In a time long ago and a galaxy far away, we’d brought ATGANI back to Sydney with the intention of cleaning up the van and the truck and selling it all – very firmly my intention, somewhat less Lesley’s (so you know where this is going!).  The mixed emotions involved combined with lots of activities in our normal lives, from golf in Vietnam for Trevor (brown jacket returned to its usual home, I’m afraid), travel to Brazil for the world’s best party, a week in the Galapagos, Jaguar mountain rallying with Mike, untold domestic duties etc etc led to those intentions turning to dust.  So, the van remained unsold and, as ever, “still being fixed”, the truck remained blocking up Cremorne Point’s limited parking spaces thus attracting the ire of North Sydney Council and the lure of the open road “for one last time” remained as well.  It started to feel like a John Farnham farewell tour!

So, after the customary false starts, we set off up the east coast of Australia on the Fourth of July.  Independence Day and not just for the Yanks.

Again, the intention was to travel relatively quickly up to about Yamba and then to meander slowly up to North Queensland for a few months, stopping at empty, pristine beachfront sites where we’d stay as long as we chose and move on, also when we chose.  The picture was clear – sparkling Goldilocks weather, spacious and largely uninhabited areas to camp, fires every night and lulled to sleep by the sound of the overlooked surf beaches and coastal estuaries.  National and State Parks were our preference but beachside caravan parks might do from time to time.  Bewdiful!

What a ridiculous pipe dream!  There are thousands of old people, many with Victorian and Tasmanian numberplates, who make this northward coastal journey EVERY winter, EVERY year.  Their number is still increasing.  We’d sort-of known about it but had no idea of the volume.  They’ve booked out all the best sites many many months (often a year) in advance.  If you’re also stupid enough to start your adventure during school holidays, it’s even worse. (By the way, exactly when ISN’T someone on school holidays?) The single most often heard phrase we’ve encountered is “See yez next year”!

And yet, despite all of that we’re managing to have a fine old time, despite virtually nothing going according to the original plan.  First stop was, of course, at Torus in Newcastle where we wasted a couple of hours while they tightened all the water connections that they had previously loosened.  Turning on the water was like sprinkling a lawn, except inside the van.  Arrrghh!

An overnighter at Diamond Water took us to Brooms Head just south of Yamba – anything in Yamba was, naturally, booked out.  It was a bit wet, a bit windy and a bit cold but we scored a terrific campsite up on the bluff overlooking the beach and settled in happily.  Next day we acquired neighbours (Leah and Dan? from Lismore) who parked an ancient and clapped out van, put up a gazebo, erected the world’s most comprehensive mobile firepit cum stove and then Dan started fishing down on the beach from dawn to dusk.  Very little success attended his efforts but the next night he caught one trevally (dart as I remember them), spent half an hour filleting it and turned it into almost-still-kicking sashimi which he offered around – generously and genuinely delicious.

We’d been looking forward to Yamba and especially lunch at the Pacific Hotel, probably even better sited than the pub at Tathra.  We enjoyed a happy meal (not Macca’s) whilst looking out over the ocean on a day when the weather had finally come good and so it turned out beautifully – on this one occasion, pretty much as planned!  A quick look at the surf down at Angourie showed plenty of contenders but the surf was, sadly, pretty rubbish.

Moving north and having now escaped NSW school hols, we were able to bag a few nights at Black Rock camp ground in Mibinbah NP which was 20km of benign dirt road out toward the coast.  A good campsite behind the dunes meant fires every night, despite some cold and damp, but leavened by the excellent news that everyone in Sydney was freezing to death.  The beach was bounded by lots of “black rocks”, which we came to know as Coffee Rock – look exactly like packed espresso grounds and only a bit harder to the touch.  Made mostly of sand and anciently compacted organic matter, you can carve your name in it with a seashell (frowned upon but much in evidence).

The serenity here was palpable except that F-18s come from Amberley to continue the WW11 habit of “practicing” here.  They flew low and loud (very, very loud) over us and staged amazing vertical climbs, followed by equally astounding dives and rolls and swoops and 50km/hr controlled stalls right along the beach – felt sick just watching.  During the war, when bombing practice was happening, the few people on the ground were able to shelter in little concrete cubbies built here and there and still sort-of standing – all H&S certified I’m sure.

There was a 4km kayak paddle to a more secluded campsite but we passed it up, being kayak-less.  In fact, we seem to be toy-less.  Even more than before, every other traveller is carrying masses of stuff including boats, outboard motors, bikes and scooters (many of them e-), kayaks, surf and boogie boards by the dozen not to mention fishing and crabbing gear of every description.  We’re feeling severely underequipped – didn’t even bring our noodles. 

We left Black Rock very pleased with ourselves as the weather was rapidly improving and headed towards Brunswick Heads.  Wikicamps told us that the caravan parks there were all 👎👍 and, of course, they were full as well, so we camped a bit earlier at Hastings Point and what a perfectly satisfactory seaside town it is.  We walked to Pottsville where niece Abbey lives with Giles and baby(ies?) and found good coffee, but not them (in Toowoomba as it turned out).  Glorious weather by now and surfers and fisherfolk were out in numbers.

Time was marching on so it was Brisbane and Mardi next stop.  Last time we’d tried this in a caravan, we stayed for a week at Redcliffe while I isolated with Covid but this time the conveniently located Redcliffe CP was (go on, guess) full, so we eventually found an inconvenient place to park at WillowBank, nowhere near Mardi or even near Brisbane but, ironically, near the aforementioned Amberley so we had the pleasure of F-18 noise again.  This time Covid didn’t intervene so we took Mum to lunch at the golf club where she was greeted by a number of cronies and brother David also turned up which made for a generally successful event.  We spent a night at Trish’s then and set our sights on another memory lane location – the Caravan Park at Sunshine Beach where we’d stayed 50 years ago.  What could possibly go wrong?