Metal Mermaid

Chapter 1

Aripple of excitement travelled through the expectant crowd waiting for the sunset to deepen. Pink hues had started to creep thru the blue summer sky tingeing it with orange, yellow and pink.

Fifty or more people holidaying at the Happy Valley Camping ground in Albany, Western Australia. All now sitting, waiting in a natural amphitheatre of bush land, cocooned by large ghost gum trees.

The biggest tree-an old red gum-shed its bark like an unwanted overcoat shrugged off in great pieces; its insides displayed like toothless gums.

Any spare logs or ground below now covered in bodies of all descriptions, race, creed, religion who have no part of the spectacular show we were about to be part of.

A hum of settling down then quiet, dusk almost here, the children hushed, slight clearing of throats and a few coughs. He has arrived and by he, I mean a large, blue heron who has glided majestically onto a branch way up high. He makes his presence known, stately stepping from one long leg to the other, fluffing his wings, then settling down to show off his sleek lines. He preens himself, muttering into his chest his personal complaints of the day’s annoying issues. Then in a mad squawking swoop, the pink and grey galahs land, the sunset highlighting the coral rose of their chests. Their greetings to each other a harsh screeching noise, pecking and sniping at each other to jostle for position.

The noise fades as the majestic heron taps his beak on a branch. With the experience of a professional, he holds us all enthralled; galahs now hushed in respect, as are the many other birds all now in their perches for the night, this one stately tree filled to overflowing with a mix of bird life. This is the moment we have gathered for. As the sky gives off one last orange flame the conductor points his long beak to the sky and lifts his wings, opening them in surrender, welcoming the dusk. The rose-tinted gum tree bursts with life as all the many mixes and breeds of Australian birdlife give one final salute to the day. It swells to a crescendo, each small chest puffed out with effort, each beak wide open, the sound thrilling, winding around us, under us, inside us.

As one or two smaller birds stop to gasp a breath of air the others carry on with the song of the night. Then slowly a hushed silence. Not one sound or peep from human or bird—this one moment in time is magical—not one noise for a microsecond and then it’s gone, lost forever as the day changes to night.

As always, one grumpy galah fusses around, finding another more comfortable spot on his branch as the squawks of discomfort ease off to silence.

The night sky puts on the most dazzling display, a moody mauve turning to deep blue, small pinpricks of light flicker as the stars begin their show. The deep, dark blue creeps in. Brilliant stars like scattered sequins on black velvet now show off the Milky Way, too far away for the naked eye, its presence a splash of white in the night sky as the crescent moon shimmers a ghostly pale lemon. Our night-time show is over.

We pack up our assortment of chairs, rugs and baskets, sleepy children are carried away in parent’s arms into tents glowing with gentle lamp light offering a safe haven from the darkness. Those of us in caravans and cabins shut the doors against the dark, safely tucked up inside tubes of wood, steel and plastic.

At dawn, those of us up early enough head off once more to the bush amphitheatre, this time to watch as the galahs leave their tree in a rush of hundreds, their salmon pink breasts flashing in the early light, the branches now standing tall and straight without the weight of the noisome parrots.

Huge flocks of budgies land in the reddish dust beneath the tree, tiny bright jewels in green, blue and yellow flit their wings in the sandy dust. Once they complete their daily ablutions, they sip at the shallow puddles formed from the overnight rainfall.

Large lakes of colour spread all over the ground and cameras start snapping and clicking.

Then the locusts start up and the native birds arrive to have their breakfast, displays of aerobatic manoeuvres now captured on video cameras. Magpies trill in the day; their song flirting with the sun as it blooms life into our day. The sky becomes a brilliant clear blue, clean air fills our lungs urging us to take the deepest breath of intoxicating life. Black cockatoos fly off in disgust at the competition of magpie song, the white tuxedo of the magpie always so smart against the solemn black of the cockatoo.

As the magpies puff their chests to herald the dawn, a musical chorus makes our own hearts want to join in voice with them. A small interval of silence, then the kookaburras take over, which according to Aboriginal legend are the first birds to call at sunrise; their giggling building up until full throated gales of laughter erupt. Our first reaction is to wonder who told such a funny joke, then smiles play around the eyes and mouths of those who are listening. Some of us laugh openly at this daily ritual of happy hour for the kookaburras.

They sit in full view of us laughing with or at each other, a secret shared amongst themselves. There is no other bird in the world like a kookaburra, the mixed brown and white feathers a cover for the wonderful song that can make a small crowd of humans join in. Laughter, both bird and man, now greets the air and rises to meet the sun.

One lone jade-green fruit parrot stares at me, its little black beady eye staring as if to say, ‘I’m gorgeous too, what about me!’ I have to agree. Its lime green coat and navy-blue band around his neck is handsome. I aim my camera at him. With a sharp whistle it flies off to find others to admire him. The brown creek that bubbles through the grounds closely guards small bunched families of little brown ducks searching for scraps and weed to fill their tummies, a soft muted quacking now fills the air. The ducklings warned not to stray too far away; I notice one stays close by hitching a ride on Mum’s back.

My stomach pleads its case, it’s my breakfast time, the day’s show is over. It’s been a magical time for all of us but it’s time to move on to another place; our small bus is ready to take us on our adventure.

I’ve termed this as our gap year; we are finally on our road trip around Western Australia.

Now in our mid-sixties with a small health scare involved, we had decided to put family, work and home on hold. The ‘grey nomad’ thing? No, this was more than that; this trip was an accumulation of many things, mainly it was time to do a sea change together. I had played with the idea for so long and had this urgent intuition in my chest telling me if this tour was not crossed off my bucket list very soon, it was never going to happen.

Up to five months ago, both of us were busy with our working careers, but now we were carefree and footloose.

The first two weeks it was bloody awful, both of us felt hemmed in because we were with each other day and night, no new adventures or strange places to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over, just the two of us in our house tripping over each other every ten minutes or so. In the past fifteen years, my husband Russ had worked away as a driller on Pilbara mine sites, his time with me at home in Perth determined by his busy roster. As a mining wife you make your own world, mine was my passion for abstract/creative arts, and as an author. I had a few close friends and created a very independent lifestyle; I had learned to enjoy this way of life.

It is a sad but true saying amongst the miner’s wives, ‘Love to see them, but love to see them go back as well.’

Russ’s life and friends were up north in the mine sites, I knew some of his friends, as he did mine. I had heard this lifestyle could or would cause problems later in our married life but dismissed it as we seemed to be just fine.

Once a year, we had six weeks holidays together and travelled to many exotic destinations. Fun and laughter were always there between us, plus Russ was home every fourth week in the month. It all seemed okay. When he had first gone up north, I felt betrayed and alone. I soon found out it was a common enough feeling for those of us left behind to keep the home fires burning. After a while independence sets in. I had my life and Russ had his. Those not involved in mining did not understand what hard work it took from both of us to live a normal family life at times, especially when the men folk were urgently needed at home. Many marriages had broken up for that reason.

Then a health scare for Russ that could mean the end of his working life hit him right between the eyes. He was told to slow down or take medication, his blood pressure too high to be happy with. It was not life threatening but enough of a scare for us to gather the troops and say we’re off before we aren’t able to do it.

A caravan or bus that was the question. We chose a small purpose-built bus that suited both of us; it proudly presented itself to us. I had to smother a giggle when the salesman overdid it with the sales talk about the previous owner, we got the full old lady and her car bit, it was second-hand but in wonderful condition and really cute, clean, tidy, with all the mod cons except a toilet and shower. Then again, both of us weren’t too keen on going off road, so it would be camping grounds for us. Shopping was so much fun, fitting out the little home on wheels we now proudly owned. A new mattress was the first on the list, it was like shopping for a hobbit house, quite a challenge when you have shopped for a big home and family. It grew on you, the excitement of the unknown out there, the ‘great outback’ tales started to drift in. Friends, mates, family all with tales of joy and woe, it was up to us to decipher and filter what we wanted to do or not do. There comes a time in everyone’s life you have to take a big breath and jump in. We did, and now weeks into our travelling both of us were unsure of what had we done.

The day arrived we felt so free, our face muscles aching with the endless smiles. We were given a fabulous farewell barby two nights before we were to leave, both of us wishing we had kept it very low key, the champagne cocktails still effecting us both or maybe it was one prawn too many. I was glad we were still at home with the bathroom nearby.

Chapter 2

Travelling down the Western Australian coast, there’s the most amazing scenery I have ever seen. All the exotic places we had visited did not compare with the majestic turquoise, cobalt, light green and opaque blue as it rolled up onto white sand. The dark-blue Indian Ocean really is eye-popping beautiful; the camera rarely had a chance to get cold. We stopped to watch dolphins cruise by, I’m sure they smiled as they glided without a care in the world. We watched as large white pelicans with tribal facial markings swam past, an elegant ballet of white and black in the turquoise waters, food obviously in abundance here in the beautiful Indian Ocean.

I loved it all, but deep down was a funny feeling of sadness; it had no name, just sat there below the belly button like a tiny smiley face upside down. I dismissed it as being silly. Over a cup of tea, sitting outside our new home on wheels, I realised I was missing my friends, family and home in Rockingham; I was homesick, which took me by surprise.

Russ admitted to missing his mates and work too, both of us sitting outside our bus watching the Indian Ocean change from dark Indian ink blue to pale green with the tide and wind. Both of us far away in thoughts of a life we once had, finally admitting to each other what we missed. ‘Okay Tara, you first,’ Russ suggested. ‘Well I miss our family,’ I replied, meaning Jess our grandson and Raewyn our daughter, who at six years of age had changed her name to Rae and should really have been called ‘Miss Independence’. I missed the closeness that had grown from her becoming a solo parent; she had come to us for advice and help, forming a close bond in our family.

I missed my friends, the community life I had made for myself with Russ away. All sorts of sad thoughts I had buried followed. Flowers from the garden I had fought the searing summer heat to keep alive, plus my bountiful veggie patch. ‘I even miss the stupid chickens.’ My voice wobbled with unshed tears. Russ went next, he missed the guys, you could see the faraway look in his eyes when he talked about the Pilbara, the red dirt, wide open blue sky, the camaraderie between them all, ‘The beer after work with mates.’ I’m sure his chin wobbled as well. I had always felt very left out of his life, as I guess he did mine as I talked about my life in Perth.

We both agreed we missed Rae and Jess, who raced in and out of our lives, our twelve-year old mini whirlwind, we loved him so very much as we knew he did us.

Slowly the little squirmy feeling I had in the tum eased up, it must have showed in our faces as we both burst out laughing,

‘I guess we are both homesick,’ Russ suggested, both finding solace in being truthful with each other. As we talked, the day closed over, dinner was cooked on the barby and eaten outside on paper plates, just the ticket to feel so much better. As I cleaned up Russ put his arms around me, and one big gulp escaped as I now realised this was going to be a lot harder than I first imagined. The healing power of tears and a good blow of the nose are amazing. Russ admitted to a few tearful gulps himself, but as we held onto each other we knew our life with each other was precious. Not to be wasted or stored for a later day, it was here and now, every day to be lived with a smile. This was our time to rediscover the magic that first brought us together. It did not matter what people called it or what brand they gave it, this was our time; the hard work of keeping home and hearth together was over for one year.

The next day we arrived on the outskirts of Bunbury. It seems the smaller towns had to advertise extra hard for travellers not to bypass them. We found a pretty winery not far off the beaten track, buying a bottle of crisp fruity white and a bold red for Russ. Not being huge drinkers and our tums not quite forgetting our farewell party, we popped them into the wine rack for a later date, staying the night in the quiet comfort of a well-maintained camping ground. What amazed us both is how other campers seemed to just pop into other people’s vans. It was all a bit too casual for me, so I kept my distance.

The next day was our big travel day, a four-hour trip to Albany. I smile now when I think back to our notion that a big day was four hours’ drive. The advertising promised whale watching trips, going to wineries by boat or horse drawn wagon tours, art stores, bookstores, cute little side roads that meander into shops of all descriptions. The main town is fashionable, the couture clothing shops mixed with an element of old hippie culture.

We found the Happy Family Camping and Cabins; our ‘spot’ was on a small rise overlooking the rest of a long valley sparsely dotted with tents and caravans. The new owners, so happy and helpful, had one of the busiest Christmas times ever, but when we arrived in late February it was almost empty. They were the ones who alerted us to the dawn and dusk bird parade, and it was everything they said it would be, magical.

We did all the tourist things available in Albany, my favourite was a true find-a small bookstore down by a quiet little wharf, the street was cobbled, a bit like in a Dickensian story. They sold hot delicious coffee and fragrant English Breakfast tea with fresh croissants or muffins, the biggest plus you were invited to choose a book, any book, and sit and read while had you had a hot drink, relax, read and savour an hour or two. Russ loved to walk along the sand dunes watching for the elusive flip of a whale fluke. We did both, Russ buried in the day’s paper with a black coffee and blueberry muffin, me with a book on caravan cuisine, a hot English tea and freshly made raisin bread.

A much-needed walk along the beach, which always seemed to be windy but exhilarating, seagulls screaming with delight, whooping and fighting over the fishy bits delivered with last night’s high tide. The wind whipped your hair, making your face ruddy, the sea air delivering energy to the very depths of your body.

Three days in Albany was really nice, the people so welcoming but it was time to move on.

As we drove back to the camping ground the skies became grey, fat drops of rain splat on the window screen. In the thirty-minute drive from the Albany township to the campground a massive downpour took place. Our little home now looked so forlorn, it seemed to hunch over in the cold rain. We dashed into the office wanting to pay for our three night stay and move on, but the owners looked very stern as they warned us, ‘Don’t go anywhere as there are warnings out for a huge storm on its way.’

The camp manager’s advice was, ‘I’ll show you to a safer place that’s sheltered,’ Russ’s face showing concern as we followed him on his Ferguson tractor to a safe and sheltered spot.

‘You’ll be safe now,’ the owner yelled above the screaming wind. ‘Better to sit this one out.’

Sit it out we did, for four days. If we went to the bathroom it was flip flops, raincoat and a mad dash over to the shower blocks. By the time we got back, the freezing wind and rain had soaked us through. Our bus became a beacon of light, a tiny lighthouse that we headed for and I was never so glad to be inside it. No beautiful sunset or sunrise, just grey to dark and a howling wind that shook our little home as the cold, windy fingers probed for an opening or two. Thankfully, we were snug as two bugs in a rug.

On day four I had enough of being caged up, bad weather or not, opening the door to race over to the toilets, the door whipped out of my hand with a huge bang.

The wind roared inside grasping the air out of my mouth as I fought to keep my balance, Russ hanging on to me and the door to keep his balance. His attempts proved futile as over I went into the biggest lake of icy water ever formed, it was muddy, oozy, freezing water, full of sticks, sand and little sharp stones. I felt like a small child as I wailed, ‘I want to go home now.’ Russ was doubled over with laughter at me sitting in the large shallow lake surrounding us while I sat wailing like a two-year old full of misery. He grinned all the way to the showers after he had hauled me out, the mud giving up a nasty sucking sound as my lower half was wrestled out of it and the water that surrounded the bus, my pink flip-flops happily bobbing around me.

Russ, between fits of snorting laughter made sure I had not broken or sprained anything and helped me over to the showers. As he held open the shower door for me, I spied my sorry self in the mirror, not just my hair and face splattered with gooey mud, I was covered in mud from head to toe. Very hard not to join in the giggles that kept shaking through Russ. Although my dignity was badly dented, I had to admit, I did look like one of our grandson’s imaginary monsters.

The next day bloomed sunny, thank heavens. Birds once again sang and it was warming up but the wind still felt damp with a promise of rain, so it was time to move on. The first problem was being stuck in the mud, so once again the faithful Ferguson was in action. We had to wait for a half hour or so while it rescued another camper, then it was our turn. We were right in the middle of a big brown shallow lake, the wheels of our home sunk into the mud, looking a little dangerous to me as water had crept up to our doorstep. Russ, being a bloke who had experienced all weather on the drill rigs, was not all that concerned. ‘Looks like a small beached whale,’ he commented. As the Fergie pulled one small bedraggled bus out, I was glad to hear I was not the only one who made sad, sucky noises being dragged out of the mud. The camping bill paid, goodbyes were said and the obligatory, ‘Come again, love to see you,’ from the staff as we drove away.

That was when I decided to write the name of our bus across her rear end. That night as we dried ourselves out in Esperance, another quaint little seaside village, out came my smuggled pot of black paint and small paintbrush. I painted the name of our new home right across her now clean backside. I called her the Metal Mermaid. When finished, I stood back and viewed my handy work, Russ nudging me and handing me a can of cold beer.

‘We now proclaim the Metal Mermaid our home for the next twelve months. May she glide us safely to wherever we steer her,’ Russ announced as he poured a little beer over the back bumper. The name was the cause of many conversation openers as we travelled from Esperance upwards and made new friends at the many campsites. That night, as we both snuggled down in our bed, the sea wind whispered of the adventures about to happen. I truly felt this was going to be both wonderful and the worst time of our lives. I was not wrong.

Chapter 3

Aday that dawns with golden sun awaking life all around is a good omen for us all. Breakfast was swift, as Esperance was waiting to be discovered. However, the public toilets in Salmon Bay on the way to Esperance were another story, having to wait for them to open and be cleaned. Thank God for understanding cafe owners. The owner of the Bay Café across the road offered us use of his private toilet, so we both made a dash for them. The kind man even had fresh cinnamon rolls and hot coffee on offer, so we bought our morning tea, grateful for his generosity.

Russ and I both stood outside the Metal Mermaid sipping on hot coffee, reading the discovery maps we had spread across the bonnet. Parked in a small camp spot overlooking the ocean, below us was a small cove of white sand and turquoise sea. I was daydreaming, Russ’s voice a pleasant hum in the background as he read about what to do and see in Esperance.

I watched four senior ladies walk down towards the beach. They stood there dipping their toes in the water and I could hear windblown words like ‘cold’ and ‘bit chilly’ as they stripped off down to their bathers. By the looks of it, these ladies where serious about going for a swim. All four of them walked into the water till waist deep, all dressed in black bathers with an array of bright coloured swimming caps on their heads making them look like a row of pretty flowers all bobbing around in the sea. They swam from one end of the bay to the other with powerful strokes driving them through the water. ‘Come and have a look at this, love,’ I said to Russ. No sooner had I said it, two more dark sleek heads joined them.

I was delighted and speechless as two small seals joined the ladies in the water, diving and leaping, rolling, weaving in and out as the women just carried on as if it was a daily occurrence. It went on for a good half hour. The ladies left the water, the seals nowhere to be seen, all ladies laughing, happy and going their different ways. As I put our paper coffee cups in the bin, my head not quite understanding just what we had witnessed, one of the ladies walked into the cafe. I had to ask about the seals. She smiled, replying to my query, ‘Every day dear, for the last two years now. They are our mascots, or that’s what we call them. We have no idea why, we ignore them, they play around us. When we leave, so do they.’

I asked her why this was not known to others she looked at me saying, ‘Why? Life is not about look at me it’s about look with me.’ I knew she was right; it was about sharing, caring about one another even if the other was a seal. That wonderful scene set, Russ and my happy buttons were on ‘go’ as we travelled along the highway for the whole week, the Metal Mermaid humming along happily, not a care in the world.

The other oddity in Esperance were the kangaroos happily heading for the beach for a swim or a morsel of something to eat. The locals thought it was perfectly natural. I was taken aback as we strolled along a bit of quiet coast for a stretch and fresh air as two small kangaroos went hopping past, not at all fazed to see us. They foraged amongst some seaweed then hopped down to the water, quite happy to be there, one of them going into its chest. As per normal I had left the camera in the bus.

We had been on the road for nearly three weeks, and over a home-cooked meal of pasta and fresh salad, we discussed whether we liked being grey nomads, together all day every day. Most of the campers we met were couples that raved about the scenery, the people they met, the places they had been. I was also aware some of them did not like each other’s company while others had the content far-off look in their eyes, travel and adventure called them. Some of the folk made the trip a working holiday. One couple I met made and sold soy candles in markets all around this great wide Australia. While we were talking, the woman’s mobile phone rang red hot with orders for candles and requests to come back to sell at festivals, some as far away as Queensland. Her partner was an old hand with council road works who found work with different councils wherever they went. Both in love with each other and the nomadic lifestyle.

Another couple sold old silver forks bent into all sorts of shapes sold as wind chimes. They frequented auctions and second-hand shops for these treasures, both absolutely nutty about their passion.

They just went wherever the internet told them there was an auction otherwise they often camped in Bridgetown to make or forge the things they sold in the markets. Good luck to them.

One woman travelled on her own. She really fascinated me; a hippy from way back in a seventies time warp, her twelve-foot caravan smothered in florescent stars. Inside there were charms and beads hanging from every nook and cranny. She smelt of incense and sandalwood, read palms and tarot cards, and her other specialty was as a belly dancer. Not that I’m running it down as I have given the dance a go myself and loved it. This lovely lady was seventy or older, her attitude was, ‘Give life a go.’ The car that pulled Mimi, her van, was an old four-door station wagon that was her dog, Rancho’s, home. She gracefully shrugged her shoulders as I asked, ‘Next stop?’

‘Who cares! I go with the wind, my dear,’ was her reply.

All the folk we had met so far had a story to tell. As we sat there with our meal of pasta, we both discussed how these folks had affected us.

Russ stopped eating and asked me, ‘Okay love, so what is our story going to be? Continue on our travels or homeward bound?’ We had met a lot of folk coming and going apparently enjoying themselves and the freedom of this way of life. Our question to each other was, did we want this lifestyle ourselves? Or did I feel that the occasional small trip away was the way to go for us? Russ was offering me a way out; to go home to my life as I knew it, or to continue on.

In one breath I answered, ‘Onward bound, please.’ I wanted to taste, experience, see and do all I could, while I could. I wanted to share this with my Russ. I was now waiting for his answer and could feel my eyebrows up by my hair line. Would he too? Russ is a slow eater and almost deliberates when and if to swallow. Me? I eat, then I’m up and gone. When he did give me his answer, I could almost feel the seconds ticking. ‘I think we should carry on and see this bountiful country and what it’s all about.’

I had always been the one who booked the holiday, planned, saved and booked the tours when we arrived at our destinations. Russ had left it all to me, now it was up to the two of us to share our destination and be responsible for our actions. It was going to be unsettling for us both at times, but the decision was made to carry on. If only I’d had a crystal ball to foresee what the future was, as I would have said, ‘Let’s go home now.’ I did not, and the adventure together that awaited us was exciting, heart breaking and a real learning curve for me.

I’m naturally inquisitive, my ambition of travelling around the world not quite completed, and it bugged me for years that I had seen a little of Europe and only some of the South Pacific islands. Now was our chance to take off, and still being able keep in touch with family and friends was a plus. Travelling like this was living, seeing, meeting, doing whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted, with no tours, no guides, no timeline, or boat, train or plane to catch.

We both agreed to one year on the road. ‘Let’s give it a go,’ was our answer to each other sealing our vote with a soft loving kiss.

We opened the bottle of white wine to toast our new life and acceptance of whatever came our way. Then out came the maps of all the places we had missed on our way to Esperance. ‘If we are going to see Aussie then let’s do it right,’ Russ said, and I agreed. We could take the road to Kalgoorlie or we could backtrack to see what we missed. It was so exciting; the maps and pamphlets showed us what to do and see, we both knew it would not be what was written for we both had a knack of finding the unusual. That night as we climbed into our bed, the name of our next destination, Denmark, was written onto a stickit note and placed on the dashboard.

Chapter 4

Morning dawned, the camp was full of bustle and the hum of people going about their day, some leaving, some staying, others permanent residents who lived there. As Russ cooked up his Sunday special-a full English breakfast for a good start to our day-I decided to go for a walk around the campground. I found it amazing how people seemed to fit into this world of small homes; some made attempts to live in a van with nothing around them but sand or grass while others had grandeur. One side of this camp had permanent mobile homes; their gardens were nice, it was obvious some owners had the most vivid imaginations with a riot of plants, colour, and carvings; on this side, art of all sorts was alive and well.

As I walked along the well-kept side of the park, I saw the other side where we were camped. It had permanent homes as well, nothing as splendid as the other side but the odd home was well-kept with a small garden, most had a caravan an awning or a hard annex of sorts. One place took my eye, surrounded by large pot plants with healthy palms in them, the pots lovingly mosaiced in tiles, colours of all sorts blending in with the surroundings. The van was a large one with a porch, big double glass doors that lead into a hard annex, and pretty net curtains in all the windows. It looked loved and cared for.

The owner, a tall, attractive, slim women in her sixties, wandered out. She bade me a cheerful, ‘Good morning,’ as I passed by, her broom making short shrift of any sand or leaves. I stopped to admire her art on the terracotta pots. Chatting to her revealed she too was an artist in abstract, also a prolific writer-recently published, her family scattered all over the world and a husband working up north in the mines.

This was her home. She loved the simplicity of the lifestyle and met so many people she could write about. I mentioned my own large garden and home in Perth. Sadness flitted across the woman’s face as she explained she too had once such a place in Perth, but she had been the victim of a prowler ending in a savage burglary, the fear of this happening again while she lived alone was the drive behind her living here. She said, ‘I feel safe here; I have created a home for myself and my husband when he comes home.’

Her optimism about where her life would lead her was just what I needed to hear. When I had told her of our intended trip on the road she said, ‘Why not give it a go and see if you like it? If you don’t go and do it, you will never know.’

Now I know a message when I receive one. How many times had I heard ‘give it a go’ in the past weeks? Too many times not to take notice this time.

I could smell our breakfast cooking as I walked towards our bus, Russ calling out to hurry up. Over fried eggs and crunchy bacon, I told Russ of my walk and talk to the residents of the park. He too had met an older gent in the ablution block who told Russ his story. It was a story of sadness and rejection, of heartache and fear. The man was on his own, did not welcome family around and did not want any nosey neighbours. Russ pointed to the man’s caravan. It stood stark and bare, a tiny deserted island he claimed as his own. It all looked and sounded just like any ordinary community living day to day with all the problems house owners in suburbia had.

The coat of freedom had now settled quite comfortably on both our shoulders. Dishes were done packed away, bus tidied up, and the Metal Mermaid was on her way again, this time back the way she had come. We drove past the lady who I had just talked to and she waved us farewell, calling out, ‘Safe travels.’

Our last port of call in Esperance was the Mermaid Leather shop, how amazing to see all sorts of products made from the skin of sharks and stingrays. The shop owner was very informative about all his products, telling us of the preparation time it took for some of the hides to cure. Then we were on the road to Denmark.

Taking the south-coast road and a turn-off to Mt Barker, we stopped to take photos, noticing locusts were everywhere. Then snaking our way through the Porongurups, we noticed a winding road advertising the most amazing authentic windmill restaurant. We had to stop at this place to take photos, the picturesque scene of dry, sunburnt fields and tall cream-coloured windmill was a creative photo opportunity. The windmill sails creaked and groaned lightly as they turned so very slowly. Inside they served true Dutch coffee and a fabulous homemade apple strudel. We just had to try it all. The hot summer had cooked this place dry, only stalks of plants and skeletons of trees were in the paddocks. Locusts had also been a real problem this summer with two huge swarms, one just recently, the other as we had left Mt Barker not two hours before.

While the restaurant owner, Leo, talked about the summer and his windmill I noticed the bus front bumper was