Mar 2007

In 1770, Captain Cook landed on a remote coastal region of Eastern Australia, a land that for decades would come to be populated, and hence unimaginatively named, by it's new inhabitants from the other side of the world. Whether us Brits are to be inherantly blamed for such a lack of creativity is anyone's guess, with places like 'The Great Sandy Desert' and 'Eighty Mile Beach' as prime examples, but the good old Captain was really thinking out of the box when he plumped for 'Town of 1770' as his latest claim to fame.

The small town, and it's twin sister of Agnes Water just a few kilometres south, were to be our next port of call on our trip northwards. Slightly off the beaten track, we'd heard a few good reports from a number of other people we'd met on our travels, but many more looks of confusion from bewildered tourists and locals alike who'd never even heard of it. Reason enough to check it out for ourselves we thought.

This is probably the first place we'd encountered on the East Coast which had yet to be invaded by hordes of backpackers, probably beacuse they thought it wouldn't hold the same kind of thrill-seeking fun as some of the more popular destinations. We were in a hostel with only twenty-eight beds to boast of, and the service from the friendly people who ran it was enough to warrant going there at all. Couple this with the fact that everything you want to do there is abundantly cheaper than anywhere else on the coast and it was fast becoming a wise choice.

With a three-hour surf lession clocking in at just over eight quid (at least twenty almost everywhere else), I felt it only right to get involved again. As this is the northern-most surf town in Australia, with the Great Barrier Reef beginning to protect the shores from the power of the ocean, the waves here were much more manageable and I had an infinitely more successful experience this time around.

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For our other activity, we took advantage of a novel tour called Scooterroo. Donning helmets, a twenty-strong group clambered aboard Chopper-style motorbikes and took a tour of the surrounding area. Of course, it wasn't long before the riders all became a little more confident, racing past each other and generally picking the pace up.

A Geordie lad managed to come off of his bike quite spectacularly, admittedly, through no fault of his own, and another poor girl was almost pushed out into a ditch by the enthusiastic group. We came through safely however, and were glad to have taken part in some alternative entertainment.

We had then planned to leave and move onto our next stop, but our attention was drawn to a farmstay experience advertised in the hostel. Sarah had been on about getting involved in something like this for some time, but tight schedules and lack of opportunities had meant we'd never really got around to it. The drive inland to the Glassford Creek Farm took around an hour, the change in scenery becoming quickly apparent as we skirted around wide fields and dense forests to reach our destination.

As an actual working cattle property, the farm itself covers four-thousand acres, and holds around three-hundred potentially maternal Cows, nine randy Bulls, thirty lazy Horses, four cranky Dogs, an understandably nervous Cat, and one very cute baby Kangaroo. The whole place is kept running by it's two hard-working owners, Paul and Kate, the former an experienced Australian farmhand for most of his life, the latter a rather scatty English girl from Brighton who's still coming to terms with life in the Australian farm trade.

Either way, their hospitality were second-to-none, and we were made to feel at home almost as soon as we arrived, kitting ourselves out in some of their more suitable attire to fit into our role for the next twenty-four hours. With only one day to achieve everything, we started with a quick tour of the property and the surrounding land in their jeep, and then introduced ourselves to some of their extended animal family. Then it was over to help feed a newborn calf called Hawaii, who'd sadly lost his mother just after birth.

After lunch, we got ourselves saddled up and into the paddock for a quick introductory horse-riding lesson. Pairing us up with a couple of sterdy-looking beasts, these nags weren't massively keen on going for a walk, and made our first ten minutes hell by not moving a muscle.

Despite being told to kick them hard in order to get them to shift it was something we had real problems with, mainly because we feared hurting them. Soon however we got the hang of it, and were walking around the small enclosure, getting used to the steering controls and stopping and starting procedures. Finally, we got out into the fields and took a good three-hour ride around their land in search of a stray bull which had managed to infiltrate from the farm next door. We even managed to get our little fellas to trot on command and felt we'd really achieved something worthwhile by the time we'd returned to the stables.

Evening consisted of a great steak barbecue and some general chit-chat, but as expected we were all tired and headed off to bed fairly early so we'd be refreshed enough for the early morning ahead of us. Before we left there was only one thing left on the agenda: milking the cow! Not something I'd ever really been that worried about partaking in, this was apparently one of Sarah's life-long ambitions, and we were soon getting involved with relieving the old girl of her juice. The experience was over, but we'll take away some good memories and proud achievements from the short time we spent there.

Our work wasn't quite over however, as driving back into 1770 we witnessed a pretty bad car crash, the driver in front swerving at high speed to avoid a typically road-stupid Kangaroo, and ending up in a ditch with what looked like a broken collar-bone, a head-full of clarat and a large helping of shock.

One last stint of lounging around in 1770, taking in the first day of a large surfing competition, and we were off northwards on our overnight bus to Airlie Beach. As the main gateway to the Whitsunday Islands, a half-drowned mountain range and part of the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park which now plays host to millions of visitors every year, Airlie itself is a bustling town with a party going on every night of the week.

Sarah had seen the Whitsundays for herself on the previous visit, aboard one of the hundreds of sailing yachts available for group tours, only to discover that she is prone to sea-sickness and spent most of her three day cruise polluting the pristine waters with her insides. Although we'd had some moderate success with water so far (boats:five, chunder:nil), the thought of hair-holding and back-rubbing for seventy-two hours was doing little to convince me that a cruise was the right way to go. We therefore booked up for a speedboat-based day tour which would get us out to see the same things as everyone else, but in a third of the time.

Hammering out towards the reef and around the edge of Whitsunday Island, we soon came to our first stop at Hill Inlet, and a guided walk up to the lookout over the gorgeous sands of Whitehaven Beach. Back aboard, we then skirted the island a litte more and chose a spot for lunch on the beach itself.

Tides were again a big factor, and unfortunately meant we didn't get to go to the main part of Whitehaven beach which is used for the poster advetising all around the town we'd left behind. After lunch it was off to another small inlet, where we could get our first taste of the Great Barrier Reef itself, snorkelling amongst some of the delicate corals and brightly coloured marine life. After an hour or so of drifting around, we began to make our way back to the mainland, stopping here and there to see dolphins and turtles which happened to be in the area.

Although the tour itself was a little rushed, we felt we'd got enough from the experience to at least say we'd been there and seen it. One big night out in Airlie with Alex and Mike from our Fraser Island trip was all that remained to accomplish, and we revelled in a whole evening of bar crawling amongst the returning cruise parties.

Hangovers fully engaged, we had the joy of yet another nine hour bus journey up to our next destination at Mission Beach. Back into the Tropics and one of the wettest places in Australia, the rainforest which stands guard over this sleepy town means that the rains were back with us for almost the entirety of our three day stay. We'd found a cool hostel however, built in treehouse-style amongst the tropical vegetation, and spent some time relaxing in the cool television-less lounge, reading and listening to whatever music happened to be selected at the time by the array of worldly guests.

Our main reason for choosing this small haven as a stopping point however was to go White Water Rafting in the nearby rivers. Probably the most famous in Australia for a spot of adrenalin water sports, the mighty Tully River is the place everyone talks about.

Arriving early morning at Raging Thunder's office/cafe/bar, we all met our fellow rafters and were teamed up, kitted out, and soon heading for the top of the river. Our guide, Jeremy, seemed like a bit of a regimental type, barking orders and being generally straight-laced while other groups seemed to be having a ball, but we played along with him, assuming this was down to the nature of the perilous sport we were attempting to partake in. The first two hours were fantastic, our group getting themselves together within a couple of medium sized rapids and coming out safely on the other side.

After lunch, we were back into the water, Jeremy informing us that we would be starting just before the three large rapids we'd just completed. Not a problem we thought, we've just battled through those. Of course, this was when proceedings went a little bit Pete Tong. We began powering into the rapid as the manual, but suddenly saw ourselves steering head-long into a boistrous looking rock. "Jump right, jump right" we all heard from our expert guide, which of course we did, before the boat basically flipped from under us and threw us all into the foaming waters beneath. Firstly, and most obviously, there was wetness, followed by darkness as the dingy landed on top of us all pushing us under the water. I can't talk for anyone else, but on a personal level panic soon ensued. I tried to calmly get myself out from under the boat, but the raging waters around us were basically preventing me from doing this and the more I struggled to get some air the longer the whole experience seemed to be prolonging itself. At this point, I honestly thought it was game over.

Suddenly, there was light, and I grabbed the ropes at the side of the raft for dear life, only to come crashing into another rapid, lose grip, and find myself swirling under the water again, not really knowing which way was up. A few spluttering attempts to right this seemed futile against the power of the water, and next I felt myself being lifted from the water before being dumped on my back against another large boulder. This didn't help matters much, and the pain in my kidney was creating a few issues with what was left of my hapless swimming technique. Out of nowhere I heard some shouting and looked up to see the raft behind come flying past with a paddle outstretched, which I somehow managed to grab before finally being dragged aboard in a state of relief and shock.

It took a few minutes, but eventually I was reunited with my boat. Everyone else was already aboard, even Sarah who seemed to have faired just as badly through the whole ordeal but had somehow managed to get herself out with only a minor cut on the ankle. I was little worried about my back, but realised that I had taken the brunt of the impact in my kidney area rather than the spine, and so despite some sharp pains carried on with the raft for another two hours before getting some ice onto it. The whole tour was still good in our eyes, but definitely makes you realise how dangerous these things can be. We certainly hadn't taken the safety aspect lightly, but at the same time didn't expect to have this kind of experience.

After a night of lying flat out on my front (the only comfortable position), we took the bus to our last east coast destination. Cairns is Australia's tenth largest city, and usually means the beginning or the end of many travellers down under trip. Finding a decent hostel with a nice pool, we spent much of our last few days recouperating from the rafting ordeal, out on the town with the two Geordie couples we'd met in 1770, and meeting up with another pair of newly acquainted friends from Stoke, Andrea and Will, who we'd met a couple of weeks back.

It was with these two that we took our final trip to the northern shores of the East Coast. Basically a full-day tour, we knew we'd be stuck on the bus for the most of it, jumping on and off at various intervals, but we felt it only right we get out and see the area.

Mossman Gorge, an area where the river runs through the rainforest, and yet another animal sanctuary were all on the agenda before we reached the pinnacle of the tour. Our friend the Captain was having a bad day when he reached this part of Australia. Running his ship aground on part of the reef, he sat around with little else to do, naming the various parts of land he could see. Cape Tribulation, Mount Sorrow, Weary Creek... miserable naming from a man who clearly had nothing to be happy about. The Cape itself, despite being what this tour is all about, is pretty unremarkable, the walk through the surrounding rainforest being the main highlight of a what turned unfortunately into a fairly sub-standard day.

And that was Australia over and done with. Looking back to mid-December and the large undetaking we'd assigned ourselves, we couldn't really grumble at what we'd achieved. Ulura (or Ayers Rock) aside, we'd managed to cover most of the highlights we'd put on the agenda, and a few unexpected one's to boot, and witnessing some truly extraordinary sights along the way, we'd dragged ourselves across vast amounts of all six of the mainland states. As the Aussie's might dismissively say: "Too easy mate"...

East Coast Australia held a mixture of anticipation and dread for us as we made our way to the famous resort of Byron Bay. For starters, we weren't sure how 'old-uns' like ourselves were likely to fare amongst the hordes of teenage gap-year students who are renowned for coming to this area of the country to drink themselves into oblivion, get jiggy with other like-minded travellers and generally party all the way up to Cairns.

The small surf town of Byron Bay had dramatically grown since Sarah had visited five years ago. What once had been a hundred metre square block of restaurants and hostels with a decidely hippy vibe, had been turned into largely developed and over-crowded town, with mass tourism now as it's main focus. The hospitality and charisma shown by the locals however didn't seem to be too affected by this, the necessary evil of tourism obviously being largely responsible for many of the inhabitants thriving businesses.

To settle us into the East Coast vibe we'd decided to steer clear of the typical 'Party Hostel', and booked a sensible looking place on the outskirts of the town called Middle Reef. The place itself wasn't exactly sparkling, but the fact that it felt like a real house (four bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom, lounge and veranda) made for a particularly homely feel. The age range varied greatly too, from the dutch couple in their fifties in the next room, to the comical nineteen-year-old Melbournian girls who, if faced with the choice, would have happily killed each other rather than give up the large mirror which seemed to hold their attention for much of the day.

Although a nice place, we didn't really intend on hanging around for too long and so we had a couple of things to achieve in a short space of time. The first being a highly recommended trip to the hippy heaven of Nimbin with Jim's Tours. Collected early by our very 'chilled' guide called Dougie, he drove our bus up to the lookout over Byron, explaining how he'd not only been run out of his home town in Victoria at an early age for organising a rally against the opening of a smelting factory, but also plays a large role in opposing the likes of McDonalds and other such corporations who annually attempt to bring their business to Byron.

With his "Smile on your dial" rule for life, it was quite refreshing to listen to the stories of how his fellow hippies gather in Canberra outside parliament every year with a twenty metre spliff in an attempt at getting them to legalise the "herb superb".

Nimbin itself, according to the missus, is a symbol of what Byron used to be all those years ago. The specimens strolling down the one-street town are prime examples of what continued drug use can do to the body, but they're all friendly folk with time to chat if you so wish. We'd only been off the bus for what must have been about thirty seconds before a rather spaced-out looking lad offered us the opportunity to purchase. Hippy shops selling special cookies and an interesting museum bring good business to the town, which is surprisingly left to it's own devices by the local authorities.

After an hour or so in Nimbin we were whisked off to the house of another local hippy called Paul. This guy left New York some twenty ago in search of something more, but ended up buying a house by a large lake in the middle of the rain-forest, to generally stroll around in a big flowery shirt eating watermelon and macadamia's, and indulging in his favourite pastime of doing nothing, or building strange things from junk in his driveway.

I should think the visiting tourists pay enough for him to get by, but after forty-five minutes in his house we still weren't sure what he was actually meant to offer the tour, his main contribution being when he changed the music from one artist to another.

Back in Byron after the enlightening tour, I took off the next morning for my first Aussie surf lesson. The tides on this particular morning were quite rough, and after two hours of fighting my way back out into the surf against some hefty currents, I'd pretty much had enough. I did manage to stand up a few times and actually surf however, rip-curling and billabonging all the way into shore. A far more respectable effort than last years dismal (and profoundly hungover) attempt in Newquay.

Our last night in town meant there was only one thing left to do: a visit to Cheeky Monkey's nightclub. Rallying together most of the house for this event didn't seem to be too difficult a challenge, and after a few warm-up beers at the house we all made our way into town. Once inside the venue in question, we were confronted with gangs of people all completely smashed and dancing on the tables, something we'd heard about but was still quite surprising to see. We managed to battle through it for a couple of hours, but in the end our sobriety got the better of us and we left everyone to it.

Skipping Surfers Paradise, a slightly glitzier version of the Kidbrooke estate, and the city atmosphere of Brisbane, next on the agenda was Noosa. Steeped in a stunning landscape of tropical vegetation, this is one of Queenslands most scenic resorts. The wealthy inhabitants who have settled from all over the continent have spent years making it their stomping ground, whilst constantly defending the area from high-rise development. Yet again, we'd caught up with Tom and Lisa and so met them at our accommodation on the north shore in the midst of the Great Sandy National Park.

Whilst in the general area, and taking advantage of our friends own mode of transport, we all headed to the late Steve Irwin's Australia Zoo for the day. Unlike any other zoo we've previously visited, the whole philosophy here concentrates on conservation.

As mentioned in the Darwin blog, Crocodiles were hunted almost to extinction a few decades ago, and Irwin made it one of his prime missions as the 'Crocodile Hunter' to save what was left of these deadly animals.

We all took part in some Elephant feeding, and wandered amongst the Kangaroo's which are left to roam freely amongst visitors. The highlight for us however had to be the Tiger Temple. Here, three Bengali tigers were bought out for their afternoon play. Handlers have been in the enclosures with these majestic big-cats since they were just weeks old, and consequently can interact with them as if they are common house pets. We stood outside with real envy, as they made our office based jobs seem trivial compared to what they get to do every day with these beautiful creatures.

Back in Noosa, we had one last day here to check out the beach, and meet with Alex and Mike, another younger couple we'd met in our 'house' in Byron Bay. The lads all went out to be big and clever in the ten-foot crashing waves, whilst the girls sat around in the surf club sniggering at us.

Onwards then to Rainbow Beach, and the jumping off point for the world famous Fraser Island four-wheel-self-drive jeep tour. We were all delighted to find that we could hire a vehicle between the six of us, the thought of sharing a reasonably tiny Toyota Landcruiser with eleven other people (as is commonplace with the regular tours) not being particularly favourable. Once the jeep and the shopping for our three days had been collected, we made our way to the ferry which would take us over to the island.

It is said that all of the sand from the east coast of Australia eventually ends up here. Fraser is the worlds largest sand island, measuring in at one-hundred-and-twenty kilometres long by a mere fifteen kilometres wide, all created by thousands of years of longshore drift. Rainforests and some two hundred freshwater lakes dot the landscape, whilst dunes tower up to two-hundred-and-twenty-four metres above sea-level, reminding many a traveller that this place alledgedly contains more sand than the Sahara desert.

With a rough itenerary in mind, I was first behind the wheel, with the job of getting us as far north as we could manage in our opening day. Leaving the ferry I was confronted with a fairly tricky section of deep sand to navigate, the thought of getting bogged in at such an early stage not being anyone's idea of fun. The driving here all relies on the tide-time, low-tide generally meaning you can boot along the beach on the hard sand, and so after quite a hairy forty-five minute drive up the beach we reached our first port of call at Eli Creek.

The sea here is lethal, powerful undertow's and man-eating sharks making swimming in the ocean a no-go, and so tourists have to rely on the many creeks and lakes for refreshment from the hot sun. Eli Creek was just such a place to cool off for a little while, and so we all paddled inland as far as we could go and then let the sea-ward current float us back down through the banks of lush vegetation to where the jeep was parked on the beach. Next up, came the famous 'Maheno' shipwreck, the rusting remains of a Tasmanian liner which was caught in an unexpected cyclone in the 1930's.

We'd pretty much reached the northernmost camping spot by about four o'clock, and so we decided to use the time to set up our camp. Tents went up quickly, and we all settled down for a beer before starting the dinner. This is when all hell broke loose. Firstly, the March Flies came out, hugely mutated monster flies that land on you for a few seconds and then bite you, pleasantly leaving behind some of their best vomit. These things are truly scary, the only plus being that they are stupidly slow, giving you a few seconds to kill them before they actually bite. Next, the wind whipped up out of nowhere, catching us all unawares, and making our camp look like a bomb had hit it. The rainstorm which followed was to last for the whole night, making cooking more difficult than it ever should have been and drenching our now relocated tents throughout. Resigned to the fact that we weren't likely to get outside again, we all ate our chicken curry in the jeep with the rain pelting the roof outside, before retiring to our now damp accommodation for the evening.

The night dragged as we might have expected, but morning eventually came, and the March Flies were back for a second helping. Not wishing to hang around and get eaten alive, we all packed quickly and took ourselves off to one of the inland campsites to have breakfast. First destination for the morning was Indian Head, the furthest north our jeeps are allowed to travel. From here it's another forty minute walk around to the next headland, and the aptly named Champagne Pools. These are two large rocky enclosures, where the surf pounds the edges and then bubbles over into the swimming holes. Although pleasant, it was alot of effort for little reward, and the walk back in the scalding midday sunshine meant most of us were back to feeling pretty sticky by the time we got back to the jeep.

Driving south with the tide now receding, we motored down the beach until we reached the inland track which would take us over to Lake Garawongera, and what we hoped would be a less populated area of the island. We arrived to find a large coach sitting in the car-park, sign that around fifty or so day-trippers were currently at the spot, but were pleased to see them all trudging back in our direction when we began to make our way down the track to the lake. Consequently, we were greeted by a truly stunning scene: a totally deserted lake, with our very own golden beach. Knowing we had a couple of hours until it would be time to set up camp, we basked in the clean, soft waters for a while and then dried off before making our way back to the main eastern beach.

This time we were a little more organised, myself and Sarah cooking the dinner while the rest assembled the tents, just in case another storm threatened. Luckily, the weather held up this time, and we spent a nice evening around the camp, chatting and drinking under the stars which could be seen clearly in the night sky.

The only thing we hadn't accounted for during our well-planned construction was the fact that setting up a tent on top of bare sand can be responsible for a miserable nights sleep. I think we were all grateful when morning finally came, and despite being tired, the thought of a hot shower and a comfy bed at the end of the day kept us inspired. Heading off early in the hope of beating the morning rush, first we drove inland via a rugged sand track to the most popular spot of the island: Lake McKenzie. This is the picture postcard destination for Fraser Island, it's pristine blue waters contrasting against the bright white sand surrounding it, and making for a truly idyllic location. That's of course, until you arrive and find it swarming with hundred's of other people. Bloody tourists!

Heading off again, we made our way down to our final stop at Lake Boomanjin, the largest perched lake in the world at two-hundred hectares. The waters here are stained a strange browny-red by tannins leached from the surrounding vegetation, which if you open your eyes whilst submerged makes it appear as if you are swimming through a lake of blood. Nice.

And that was pretty much the end of the adventure. I was back behind the wheel for the drive back, confidently thrashing down the beach and back to the awaiting ferry. We all had a meal that evening in Rainbow Beach, before going our seperate ways the following morning. The east coast so far had been better than our expectations had really warranted, and we were glad that we'd not only got to spend some our trip with old acquaintances, but had also made a couple of new one's along the way. The fears of being out of our depth in a horde of youngsters was a worry of the past, and we headed further north with renewed enthusiasm.

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If we'd thought that Broome was a little on the muggy side, Darwin was going to be like living in the Devil's home for seven days. Temperatures in the 'Top End' as it is affectionately known, has year round average temperatures of well into the thirties, and the humidity which tends to come hand-in-hand with it does little to make your time here particularly comfortable. Just the place to pick up a bout of flu I hear you say? Indeed, we thought so too. Spending much of our first two days in the city holed up in our room under the cool gaze of the air-conditioning, we slept as much as possible in the hope we'd recover in time to attend our pre-booked Kakadu trip. I'd felt pretty rough on our last day in Broome, struggling though the day with only a couple of Panadols and taking a barrage of abuse from all the of the remaining girls for having a spot of "Man-Flu". Of course, as soon as Sarah came down with the same thing the next day, she felt it only right that she go out and spend nearly a tenner on cold remedies!

Being amidst the wettest part of the wet season in Darwin generally means you'll be getting drenched on a number of occassions. Almost like clockwork each and every afternoon, the wind would suddenly strengthen and the storm clouds gather from over the Arafura Sea in the north before unleashing some of the most violent downpours we've probably ever witnessed. Many a time, these would last well into the evening, making for some truly mesmerising electrical storms.

After spending a couple of pleasant evenings in the nearby pub with Tom (our new 'mature' Irish friend from the previous tour) it had finally come to the time to decide whether we felt up to our two-day National Park tour.

The thought of taking part in numerous hikes and spending a night out camping in the bush didn't massively appeal to either of us at this point, but we'd paid our money and had little hope of getting a refund. I was feeling much better, but Sarah was still struggling (despite the over-priced medication!) and so I decided to go whilst she hung back in the hope she'd be able to recover properly.

The van picked me up early on the saturday morning, and I soon found myself being acquainted with the other seven people on the tour. Consisting of three English (including myself), two native Aussies from the south of the country, two Germans girls, and our driver Jack, we were whisked off to our first port of call before entering the park itself: The Jumping Croc Cruise.

Crocodiles have ancestors dating back to before the Jurassic age over sixty million years ago, and have been proven killing machines in their current form for over 30 million years, making them more or less the closest decendant to the dinosaurs. Both saltwater and freshwater crocodiles are now fully protected in Australia, despite their nasty habit of eating unsuspecting swimmers, after it was found in the 1940's to 1960's when they were hunted almost to extinction, that they play a vital role in the aquatic food chain.

Cruising up the un-aptly named Adelaide River with a rather eccentric chap behind the controls and the microphone, none of us were really prepared for what was to come. As we reached the middle of the hundred-metre-wide stretch of water, the lady on the deck with us began to dangle a large lump of raw meat into the water in the hope that one of the hungry crocs might take the bait.

Sure enough, it was only a few moments before a pair of eyes broke the surface and the long tail began to propel the fourteen-foot-long beast in our general direction. Wary at first, the gigantic reptile milled about underneath the tasty snack to suss out the situation, and then seeing it's chance, uses it's muscular tail to propel itself up and out of the water to snap at the awaiting meal. A pretty spectacular performance to say the least, and despite the same trick being performed eight or ten times by numerous animals, it's a sight that never seemed to become tiring.

At just under twenty thousand square kilometres, Kakadu is Australia's largest National Park, and includes the traditional lands of a number of Aboriginal Clan groups, many of whom still reside in the area. The park protects one of the most extensive collections or rock art in the world, and this was to be the first place we visited on our tour.

Aboroginal rock painting in northern Australia is naturalistic art, depicting the physical, social and cultural environment, and displaying the close personal relationship that these people have with the land, the gods and their cultural heritage. It is thought that some of the art found inscribed into the Nourlangie Rock dates back to almost fifty thousand years ago.

After admiring some of the art, and taking in the views over the parks natural escarpment from the lookout, our guide decided that we had time for a special 'treat' that wasn't on the original itenerary. As this was to be his last trip into Kakadu as guide before moving to another job, he'd opted to take us to one of his favourite spots, the Gubara Pools.

A quick drive, followed by a rather arduous forty-minute hike in the smouldering afternoon heat, led us to our goal. The waters in the Burdulba Creek thundered past us, quite treacherously in places, but nothing could have stopped us at this point from getting into the refreshing river to explore the various rock-pools and waterfalls.

Time was flying by, and the rain had begun to fall torrentially before I finally brought it to Jack's attention that we were beginning to run out of light. It was little too late however, and before we'd even set off the darkness had begun to envelope us. With little option, we all began to trudge back through some fairly heavy bush, in the pouring rain, and in the pitch black, with only one torch between us. Knowing that this is the time of day when most of Australia's nasties come out to play did little to aid our confidence, but the nature of the predicament made it difficult to speed up and therefore added a real sense of excitement to the episode. Without any major troubles however, we made it back to the awaiting jeep and drove to our camp for the night.

Dinner and quick Didgeridoo lesson were all we really had left in the tank, and by 10:30 we were all in our tents sweating ourselves gleefully off to sleep.

As with any camping trip, day two meant that we were up at the crack of dawn for breakfast before clambering aboard the jeep again and motoring down to the Mary River area in the south of the park.

Jack informed us that we'd have a fairly flat two-and-a-half kilometre walk to our first rendezvous, but the fifty minute hike in an already scorching sun meant that the distance was more like double that quoted. The rewards for the hard work were plentiful however, as we were greeted by the majestic forty-metre Motor Car Falls cascading into the cool swimming hole beneath. All crocs warnings were soon forgotten, and we all jumped in for a well-earned dip before taking lunch on the surrounding rocks.

The return walk had no-one chomping at the bit to get going, but another picturesque location was promised and so we set off soon after eating. Hiking in thirty-five degree midday heat, and searching depserately for some sign sign that it might soon be over, the sweat was dripping from all of us within minutes.

Finally we all heard the trickling water of our next rest-spot and found some energy in reserve to reach the free-flowing waterfalls of Boulder Creek. We needed no second invitation, yet again immersing ourselves into the fresh waters. The cascades were a little smaller this time, allowing us to clamber under the falls for a 'Timotei' photographic moment.

Unfortunately, this was the end of the tour, and although none of us were particualarly keen on taking part in more hiking, we were disappointed to be leaving such a beatiful area behind. It's clear after visiting why this area is recognised as one of the few World Heritage Areas, with it's varying landscapes of coastal swamps, floodplains, monsoon rainforest and plateau, and the wide variety of wildlife found within its borders. Without doubt a trip to remember, even if it is only myself that can do the recounting.

Back in Darwin for our last couple of days, and due to our previous illness, we'd so far managed to achieve little in the way of respectable tourism. Darwin itself is yet another Australian city which looks on the map as if it should be huge, but actually falls way short of expectation. It's possibly to walk around most of the city centre in just under one hour, and there is little by way of scenery to actually sit and admire. In fairness, the smaller suburbs stretch for quite some way but without a car it is difficult to see them. One thing we had promised ourselves was a visit to the Museum of the Northern Territory, mainly due to it's impressive write-ups in the guide book.

Just a short bus ride away, this large museum welcomes visitors firstly with an interesting themed wall, detailing the timeline of the earth from the supposed 'Big Bang' to it's present-day form. In the same room, numerous glass cases exhibit taxidermed animals from all over the continent, from snakes, lizards and spiders through to it's abundance of creatures residing in the oceans and seas. There is a large section of the museum devoted to Cyclone Tracy, with newsreel, photographs and soundbites of the devastation caused when it struck with little warning on Christmas Day of 1974, destroying much of the city and killing hundreds in the process. Pride of place however goes to the stuffed, but staggering life-like 'Sweetheart', a five metre long, seven-hundred-and-eighty kilogram saltwater crocodile who died during capture in 1979.

We finally felt happy with the fact that we'd actually managed to see something worthwhile, and knowing we were due to leave the next day, put our minds at ease. Although Darwin hadn't turned into the success we'd hoped, we were pleased that we'd changed our plans to visit the 'Top End', even if much of it was spent in bed or soaked through to the skin. It's said that Kakadu National Park needs to be seen in both the wet and the dry seasons to appreciate it fully, so perhaps this is one for the future. Our minds at the present time were filled with a mixture of excitement and trepidation about how we'd fare amongst the party-going youngsters over the on the East Coast during the impending final four-week leg of our Australian tour.

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