Keen readers will know through other sources that we are to embark up a trip that will take us to several places in New South Wales (and a couple in Victoria) that until now have been only places on the map. Indeed, some of them have not even been places on the map: White Cliffs, for example; with its population of 103 I had never even heard of it.
Our eventual destination is Broken Hill which we reach by one route and then we return via another route. The G has demonstrated planning of an incomparable degree. I pass, as I drive between home and Canberra, the Joint Operations Command of the Australian Defence Force and it occurs to me that they would have a lot less trouble with the planning of military operations were they to recruit The G to their cause.
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| Me by Terry |
Be all that as it may, we are going on this “Trip To The Outback” with our friends Terry and Enid. Terry is the famous sculptor (well, famous to us) who did my head last year. We are due to meet them at 0800. They are always early and knowing this I am determined to be exactly on time.
I had lain awake remembering vital things that I needed to take but had forgotten, like a Bluetooth speaker, my hip flask and all those other things that you can’t just buy at will. If push comes to shove you can buy any of the basics (actually, in certain remote places you may not be able to). Never mind about that: we rose and prepared for departure. The G has a process for departure and it involves a frenzy of activity on her part. I am not quite sure what all these things are but they kept her occupied. All was well and we made contact with Enid and Terry at exactly, I am pleased to say, 0800. Military precision.
We are travelling a well-known route taking us to Sofala (population about 75) which is where are to spend a couple of nights. I say a well-known route because three weeks ago we spent a weekend in the Blue Mountains and the route is the same as far as Oberon (of which more later). We decided to breakfast at the Fickle Pickle in Braidwood which is 117km of the 300km we are to travel today. The Fickle Pickle serves what is arguably the finest coffee in the known world. It meets even The G’s particular requirements. The route to Braidwood is one that I know intimately as it is the one I take weekly to Canberra.
They have been digging up the road en route for months and proceeding with their works in a way that masks any sense of purpose or planning (the need The G). There is a stretch of road near a place called Mongarlowe that needed straightening: it was a dreadful piece of road. The relevant local council is Palerang local council who are known for having no resources at all and, as a result, offer a road maintenance service of a particularly dubious quality and little sense of customer service. I am led to understand that they have contracted NSW Roads to do the work at Mongarlowe. It worries me when one Government organisation “contracts” another because, of course, it’s really hard to see who could sue whom and to what effect.
This is not the only road working operation on the road to Braidwood. Near Nelligen they have been straightening the road for what seems like decades. This morning I noticed a sign that says that these works are due to be completed in “mid-2016”. What does this mean? I assume that there is a project plan and that it has a precise completion date. That is the date that should be on the sign. “Mid-2016” is meaningless: it could be any time between 1 April and 30 September. Grrr.
My heightened sense of frustration with the world at large, and with road builders in particular, was assuaged by the Fickle Pickle’s inestimable beverage and we set off to our next stop which we had decided would be Taralga. The road out of Braidwood is tolerable, and is the continuation of the route to Canberra, but there is a right turn off the Kings Highway (common usage is that the apostrophe is not needed in the name of this highway) to Goulburn (which is up a hill past Dough Boy Creek. We took the turn, following Terry who professes to know the way) and The G was horrified to follow a road littered with dead wombats. It was utter carnage.
The road is reasonable though parts could be better maintained. We passed Wakefield Motor Racing Circuit commenting to one another (for the millionth time) that we really must go and we hove into Goulburn. We spotted the speed trap and proceeded along.
I have written of Goulburn before as follows. “I had expected that Australia’s total inability to sign post clearly would be a challenge for us and so it was. I mean, let’s be clear here, there are three roads in and out of Goulburn so you would not think it would be hard to signpost them. But no. Whoever is in charge of signposts in Goulburn decided that people driving through could only want to go to Sydney.”
This time, we had Terry with us so we were able to follow him and I was delighted to soak in some of Goulburn’s architectural offerings and in particular the station which is a masterpiece of late Victorian design. The railway stuff at Goulburn is also probably worth a visit. The G remarked to me (in much the same way that she might to a small boy) that there is a steam train you can go on.
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| A quaint B&B in Taralga |
The last time we had been to Taralga there must have been something on as the streets were lined with vehicles. Every other one was a white ute with at least two dogs in the tray. A lady in the Taralga Souvenir Shop confirmed that farming was the main industry. She also said that Taralga was well-known (though not to us) for its stone. We saw no signs of quarries but clearly they must be somewhere. In exchange for this information, I invested in a pot of plum jam which I expect to be succulent.
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| The RSL Club in Taralga: site of the public convenience |
We took the brochure at its word and took a wander. I had visited the Taralga Public Conveniences on a previous occasion and did so again. They have not changed and nestle, pungently, at the rear of the RSL Hall.
On the way down we passed the old New South Wales Bank building and noticed on a side wall, largely hidden from, view and old and weather-worn coat of arms with a motto that read “Sic fortis etruria crevit”. A quick trip to the omniscient Internet confirmed the translation as “Thus stout Etruria prospered” and noted that the Bank had adopted the motto in 1931. Quite what Etruria, a region in central Italy, had to do with the New South Wales bank is beyond me. Further research shows that there is an Etruria in Staffordshire in the UK and that this place is the home of the Wedgewood family and they (or at least Joseph himself) certainly prospered. But no one seems to buy fancy china anymore.
We crossed the road and found an op shop. In the window were 6 liqueur-sized glasses, each different with long stems and made with smoky grey glass. They were 50c each and within 5 minutes they were ours. We had to buy two scarves at $2 each to wrap them up but they were a bargain. Quite what we will do with them is no yet clear and quite where there is space at home to house them is possibly less clear.
We drove slowly out of Taralga marvelling at the sights which include the Tangled Vine Café which could possibly be worth a visit at some point. We are headed for Oberon. Oberon is a largish town with a population of some 20,000. I wondered at the name and I learned, from a handy tourist brochure that the town is indeed named after the legendary King of the Fairies who made such a magnificent appearance in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream”. I was not surprised to find that there is a Titania Street in Oberon (for those of for whom this cultural reference is too oblique: I am afraid there is no hope for you).
The drive between Taralga and Oberon is a really good one save only for the dreadful condition of some parts of the road caused by the recent heavy rains. The road twists and turns through lovely countryside. At one point the road drops dramatically (by over 200 meters) to a rickety wooden bridge across the River Abercrombie (“river” is perhaps a fanciful qualifier, it’s more of large stream) and then the road climbs via a series of hairpins back up the 200 meters we just dropped. We had done this last time in the TVR but were stuck behind some slow vehicle so were unable to explore its driving potential.
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| Long Arm Café pigs |
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| Pea and Ham Soup from the Long Arm Café cannot be beaten. |
It was lunch time when we arrived at Oberon. We parked and had walked but 100 meters when we were arrested by a shop window with a set of metal pigs displayed therein. It was the Long Arm Farm Café and it looked bustling enough probably to be good. And so it was. Long Arm Farm is a real farm named after the famous (to its neighbours) Long Arm Creek. They keep pigs. And in the café, they serve their own homemade pea and ham soup. We were looked after by the not unattractive and very friendly operator of the café and author of the soup. I took the soup. To say that it was magnificent is not doing it justice. It was awash with vegetables and thick with bits of dead pig all in the most delightfully pea-tasting broth. So impressed was I that I bought a piece of their home-made fruit cake (which was also pretty good).
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| Good advice in a shop window in Oberon |
Thus fortified we set off again. We drove to Bathurst where The G and knew where is the sign to Sofala. Terry and Enid had got some way ahead of us (due to my observing the speed limit and his not observing it). He missed the sign and called us to say so and I decided to miss it in sympathy (though I did see it). Nonetheless, we made it to Sofala again on roads winding through lovely countryside. I had seen earlier in the day that, according to Google Maps and at the scale I was looking, the only point mentioned on the road between Bathurst and Sofala is Wattle Flat. I was delighted to drive through Wattle Flat and stopped to take a picture or two. It is another gold town with a history but an uncertain future.
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| Wattle Flat: the High Street was probably a bustling little place 50 years ago |
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| A place that used to be ... who lived there. On the right, the original lean-to. |
And so to Sofala which is tiny but boasts two streets called Pitt Street and George Street. There is a pub called the Sofala Royal Hotel which seemed to be well-patronised. At least its patrons were spilling onto the street to drink their beer in a sunshine of a glorious NSW winter afternoon. There is a second-hand book shop in Sofala where I could and would have spent longer than my companions wanted to so we headed for Tanwarra Lodge where we are to spend two nights.
Tanwarra Lodge is about 3km out of Sofala along Hill End Road. Hill End is apparently a major gold historical point of interest and The G tells me I am going to a museum there tomorrow. Tanwarra Lodge is satisfactory accommodation at the side of the Turon River which is flowing fast. I can hear it through the window. In some ways Tanwarra Lodge is quirky. We are upstairs and Terry and Enid are downstairs. We arrived to find the pace pretty bloody hot because the heating was pretty high. The heating controls had a sign on them saying (effectively) “touch me and die”. This seemed odd but I recall the man (his name is Warren but I am defiantly calling him Wazza) that we could not smoke (reasonable) or cook (weird because there is a fully stocked and operational kitchen downstairs).
The most interesting thing to me is the toilet in our quarters. This is not because of my scatological predisposition but because it has a square seat. I have never seen a toilet with a square seat. It is certainly not designed with the comfort of the squatter in mind. Were I living with one on a permanent basis I should develop a square bottom.
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| A square toilet for a square bottom: not comfortable |
Sitting in a car all day makes one’s body feel peculiar, or at least it makes my body feel peculiar. I decided to go for what, for me, passes as a run. I ran back up Hill End Road. People were camping by the river and they had a fine fire going whose smoke I could smell a kilometre away. They are brave souls to camp (assuming they are) as I expect the temperature will drop to freezing tonight. There were several houses on either side of the road, none of them within 400 meters of another. They all looked rustic in the sense that they appeared to have been unchanged for 50 years. Many sported the remains of agricultural machinery in their front yards and all could have been restored to fancy places that would serve and second homes to city dwellers were there any city dwellers to want them.
We are in what amounts to a culinary desert here but Tanwarra Lodge sports a bistro which serves pizzas so that’s what we ate. The drinks list provided me with a diversion. The place in licensed so I thought we would need to order a bottle. However, the options for wine were: shiraz, merlot, sauvignon, and chardonnay. No labels. No order. What kind of philistine do they think I am. The choice of beers was (you already have guessed this) was VB, Hahn and a couple of others I cannot be bothered to recall.
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| Tanwarra Lodge: nice place though quirky in parts |
We were advised to order two pizzas between us but, trenchermen and women to the end, we order three. We should have listened to the advice provided: two would have been ample. The G was in full-on conversational mode with our hosts, I was falling asleep and so eventually I had to act decisively and say that I was knackered and needed to go to bed. In fact, I was more bored than tired and need some diversion – like a glass of wine and a book.
I indulged myself with both and then went to sleep.
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