Launceston-Adelaide-Kangaroo Island

Today is a serious travel day. We have a 7:30am flight to Melbourne and we have to return the hire car first. This proves to be absolutely no problem (as usual). As we pull up to the terminal to drop off the luggage, we see empty parking spaces reserved for Thrifty cars, and inside the terminal the Thrifty desk has a slot for returning the keys, so we don't even have to drive back to the office we'd taken such pains to reconnoiter yesterday.

The long black (coffee) we order after check-in hasn't kicked in yet, so I set a new record for inattention by first trying to board the wrong plane, then after being shown the right line, I proceed to hand over the boarding pass for the connecting flight instead of the Melbourne one. This time the ground crew don't spot the error, and I have to wait while a supervisor is called to "fix" the ticket (several other people also have problems). The super takes one look at the ticket and says "this'll get you to Adelaide. Do you have one for Melbourne?" Yes I do. Thank you. Sorry for the trouble. Could I get some more coffee now please, and perhaps a bag to put over my head?

I read the headlines from the newspaper I'm offered. Today it becomes legal to own an iPod. Actually, not unlike some US drug laws, owning the device was not illegal, its just that you could not transfer any music onto it, from any source, without breaking the law. Apple had finally worked out an agreement with the musicians unions, government, and so on, and a new iStore had come online this morning so people can buy tunes legally. Wow. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

The flight is less than an hour, but there's cereal, fruit, a filled roll, coffee and muffin for breakfast. The connecting flight from Melbourne to Adelaide has similar fare. Obviously we can't not eat the free stuff, and we've already become cautious about the laws governing the transport of food which means we're reluctant to save it in case it is confiscated. So we're bloated by the time we get to Adelaide. I couldn't bring myself to eat or throw out a couple of cereal bars, so I have to declare them on entry to Adelaide. The food police say it is okay.

We're without a car for this part of the trip, so we're both loaded down under two backpacks, rock and hard place, one worn on the back, one worn on the front. As we squeeze ourselves onto the downtown bus, the driver gets out of his seat and stamps our tickets for us in the machine inside the bus "no worries" and he does the same twice more on the way into town, to help women with toddlers and strollers get on and off the bus. I wonder how many others provide such a service. I love the US because folks generally seem to be smiling and helpful compared to the UK where they always seem to be sullen or bitchy. But here in Oz they seem to take it to another level again. The bus driver is just one example. Later in the day I stop in a down-town Adelaide sports store to replace a water bottle I've lost (and I have no intention of hitting the outback without some sort of water supply). When the check-out guy asks for a second time if there's anything else he can do for me, I joke that he could fill it for me. "No worries, we have a spring-water fountain in the staff room upstairs, I'll be right back."

The first thing we do in town is to find the bus depot from which we'll leave this afternoon. We're thrilled to discover that they'll look after our big packs in the meantime, so we shed them and head for the main pedestrian street. We rapidly run out of steam. We're not used to the city and have no stomach for the generic monotony of the all-too familiar brand names. Wayne wants to see the botanical gardens, and I want to backup my media and send an e-mail home. We agree to meet in a bar opposite the bus station that we've already labeled for the purpose and we head our different ways. We meet there about three hours later, and after a couple of beers it is time to catch the bus to Kangaroo Island. So much for Adelaide.

We're not even out of town before we come across a police road block. As we'd already experienced a couple of times in Hobart, if there's an accident, the first thing the police do is shut the road. I guess it stops rubbernecking, but it doesn't have much else to recommend it. There are no diversion signs, and we soon get lost in a massive new housing development which always seems to be just a stone's throw away, but never actually reconnects to the highway. A fellow passenger finally comes to the front of the bus and helps the driver negotiate back to the maze entrance.

It's about 60 miles to the ferry, through the vineyards and olive groves of the Fleurieu Peninsula. Once, in more open country, we pass a small herd of kangaroos. It is interesting to note that in Europe, where there is no space, the vineyards climb up the hillsides, no matter how steep. Some are terraced if necessary. Here, anything with any kind of a gradient on it is left for the sheep to graze, and the vines are all planted on the flat arable land in between. The natural landscape seems to be one of grassland and lone, big trees. It looks a lot like an English park, with the oaks and elms replaced by gums, and indeed even the convicts remarked on it.

The ferry. I'm concerned because it is blowing hard when we get off the coach, and Kangaroo Island is so far away that it only just shows in the horizon. I take my usual precautions—I haven't eaten, and I put on pretty much everything I own and find a place to sit outside so that I can focus on the horizon. The deck is so high that I can look down into the open trailer of an 18-wheeler in the hold below. Everyone who comes out also looks down into the trailer. Curiosity demands it, because the smell it is giving off stops you in your tracks. It is a two-storey sheep trailer. Ominously, it is empty now, but when we return a similar truck will be full.

It is pretty rough, and soon I'm alone. Which is fortunate, because several times the ferry bottoms hard enough into troughs that it sends Southern Ocean spray way out over the car deck, easily clearing the 18-wheeler, which gets a much needed bath. I ponder the sanity of not flying over, but while I'm still feeling okay I still prefer the flavor of surface travel. In the same way that highways seem characterless compared to the biways, air travel seems to distance you from the communities and cultures that they serve. It's as if one serves passers-by, and the other serves the community. I'll take the community route every time. Finally, just as I'm losing sight of the receding shore line, we reach the safety of the harbor at Penneshaw. There's an even more pleasant surprise than getting my feet on terra firma—the car rental guy has come to meet the ferry so we don't have to find them/struggle with our luggage. It doesn't look rough here, but we're still inside the harbor!

Kangaroo Island Lodge is another 20 miles, and the rental guy is worried about the usual 8pm dinner deadline. He calls ahead to make sure that we'll get served, otherwise we'll need to eat here before we set off. It is the nicest place we'll stay in, and one of just a few we'd be prepared to bring the ladies to. As a consequence, we also enjoyed the most expensive (and by far the best) meal of the trip: local octopus and squid salad in a spicy pickle, roast kangaroo (which the chief recommended we order rare, not a problem) and a Kangaroo Island shiraz, which was nothing to write home about, but seemed appropriate.

A long day, a wonderful meal, and a fabulous night's sleep. Heaven.