Nick Cave and Grinderman. A review

If you like your rock music heavy in a conventional sense, don’t go to see Nick Cave. If you like it dark, then he may be acceptable. But if you like it as weighty as a ton of pig iron, black and dirty, then this is for you.

Coming at the end of a weeks residency in Melbourne, the show blew in on a tornado to Adelaide. Accompanied by two of the Bad Seeds (Martyn Casey and Jim Sclavunos), and long-time collaborator Warren Ellis, this show rocked the school-hall like Thebarton Theatre and the walls reverberated.

Grinderman is the dirty side. Not dirty (that conjures images of Christine Aguilera in fishnet tights), but grimy. Fast and furious blues, Cave’s voice is unlike any other. Too grubby to be called erotic, this was pornographic.

The second half was Cave playing his solo material, although the band were the same. Ellis is a dervish on the fiddle, sometimes playing it like a guitar, occasionally wielding it like an axe, a sound like all the devils in hell are playing. And the crowd loved it. Cave can be tender and loving, but the attraction is that feeling of danger that he exudes. He’s a man who you feel wouldn’t just threaten. He would. And when he told a bloke in the crowd who was acting up to get out, right in the middle of Tupelo, it was all part of the persona.

The show was what detractors would call disorganised, but lovers would describe as anarchic, and it all added to the feeling of being a thrown together session, rather than a polished, well-rehearsed play (which it undoubtedly was). Anarchy is what the music needs.

The show started just after 8, with Grinderman raising the roof for nearly an hour, finishing with No Pussy Blues (“the saddest song in the world” – self-mocking and desperate but honest). Nick Cave solo appeared less than half an hour later and played for an hour, with some of his most well known songs and others less so. After he had disappeared from stage, the crowd howled. Apparently that just isn’t what they do in Adelaide. The band reappeared and played four more songs, until Cave’s growl was worn to a mere shadow of a voice, but still more powerful than most that make up the rock-scene. We left with ears bleeding.

And let me tell you, with a voice like that, I would. And the saddest song in the world would never have been written.

The Ghan

Surprisingly, given the early hours of the last few days, I slept until 7:30. Check out at 10. Washed my hair – again. You forget how unpleasant fag smoke is when you don’t have it around you. Dropped the camera. Bugger. Actually that’s not what I said. I said “Oh no, not again.” Or words to that effect.

I’ve never been a morning person. I had to meet with Judy and Rosie to return the boot, but I didn’t do that until 10 when we wandered into town and sat in the sun for a coffee. Recaffeinated, I then had to go and do a bit of shopping. Mainly to buy another pair of shoes as I couldn’t face wearing the ones I had on for a whole 24 hours. Not until they’d been washed! Then back to the hotel (no time to do anything else in Alice) to get my bags and walk the hot 10 minutes to the railway station which is a the back of an industrial estate.

Onto the “Legendary Ghan” as the train manager insisted on saying Every time she spoke to us. I get the message – and I hope that you’re embarrassed by the music that accompanies the information tape “Experience the legend that is...the Ghan.”

I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a train. It does an average of 60kph for 24 hours, with stops totalling about 3 hours to wait for freight trains to clear the single track sections (one of which was over 100 wagons long, with 4 locos). It travels through the desert, 10 hours of which are in darkness. It’s not Intercity.

I’ve probably got a slightly jaundiced view – I should have done the journey on the way up when I hadn’t spent 3 days driving through the outback. And it really was cattle class. The seats were airline recliners, and if you stepped beyond the “red kangaroo” class into the gold coaches, there was real trouble. The down side of having a lot of leg room is that with no foot rest you just slide off the seat. So my sleeping bag ended up as a foot rest instead of keeping me warm as I’d intended. Stupidly I’d also left my ear plugs in the bag that got checked in, and there was a babe that cried every hour, on the hour. I reckon I slept for about 20 min. The carriage shower was OK, though, and they supplied towels.

The food was BR c. 1990. (supplied by Qantas, I noticed). The prices were c 1990 too, to be fair, but still...

Anyway I got my diary right up to date, read a couple of books. Wore my iPod batteries out, that sort of thing. At least there was a lounge car so you didn’t have to sit in your seat for 24 hours. Thursday’s scenery was very similar (/ the same) as the last 3 days, as we went back south through the bottom of the Northern Territory and the sun set on flat earth. We were just north of Port Augusta as the sun came up over the Southern Flinders Mountains, and it is very noticeable how much drier the landscape is in SA – hardly any trees. The land in still flat but eventually gives way to fields of corn (very sparse fields of corn), then you’re riding past Parafield airport and in Adelaide.

There were 3 others from the tour on the train, all of them Japanese so I chatted to them for a bit, but there was quite a language barrier. The bloke next to me was from Rushden and I spent a bit of time talking to him and his friends.

Then I was waiting for baggage reclaim, then a taxi, and I was home. With several loads of washing to do I slept for about 40 minutes (which was a surprise given that someone was using a chainsaw outside the window), before getting ready to go out again.

Piccies may (or may not) follow when I get the film processed

King's Canyon - the end

Hooray. 4:55, and someone is snoring – but it doesn’t really matter because the Backstreet Boys will be playing very soon. Bloody song. Time to watch the stars.

After a bit of farting around trying to get a very large (and very warm) sleeping bag into a large sack, I was a little more awake and managed to get all my tea down my throat. Drink problem solved.

This time we drove out of the camp, along the dust track, for the last time to go to King’s Canyon. The sun was rising as we left, and in the low, bright light, the grass glowed white as though it had snowed.

King’s Canyon was full of the same buses as usual – all running round the same sights, and there was a queue walking up the first hill (which was steep but short). After that the track wound along the top of the canyon, through mounds of cracked sandstone like wicker beehives as far as you could see. One, that projected over the canyon was like the silhouette of a head with mouth open waiting to speak. You can see exactly how these places became sacred to a people without the science or the tools to explain it. The trees on top are ghost gums, which are covered in a white powder that works as sun block, and with the ability to selectively shut down and lose limbs if there has been no rain. Where the sea once flowed are ripples on the rock, and there are fossil remnants of jellyfish if you know where to look.


We then descended into the back of the canyon to the water hole, hidden so you’d never find it if you didn’t know it was there, with sheer cliffs that must be well over 50m high, ochre and orange striped. Back up again and it was still only just after 9am, but still would have been hot were it not for the breeze. The rocks form steps and amphitheatres, and cycads grow. It would have been very easy to lose the trail. Soon enough we descended, but it felt like we had finally done a proper walk (even if it was only 6km ish).

We left to go back to the “resort” (campground) with the swimming pool and had a dip and a shower before lunch at 1130. Then we started the 5 hour drive back to Alice. The road wasn’t any more interesting than before (I wouldn’t want it exciting, however). A road where 30m between service stations is counted as too close. I only managed to sleep for bout 30 min, so when the chance came to sit up front and talk to someone who wasn’t asleep (hopefully), I took it. Can’t believe we were talking about movies – how long is it since I last went to the pictures? It avoided playing I Spy all the way home. Phew.

And then we were back in Alice and dropping people off at their hotels. When we got back to the Desert Rose, Judy found that one of her boots that had been on the edge of the shelf in the trailer (the same pair that she thought she had forgotten when we started out) was no longer there. After a search through, the bus turned round and headed back to look for it.

This time I had the room two along, right at the end, which sadly was a twin, not a double. I managed to avoid falling asleep (narrowly) before getting a taxi back into town (which was actually about a 10min walk, but it was dark). Everyone converges on the one bar (Bojangles) in town after the tours. It’s pretty impressive – there’s even a web site where you can get people who aren’t there to put money in the kitty. Several people were already there when I arrived, then Damo arrived with the boot in a plastic bag – which had been sitting on the roadside outside a hostel. Next challenge – remembering to take it back to the hostel with me. The food was pretty good, although one portion would have served about 3 people. People watching (and gossip) – don’t you love it. Kate got sweet revenge on Damo for all the early mornings by getting the DJ to play the BackStreet Boys, going out live on radio Alice.

Later, after closing time, we went on to a v dodgy club. More like a warehouse (but not in a trendy way, in a transport depot sort of way) with concrete floor, a few pool tables and, er, that’s it. Oh – a dance floor. Dire music. We spent an hour trying to leave, getting Team Japan to teach us those moves they do in front of the camera and what they mean. I think it was about 2am when we managed to get away. Should have waited another 3 hours, and we’d have been up for 24.

Uluru Proper

We were woken by the BackStreet Boys at stupid o’clock. There’s one thing about an alarm like that – it makes you get up. I said upright, not awake. That happened about 15 min later when I chucked a hot cup a tea over myself. Don’t ask why, cos I haven’t a clue. War wound 3.

Back on the bus and I was sat in the front passenger seat to watch Uluru come into sight, a black shadow against the teal and crimson of the dawn just showing. Kodak moment.

When we got to the viewing site it was full with the same crowd as the night before (strangely some of the buses were taking people away). Dawn was at 6:11: we had about 25 min to wait in the cool. It was a cold grey light, gradually warming and you start to see shadows on the rock, then pools of light, then the orange rock and the shadows creep away. And you take yet another photo, hoping this will be THE one, or if you’re Japanese of your friwnds doing yet another strange gesture in front of the camera.


We started the walk around the base of the rock at about 7. The climb was open – a steady stream of emmets climbing a very steep shoulder. The Anangu don’t like you climbing, I suppose that at least by allowing one way up, it makes it marginally safer. But it’s not surprising that 35 people have fallen off in 10 year: were Uluru in a mountain range, not on the tourist trail you would not attempt it without gear. In fact, you’d probably walk around thinking “how the hell am I going to get up there?”. Anna and James got about halfway before being put off by a man scrambling down out of control.



So the rest of us walked around the bottom which is around 6miles. Sadly the most dramatic parts are sacred sites so photos are forbidden. They also seemed to all be on the side that was in shadow for longest – not stupid there. The rock is shades of red, ochre and orange with holes in it that look like honeycomb, or icing dripping down. The grass is green and yellow, the leaves on the mulga silvery-blue. You get closer to the rock after about halfway and the surface is surprisingly dirty, pitted and crazed like a jigsaw or scales. This side is the waterhole, so there are trees and flowers (although it is a long time since meaningful rain). There are great gashes where huge slabs of rock have fallen that look as though someone has slashed at the rok with a machete, and one of them is a mouth with lips and a tongue. (Imagine it speaking).

Further on round another shoulder and you think you must be nearly there, but there is another slope in front of you, then another, until finally you see the trail of people stupid enough to start the way up in the heat, pulling themseves up by the hand-rail and you’re back in the car park.




We did one final short walk before moving on, into a cave that looks like a breaking wave, frozen, and had an illustrated talk - with actions – on some of the creation stories. After that was the cultural centre which had more illustrations of the history and culture from the Anangu, but was mostly a chance to by tourist tat of varying prices.

There is an interesting quote from one of the owners that recurs, saying “The tourist comes here with the camera taking pictures all over. What has he got? Another photo to take home... ” which I think is an interesting illustration of a difference between the cultures. A photo is not just a picture, it’s an attempt to capture the feelings, emotions and experience of a place or event so that you have more than just the memory.

We then had a quick coach ride back to the camp for a lunch of chicken burgers (now I remember why I don’t buy them – but we are camping so it didn’t really matter), then back into the bus for another few hours. There were two stops – the first was for the viewing spot for Mt Conner (another table mountain) and Coach-Captain fag break, the second was because we needed wood for the fire to cook on. Actually I’m lying, because there was a stop for a quick (half-hour) to have a swim / shower before we got to the George Gill Hilton (beng in the George Gill Mtns). There was some gas to cook on, but we had a dinner of salmonella (or was it Listeria, I can’t remember) chicken cooked on the fire with damper, which is like scone.

We turned in late (11 o’clock) after sitting around the fire chatting, burning marshmallows and drinking beer. Most of us slept outside. The stars (at least until I take off my glasses) are incredible. Orion (upside down... is that a sword in your pocket...?) and the Southern cross (about all I know), with a finger-nail paring of a moon and space hardware rushing across the sky.

Monday

The hotel, an ex motel, had connecting doors between the rooms. They were completely un-soundproofed. So I know the blokes next door went out at half 8, came back with friends sometime later etc. They either came back in at 4:45, or were getting up. Which wasn’t much of a problem for me getting up a half-hour later as I was already wide awake.

The bus was v slightly early, and two others from the tour (Rosie and Judy) were staying at the Desert Rose too. After a short time looking for Judy’s boots which she may or may not have packed (nice to not be the disorganised one), we went round picking everyone else up then left Alice on the 5 hour drive to Yulara (Ayer’s Rock resort). It’s an interesting road, the Stuart Highway – scrub, sand, rocks, bushes, more sand. For about 5 minutes.

The first stop was at a camel farm, which thankfully also sold a sort of coffee, the effects of which lasted for about 10 minutes before I fell asleep. When I woke up, the desert was still the same. It’s surprisingly green and very much flat, except for the table mountains that line up in the distance like carriages in a great yard waiting to be shunted into a proper mountain range. Buzzards and Kites swooped in front of the bus. Civilisation is a 60kph speed limit and a radio transmitter mast.


Eventually, after about 2 hours, we took a right turn (directions out here aren’t complicated) down the Lasseter Highway through more scrub, the burnt trunks of the sheoaks stark against the green grass and red earth. The most striking thing is the colour.

Finally, poking a huge orange head over the dunes you see Uluru to the left, and dark Kata Tjuta looking like Homer Simpson lying on his back to the left. We stopped in the campsite in Yulara for lunch, then it was back on the bus (a beaten up old Mitsubishi with god-knows how many miles on the clock, a faded yellow logo, a menagerie of cuddly toys in the front and vinyl seats! And a CD player that only seemed to play the BackStreet Boys) to go to Kata Tjuta. On the way we all introduced ourselves, favourite film (of the moment), favourite food (any, as far as I’m concerned) and star sign (obviously I’m an archetypal home-loving cancerian).

Broadly speaking there were around 7 Brits, 3 Aussies, a Danish girl, a German girl, and Team Japan with an honorary South Korean. There were only 6 blokes. Oh and a Canadian guy who I don’t think said a word, just looked at the whole thing with distaste. Certainly did very little cooking. The leader was a fireman called Damo.














Kata Tjuta is a range of 35 lumps of concrete (sorry, conglomerate), the tallest is over 500m (although I don’t know the height of the plain surrounding it) formed when the whole of central Aus was 50 fathoms deep. It’s an Aboriginal sacred males place, although they allow the tourists in. (Heavitree Gap, which is the way south out of Alice is another – the only time Aboriginal women are allowed to look at it (thankfully) is when they are driving.)

The temp was well over 30ºC, maybe over 35º. It was the only walk in the afternoon heat – what few climbs there were seemed longer in the baking sun. Plus that key ring that caused so much trouble a few weeks ago has become a piece of sharp wire in my bag. War wound No 1.

The trail of tourists winds round the tallest head, to a green lawn with a shady gum tree. Then along the walls of a v deep valley, the sides scarred black and pitted by water. The valley looks like it could lead to anywhere in the world, but eventually you climb up a steep incline to a magical view over the valley in the centre. Below are the silver trunks winding through the greenery, surrounded by the round deep red heads of the mountains. I guess there must be water somewhere.


45 min later (it wasn’t a long walk) we were back on the bus, chasing the clock to get to the viewing site for sunset over Uluru. Hundreds of buses spewing tourists onto the car park. Who started the tradition of alcohol at the viewing? If you pay enough, you get a white-clothed table with cold champagne in glasses. We drank it out of plastic beakers, with the chips and dips set up on top of the eskie, while we stood in the rapidly cooling evening watching the sun sink behind Kata Tjuta, turning Uluru even redder, then greying it. The coming night was a purple shadow behind the rock, split by camera flashes. However, I now have photos to prove that I’m not in hiding in Peterborough writing this blog.

Afterwards it was back to the campsite with its bizarre canvas huts (not really tents) for a dinner of barbequed kangaroo steak and the most bizarre sausages I’ve ever had (except maybe the bright pink, cheap Wall’s ones you get in the UK). Damo was not a bad cook, just to much bloody garlic in everything.

We all went to bed after dinner given the early start. I was so tired that I slept in the cabin I’d put my stuff, couldn’t even be bothered to find a swag to sleep outside. Certainly not awake enough to see the fence post I tripped over (war wound no 2) and I have a palm-of-hand size bruise on my right shin.

A Whole New Territory

The taxi to the airport arrived at 0800, and I spent the journey chatting to the driver about his family who had been among the children sent here from the UK after the war. So many here have interesting stories to tell. At the airport I tried to check in by machine to be told that I had been allocated an exit seat – and had to check in by person. The queue was huge, so I asked and got shunted to the business class desk (sadly not a business class seat) and was through in 5 minutes. It’s strange starting a trip in a foreign airport and not being on the way home.

The plane journey was OK, until about 10 minutes before landing when the pilot came on the tannoy (interestingly that’s not a common word over here) to say that he apologised very much but the “office had just informed” him that the baggage machine had “broken down” at Adelaide and half the bags had been left behind. A quiet, anxious murmur ran round the plane. We flew over Uluru which looks like a red puddle from the air.

Thankfully my bag appeared (I had been envisaging a frantic afternoon shopping), probably due to the fact that I had missed the check in queue. There’s a shuttle bus from the airport into Alice Springs. There either seem to be backpacker’s hostels (8 to a room and the couple on the bunk below doing what they should be doing in private) or 5 star hotels. The place I was in was a hostel converted from a motel, so to get a private room ensuite I was right at the back. Still they were easy going and waived the night's payment until I got back from the tour.

I had a look round Alice in the afternoon, in the heat. It’s a small town that would be much smaller were the tourists not leaving from there to go to the desert. Most shops were closed, there were cafes open for food, and many Aborigines accosting you in the street to buy their paintings of very varied value ($2 about right for some). I would worry that I would buy one, turn it over and find “Made in China” printed there. Sadly several of the Aborigines were already passing-out drunk, contrasting with the tourists looking through their cameras.

Predictably, given the lack of things open, I went to the Botanical Gardens. It’s a patch of hard earth where a large selection of desert (it’s actually semi-arid) plants are collected, and a sacred hill in the middle which you can climb providing you keep to the path. Alice is strange attenuated place which is spread around several rocky foothills of the McDonnell Ranges, and with the wide Todd River running through the middle. You can tell it’s a river because there are trees growing along the course. Right along the middle of it. In the local creation-time stories (Tjukurpa), it is supposed to have been the gathering place of caterpillar, although if the hill in the Botanic Gdns is a caterpillar, the McDonnells are anacondas. Actually the gardens were really peaceful, even if the only shady place to lie is the top of a picnic bench.


When I got back to the room I turned on the TV – there are 2 channels. The local one (Imparja) is loosely based on Channel 9, and ABC. Thankfully the news was on and I managed to find out the Rugby score. Good effort. I thought the TV ads in Adelaide (all furniture stores and building materials) were strange, but in the NT they were for cow dip, horse auctions and “don’t go out in a boat without looking at the weather first!” Large country, small population.

From then to now

Slightly behind – that’s what happens when you go away. These next few will abbreviations of my holiday diary (you really don’t want the ramblings). So where was I? Oh yes, the Pharmacists Farewell (thanks to Jo for the photos).

Next day I wasn’t in until 4pm – just as well really. Saturday I spent booking train tickets, which made the trip away finally seem real. Then in the evening, given I was working late the next day, there wasn’t much point in going to be until after the rugby. Happily I got to see the game again the next morning too! Just in case any Poms missed the result the first time round. Surprisingly the commentary wasn’t that biased as I think the England team earned the respect of the commentators. (Not like the other game – you wouldn’t believe that France were actually on the pitch). I think the Aussie media response to the loss was quite muted. At work Sunday night there strangely wasn’t much mention of the game. At least from the Aussies there wasn’t. New Zealand, however, collectively imploded.


I was up at a decent time on Monday, but still too lazy to get away and do the walk I had planned. So I cut a couple of miles off and dumped the car on a roadside verge somewhere up Mt Lofty. I probably cut off the best part of the walk, as it turns out. The plan was to follow the Heysen trail down to Bridgewater Mill, which is the best way I can think of to go wine tasting on my own.

Considering the Heysen trail was opened, celebrated, commemorated at the scout camp (home to two New Guinean totem poles) the trail has been diverted to run along the perimeter road with forbidding signs warning of prosecution if you put a step wrong. Then of course the golfers had diverted the oath onto the roads too. Eventually I got to Mt George, which is a tranquil walk – the birds the hush of the wind in the leaves, the rumble and drone of the Southern Expressway. The path then dives away through an underpass under the road (see graffiti piccie) to Cox Creek which runs through Arbury (nothing like the Arbury where I nearly bought a house – you’d want to live here). There are turtles the size of dinner plates – well NHS plates, really (ie not large enough to hold a proper portion), and Kookaburras, which are big mean birds that’s have your burger out of your hand as soon as look at you (I spoke to the witnesses) and have the most unearthly call.


A pleasant 15 minutes at Bridgewater Mill (Unwin's sell the wine, apparently) and time to return. The warm all's-right-with-the-world (lunchtime drinking!) carried me back to the top of Mt George, but I really wouldn’t recommend the rest of the walk.

I was working the rest of the week, did a not entirely successful teaching session (it had worked really well in the UK – guess it was just a little bit too different here), and had a Friday that was one of those days that creeps up like a storm, then leaves you afterwards wondering what the hell just hit you. At least the time goes quickly.


Actually I had a really blonde day – it wasn’t until I got halfway across the parklands that I realised that I had forgotten to put on my cycle helmet. It doesn’t matter in England if you do that. So I ended up leaving the bike at work and walking home Friday night. It’s just under an hour. And I had to walk into town Saturday to pick the bike up. Irritatingly my iPod speaker has blown a fuse – for the sake of a ha’penny fuse I’m going to have to junk a £100 set of speakers. I know because I spent an hour trailing round town looking for a power supply.

See, there is an advantage to having to work weekends – time off during the week. So on Wednesday four of us (Jo works in the ED and her cousin / cousin-in-law) went off to the Barossa to start working a slow way round the wineries.

We managed four wineries after a brief stop at the Whispering wall, or Barossa reservoir. The dam was built as a perfect semicircle, on similar priciples to St Pauls. The grandeur’s missing, though. There were a couple already there so we talked to him from 25m away – although I suspect that he didn’t actually need any amplification. When it works properly, the voice sounds like it is coming from 2” in front, which is cool.





But to important matters. Bethany winery was good – beautiful views, almond tree, and I’m going to have to go back to sample the wine again (and the 5l bottle of port – I thought of you, Susie). They did a good rose, and good Shiraz. Similarly Rockford which is the old hut-like building in the piccie, complete with sprayed on 50yr old cobwebs. They do a very unusual wine called Alicante Bouchet which is a red juiced grape – worth a try. It’s light, low alcohol (unless you’re drinking it in pints -10%) and like strawberries.

The next two weren’t as good, although the Barossa is worth a visit for food – local cheese, meat with a glass of wine. Two Hands was just disappointing. Obviously they think of themselves as a little bit exclusive-boutiquey. But the £50 Shiraz just missed.

We floated back to Adelaide (except Jo, thankfully as she had the steering wheel), and then went to Warrawong which is a field with a few brown furry animals. OK, it’s a sanctuary of native plants where animals have been able to establish themselves. So we patted the kangaroos, saw platypuses (they’re tiny – about 20cm), wallabies, potaroos, and tiny animals called Bilongs which puff themselves up to ask “who you looking at?” even though they’re only 6” high. Great attitude.




And handily it’s very close to a very good pizza parlour.

Sadly I had to work on Thursday. And I’ll leave you with some photos taken by one of the pharmacists to show you Thursday evening. And to prove that I’m really not writing this from a cupboard in Peterborough.

A Once in a Lifetime Experience (Cobbler's Creek)

Quandong tree (native peach)

Been there, done that etc. Monday was a Bank Holiday, in SA anyway. (Yes, I worked the weekend). I’m not sure what Adelaideans do on a Bank Holiday – all the shops were shut and there were hardly any cars on the road. And what few cars there were were all hauling green trailers. So I can conclude that a Bank holiday is just used for moving things.

I failed in my attempt to do nothing and went up to Cobbler’s Creek, a small “conservation park” (island of scrub) straight up Portrush road (Lower Portrush road is north of Portrush road– work that out). It’s supposed to be one of the only remaining patches of Grassy Woodland because...well, I don’t really need to spell it out, do I. So there are three trails. One shows things valuable to the indigenous people (types of plants and things) – which is good, but no leaflets (30 min); a second one that runs alongside a dual carriageway (about 45 min), and the third which is a little longer and goes past a ruined house. Hmm. Not much need to go back once you’ve seen it.

To be fair Cobbler’s Creek itself is very cute in the sort of way that it babbles between grassy banks in the shade of the eucalyptus tree for about half a km. Actually I guess if you live nearby you’d get fond of it – reminded me of the Clumps in a way, but it’s a very local place. As well as the sort of place that I’m not sure is particularly safe, given the graffiti and dumped rubbish.

Anyway, I did Morialta the next day. Probably walked around 16-17km. It’s another park on the edge of town on the edge of the Adelaide Hills. Imaginative naming round here – the Fourth creek runs through the gully, over First, Second and Third Falls. (So it probably shouldn’t have been a surprise to discover that the plant I’ve been thinking of as the “pea-bush” is called the Pea Bush, the one with daisy-like flowers is the.... well I don’t really need to spell it out, do I?). Anyway there’s water in these falls. I kept passing another English girl up there – going back to Leeds to do her final year as a medical student. Either brave or stupid, I reckon. (being a medical student I mean – not going to Yorkshire!)

Morialta is definitely worth revisiting, even if I did do nearly all of the trails in one valley. Including up to the road at the top of the valley, and across to a “look-out” over Adelaide. Most of them run up to look-outs with great views over the valley, but sadly not quite to the top of the hills. The valley is like a big garden and most of the beauty is That tree in front of That bush with Those flowers, if you uderstand. The sort of effects that garden designers try to create. The bottom of the valley is shady with steep rocks dropping into the creek like huge rockeries. Most if the sound is the "pwonk" of the frogs who sound as though they are sitting there hitting large hollow logs with bits of wood. (Maybe they are).

Further up are bushes and then further up still is stringy-bark which is yet another type of eucalypt, and sheoak which whispers as the wind hushes through. I can't describe the smell which is a heady mix of sweet flowers, with the more spicy sheoaks and the brown smell of the eucalyptus mulch. The trail runs up to "pretty view" (over the valley again and then Hogan's hill. There are no photos because firstly it is a beautiful view of high-tension power lines, held up by two Huge stobie poles (which are like telegraph poles but made of two rails of iron sandwiching concrete – they run roughly every 10m alongside the roads, making them pretty much impossible to avoid if you run the car off the road. I think it must be a Darwinian thing). And secondly it would be a view straight into the sun as all of the views over Adelaide from the hills are. And third I left my phone in the car. Next time I’ll have to get to the next valley. To be honest, it is getting a little dissatisfying, just walking along marked tracks following the sign posts - it takes any sort of "discovery" away. I’m still longing for decent maps. I went to the map shop – I could have bought all of the old green OS walking maps for South Oxfordshire, but not for South Australia. Actually the guy in the shop was bizarrely proud of their collection of Landranger maps – I’m not sure they were actually for sale.

And then at the bottom of Hogan Hill, it would have been rude to go to Morialta without actually going to the bottom of the First Falls, and of course then there was another cave to look at. As I say, I think I walked quite a long way. But I must be getting fitter because the 750m path described forbiddingly as “very steep” wasn’t much of a problem. Or maybe the info boards were just overstating the case slightly. The temp was over 31ºC on Tuesday.


Cobbler's Creek