sidled up to our host Arthur’s house. That night, we dined on $15 steak and a pint meal at the kids’ local hangout and said our goodnight’s only just a little later than we usually do. Friday was for the merrymaking. (Some people in this world still have to work!)

If I wrote down everything that happened on Friday night, someone would turn it into Hangover IV or a Saturday Night Live skit. The drunken escapades that occurred were many and completed with high spirits. The short breakdown goes like this: the afternoon was dedicated to finding a trio-type Halloween costume (which we did) and lunch at our first sushi train. We then met up with Arthur for drinks at The Gentleman’s Squire, a business hangout that we were all underdressed for and way over-drank at. Obviously the next logical thing to do is go shopping, so we dipped into a charming, yet pricey little place called Pigeonhole. Arthur got himself a wallet, Steve did some Christmas shopping, and Tim shuffled around in a onesie (part of the top secret Halloween costume) that made the salesgirl laugh.  We trained it back to Arthur’s neighbourhood and met up with the others for pizza, beer pong, and flip cup. Somehow, we ended up at a girl named Stacey’s (…yes, we did sing her a few renditions of Stacey’s Mom…) Asian-themed party. The night ended by christening Arthur and his flatmates’ pool, making old fashioned popcorn on the stove, and sitting like 60’s children on a shaggy rug passing around a bottle of wine.

The morning after a night like that one calls for a serious brunch. My friend Courtney had just moved from Melbourne to Perth, so she joined our sordid crew for a feed at Ciopolata? Breakfast seemed to help somewhat, but after we hugged our hugs, said our thanks and drove away, my tummy decided to rebel. I hung onto the dashboard as we drove the endless highway towards Lancelin. Our aim was to go sand dune-boarding there, but as we all weren’t feeling up to par, we passed through the town to find a camping spot. It started to rain, and I was in a bad way, so when we saw a pull-over spot with a view we decided to check it out. Well, if it wasn’t called Hangover Bay! Seeing it as a sign, we found a spot and parked it. Moments later, I was running to the toilet, spilling my brunch. (Boo!) Thankfully, a piece of toast and a tea brought me back to life enough to do the ritual shotgun with the boys.

That night it rained upon rain, but Mother Nature seemed to get it all out of her system because when we woke up the next day the sun was shining bright. Stoutly heading North, Steve and I recognized a sign advertising for “the Pinnacles.” We turned off and paid the $12 entry fee. Tim, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with the experience and read War and Peace in the back of the van the entire time. (He did sneak a few peeks.) The Pinnacles were pretty spectacular for such a touristy thing to do – thousands of small pyramids dotted the landscape to the horizon. After we got our fill of “Ooh-ing” and “Ah-ing” at rocks, we headed further to Kalbarri in hopes of doing some sand dune boarding.

We struck out with the dune boarding as the man who runs the tours was taking some holidays and the locals said the easy to reach spots aren’t really anything to write home about. While obtaining this information, we also bought bait and the boys inquired about fishing in the area. To their delight, we discovered a man who would take us across to a small island on his boat for $5. Inspired, we pre-cooked dinner and hatched a plan to camp on the island for the night. As the sun sank, we were being carried across in a small tinny to a patch of land being smashed by waves.

I’m not talking the kind of waves you see pro-surfers leap onto, I’m talking about the kind of blustery, murderous power that only the ocean has, the kind seen in the Deadliest Catch. We found a spot, and pitched our tent for the first time on the trip. Neighbouring kangaroos spied on us from the dunes. I sorted out logistics of dinner, etc, while the boys set up their line for sharks.  We fished into the night. We fished into the wind. Tim almost got swallowed by a pseudo-tsunami trying to cast the large surf casting rod out with all of its rigging of fish and weights and metal line.

The very first bite was the closest we came to reeling in a shark. The rod screaming and bending, while I held onto the back of Steve’s sweater so he didn’t get pulled in, only resulted in a sad case of the one that got away. All of the rest of our futile attempts resulted in tangled line, and  getting caught up in the rocks. We patiently sipped on our Wignall’s port while we watched the tiny bell against a backdrop of stars as the moon rose, heavily full over the sand dunes. Alas, we called it a night.

Probably the most comical part of the evening was when we all laid down to sleep. Immediately, we all looked at each other on a severe incline, sand hard packed against our backs, and Tim proclaimed, “This is going to be a bad sleep.” And it was. The next morning we rubbed the crust from our swollen eyes and trucked across the island to ring the bell to get picked up. The attendee was over in a matter of minutes, and we wearily admitted to our lack of a trophy. We didn’t stay in town long after that, moving onwards as we always do.

With Tim and Stevie in the front, we pulled over and stopped at a few sights along the way. One of them was Shell Beach – a beach that was literally strewn with cockle shells, in layers upon layers until they were ground into sand by their own weight.  We also happened upon Eagle Bluff – a stunning view of the turquoise coastline. From the lookout, we spotted some rays and many a shark. 

Of course, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum couldn’t resist a chance at scoring a Bronzie or another of its toothy cousins. We set up shop for the night, the boys scaling the cliff and digging out a protective barrier to keep out any potential snakes. The relentless wind and the treacherous descent to the water pretty much

made the decision for us – we would bring down the tent for warmth and shelter. Those two stayed up all night, waiting for the scream of the reel, while I rested peacefully in the sanctuary of the flapping walls. At dawn, we gave up all hopes of netting a beast. I really admire the dogged determination and thoughtful planning that the boys exhibit while on this hunt for a shark to call their very own. I’m just hoping they catch one soon so their fish-fever might subside and we can do some other activities!