Budgewoi to Singleton – 71 miles

It rained overnight and so I awoke to a wet tent. Also the ground around was wet and I still had to pack. Frankly years of Pilates has provided me with the capability to operate in small spaces in positions best described as contorted. So I put on my head torch and rolled up my sleeping bag and liner and put that in the dry bag and then deflated my air mattress and stuffed that into its bag. Then I widened the tent by opening the inner tent up to the fly tent and stuffed, semi neatly, other nightwear and the like into my panniers.

With my panniers sorted I took down the tent but separated the wet parts from the dry parts by using a bin liner. (When I erect this later in the day it will dry in minutes.) I was ready to go. The man sat on the verandah of his nearby cabin who was gorping at my activity didn’t acknowledge me as I cycled off (before 7am.) Some Australians blank you, yet some are friendly. I can’t work them out.

I’d noted, from the night before, a cafe that was open early and did breakfast last night and so devoured a bacon and (very runny) fried egg roll with a flat white and embarked on the ride.

The ride was through residential areas, quite well heeled, until I emerged into countryside, in fact wine growing areas. The hills kept coming but after some consolidated sleep I was feeling more like it.

One continual piece of pressure is keeping the bike moving ahead in a straight line on the narrow hard shoulders. The bike is so heavy that both hands are needed on the handlebars. Added to the challenge are rumble strips and later in the trip flies that you can’t waft away. All this at 4.5mph!

I enjoyed my ride high up in the hills and it seemed a little French by comparison.

The regular caravan site in Singleton got desperate reviews. An alternative was a show ground that had a sort of small camp area and some ablutions or ‘amenities’ as the natives call a basin, WC and shower. I wavered but rang the number on the entrance board and spoke to Daryl who seemed very welcoming. ‘Can you ride and talk?’ I could and Dazza directed me to a sheltered cow byre where under a roof I could pitch my tent.

He then appeared in person, a sort of dishevelled David Bellamy dressed as if he’d been underneath a tractor fixing the gearbox. I was less enthusiastic about the shelter but then it started to rain! I relented.

The error was that whatever my tent was sat on was insect heaven and when dusk came all sorts came out of this straw. I got bitten badly. This is elementary schoolboy planning for a camper. ‘But Tony surely you carry repellent and bite relief?’ Well absolutely, in fact three types of repellent. I just need to remember to use it. The next day when I put up the tent I found dead mozzies in the tent. Oww…

Before the insect’s meal I’d found a local Returned & Services League (RSL) club and had gone there for a mountain of pasta and a beer.