Into the west

It says something (not sure what) that the first town of any note upon crossing the Nullarbor is best avoided. You reach Norseman thinking it is all over, that civilisation is returning, salvation is here, only to find a ramshackle high street of forlorn shops and closed businesses. Best top up with petrol at reasonable prices, buy a chunky Kit Kat and iced coffee (for here no quaint cafes or bakeries) and then proceed a mere 200 kilometres to something far more agreeable.

I do wonder that maybe Esperance is enhanced by what it takes to get there, from east, west, north and, indeed, a more watery approach from the south. But it is truly a verdant oasis, a paradise of beautiful bays and islands, lush grasses and trees, bustling shops and occasional cafes. Its beaches take some beating, with a vast choice of white sands and turquoise waters interspersed among the smooth granite headlands, themselves tumbling down into the bays and rising again out to sea in a patchwork of giant stepping stones.

The French first came across this area, with remnants of Gallic flair still evident in some of the place names. But they scarpered when it became apparent that there was a shortage of brie and the red wine ran out, and it was our old friend Matthew Flinders who charted the coast in a more scientific, less laissez-faire kind of fashion. A little east of Esperance, Cape Le Grand National Park carries its French heritage alongside the occasional marker to Flinders’ escapades. Nowadays, people of all nationalities come to visit and marvel in the coastline, many camping in a mini United Nations of a campsite at Lucky Bay where, when busy, the tent area can quite closely resemble a refugee camp I’m sure. Here though, it is primarily about location, location, location.

Now, many of our friends from around the globe decide to climb Frenchman’s Peak in the heart of the park. I’m not sure how this peak got its name, but I’m betting on the fact that if you squint a little the top looks like a rather flamboyant beret. It’s a short but steep climb, inching your way over the lumpy back of the Frenchman, hoping that it doesn’t rain and turn the descent into a death slide. But once on top of the beret, the views are, bien sur, magnifique.

 

For me though, the jewel of Cape Le Grand came the next morning, which joyously arrived with no cloud and sparkling sun. A walk on the powdery snow-like sands of Lucky Bay was more than amiable, before a potter on down to Thistle Bay, just around the corner. Despite being May, despite being the Southern Ocean, despite not having a towel, the water is so perfect, so idyllic, so full of temptation that it’s a sure fire inevitability that feet will get wet and Mum will curse me.

 

A blip in paradise occurred upon leaving Esperance, the second windscreen chip of the trip spreading to a crack precarious enough to warrant turning back. But I can think of worse places to be stuck for an extra couple of days and thanks to the great, friendly service of Matthews Smash Repairs and the recurrent coffee and food of Alimento, we were able to move on repaired and refuelled.

Despite the post-Nullarbor dose of Esperance style civilisation it is still a 500 kilometre trek west to the next place of significant population, Albany. Fortunately, midway between the two is a wild and rugged national park which is benefitting from significant access improvements and a charming little town, Hopetoun, upon its edge. Fitzgerald National Park stands out from the crowd in its diverse geography and geology of empty sweeping bays and raggedy peaks, coated with shrubs and flowers and grasses. A sometimes perpendicular walk up East Mount Barren offered a notable overview of the wilderness, while its beaches once more dazzled within easy reach of the well-equipped campground that we had all to ourselves. I suspect it may not always be this quiet in future.

 

As expected, Albany added itself comfortably to the list of places that would be really quite lovely to live in. Closer to Perth and more bustling than Esperance it nonetheless sits in a wonderful setting, nestled within hills looming over the brilliant blue waters of King George Sound. I’m sure there are plenty of times when the rain slants in on a cold southerly but our visit coincided with perfect clear skies and calm air, when the water shimmers and the green grass glows in a riot of oversaturation. Helping the positive vibes was an overnight stay in a bargain apartment, complete with rare luxuries such as a proper kitchen in which to roast pork and a big TV to watch / endure Eurovision. So good on you Albany and good on you cute Danish singer and good on you crispy crackling.

Alas something of a pork ding a dong la la hangover ensued the next day and the weather deteriorated too as we moved inland to Stirling Ranges National Park. So instead of climbing the dramatic peaks that rise up sharply from the surrounding plains, a day of indecision developed, the dubious weather and dodgy feelings best ridden out in afternoon cosiness and a dozy read in the swag. Start again refreshed tomorrow... 

...and so, suitably refreshed we climbed Bluff Knoll, the highest point in the south of Western Australia on a Tuesday morning. Low cloud and fog gradually lifted to reveal staggeringly expansive views of the ranges and plains, at least until our unremitting upwards steps thrust us into that cloud. Stubbornly refusing to melt away from the summit we nevertheless pushed on through icy winds and blanket greyness to the top, solely for a sense of completion and accomplishment, and certainly not for any views.

 

The Stirling Ranges were a pleasing contrast to the coastal landscape and barren plains that had been very much at the forefront of the previous few weeks. Not since the Grampians in Victoria had there been such a green and fertile landscape of rugged hills and peaks in which to walk. There was a sense of familiarity about it, albeit with its very own Western Australian decorations, unique plants and species endemic only to this range.

Increasingly familiar landscapes followed now all the way to Perth, revisiting places in the southwest that we had both been to before on other visits. This includes the giant trees and beguiling tall forests of karri and jarrah and tingle, whose vast impenetrability is brought to an abrupt halt by cleared and very green grazing land, dotted around pleasant towns like Walpole and Pemberton and Northcliffe. There are many big trees to see and boardwalks to head along, beautiful drives to make and the most wonderful homemade caramel slice to salivate over in Pemberton.

The coast is barely fathomable beyond the wilds of the tangled forests but the rather suave sounding D’Entrecasteaux National Park cuts through to the sea in one or two spots. Just within the park is the best named campground in Australia. Snottygobble Loop hardly entices you to stay by name alone and bears very little of the ooh la la of D’Entrecasteaux, but it is worth spending a night just so I can mention it here. For dinner, pasta pesto with some veggies, a suitably green concoction in Snottygobble.

From a very basic pasta pesto to another of Australia’s gourmet regions, only this one actually seems to have plenty of nice things to eat and drink. The Margaret River region is rightly popular and charmingly rustically civilised. So here was an opportunity to stock on all vital staples like coffee and fudge and wine and chocolate and cheese. The car, feeling like it has done so much for so little reward, also decided to join in and gobble up some fresh green coolant. I think it can sense a rest is near.

Indeed, for some 84 days and 17,000 kilometres we have been invariably chasing the sun as it spans across the sky westward with the rotation of this big land. It has been disappearing across mountains, sinking into endless plains, casting red light onto red rocks, filtering through towering gum trees, vanishing behind storm clouds, sometimes fading with a whimper, other times out with a fiery bang. At the start, on the first day, next to the Tasman Sea near Bondi it did not appear at all. Now, on the pristine sands of Yallingup it is, finally, dipping towards the Indian Ocean. A continent has been crossed and while it is no staggering achievement these days, there is something immensely satisfying about standing on that sand, watching the sun set into a different sea, being extinguished as it farewells Australia and moves into the west.