Tues, 21st Apr, 2015 Swimcart Beach Campground, Bay of Fires Conservation Area

Beautiful morning – 6.45am up for the sunrise again. 11 degrees and no wind so I could stand outside for a while watching the sun come up. So lovely and tranquil. We are sleeping well to the sound of the rolling waves.

My own stairway to heaven.

Wash day as the sun is out and lovely and warm. I am in shorts and bikini top to get some sun again on my poor body.

The breeze has picked up a lunch time so time to put on some more clothes as breeze certainly has a cold bite to it.

Blog time while the washing dries. A couple of boats are out fishing – not seeing anything being caught.

With all the washing dry and put away we headed off for a walk around the campground. Lots of camp spots further away from the beach in the bush. Found another log for the fire.

Clouds have come over but the wind has stopped so it is nice by the fire as Steve cooks dinner in the camp oven.

Rang Tracy & Grant – so glad they are home and Grant is improving.

Read another of Geoff’s bush poetry books by Bob Magor and he has a sequel to Caravanning Bliss. Will send these to Terry & Erica, their caravan club should get a laugh.

The Exodus

There’s a curse out on the highway that makes all the truckies stress,

As it crawls along in convoy ninety K’s an hour and less.

Plagues of rudderless grey nomads have the Outback overrun,

All hitched up to bonsai houses heading northwards to the sun.

They’re in caravans and Kombis and expensive motor homes,

Filled with cats and dogs and budgies and their fav’rite garden gnomes.

And they clog up all the traffic driving twenty feet apart,

For most got their driver’s licence when they drove a horse and cart.

But the truckies have their vengeance through long days of being slowed,

When they roar past with their road trains and suck each one off the road.

Anyone can join this menace on the winter sun escape,

All you need is thongs and stubbies and a belly out of shape.

You salute your fellow traveller with a finger as you pass,

But not cars without a caravan – ‘cause they’re all second class!

Making van parks their oasis, which can pop up anywhere,

Where they circle all the wagons (because danger lurks out there).

Watch them tearing in at lunchtime all exhausted from their drive,

‘Cause there mad nocturnal fossils hit the road at half-past five!

The wives find their destination reading sideways in a flap

All confused with map inverted back to front upon her lay.

It’s a girl thing and frustrating – as each patient husband knows –

When his wife revolves the roadmap the direction that she goes.

Then each little meek old lady beckons in her chosen mate.

How she waves and where he backs they never seem to get quite straight.

From behind the van she beckons as he vaguely looks around.

He can’t see her in the mirrors so he’s back now by sound.

Then each loving grey-haired couple make the air turn rather blue

With assorted ‘stars’ and ‘dashes’ that all end with, ‘Up yours too!’

They’re a cross between Frank Spencer and the bumbling Mr Bean,

As they end up in a jackknife with the tap now on a lean.

And the power box he knocked over quickly brings him to a halt.

For he didn’t watch her signal so the whole thing’s now his fault.

Then the husbands of the neighbours say, ‘Look, she’s as bad as you!’

And a blue-rinse female chorus answers back, ‘And up yours too!’

But she’s parked them by a palm tree so the awning starts to scream.

And the power cord’s in a tangle and the water hose won’t reach.

That’s why husbands love those van parks that save all domestic fights,

They have redesigned their set-ups to those trendy drive-through sites.

Though there’s now an urgent problem to complete the comedy,

It’s to catch up with the soapies and find channels on TV.

He’s outside with their antenna and adjusts it left and right,

As she yells out from the telly with instructions impolite.

For some tension has arisen and it brings them close to tears.

Living in each other’s pocket the first time for forty years.

And each marriage now’s in tatters from incessant arguing,

With each caravan transforming to a two-wheeled boxing ring.

But the laundry in the van park for the gossip, that’s the place,

As each wife pours out her problems and her husband’s fall from grace.

Of his flatulence and snoring and his lack of social skills.

How he’s cranky, mean and uncouth with a host of other ills.

Though the husbands help with washing as they hand out all the pegs,

Looking cute in baggy stubbies and their praying mantis legs.

Then each old chap looks for neighbours to earbash about his trip.

Of his latest triple bypass and his artificial hip,

Of his worrying investments and the rate of their descent.

If the sorry trend continues he’ll be living in a tent.

How his car gets better mileage and the price of fuel and grog.

Mongrel parks that won’t take bookings and won’t let him take his dog.

All the bush camps by the roadside where he scabbed a night for free,

And which Nat’nal Parks he hid in while he dodged the ranger’s fee.

While his wife gets to the loo door with a cry of agony,

For her bursting bladder tells her she forgot the blasted key.

Then they hit the supermarkets barricading up each aisle,

Seeking out the super specials and which meat packs are worthwhile.

‘Is it one chop dear or two chops?’ then they join the liquor line,

For some stubbies out on special and some Chateau Cardboard wine.

Once they’ve spent their thirty dollars their next stop is rather cruel,

Cars and vans lined up in hundreds for their Woolies discount fuel.

But each one becomes a menace as the daylight turns to dark,

And they’re spotted vaguely lurking in the shadows of the park.

Locked in noisy conversation (though they scroll about alone),

As they search for better signals on their bloody mobile phone!

And the kids back home are stressing as the oldies phone again.

Each inheritance in turmoil gurgling slowly down the drain.

Then the van park lights start dimming though the noise goes on till late.

As the cupboard doors start banging and the plates and walls vibrate.

As these lovely blue-rinse ladies are all patiently seduced

By some puffing panting passion that Viagra has induced.

Then they’re woken up at daylight by their geriatric mates,

With a rattling of diesels as the park evacuates.

There’s a symphony in progress as the neighbours get their thrills

For they’re cranking up their van legs with their blasted cordless drills.

From the bathroom in the darkness flits each terry-towelling ghost

While the screaming smoke detectors pinpoint which van’s cooking toast.

They’re retirees – a subculture, that all chose to end their days

Under awnings on a deckchair in an alcoholic haze.

Then the northern landscape heats up so no longer do they roam.

They put caravans in convoys for the long return trip home.

While they bore their fellow trav’lers about all the spots they’ve been,

For each van displays the challenge ‘Call on UHF 18’.

So these gypsies clog the roads again and truckies loudly curse.

With two thousand K’s of caravans – it couldn’t get much worse.

For the truckies it’s a nightmare with these antiques on the move.

All the drivers in their twilight and unlikely to improve.

When the exodus is over it’s the future truckies’ fear.

With this menace twelve months older when it hits the road next year!

Another great one about Line Dancing – will send this to Wendy and Sandra.

The Line Dancing Dropout

‘We have to save our marriage,’ came this outburst from the wife.

‘You’ve become a couch potato – TV sport controls your life.

We must spend some time together – do the things we used to do.’

In a flash I joined her wavelength ‘cause I had a thought or two!

‘How about we go out dancing like back in our courting days?’

I agreed, for when you’re cornered I’ve found patronising pays.

‘You’ll get fit,’ she coyly stated. ‘It will keep you out the pub.

I will join us up tomorrow to the Bay Bootscootin’ Club.’

So I even took a shower to impress these dancing sorts.

They to really turn the girls on I dressed up in footy shorts.

And my wife thought I was Xmas though my eagerness was false.

I’d remembered hard-pressed bodies in a steamy modern waltz.

But this modern brand of dancing wasn’t like the type I knew.

And the more I sat and watched it, well, my disappointment grew.

My sweet dreams became a nightmare – all I copped with dirty looks

When I mentioned that line dancers prance around like free-range chooks!

There were blokes done up like peacocks and they walked a trifle queer

With tight jeans clamped like a tourniquet on wedding tackle gear.

For the women – you can’t touch ‘em, so no lustful thoughts are felt

As you prance round like a rooster with your thumbs stuck in your belt.

For most had corrugated iron stuffed down inside their strides.

They had lumps and bumps and bulges out the back and front and sides.

Just imagine my confusion when we wandered in that hall.

This newfangled dance, ‘line dancing’, was no dancing dance at all!

I just lined up with the others and I did it on my own.

Like some ancient tribal war dance with its origins unknown.

If you watch each bulging backside any thought of passion wilts.

For their bums vibrate before you like big Queensland blues on stilts.

Then the president got nasty – said she’d strike me from their books!

All I said was, ‘You line dancers strut around like free-range chooks!’

Is that mad disease contagious, or have antidotes been found?

Do they have an open season or is shooting all year round?

For the sights that bobbed before me mimicked my worst nightmare scenes.

Watching thunder-thighs and cellulite all strangled in their jeans.

In a sweat of concentration working out where feet were put,

I got thumped and bumped and elbowed and was trampled underfoot.

So I tried some ‘dirty dancing’ but we soon got torn apart

When the bloody mob stampeded to an ‘Achy Breaky Heart’.

So I said that I was injured – pulled a hamstring in the pack.

Said I’d have to get a rubdown and I shot through down the track.

When I got home it was half-time in the footy on TV,

So I lay back in my armchair and I sank a beer or three.

This was more my type of dancing – doing foxtrots with the fridge.

Using special Aussie footwork that we all call ‘ridgy didge’.

If it’s exercise I’m needing I can get it from TV.

I don’t get out the breath or injured and admission price is free.

I abuse the useless umpires for they’re just a bunch of crooks.

They remind me of line dancers strutting round like free-range chooks!