Travel
We Never Stopped Until It Was Dark
Travelling with my father was not an experience undertaken lightly
We make long trips to Australia — with no Howard Johnson’s motels.
100s of miles between stops. West to East, and back again.
Every time we suggested a daylight stop, he would say “at the next windmill” — except the windmill was always too far away, not working, the trough not clean.
Too often we made camp after dark in the wrong place.
Once, under a huge pipeline outside of Adelaide.
We managed to pitch the tent in the dark, make a billy of tea and eat cold food saved from midday.
In the morning, we found devil’s triangles embedded in our shoes. Stepping outside the square my Mother swept meant half a dozen double-gee daggers in your feet.
We cursed those who imported them as soup vegetables. My Mother never went camping again.
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