The road swept along the coast further, over the Lakes Entrance giving amazing views, before heading inland. We crossed the boarder sometime after stopping for gas for our cooking stove and a caffeine fix. The landscape started to change gradually on our approach. Initially open grazing land of gentle rolling hills, with a mountainous backdrop, we were slowly drawn into deep forest, cut up by creeks and sudden stretches of flat grazing.
Doing the posted 100Kph, the campervan felt like it was flying along at warp speed, bouncing and swaying over every undulation on its suspension springs, it's engine screaming with my foot usually flat on the floor. At times the road became quite hilly, with uphills requiring constant gear changes and lots of revs to keep momentum, and downhill bends lots of forward planning, engine braking and nerve. Occasionally a break in the huge trees would give an indication of a valley or creek, but all of my attention was on the drive- not fast, but involving, and even a little exhilarating, particularly flying downhill after a difficult, noisy ascent.
As much as I wished I was on a bike, taking a relaxing flowing ride on this deserted, perfect tarmac, the fact it was challenging and exhilarating in a slow-speed campervan made it all the more appealing. A good sound track of the Doors, Rolling Stones, and the Clash from the CD player added to the fun.
But I wanted to find a pub, so we turned off for Orbost.
The town itself was a little unlike what we had seen so far, and had a frontier, almost wild west feel when we rolled in. It was a one-street town, full of serious pick-up trucks, 4WDs, and guys looking like they've lost their horse. The weather didn't help- the setting sun and heavy, just breaking rainclouds turned the world an un-natural, surreal shade of dusty off-pink.
I felt a bit of a prat turning up in a spray-painted, hippy camper van, in a town full of leatherfaced lumberjacks and calloused cowboys. But hey- I could see a pub!!
The frontier-town feeling stayed when we went into the local mini-market for supplies. Everyone in the shop knew everyone else, asking each other how the kids were, who was cooking that night, and such like. The shop was out of canned chilli (my favorite camping food), so we went across the road to the small Woolworths, which looked very out of place. In there, similar chattering was going on- everyone knew everyone, and seemingly their business too.
Stocked up on extra-hot chilli, coffee, and bread rolls, we followed the signpost left onto the campsight.
I look at him dumbfounded.
"You're a Bleeding POM!!!" He explains "Dunno why we call you POMs though- it was us who were prisoners of her majesty" he says thoughtfully.
I like this chap, with his friendly banter immediately.
"$13.60 mate" he tells me, which is more than 10 dollars cheaper than the last place- which itself was pretty cheap compared to many places $30+.
A bit of small talk later, Mrs Grasshopper hands over the cash and we're parking our campervan next to a hedge-row, seeking shelter from the now quite heavy rain.
The back door of the van provided overhead cover as I heated the chilli, which we scoffed at the table inside the candle-lit van with a cold bottle of VB lager. Once the rain had eased, we set off on the short walk back to the pub.
With a narrow covered veranda running the length of the building, and 1860's colonial architecture, I half expected western-style swing-doors as we approached.
The bar was packed, warm, smelt of beer, and was noisy with the chatter of a busy night. Pictures, jockey shirts and posters decorated the walls, beer glasses lined a shelf above the bar, and the furniture was basic, high-standing wooden tables and chairs, with low tables and chairs in the corners. There were no poker machines, but there was a pool table in the adjoining room, labelled "The Snake Pit". Everyone at some point turned to look at us as we squeezed our way to the bar, but it wasn't an uncomfortable stare- we were just a curiosity. Two glasses of Carlton draught were passed over for a very reasonable $6.80, and we made our way to the only free table, next to a wall covered in photos of the pubs patrons- fishing, dirt-bike riding, winning raffles and in various states of drunkenness. I gave Mrs G the only chair at the table, but 2 minuets later a young fella sits a chair down next to me: "There ya go mate!"
Mrs G and and I looked at the photos, pleased at last to have found a Proper Pub- somewhere to socialise, relax, and have a drink with other people local to the area. Mrs Grasshopper reached up to point to a photo, only to knock it off the wall. While trying to pin it back, she knocked off another one.
"Stealing our photos now are ya?" A voice calls over from the bar. It was a short, stocky blond bloke in his 40s, who immediately walked over with his hand out; "Robbie Price. Where you from mate?"
"North England...mostly" I say and shake his hand.
At this he breaks out into a huge smile "I fackin love England!! Spent quite a few years there, racing speedway bikes. I loved it mate!"
I explained I'm into motorbikes, riding a VFR800 back home, but don't know much about speedway. So started a thoroughly enjoyable hour chatting to our new found mate, who told us stories that had us laughing out loud, from when he raced in England, and before that racing horses as a teenage jockey. He gestured to the jockey-shirt on the wall- "That's why me and the landlord here hit it off so well, he loves his horses too." Originally from New Zealand, he'd settled here in Oz as a painter and decorator after his motorcycling career, enjoying the easy lifestyle and ability to easily find work.
Before long our drinks were finished, and I knew if we stopped for another one, we would end up here all night. We said our goodbyes, regrettably turning down Robbie's offer to stay the night at the pub, and went back to the campsight. It was by far the best pub we had been to in Australia so far.
The following morning I went for a run, aiming for the Snowy Mountain river. The morning was grey, and very cold with a fresh breeze, so I started running straight out the campsite. Hidden by trees, it took me a few turns to actually find the river, but once I did, I happily pounded the path running alongside it for a further half hour. A couple of times I passed people, who all shouted a cheery "Good morning" to me as I sweated and snorted past them, worrying one mans German Shepard, which I found amusing. By the time I got back to the campsite, steam was rising freely from my t-shirt and my trainers were soaked in the morning dew. But the grey clouds were thinning, and after a hot shower, a coffee and a bit of bread, the sky was clearing as we hit the last of the Princes Highway to Melbourne.
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