AUSTRALIA THE ODYSSEY: GEOFF HILLsends his first fortnightly report from Australia, where he and fellow biker Colin O'Carroll are setting off for a 15,000-mile, three-month odyssey on Highway One
ALL ADVENTURES always begin at dawn. Or, to be more precise, standing in the Belfast rain at 4am waiting for the bus to Dublin airport with Colin O’Carroll and our film crew – Matt and his mate Gareth McGrillan.
“Everybody got everything?” asked Matt. “Passport, ticket, money, driving licence?”
“Driving licence?” I said, realising I had left it on the hall table, and that I was just about to ride 15,000 miles around a country with no proof that I was capable of doing so.
Two days of travelling later, we switched our “water down the plughole” setting to clockwise and stepped out of the terminal into the searing heat of an Adelaide afternoon.
By the time we got to Wicked Campers to pick up the back-up van for the film crew, I had become convinced that the Australian government was putting Prozac in the water, since every single person we met was unfailingly cheery, optimistic and helpful. Including the drug sniffer dog at the airport.
However, that discovery was not the highlight of the day. Nor was it stripping off my clothes to pick up the van (if you turn up naked at Wicked, you get your first day free).
No, it was the moment when we collected the keys of two Tigers from the Triumph dealer in Adelaide, starting up the engine and hearing that sweet hum which had been all the way from Chile to Alaska on my previous adventure and was again, in this moment, the sound of freedom and the open road.
In the golden light of early evening, we rode east through rolling downs punctuated by farmhouses shaded by verandahs, cows and horses munching contentedly in meadows, venerable petrol stations, general stores advertising the untold delights of pies, pastries and cakes and, memorably, a sign saying: “Poo. $2.50 a bag”.
Bargain, if you ask me.
As dusk gathered us in and told us it was time to rest for the day, we found the sleepy port of Goolwa.
A century and a half ago, we would have had trouble making our way down the main street, through the raucous drunks spilling out from 100 inns and being carted off to the biggest police station in South Australia. for Goolwa was a rootin’ tootin’ party town which was the last stop for the paddle steamers which made their way up and down the Murray River.
But then the railway came in 1852 and, almost overnight, the inns closed and the roar of laughter became the silence which we broke as we rode down the main street.
Our destination the next day was the four-day folk festival in Port Fairy, the little town down the coast formerly known as Belfast, and as we rode east, a rare cloud appeared in the sky, followed by all his mates, who then came down for a closer look.
With raining pouring in true Belfast style, the first time it rained on that weekend in 16 years apparently, it seemed just right for a folk festival, I thought, as I squelched down the main street past rose-draped picket fences and into a vast meadow of giant marquees.
Naturally, I was immediately accosted by a Scotsman on stilts and his wolfhound, who greeted me warmly, then peed on my foot.
Follow Geoff and Colin’s journey at adelaideadventures.com
