Hamelin Station (2): Bumpity, bumpity...

So, here we go… Francois Peron National park – strap in, it’s a bumpy ride!

Having packed our lunch and other necessities for the day, we left the comforts of Hamelin station and belted up the highway towards Cape Peron. Soon we passed through the little township of Denham, before quickly turning off the main road towards the cape.

For the uninitiated, Cape Peron is a narrow stretch of land heading up a thin peninsular through some magnificent scenery. Our first stop was at the homestead at the base of Francois Peron National Park. Here we pulled over and duly let down our tyres down to a lowly 18psi, before heading off the main road into the park itself.

 

Francois Peron National Park... here we come!

 

 

The road was sandy… Oh my, was it ever sandy! Over the course of our adventure to date, I’ve had a been able to learn a few things about driving on some pretty rugged 4X4 tracks. But, mostly, what I’ve learned is that I don’t much care for driving on sand… Oh no, give me a nice rocky track to navigate at my leisure and I’m happy as Larry. Sure, there’s every chance that you could burst a tyre on a shard of rock; but, no matter how sharp the rocks are, at least you can go at your own pace. On sand, however, you need to keep up the speed enough to sail over the surface – but not too much, as you’re likely to lose control of the car. Oh man, the head miles you do while driving over sand are countless… although the passengers do seem to have a good time (freeloaders!!)

 

 

The road to Francois Peron - starts of good... but quickly turns nasty! 

For the first part of the track, the road was just heavily corrugated. But, sadly, this didn’t last long. Eventually, the hard, tyre-gripping, corrugated road gave way to stretches of soft, drifty sand. Revving and braking, turning and straightening – often all within seconds of each other – I followed whatever trail had been left by previous drivers, who had already made an attempt to cut through the unforgivingly soft sand. For a short while, the sand did give way to a hard, potholed clay pan – but, here, the fear went from not getting the car bogged in the sand, to avoiding a tyre being blown out on the great gouges in the track. In the end, we finally made it to the end of Cape Peron, at the very tip of the Francois Peron peninsular.

Turning off the car’s hard-working engine, everyone piled out. However, I sat there for a few minutes, in stunned silence – thanking my lucky stars that we had made it.  As I sat there in my quiet contemplation, the realisation suddenly hit me… this was a one-way road… we still had to make it back the way we came (oh pooh!)

Yikes!

When I eventually scrapped myself out of the car and found my legs once more, I trailed after the rest of the family who were gambolling merrily towards the toilets and picnic area. I grabbed the sandwiches and drinks from the boot of the car and trundled off after them. Lunch was eaten as we looked out across the ocean, keeping an eye out for any marine life that might happen to wander by. Eventually, with bellies full and bladders emptied, we took a stroll down the track to the beach.

 

The truly spectacular Francois Peron National Park.

To be honest, it was nice… spectacular, really… but, after the harrowing journey to get here, I must admit part of me thought that it didn’t really seem worth the effort… Besides, having been to Cape Range only a week before, Francois Peron just seemed a ‘nice place to spend an hour or so’ before moving on.  

We wandered along the rocky shoreline, where we had a chat to a family who were fishing. They had been at it for a while and had a bucket full of fish – most of which seemed to be staring out at us quite forlornly. I asked them if they were going to eat the fish, but they said “Nah, we’ll tip ‘em back in when we’re done”. As I looked at the fish, in a bucket that was warming up steadily in bright sunlight, I thought to myself once again “don’t Aussies know how to fish responsibly?” Why bother keeping them in a hot bucket of water, if they’re going to chuck them back in the water anyway?

As we wandered down the beach, watching large stingrays frolicking in the waves along the water’s edge, I was glad to see a Ranger and an officer of the WA Parks and Wildlife dept coming over a sand dune. The Ranger greeted us in a friendly way and we had a chat about the area (after checking that we had paid the national park entry fee – thanks again to our All Park Annual pass for that). As we were chatting to the Ranger, I watched his Parks and Wildlife counterpart wander up to the fishing family and talk with them for a while. Soon the hot bucket and its fishy cargo were poured back into the ocean. I swear that I could almost hear a gleeful ‘yippee’ amongst the slightly strained fishy gasps slurping in fresh water from the sea. With that small mercy done, the officer quickly took off down the beach to talk to the next family a few hundred meters away…

 

There be stingrays in them th'are waters!

 

We took a stroll along the cliff between Francois Peron and Skipjack Point (the next bay along). With our eyes keenly peeled, we scanned the water in the hope of seeing a dugong (manatee), shark, turtle or whale. But, unfortunately, none of the usually abundant sea life came out to play today. So, we turned back and headed towards the car.

 

 Board walk between Francois Peron to Skipjack Point

Heart in my mouth, we began the homeward journey…

At least I now had the lay of the land and knew that we would encounter the boggiest patches of sand on the first half of this journey home. But, to be honest, that was small comfort. I did, however, take some reassurance from knowing there were at least four or five cars behind me – which, gleefully, I thought to myself, would not be able to get passed us if we became irretrievably bogged on this narrow sandy road back to the highway.

In the end, we made it back to the entrance of the park and, luckily, didn’t get bogged once. After such an arduous journey, it seemed only right to stop in at the homestead, at the base of Francois Peron peninsular, to reinflate our tyres and take a dip in the natural hot springs that were tucked away behind the homestead. The boys played for a good hour in the hot springs – while I uncoiled my nerves.

 

 

 Relaxing in the hot tub after a hard day sitting in the back seat...

 

Heading back to the homestead, we gathered our supplies from our trailer for tonight’s dinner and made our way to the kitchen/dining room.

Walking toward the communal kitchen, we heard the now familiar sounds of Jo’s acoustic guitar belting out an Irish Ballard; "Oh, I've been a wild rover for many a year…". As we walked into the kitchen, a few of the travellers from last night raised their glasses and called out to see if we were in fine voice tonight. I’m not sure about fine voice – but the second night in Hamelin station was spent in song and laughter once more.

 Inspired by the welcoming bon ami and musical comradery of the night before, Ben was also keen to play a song tonight on the Uke. So, gathering his nerve, he brandished this diminutive instrument like a shield and gave a sterling rendition of Rip Tide (accompanied by a couple of old hacks on our guitars). Having never played in front of an audience before, I think he did a brilliant job!

 

Encore, encore!

 

And with that, our joyous ending to an otherwise harrowing day came to an end. We tucked ourselves into bed and drifted off to a well earned night of slumber. Tomorrow would be our final day at Hamelin station, and we wanted to make the most of it!

 

Bye ‘d bye,

 

Gregg

Hamelin Station (1): Sand, Songs and Stromatolites

 

Date:	01-03/06/2017
Location:	Hamelin Station (Western Australia)
Distance Travelled:	224 km
Temperature:	Min:	9.1
	Max:	19.7
Raucous nights of singing	3

 

Waking up in our brief stopover destination of Carnarvon, before we could move on we had a few matters that we had to deal with our house in Melbourne. Nothing too drastic, but something that couldn’t wait. Perhaps I’ll do a blog post on the joys and sorrows of renting your house out via AirBNB in a future post. But for now, I’m not sure about where I would stand legally by defaming our most recent tenant. Perhaps I’ll check with a lawyer and get back you…

In a nutshell, the morning was eaten up by dealing with the aftermath of this person leaving our home (and the shocking discovery that there was cat hair and cat faeces throughout our home… not to mention a broken clothes dryer and rubbish strewn with abandon everywhere. Oh, what a sad and disappointing end to an otherwise good experience of letting our home out through AirBNB).

Having put in a complaint to AirBNB and sent a message to our previous tenant requesting additional payment for extra cleaning expenses (oh, and a new clothes dryer would be nice too…), we finally turned our attention to packing up the camper trailer. Having been at this lark for over three months, we were pretty much dab hands at stripping beds, folding down cupboards, coiling up water and waste hoses, wrapping up power cables, removing doors, secreting tables and all manner of other paraphernalia, sliding away beds, collapsing roofs, and our hitching trailer onto the car. In the end, all that was left was for Nat and I to have our showers, change out of our sweaty pack-up clothes, and jump in the car – before heading off to new destination.
And today, our new destination was a lovely spot called Hamelin station. We trundled out of the Carnarvon caravan park and the boys and I moseyed down the road to the One Mile Jetty, while Nat hit local supermarket. Having stored away the perishables in the trailer’s little fridge, we set up out a table in the waste ground across the road from Woolworths and put together half a dozen sausage, sauce, cheese and salad rolls for lunch. There were eight or nine other vans and trailers pulled up alongside us – and everyone was jealous of these buns filled to the brim with left over sausages and salad.
With the trailer and our bellies filled, we hopped back in the car and took off down the road southwards. It felt incredibly strange to be moving in this direction, as the sky seemed to bleed with a strange sight we hadn’t encountered for over three and a half months – that is, clouds (at least, I think I remember that is what they are called?!?). Yup, for the first time in more than a quarter of a year, we had not been able to see the sun due to gathering clouds.
“Bugger, we’re not far from home now, are we?” I said plaintively to Nat.

“Nope” she replied (as I imagined a small filmy tear creeping into her eye). “Nope…”

Still, two weeks is a long time to cram in a whole lot of fun. So, lets pack away the thought that we’re on our homeward journey – and focus every ounce of our attention upon living on the open road!! Hazzarh!

A few hours down the highway, with the third book of the Narnia series “A horse and his boy" blaring out through the car speakers, we drew closer to the Shark Bay World Heritage site. Here we would find a home for the next few days, in a place we would come to never really want to leave; Hamelin Station.

 

 

 

Arriving at Shark Bay and Hamelin Station

 

 

Arriving at Hamelin station in the middle of the afternoon, we were gobsmacked by how beautiful this place was. In our minds, we were instantly transported back to Bullara Station – but with a slightly less rustic feel and much more modern facilities. Sure, there was no Damper John in residence, but as we would find out later that night there was an even richer tapestry of song to be sung during out stay here.

 

Pulling into the station, we followed a white crushed shell driveway towards the main campsite. The driveway meandered its way through low bright green shrubs and dark orange earth. As with many places on this whirlwind adventure, the stark contrast between colours was striking. We parked outside the reception and found that we were allocated site Number One. This was not only right next to the communal fire pit, but also just a stone’s throw from the kitchen, toilets and laundry. What more could a weary traveller need?

 

 

Hamelin Station

Being somewhat late in the afternoon, Nat was keen to get us moving so that she could show us a spot she had been keeping secret from us until we had arrived. Hopping back in the car, we made our way through the property, back to the main road. Turning left, we took a drive down towards the sea and stopped in what seemed to be an unremarkable carpark. Hopping out, we made our way over some small sand dunes, where we saw a magical site. Stromatolites!

Now, for those of you who aren’t as familiar as David Attenborough with about the marine life off the coast of Australia – then, let me tell you a little about stromatolites. To the untrained eye, these appear as just like little commonplace tufts of rock sticking up out of the seafoam – but in fact, these are living, breathing (well, respiring at least) creatures. Perhaps they may not be creatures in the sense that most people think of when they hear that word – but, if one transports one’s mind to think along the lines or coral – a mass of small creatures huddled together for safety and protection – then, you’re getting closer. In this hypersaline lagoon, masses of bacteria congregate together and extract what they need to live from the waters that gently buffet the shore. When enough of these bacteria clump together, they cling on to one another and form what’s known as a microbial mat. Some of these clumps, in turn, form a hard casing around themselves, which other microbes can grab hold of. Given enough time, these mats and stromatolites (the larger structures) can begin to grow upwards and out of the water – in a pattern that very much resembles a rock. Indeed, these conglomerates of microbial life may coexist for be hundreds or thousands of years. And here, before us, were some of the best examples of this ancient marine lifeform in the world!

 

 

Stromatolites, Hamelin Pool

 

However, I acknowledge that these awesome biological structures may not lend themselves to being overly photogenic – so, before you click the ‘Back Button’ on your browser, here are a few snaps of our kids playing on the board walk. If nothing else, they certainly liven up the display.

 

Boardwalks through the Stromatolites

 

Having had our fill with ancient microbial structures (Daniel had thumbed his nose up at them almost the minute he stepped on to the beach and realised that he wasn’t able to swim there…), we headed back down the road to Hamelin station. Tonight, we determined on the ride home, was to be a good old spag bol. We had full use of the station’s communal kitchen – so why not make the best ‘on the road’ spag bol ever created?!?

Picking up the necessary supplies from our camper trailer, we made our way back to the warmth of the camp kitchen. Now, I’ve been in some camp kitchens before - and most of them are shocking – but this one was something a little special. Talking with the owners the next day, they told me that when they created this little gem of a place, they had asked themselves “From all our years on the road, what would we want in a perfect caravan park?”… And then they created it!

 

Dinner of champions! 

A large spacious kitchen, with attached dining room (with a long table stretching the length of this space, parked next to a blazing fire). Outside, there were barbeques to be used – but they went untouched for us tonight, as a good spag bol takes time to coalesce over a gentle heat. So, with dinner on the bubble, we had time to sit and chat to a few fellow wanders about their lives and travels…
 
…And then Jo happened!

Over the top of my beer can, I spied a silver haired lady (be speckled and wearing a large jumper – even though the fire was hissing and popping a few meters away). She carried a guitar case, which was plonked down next to her, along with three black folders crammed full of songs sheets and lyrics. Dragging a chair to the end of the table, this travelling minstrel sat down and opened her guitar case, then proceeded to belt out some of the most heart-warming music I’d heard in years. All the oldies were there, mixed with a few more recent numbers just to keep everyone happy. When the first Irish Ballard (Black Velvet Band) came on, I couldn’t help myself any longer. Feet started tapping and hands started drumming. Then, in the corner I spied a second guitar – almost as if it had appeared magically just at that moment. So, grabbing the instrument, I jumped up and peered over her shoulder at the song book. David Bowie was next (Space Oddity), then Crowded House (Better Be Home Soon – ah, sigh, it’s oh so true…). There were a song or two I didn’t know (but the chords were there and there was no backing down now!)… and on and on it went, with the room full of travellers singing, chatting, laughing and clapping. Man, it was an awesome night. The evening came to an end, after a few bottles had been sunk and many a verse sung. To finish the night, we harmonised over a rendition of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah (taking me back to our first night on the road, when we pulled into the motel in Horsham – man, how long ago was that?). The verses were belted out by Jo, with everyone swelling up when the chorus came. Jo played it straight and I picked out the melody – together it came together quite well. And so, as the last chord resounded around the small dining hall there was more clapping and laughter and promises to do it all again tomorrow night…

… and you know what, we sure did!

Belting out a few tunes at Hamelin Station 

 

Wandering back to our trailer across the white shell campsite, Nat, the boys and I fell into bed. It had been a long day, but one that would go into the books as being a lot of fun. But, the morning came soon enough, and we were all up early and ready to meet the sun on a new adventure. We weren’t moving on today (indeed, we had another two nights here), but today we were going to be heading off road again to explore Francois Peron National Park. Our destination was the tip of Cape Peron, which lay some 40 km up a long and undulating sandy stretch of road…

 

…But, dear reader, that is a story unto itself. So, let’s pick up there tomorrow!

 

Bye ‘d bye,

 

Gregg

Carnarvon - ET Phone Home!!!

 

Date:	29 – 30/06/2017
Location:	Carnarvon (Western Australia)
Distance Travelled:	238 km
Temperature:	Min:	3.7
	Max:	21.6
Space capsules launched	1

 

With our departure from Coral Bay, it felt like we had finally begun wending our way home. Sadly, this also marked the point that we began to once again turn our minds to “the calendar”. Oh, the calendar, that malevolent overlord which enslaves those living in the ‘real world’. Yes, that most morbid of inventions – designed, I believe (in my caravan induced bohemian state), to be the ruler of the oppressed masses; having no other purpose than to mark the days of relentless toil before the wretched hoards are finally permitted take a few meagre weeks of freedom from work, school or other such drudgery. But alas, with the weather turning colder, a harsh slap of reality began to occasionally hit us, unexpectedly, in the face.

 

Chilly nip in the air…

[BLAM! – you’re heading southwards]

Morning dew on the grass…

[BLAM! – must be near to home]

Winds picking up at night…

[BLAM! – Don’t you have somewhere to be?]

Sure, we hadn’t quite hit the depressing sight of continual grey skies and stormy weather (actually, most days were still quite lovely), but signs of our return to the south were slowly beginning to show.

With a sense of urgency starting to creep in, we began to look at the rest of our itinerary and realised there would have to be a few tweaks here and there to get us back to Melbourne before time ran out… What am I saying? Time running out? Huh... That sounds like regular folks… Surely, after all this time on the road, we weren’t tied to the same constraints as REGULAR FOLKS?

But, indeed, with the school term beckoning (Oh my, won’t that be a particularly horrendous slap in the face for the boys – four months without much more than an few times tables and the occasional handful of spelling words…. Ho ho, my sons, remember the joys of homework?), funds dwindling short, and a new job waiting for me to help us pay for this extraordinary experience we’d been on; the steady tick tock of our freedom started to make its presence known.

However, we weren’t done for yet – Oh no! All that was needed were a few small tweaks to the itinerary, and we would be laughing all the way home.

Our original plan had been to meander our way down to Kalbarri National Park  – but hearing tales from fellow travellers and making the most of free WiFi to peruse the Kalbarri website, it had become abundantly clear to us that this was currently not worth the effort. Unfortunately, Kalbarri was closed to the public, as it was undergoing a serious cosmetic overhaul. Board walks were being built and access by road had been cut off. So, while this was unfortunate, it was also a somewhat easy snip to make from the plan.

Over a few nights of research (Thanks Nat!), we settled on heading a little further down the coast, then turning our wheels inland to check out the massive mining operation in Kalgoorlie, before hitting the southern coast just in time for whale Season… but we’ll get to that part of the story soon enough.

… Leaving Coral Bay bright and early, we hugged the coast for as long as the road would allow us; before veering inland a little to meet up again with State Highway One. Fortunately, however, our route took us past a magnificent stop – just off the beaten track – 70km or so north of Carnarvon, where we could pull off the highway and gawp at the majesty of “The Blowholes”.

These spectacular natural wonders had been eroded into the sides of the cliff, under the watchful eye of nearby Beagle Hill.

Jumping out of the car, there was a slight nip in the air. But, with trusty camera in hand we clambered over rocks and all manner of boulders, to feast our eyes upon the awesome power of the ocean – being forced upwards (at times more than 20 meters) through narrow gaps and funnels gouged out of the hard rock.

As we picked our way through the gauntlet of jagged, razor sharp rock towards the cliff edge, we spied another unexpected and curious treat. The spray from these blow holes, which had been cast onto the craggy face of the rocky cliff top, had evaporated time and time again, leaving a thick salty residue behind. Over many months, the salty residue had formed a shiny, ice-like crust. Giving many of the craggy rocks the appearance of being taken straight from a winter wonderland.

 

Salt encrusted 'ice pools' at the Blow Holes

 Over the course of an hour or so, we all watched the rhythm of the sea pound the cliff face and force its way with immense power through the small fissures that compressed the great weight of the ocean into gushing torrents of water that shot high up into the air.

 

 

Water jets at The Blowhole – 70km north of Carnarvon

Interspersed with cascading salty fountains, we were also fortunate to spy a number of mother whales and their calves on the horizon. These great beauties were heading down the coast to a watery creche at the southern coast of this vast continent.

 

Whales of The Blowhole

 

Just after midday, we bid farewell to the Blowholes, as well as their salt encrusted rocks and the whales that made this stretch of the coast their home. With less than an hour before our final destination for the day – Carnarvon – we still had much to see and do.

 

 

So many wonderous sights and such little time…

At this point, dear reader, I feel I should address you directly about a very important matter. You see, I have no doubt many of you, like me, will have already pronounced the name of this fair township completely wrong! With nearly four and a half thousand people making Carnarvon their home, not to mention the historical significance that this patch of earth played at the height of the space race (more on that later…), I feel it is only right that I set you straight now – and give you a lesson in the pronunciation of this town’s moniker.

Most people, myself most certainly included, will take a look at the town’s name and simply say to themselves “Carnarvon” – “Car – na – von”… But oh, no! Should it be so simple – oh no, indeed! Dear reader, if you want to fit in with the locals, one must abandon all hope of simply applying normal phonetic rules to this place name, and wrap your head around this:

 

Give me a “K” (as in Kid)

Give me a “Nah” (like “Far”, but with a ‘N’)

Give me a “Vun” (Like Kiwi heading down to Raglan with a few mates in their “campah vun”…)

 

K’nah-vun…

 

…Yeah, I still don’t get it. But, if you watch this video – not only will you learn a bucket load about the town (and it’s claim to fame), but also the news reporter says the town’s name a few times…

 

Arriving at Carnarvon (K’nah-vun), we were met by some of the friendliest campsite owners we’d met on our trip so far. The receptionist was ready and waiting for us to arrive, before handing us over to her roving colleague, who directed us to our site as he rode alongside our trailer on his pushbike. However, he didn’t leave us there. Oh no, he gave possibly the clearest instructions on how to back our particular trailer into that particular site. Seriously, it was as if he was in the car and driving it himself. “Hard Left” he called, “Now, relax the wheel a little…”, “Left… now straight… yup, a little right… now straight back.” And before I knew it, we had pulled up perfectly into our site without any fussing or faffing about. It was like having a GPS, which actually knew how to give helpful instructions.

During our brief time in Carnarvon, we restocked the van, filled up with water and chucked a few loads of soiled clothes through the washing machine. Ben and Daniel made friends with some the other travellers near our site (including a crazy old Chihuahua, with a growth the size of a tennis ball on its little leg – man, that thing was gross, but the boys played with it all the same…).

With the camper trailer set up, we jumped back in our trusty car and zipped down the road to the real reason we had decided to stay a day in Carnarvon. The main claim to fame of this sleepy little backwater was the important role Carnarvon played helping to steer a handful of astronauts on their race to the moon in 1969. You see, during the 1960’s NASA set up a tracking station in this little corner of the world, to support the Gemini and Apollo space missions. A satellite station was established here to meet the need for reliable communications for NASA’s Apollo Moon project. Having been decommissioned in April 1987, the satellite station no longer hailed the stars to guide would be astronauts on their way to extra-terrestrial destinations. But, for a small town of only a handful of residents, the role Carnarvon played in the space race has been immortalised in a pretty nifty museum.

 

Carnarvon - Space and Technology museum

We spent quite a few hours at the Carnarvon Space and Technology museum; taking in all the history and marvelling at the ‘primitive technology’ that helped put the first human beings on the moon. Perhaps we had arrived during the off season, but we practically had the run of the museum to ourselves. The attendants who greeted us at the ticket desk were incredibly enthusiastic and certainly enjoyed getting into the spirit of space exploration. No sooner had we paid our entry fee, we were whisked away to don space suits and clamber aboard a rocket simulator to experience what it would have been like to launch into space with a megaton of explosive rocket fuel strapped to ours back. As we lay there prostrate in the replica command module, I think the attendant sold the experience a little too well, as Daniel stayed just long enough to pose for a photo, before legging it out of the capsule before the door was able to close.

 

 

3… 2… 1… BLAST OFF!!

All in all, the Carnarvon Space and Technology Museum presented a heady mix of sci-fi and sci-fact, crossed with set design and atmosphere that would be well at home in the Rocky Horror picture show. Seriously, by the end of our time there, if ‘Riff Raff’ of ‘Dr Frank N. Furter’ had jumped out, wearing shiny silver suits and began belting out a few numbers from the stage show, I don’t think I would have batted an eye lid. But, all in all, the whole family had a great time. There were classic arcade games to play, a planetarium housed inside an inflatable igloo, all manner of space exploration memorabilia, and science experiments for the enjoyment of young and old. Even the gift shop was a pleasure palace of things to try on, play with and explore. Seriously, if you’re passing Carnarvon, drop in and spend a while here!

 

 

Carnarvon – Space and Technology Museum

 

Arriving back at the campsite, we found that the campsite owners were firing up their pizza oven this evening in a large shed out back. So, just after dusk, we converged with other weary traveller, around a gaggle of long tables, to buy our dinner and take our fill of pizzas. Sure, they weren’t the best slabs of dough and cheesy topping I’d ever sampled in my life, but they were served with a smile and were hot – best of all there was no washing up, so we were more than happy.

 

Up bright and early the next morning, we went through our usual pack down routine before hitching the trailer to the car before heading off to our next destination. There was, however, one more sight to see before leaving: the historical One Mile Jetty. Nat dropped the boys and I at the jetty to scope it out, while she quickly popped to the shops. From afar, the jetty was a sight to behold; a long misshapen arm of wood, seeming to claw its way out from the land, before spreading a long rickety finger into the crashing sea. Having visited the Space and Technology museum yesterday, it seems that not being content with simply aiding the space race, Carnarvon also had its sights set on deep sea exploration; or at the very least providing a welcoming place for Captain Ahab to dock after escaping the white whale.

 

Wandering down to the pier, we had a quick look around. There wasn’t a whole lot there to get the boys exploration juices flowing. On the way, we had a quick rummage around the sand dunes and boardwalks, before arriving at the mouth of the jetty itself.

 Carnarvon boardwalks

Looking around, we found that there was a $5 fee to walk out on the somewhat thread-bear wharf. Strangely, no one seemed interested in a 3.218km round trip, particularly as the sea has receded since the jetty was first built in 1897; with the majority of it being currently suspended over mud flats and mangroves. With that settled, I put the $5 back in my pocket, and we turned around to meet up with Nat and head on our way.

 

 One Mile Jetty - Carnarvon