resort

We wake after eight. The wind rattles the windows and rain puddles in the car park. We peer from our second-storey window at families wheeling their luggage from three multi-towered resorts around Warrnambool’s Lady Bay to their four-wheel drives. Middle-aged women with badges on their ballooning bosoms cross from their overnight lodgings to the conference centre.

“I reckon they’re healthcare workers,” I tell to my good woman.

The weather forestalls our hoped-for bike ride along the foreshore, so we loll about on our acre of bed, massaging each other’s feet. We sully all the pristine white towels because we don’t have to launder them. My good woman’s yogurt and raspberry breakfast freezes overnight in the tiny fridge. I eat Weeties with yesterday’s blackberries. God bless the eleven o’clock checkout.

I ferry our small bags to the car while my good woman rounds up her toiletries. Knots of healthcare conferees jam the foyer, stuffing themselves with morning tea. I disturb one as she ladles clotted cream onto a discus-sized scone and ask about the conference theme. “Breast-feeding,” she informs.

I envision breast versus bottle contingents. “Will there be blood-letting,” I ask hopefully. “Scuffles, scone-throwing?” She has no humour; a terse no.

My good woman sees no point to a conference about breast-feeding. Perhaps it’s about technique, not whether or not it’s a good thing, I offer as we roll out of the car park.

At Allansford we jostle our way around Cheeseworld’s cheese room, then bump our way on lumpy bitumen to Timboon. The boutique shopping in this tiny town surprises my good woman. I buy her a cloche hat, though she doesn’t wear hats. The shop lady tells us we are a cute couple. I am beyond response.

We meander and rollercoaster our way along deserted back roads for the next two hours, past dairy farms and pasture seed businesses, through Simpson and Carlisle River to Colac, picking more blackberries along the way.

Colac on a mid-Saturday afternoon fails to inspire in every way. Dingy smelly arcades run off the main street which seems to be the exclusive province of grubby obese young women. Paint-flaking showrooms line the desultory entrance and exit to the town along the highway. The Lebanese café looks good but the food disappoints.

We bypass Geelong on the new peripheral. The traffic thickens as we approach Melbourne’s sprawl. The underground thrum of the Burnley Tunnel fills me with a dull dread. At about six we are in my good woman’s drive and our small but wonderful adventure is over.

Rock on.   

adventure

After 6:15 pump class I have an hour to pack the car and get to Centrelink for an 8:45 Personal Contact Interview. My Activity Test requirements are on the line: I must present my Participation Activity Record sent with my Reporting Statement.

The interview is inconsequential. I’m new to receiving payment, I’ve got six attempts to find work on my record, and I’m soon on my way to my good woman’s place. I take the pedals off her bike and load it into the Jazz. My good woman makes morning tea and a sandwich each for the journey. Just before eleven we pull out and head off for the Otways and the Western District.

My task is to explore roads from Warrnambool to the Surf Coast for a four-day bike ride. And to take my good woman for an adventure, showing her parts of Victoria she has not seen. I have not seen some of it either. We stop at Winchelsea and eat our lunch in a grassed area close to the old bluestone bridge over the Barwon River.

The Cape Otway Road leads us through Forrest on its windy way to the coast. We emerge from the mist and rain at the top of the range overlooking Apollo Bay. Here we stop on the roadside to take photos and fill a metal bowl with blackberries, then turn back and snake our way through thick rainforest to Beech Forest and Lavers Hill.

My good woman leans out the window with her camera; I sum up the conditions for road bikes and enjoy the challenge of driving a twisty road with little visibility and branches across the new bitumen surface. This is the only driving I enjoy these days.

From Lavers Hill we stick to the Great Ocean Road all the way to Warrnambool. The wind whips spray off the whitecaps it’s driving backwards up the Gellibrand River at Princetown and knocks the thermos off the picnic table where we eat afternoon tea.

We loiter on the jetty at Port Campbell, eat potato chips at Peterborough and explore the Bay of Islands and Childers Cove where the sandstone formations and the ‘fjords’ fascinate my good woman. We do not encounter another soul. The day is not for swimming: the wind buffets us and the occasional shower scuds across our backs.

In Warrnambool we check into the resort then stroll off across the mouth of the Merri River to explore. My good woman is rugged up in a jacket, her hair blustering in all directions. Winds like this will drive her out of her mind, she says.

The trainee receptionist recommends Bojangles Pizza in Liebig Street. The pizza is fine but the noise in the pizzeria precludes conversation, so we eat hastily and retire to our clean and comfortable room at the resort for an extended shower and a long night’s sleep.

Rock on.