The one commercial fisherman sells fish from his home in Wyndham and we have a hankering for a prawn lunch. We walk through the cyclone wire gate, across the dirt yard, between the mangrove tree, dog and an old bath tub on the right and the front end loader and dead car body on top of an orange shipping container on our left into the workshop. We step around the trail bike in bits on the floor and there’s the fisho’s missus packing up fish for the freezer. “Welcome to the processing works” she says. And this front yard is a pretty good description of most in town. But Wyndhamers seem a happy lot and the prawns are succulent. We had earlier run into a bunch of caravanners that we’d dubbed ‘Penny’s Crew’ who we had been tailing since Tom Price. They thought Wyndham had been abandoned!