To sleep, perchance to dream.... not a hope mate!! As Sam Goldwyn might say, we’ve all passed a lot of water since yesterday. Now we’ve just checked into Adelaide Y.H.A., had a makepiece breakfast, found our rooms and, while Trish is ‘showw’ing, let's fill in the book.
Eventually the old dear on the train did strike up a conversation but not before a new arrival entertained us with stories of his drunken neighbours and ‘drug-head-death-threatening’ acquaintances. He left and Mrs. Thing turned her beady eye on me. (Trish was unconvincingly feigning sleep).
Actually, she was quite interesting, the last half hour of the train trip passed pleasantly enough listening to her.
We landed in Ballarat, ‘no worries’, and spent a silly hour following the stupid Lonely Planet book around town in circles, trying to find Sovereign Hill. We eventually arrived back where we started - I hate that! But, second time lucky.
Ballarat seemed to be an OK Town, quite big with the usual sort of Pedestrian Mall at it's centre, cos it's a gold town the streets are really wide and some of the pubs are really grand.
Sovereign Hill was a pleasant surprise in that it was good crack. It started out with the usual boring exhibition and cutesy slide show but, once you’re through that, things start to look up. The whole point is that it's a replica of what an 1850’s mining town was like. All the shops sell 19th century goodies (great apple tart missus !!!) and it's populated by people in authentic costumes trying to make authentic conversation with each other, although, bless them, it must be a bit of a strain nattering about Mrs. Beadle’s chickens when the entire middle east looks set to explode, never mind, it's a living.
Pity we didn't get to stay at the Y.H.A there, it looked good, right in the middle of the mining town, Still we got some humbugs and a coupla photos (hope that camera isn’t broken). It did feel authentic in places, particularly when the stage coach came rattling up the main street kicking up a furious dust storm. Shame about the eight Japanese tourists hanging out of the stage coach windows shouting ‘Banzai’ and taking willy-nilly snapshots.
Had a pleasant time waiting for the bus back to Ballarat outside Sovereign Hill. Trish listening to her walk-in and me just doing nothing, sitting on a low step watching three sweating morons running up and down the road in front of me.
The bus didn't come and, half an hour later, in an encore, the bus didn't come again! Who cares? We’re on holidays... soon come.
Eventually a young girl ran out of her house to tell us the buses had gone on strike as of noon that day.
"Oh"
The walk back to town was very pleasant.
Alright, we spent a lot of money in Ballarat but we were finished with Sovereign Hill by six o’clock and the bus to Adelaide wasn’t due until 10:20pm so, what the hell, we had a few drinks. Thank God the four lads at the next table up-and-left - they were a major pain with their arm wrestling and roaring-matches.
Two ‘pots’ later, we bailed down to ‘Taco Bills’ in the hope of acquiring some half price food.
"Sorry guys..."
Okay - we had some full-price food instead, it tasted almost as good.
By the way, if you’re planning a long bus journey, avoid beef enchiladas with runny fried egg on top - the consequences can be explosive.
* * * *
Taco Bill's (I almost spelled it Tacko) is over and done with and we've still got two hours to kill and it's bloody cold now cos' it's dark. We march up the road to check out the bus stop (30 minutes killed), we march to the station to get our rucksacks back (30 minutes killed) then we just mooch around and belch at each other until the bus shows up, ten minutes late.
The driver is from Bournemouth and he wants to know if we have any known relatives in Oz. Maybe he's a murderer/pervert sussing us out for a hit. I tell him Bob Hawke is my uncle, just in case. Actually he was okay - a good face which looked like Burt Lancaster in profile and dirty Den from the front. He was unreminscent of anybody in particular, from behind.
We get on the packed bus in time to see the last half of a Shelley Long movie called 'Troop Beverly Hills'. Damn, if the bus had only been another hour late, we could have missed it altogether. After that, all the lights go out and the driver suggests we all try to get some kip. Everybody does and nobody does - if you know what I mean. Eventually, shoes kicked off, inflatable pillow positioned, sleep shows up.
Five minutes later the Driver gets on the mike to let us know it's 1.30am and we're stopping for pie and chips - thanks mate!!. Most of us fall off the bus and stare at the road or photograph the queue for the ladies until it's time to go again.
The whole front of the bus is an inch-deep mess of splattered moths and thingies-of-the-night. You'd have thought that they'd have figured out buses by now but no.