Day 491 | Leigh Creek Caravan Park: even lounge chairs here
17 km | zzOz total: 15,915 km
No feral roadkill pies in evidence at the Quandong Bakery in Copley, the turnoff to Arkaroola, as I ride in, plenty of Quandong, a native peach, but I’m thinking savoury at this time in the morning so instead I set myself up in seclusion on a picnic table down at the wonderfully sheltered roadside rest area and catch up with 11 days of emails and web news services until the computer battery expires, enjoying the absence of flavour in today’s drop of publicly available water.
The flavour of the water has been the single most noticeable change in my travels from Cape York, home of the marginally fecund vegetation flavoured concoction, moving on to the muddy, more blue-green algae tinged mixture from the Lynd and Gilbert Rivers after Chillagoe, then the calcium carbonate enriched mineral waters fresh from long term subterranean flow in caves into the Gregory River, guaranteed to set any shirt into Plaster of Paris rigidity, the straight forward magnesium rich fluid enroute to Bedourie, then further south from Cacoory Bore the sulphur tinged boiling blend from the deep artesian bores of unknown but high molar concentration electrolytes that has lasted in my water bags until today.
I’d been intending to tidy up in Marree with a day off but with the lack of food in the store beyond white vinegar and 20 kg bags of white rice, no internet either, meant I have postponed a long needed reorganisation/restoration/rejuvenation until Leigh Creek. The Marree dustbowl with limited facilities, most amenities are in “original” condition, ie, 50 years beyond replacement time, rebuilding would be the only way to go but I paid up my $10, for what, a shower I guess.
In contrast Leigh Creek Caravan Park even has grass of the green variety, a small patch down the back but camping on it is not advisable, they switch on the sprinklers at night. There’s some real amenity here, a well equipped camp kitchen with 2 large couches, a fridge, stove, microwave, plates, pots, etc, and a couple of stray power outlets although not located with complete convenience.
I’m watching the money these days so I ask with trepidation the price: $8 for you, the genial reply.
I’m staying two, make that three nights.
Earlier I’d gone straight to the supermarket, it’s the first real store since I left Mt Isa three weeks ago and find almost everything I’m looking for is on special, bigtime: my favourite indestructible biscuit, Gingernuts, is less than half price, 99c, not the $3.50 of Birdsville, sultanas, dried apples, sardines are all cheap, a 3 kg bag of beautiful juicy oranges is less than $3, won’t be catching scurvy in coming weeks. I spend $50 for a full box of goods, no plastic bags given out in environmentally aware South Australia I remember, and find I have saved $28, a far cry from my $30 for 6 items at Marree.
I chat away to the checkout chick, bleached blonde hair growing out, chewing gum, a few tats visible due to her wearing shorts, but friendly enough.
I step back to get out my wallet and I sense she is staring at me.
The conversation has dried up.
I look down and notice evidence of 11 days on the road, my shirt is somewhat grubby in the sleeves, the arms lacily encrusted with salt, my black baggy mountain bike shorts with similar big stripes of salt stains down the front.
Umm, it’s salt, I try to explain.
I sure hope so, she trails off.
Time for a monstrous cleanup.