Day 6 Friday 1/2/22 Marlo, Cool 21
Woody walks into town, which is less than a kilometre away. Town, consists of a café, hairdresser, another caravan park, pub, tackle shop, hairdresser and I think I’ve just about covered it.
After breakfast, we drive into Orbost with R & PT. The drive along the Snowy River is delightful and cow-filled as there are many dairy farms. No sooner than we grab the shopping in Orbost Woody is off trying to walk back to Marlo. Poor old R has a crook back and is strutting about looking like he’s swallowed a broomstick (that was polite, wasn’t it), so leaving the men to their foibles, PT and I have a wander around town shops. The town is busy and is pretty with low stone walls and gardens flanking the footpaths and distant views to the Ranges. We meet Tracey Solomon a mural artist who is painting a tribute on the Bottom pub wall. Orbost is one of those towns where the pubs are known as the bottom pub and the top pub. Tracey’s artwork will feature some of the emergency workers who helped the town during the horrific 2020 bushfires.
We pick up Woody on our way back to camp, he grizzles that we were too quick and that he hasn’t got his kilometre tally up for the day.
After lunch it’s my turn to go walking, or should I say meandering along the shoreline. The river mouth is close to the caravan park and there is a bush track that follows the river below the cliff in what is called Littoral (by the shore) Rainforest. Water drips from the cliff, tiny ferns sprout, there are native orchids (spotted by the ‘I’ the fun guy, he’s the Botanist of the group). I do see a lengthy skink sunning himself on a beach staircase but I’m not quick enough to photograph the Pacific gulls that patrol the river.
Most of our crew have arrived in camp now which makes happy hour a large and even noisier affair that completely erupts when the news breaks that Western Australia is about to open its border, at last. You can almost hear the cogs turning as people contemplate their winter sojourns now that the last third of the country is about to open up. Our chatter almost drowns out the birds, I say almost because there’s little that can drown out cockies and galahs when they get going.
We cook some salmon steaks in the trusty old air fryer and dine with Shirley Temple and Double or Nuthin’ telling travel stories until late with PT, who has sent poor old Broomstick to bed to suffer in silence.