Guest Blogger Tim McGary on Margaret River Goodness and Outrageous Slander Against My Personality.

The McGary Family joined the Uys Huis on 30th August after a pleasant, albeit long, flight from Brisbane to Perth. The junior members of our travelling party enjoyed a smorgasbord of sweets on the plane and hours of non-stop iPad action in an attempt to amuse them for the 6 hour trip. Tick, leg one completed successfully. Now it was off to meet the Uys’ after six months of peace and quiet in Noosa without them.

We had been seconded to Perth by the Royal Australasian Society for the Protection of the Good Name of Grey Nomads (RASPGNGN) on a mission to provide an unbiased, independent report about the nature of their average member. The RASPGNGN was concerned about the reputation, and safety of their members following several disparaging, non-complimentary and, at times, down right rude comments featured in the blogs of one Mrs M Uys.

I have to admit being a little scared about accepting the assignment from RASPGNGN despite the prestige and kudos such an honour bestowed upon me. The reason for my trepidation was the Uys woman had developed herself a very loyal blog following over the last six months and I dare not question her authority and judgement in front of her dedicated legion of fans. However despite the obvious threat to my own well being from her groupies I felt compelled to investigate Mel’s claim first hand and give the Grey Nomads a voice online. Surely, I justified, the Grey Nomads were entitled to their day in court and a fair hearing?!

And so it was that the McGary and Uys family holiday began. We met in Perth and Mel and Fiela quickly endeared themselves to us again, after ditching us in Noosa while they had a 12 month holiday, by turning up with fresh crayfish and a bottle of our favourite Chardonnay. The kids all went ballistic, which was a combo of the sugar ours had on the plane, cabin fever, trip fatigue and excitement at seeing each other, while we enjoyed a quick meal watching the sun set over the Perth skyline.

The next morning we collected our campervan and it was off to the Margaret River. After a last minute call by the Uys’ in the lead car we made a sharp, and potentially lethal, right hand turn for a quick bite at Capel Vale winery. We smashed down a wonderful lunch of food specifically prepared to bring out the best in our chosen wines, while overlooking the glorious sun soaked vineyards and river backdrop. The kids amused themselves during lunch with minimal adult supervision and the trip was off to a great start. At this point I also hadn’t encountered any Grey Nomad activity I thought was worthy of a blog so the scoreboard showed Mel 0 Grey Nomads 0.

We made our way through some spectacular country side down towards Yillingup. (Please note anyone that can tell me why just about every other town West of Perth ends in “up” please email me C/- MelQueenBlogger@bludgingaroundAus.com.au.) The highlight of our first day in the van was the sad indictment of my eldest daughter’s exposure to farm life thus far in her life. Addison was very excited when we spotted camels out of the window and then Matilda asked “Mummy are they real?” (Note to self: get kids outdoors more when we get home).

From this point on in our trip it was stunning scenery after more stunning scenery mixed in with stunning wineries and stunning long lunches. Thanks to our wonderful campervan Addison was able to sleep at lunch time while we got politely hammered. I know some concerned readers will be asking themselves who looked after her while she was sleeping? Good question and in a stroke of pure “champagne parenting” genius I discovered an App that turned our iPhones into baby monitors complete with real time video. So we could happily swallow wine at lunch and when Addy was ready to roll we’d dash out to the van and pretend we never left. The perfect parental crime!

So at this point in my short blog I need to raise the Grey Nomad issue. According to Mel a significant percentage of the Grey Nomad population has a bit of an attitude problem to younger nomads. Apparently the “Nomees”, as they are colloquially referred to, have a bit of a ‘tude’ towards younger folk because the Nomees believe they’ve done their time raising their kids and now they should enjoy peace and quiet 24/7. So when confronted with anyone below the age of approximately 65 the Nomees snarl and mutter and under their breaths about getting a job and how things were done in their day.

I’m not sure how to say this without sounding like I’m saying Mel is wrong, but my encounters with Nomees were all pleasant and cordial. None of them exactly offered  to babysit the kids while Maggie and I went out clubbing all night, but I heard no muttering. Now perhaps in the interest of being seen as impartial by readers I should mention that I did go out of my way to get accepted by the Nomees. Principally I did this so that I could make fun of Mel, but does a man really have to explain his actions when really all I was doing was showing kindness to other weary travellers?

My interactions with Nomees consisted of them waving to me as I drove by, chatting to me as I helped Fiela carry his kayak to the beach and even talking to the ones camped next to me as Matilda “tried” to shave my head. Of course to get a wave as we drove by I was essentially hanging out of the driver’s window and waving frantically like our camper van was on fire, but a wave is a wave. An acknowledgement from a kindred soul as they passed us by on life’s journey.

For those who know me and Mel they will know that we waste little time on telling each other how awesome we think the other person is. Instead we prefer to show our love for each other through verbal sparring and sarcasm. (secretly I think Mel does this to try and squash her massive crush on me but that’s a topic for another blog on a different website. (www.desparatedoctorswives.com)

I could write on and on about my encounters with the Nomees, but as they say a picture tells a thousand words. So I will let you decide. Due to my history with Mel I thought that readers might feel I was deliberately stacking the deck in favour of the Nomees purely to show a darker side of Mel for my amusement. I can honestly say that the thought had hardly crossed my mind, but just to be sure let’s remove my potentially biased words and let the pictures do the talking.

Below are two images, and let’s assume that they are both from our recent trip. I feel that these two shots fairly represent the mindsets and warmth of both my dear friend Melinda and the Nomees of whom she has blogged on many occasions. The photo on the left was taken by Mrs Uys, using my camera, while I entrusted her to take a photo of myself at the Natural Bridge near Albany, Western Australia. The plan was for me to walk out onto the Natural Bridge which was quite a distance from where Mel and I stood. This gave Mel a lot of time to prepare for the shot, work out apertures, lighting, lens selection etc. Later in the car when I was viewing the images Mel captured I came across the shot below which Mel snapped while supposedly preparing for my bridge shot.

The image on the right was taken randomly on the trip and I think really captures the essence of the typical Nomee with whom we came in contact. It vividly pictures the average garden variety Grey Nomad and the attitude they express towards the average fellow traveller.

So I have submitted my report to the Royal Australasian Society for the Protection of the Good Name of Grey Nomads and they are pleased with my findings. To Mel’s readers I simply ask that you carefully consider the photos I have placed before you and ask yourself “Is it possible that he is right, is their reasonable doubt?”.

To the Uys Family though I say thank you for an awesome trip. Two weeks with another clan in close proximity while you are, essentially, living in a tin can is a big call but we’d line up again for more any day. It was a breeze just to be able to rock up and have Mel and Fiela take care of all the planning for us. All we had to do was drive and get Nomees to wave.

Finally to my dearest Mel, congrats on the overwhelming, and justified, success of your very cool and entertaining blog. I look forward to reading many more pages of your adventures and Nomee interactions and can’t wait to take up where we left off when you guys get home. Please also remember your solemn promise to me that NO EDITING of my article will occur prior to its publication!

So for now it’s good bye and good luck.
Tim McG, Maggie, Tilly and Addy

(PS The views expressed in this article are entirely the authors and may or may not be based on actual facts. Certain events and photos of people (except the photo of Mel which I swear is real) may or may not actually have anything to do with our recent trip. The author reserves the right to amend this blog for legal or moral reasons should the need arise after Mel publishes it.)

The Drive to Winter from Denham to Perth.

Driving from Denham down to Perth was like four seasons in one day ending in winter. From low lying scrub we popped out into the wheat belt and couldn't believe our eyes- there were houses, roads of bitumen leading off the highway and letterboxes. The isolation of northern Australia was definitely, quite suddenly behind us.

Coronation Beach Sunset.

 We did a few overnighters on the 800+ kilometre drive from Denham to Perth; the first at Coronation Beach. It was only a few dollars a night, being a council provided campground, which gives you somewhere to camp and toilets. There were a few strange occupants; we were certainly very mindful of where the kids were, but the little lagoon and beach were quite lovely. The water was still very clear and we all had a swim- the last one in Western Australia for the Uyshuis, the last time we all felt warm enough to get in.

Marguerite refusing to get out of my sunset shot at Coronation Beach...
the scene of our final swim in Western Australia.

The next day we did a quick stop and drive through Geraldton, a big  civil centre with lots of shops,  historical buildings and parks.

We stayed the night at Cevantes, and for the first time in almost a year, it felt like winter was on its way.  We'd had lots of cold nights and reached for the odd jumper, but I hadn't worn jeans in the 6 months we'd been in this camper trailer. That was all about to change.

The Pinnacles near Cevantes.

Cevantes is nothing more than a fishing village with two major attractions: crayfish and the Pinnacles. I'm sure the beach front is lovely too, but it was really windy and a bit rainy when we were there, so we headed out to the Pinnacles,  a rock formation which is apparently mesmerising, especially during a full moon, dawn or dusk.

More Pinnacles.

Meh. It was alright. We were there at dusk, maybe you needed one of those florescent sun rises or sets to get the full effect. Fiela thought it was pretty cool but then he also thought Broome's Staircase to the Moon was awesome and that Crocs are an anytime kind of footwear so there you go.

... and more.

Back at camp we tucked into crayfish fresh off the boat. Sigh, life on the road is so tough at times..

... and more plus some dirty travellers.

And suddenly it was the 31st of August, the McGarys would be touching down in Perth in the afternoon and I'm not ashamed to admit that every time I thought about it I almost cried.(Or maybe it was just the cold and wind making my eyes water.) Apart from the fact that they are great friends, the idea of tucking into a little slice of the life we'd left behind was overwhelming.

So I hurried Fiela along (he loves it when I do that, one of my most endearing traits he reckons) all the way to Perth with a quick stop at a South African shop in Joondalup (hundreds of dollars and calories later... I stopped myself at the koeksisters- deep fried doughy goodness dipped in a sugared syrup- but oh my they looked amazing!). We set up at a caravan park in the Swan Valley with some dodgy looking permanent caravans and made for the reunion...

Check out our guest blogger on the next post who'll be espousing the Margaret River with a healthy dose of muckraking thrown in....

Denham, Monkey Mia and the cool things we did there.

Having sat in the wind at wonderful Red Bluff for a week, we'd had plenty of time to count out our days before we had to be in Perth for a long awaited catch up with the McGary's, Noosa locals making the trek across the country to see what we'd been up to. And those days were short: part of our itinerary would have to be cut with our stay at Red Bluff shortened and Kalbarri gone altogether. Denham and Monkey Mia were the winners though and we headed here next.

Tough times... directly out the front of our campsite at Denham.

We sped out of Quobba, and down the North West Coastal Highway, passed endless low scrub, marvelling at the different rigor mortis poses of dead cows by the road. Seriously the bovine suicide rate is outrageous. 

Locals.

These emus had walked through town, down the main street and along the shorefront right passed our caravan park.

There's a newish app all our gypsy friends have been using called Wikicamps, which is just like Trip Advisor but more specifically aimed at all camping related things. Users can log on and give reviews of caravan parks, free camps, even dump points and information centres.  Of course like Trip Advisor you have to wade through the odd numnut (for example, a caravan park which had been lauded for its shady sites, natural bush setting and well kept amenities received this review: "Terribly maintained. They need to cut down some trees. Couldn't get any TV reception even with the satellite out."), but I'd just got the hang of it and had used it to make the decision to camp in Denham itself rather than at Monkey Mia (more on that later). Wow, I'd forgotten how crowded caravan parks could be!

On the way to Cape Peron.

We squeezed in right next to some loud talkers from Perth (we meant to avoid them but they avoided us first, taking one look as we tumbled out of the car all Red Bluffed and surfie feralled up) and across from some touring Italians who almost died when we began talking to them, such was their elation at talking to somebody, anybody! And with friends down the road from Marguerite's infamous chicken dance class in Noosa and the Doves camped over at the overflow... Well it felt like we were back at Cape Range all over again.

The stunning colour contrasts of Francois Peron National Park.

Some cute little spunk on the lookout boardwalk.

So Denham is a fishing village with a few very cool tourist hospots nearby.  The first is the Francois Peron National Park, a peninsula of natural goodness just a sandy 4WDrive away from town. Here red cliffs tumble onto white beaches and azure water teems with life. We went up to the main lookout and within the half hour watched as a shark attempted to hunt a dolphin and her calf, manta rays majestically flew about under water and a dugong with a calf in tow slowly ambled out to sea, not to mention the schools of fish which zoomed passed at regular intervals. What an amazing spot! Of course Fiela got all funny in the groin and we had to stop and fish (not the other f word you filthy minded readers). He had a try for whiting just off the beach and got enough to realise there wasn't quite enough for dinner. Sigh. The kids ate well that night at least.

A weird tusk fish sans one tusk in on of the holding tanks at Ocean Park. Apparently this fish hunts by sight and was hungry when we came by, so he would rush at us believing we had food and flick the kids with water.

Another day we headed over to the Ocean Marine Park, an excellent attraction with lots of holding tanks including a large one with sharks, each with its own set of compatible marine life. We were there as it opened and by the time our tour finished, about three others were underway and it was no problem to go and listen in on the bits we’d missed taking turns corralling the children. They also have a café serving lovely food.

Sharks at Ocean Park.

The next day was Fiela’s birthday, and in an extremely unusual birthday tradition (actually every morning tradition), he was able to rouse himself out of bed so we could drive out to Monkey Mia 20 kilometres away and witness the dolphins feeding at 7:45am. I thought this was all a bit naff, and from comments of other travelers, completely over capitalised with at times hundreds of people standing on the beach, jostling to get a view of wild dolphins up close. Nevertheless, we paid the entry fee and lined up on the shore with only another 50 or so tourists, Marguerite beside herself at being able to feed a dolphin… for five minutes by which time she was off chasing seagulls and patting any available dogs.

Patiently waiting to get the green light to go down to the water, dolphin in the distance.

The dolphins visit in family packs.

They are wild dolphins and are only fed one little whiting over three possible feedings over one day. Apparently they need kilos of fish per day to survive, so three whiting aren't going to disturb their wild hunting ways.

But around the pod came, even hunting some fish right into the shore. And here I was, the greatest cynic of all, picked out of the crowd to hand feed a wild dolphin a slimy dead whiting. It was pretty cool and I was suitably ashamed at my previous comments.

Me, Caesar and a handfed dolphin.

Marguerite on the front of the catamaran.
Gets her moves from her father.

After we’d had our fill of dolphins on parade, we went and paraded ourselves at the breakfast buffet up in the resort hotel, looking out over the bay as the dolphins came back again and again, sometimes being fed by the rangers on the beach and sometimes hunting their own fish. We also cursed Wikicamps a bit as the bay on this side of the peninsula was windstill, the caravan park didn’t look that overcrowded and the pub was generally pretty amazing for a relaxed drink..

Dolphins cruising the waves
off the catamaran.

Continuing on the tourist train we hopped on a catamaran and had a cruise through Shark Bay, spotting the odd dugong and the rare sponge nosed dolphin- no joke, check it out. And because it was Fiela’s birthday, we got hamburgers, beers and perched ourselves in the sun, over looking the bay at Monkey Mia, toasting to an awesome day in general.

Riding the catamaran net out the back.

Marguerite and Fiela before the skipper really revved up the engines. And no, we didn't lose Marguerite off the end, she chose to hop out after five minutes or so.

Back at camp, Fiela held court while we had drinks with all our old and new friends. Yes, Denham had been great and it was with bittersweet feelings we packed up the next day and headed south to Perth, into the cold, the rain and the arms of friends who had been sorely missed. 

Happy birthday to my husband, what an amazing legend you are!

The view from the pub at Monkey Mia out to Shark Bay.

Red Bluff on Quobba Station

Red Bluff. Whales swam right into the corner everyday before turning back out to sea.

The greeting at Quobba.

So it was the eve of my birthday on this long year of travel we had embarked upon. I had sweated out the first few months, spent untold hours getting red dust out of every single thing we owned and had babysat my darling children while my husband attempted to catch the Whatever was the Big One at the myriad of places we had camped. And so whilst I certainly didn't expect a degustation dinner or a night of non camping sophistication at some Hilton-esque establishment,  starting at a Caravan Park in Carnarvon,  suffering from a mild gastro thing and watching as the weather turned from sunny and windy to cold and windy... Well things didn't much improve on my birthday except for the location which was exceptional.

Blowholes at Quobba, just north of Carnarvon. 

Quobba Station is another part of the West Australian coast famous amongst travellers. It's at the very Southern end of the Ningaloo Reef system, and is where the swell of the Indian Ocean can finally bang its way right into the beach. We drove up through goat and sheep country to a spot called Red Bluff, where "Big Waves Kill" and stressed out surfers come to iron out their corporate creases.

The bluff at dawn.

Red Bluff is serious surfer country, and we managed to bag a top spot overlooking all the action. If the surf wasn’t pumping (which it was, all the time), the whales were breaching or the goats were bleating. It was all happening at Red Bluff along with a surfer vibe in overdrive.

Awesome campsite at Red Bluff.

Long drop toilets- a few cupfuls of sawdust at the end of every use kept these smelling sweet

Fiela was in heaven; he managed to finally catch some threadfin salmon out the front of our campsite and it's a beautiful table fish. He then managed to catch some waves out at the point at 4-6 foot. The waves became pretty intense over the week we stayed here,  getting up to 15 foot at times, and we watched in awe as guys (and the odd girl) tackled them with ease, it actually being a slow swell week for the locals!

Waves at the point.

Looking at the lines from the top of Red Bluff.

Our campsite came with a cool firepit, but the Doves trumped us with their own personal bar positioned to make the most of the fiery over-water sunsets.

Sunset Bar.

Firepit.

Looking back at the campsite.

It wasn’t all ‘Hang Ten’ and ‘Cool Dude’  though. Fiela backed the camper into the back of the car managing to dent almost every panel. The shorebreak was so large and loud it rattled the camper trailer, woke us all up at intervals and gave me an awesome headache. We bumped our way over seemingly endless corrugations (about 40kms) to check out Gnaraloo, another famous surf spot, only to snorkel for half an hour and bump and rattle our way back. The wind became fierce during the week and the beach was unswimmable except for crazy kids and Fiela, such were the dumpers. I went for a walk up the actual bluff, and realised about half way that perhaps the track I was following was actually for goats. The views at the top were pretty amazing, even more amazing was the fact I made it back down without seriously injuring myself. And in a moment of God I Can’t Stand Having Dirty Hair Because We Have Such Limited Water And I Can’t Wash It… that is to say, complete madness, I mistook Fiela for a hairdresser and allowed him to cut all of my hair off until it was around about 3 centimetres long all over. I didn’t cry, but I was a little annoyed at his blatant attempts to fob off dodgy cutting with bluster that he “cut things for a living you know” and that he “knows what I’m doing” because “I know what looks good.” It was a complete hack job but really, it doesn’t look that bad. However, the old adage that there are two weeks between a bad haircut and a good one will need to be extended to two months.

The last known sighting of my hair.

In other, much more serious news, we had a death in our little camper trailing family. He was smelly and perennially dirty, but ‘Puppy Dog’, a source of great comfort, was much loved by Caesar. Our beautiful boy mourned his treasured toy with plaintive cries of “Puh-ie! Puh-ie!” over the Red Bluff dunes, but he was naught to be found. Puppy Dog now lies somewhere near the Indian Ocean, perhaps buried, perhaps thrown down a drop toilet, but either way he has passed into another world beyond that of the Uyshuis.

The last known sighting of Puppy Dog.

Thankfully kids forget pretty easily and we all moved on within a week or two.

Emus along the road at Quobba.

Surfer goat.

Why Warroora is Wonderful.

After idyllic Cape Range camping, could it really get any better on this West Australian coastline? Yes, it could so Fiela assured me. He had been waxing lyrically about a station called Warroora (pronounced Worra) where we could stay on its endless Ningaloo reef beach frontage for the week for $100. In fact anyone who spoke of Warroora stared off into the distance, eyes glazed as they spoke of white untouched beaches, where protected reef and snorkelling spots stood side by side with amazing fishing and surf breaks. I was sold.

The tranquil waters of 14 Mile at Warroora.

Until we got to 14 Mile, the northernmost of the Warroora campsites and met its camp host, Rossco. To be honest, it wasn't even this morbidly-obese-perennially-half-clothed-tanned-to-an-indecent-shade-of-orange specimen that put me off; he was really quite jovial. It was the line of tightly packed TV antennas I could see straining into the sky, down the beach for as far as I could see. This was deserted paradise? We asked about other campsites we'd heard of further down the coast,  but old Rossco was cagey to say the least, actively discouraging us from even taking a drive down there the next day.

Our first camp at Warroora.

Beautiful sunrise with the moon still up.

So we found a spot behind the dunes, away from the hordes lined up side by side on the beautiful white beach and it was lovely. But I certainly wasn't about to get misty eyed about Warroora. In fact I was contemplating just staying a few days and moving on, until the next day when we did drive down to those other 'full' sites.  We got as far as Sandy Bay and then the Stevens campsite before 'Rossco' officially became a dirty word. Far from busy, Stevens was practically deserted and up over (OK,  I'll admit,  a very sizeable dune that stupid Rossco would never make up in an orange fit) the dune was a crystal clear, reef protected lagoon, a surf break just to the south and channel aching to be fished in. R#!@co!!!!

We drove back, a bit pissed off, but we'd planned to go to Coral Bay tomorrow when the wind was supposed to howl anyway and fill up our water cans while we were there- the Coral Bay Caravan Park sold drinking water at 10 cents per litre (that's a whole other story!).

Beautiful, protected Sandy Bay.

Coral Bay is really pretty, but all we did was have a quick snorkel in its protected waters. I came out from my lone snorkel (Oh my, heaven in the water! What a girl has to do to get some alone time!?) amazed at two things. First were the amazing coral formations unlike anything else I'd seen, almost like gigantic underwater wood roses: they are beautiful. And secondly, that my husband had spent so much time fishing the West Australian coastline and had caught practically nothing. The bloody fish were everywhere!  Was he fishing with breadcrumbs? Massive spangled emperor swam lazily around Coral Bay within casting distance of the shore. Yes alright,  it was a marine sanctuary... But still. Shit, I felt like I had a better chance of getting a feed of fish from a seagull at this point than from Fiela.

.... and he came back to camp and caught this spangled emperor. Excited much?

The gorgeous waters of Coral Bay- very protected and safe for family swimming.

Anyway,  Coral Bay is pretty touristy, but if you can't get down to Warroora because you're in a 2WD vehicle and you don't have the time to muck around with the maybe's of getting into Cape Range National Park,  then it comes a very close second. There's heaps of great snorkelling and lots of other tour options like quad biking, fishing charters and the like. But we headed back down to Warroora, ready to begin our true station stay there.

Marguerite's shell haul.

Even as we left, Rossco shook his head, he couldn't understand what it was about Stevens- why would we leave easy beach access for dunes and isolation? It just goes to show, some people's idea of paradise is not another's.

Looking down into Steven's Campsite.

We bagged the best spot at Steven’s since it was almost deserted, a few metres away from the Dove's who'd also managed to extricate themselves from Rossco's grasp. We spent four beautiful days in this arid spot, totally in love with its blue water so clear it was like being in a bath.

Keeping fit and tiring the kids out on the walk over to the beach.

Lagoon goodness.

Our camp spot looking down from the top of the dune.

Fiela had a couple of surfs and managed to catch some fish (hoo-bloody-rah), we even grabbed some beautifully sweet oysters straight off the rocks. Lizzie and I went out into the lagoon a couple of times for a snorkel, viewing some gorgeous bommies. We saw a little reef shark hiding under a rock shelf, some interesting coral and spectacularly colored fish... Even an incredibly bright orange sea slug we named Rossco.

The ghetto-camp kids and Fiela's latest catch- another spangled emperor.

 The wind blew a bit but we didn't mind, the dunes were high and we puffed our way over them, but it was alright. The only mobile reception was limited to one bar at the highest dune and that was fine, there were only a few other people camped here but the isolation didn't make us feel lonely. Our chemical toilet smelt, our water was incredibly precious and we scraped the bottom of the cupboard drawers trying to cobble together our meals… and suddenly the week was done. On the last day, when the water in the lagoon was glassy and crystal clear, we drive off, resolving next time to be prepared to stay three times as long and bypass the Rossco factor altogether.