Return to Pt Neill
We couldn't have missed Sam Bates' funeral because he was the last man standing. My dad's best man, my mum's closest sister's husband. At Pt Neill, Sam Bates was our man on the spot. He organised a game of golf, a truck load of sand and gravel, a netting night with Andy next door. Sam bought Andy's shack and we shared a septic tank! Sam taught us to shoot, to fish, even how to drink, though not directly. I saw my seniors drink, but my dad very rarely; Sam drank beer but never so that he was any different from being sober. He earnt and gave me respect, took no nonsense, forgave honest mistakes and was there when needed. At ninety two he had really become the family cornerstone, now passing it to Quent, Sandra, Fiona and Duane and their families. The West Coast is still our bailiwick, with sister Liz & Bev moving in to the Port more permanently in Shack 21, and Quinnie and cousin Mandy have a solid grasp on the foreshore South, too. Hey, family ties count.
We hooked up, got the supplies in and headed over to the Port, needlessly booking a site. When we arrived we chose the one adjacent anyway. It was almost routine. Over-confidence was just around the corner.
Port Neill is a long way from home, and we chose to leave Highway 1 for the trip home in daylight, knowing the number of semi-trailers and B-doubles we would be passed by. So up through the Mid-North via Laura, Melrose and Wilmington we went, noting a couple of places to come back to later. The brakes worked faultlessly down through Horrock's Pass, where new roadworks and results of the last year's fires could be seen.
Everything went to plan although I may have caused a sweaty palm moment by being only just in time to be a pall-bearer. Quent and Sandra did their dad proud; Auntie Bid was there in spirit when Fiona read her poem. It was a bloody good send-off. Maybe the RSL could have sent a speaker; maybe Sam had out-lived them all.
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| Sam is alongside Mum and Dad, and with Biddy |
Back to Cleve and the Bowling Club, scene of many of Sam's happiest days. Then to the Dolling residence on the edge of Cleve to catch up with the junior and senior members of the clan. Sobering thought: WE are amongst the Seniors. It was great to be part of the West Coast hospitality of my family and to see Zan so completely absorbed. Maybe meeting cousin Jacqui Dolling in the Country Carnival last year had been a moment designed by some higher power, but we both felt as if we have a special place on the West Coast. Mum and Dad would certainly have approved!
Having spent such an idyllic day or two here at the Family Seat, there had to be a downside or two. The Beverley Mansion is in a stat of Flux, and we were treated to scenes of disorder and renovation. The veil had been lifted on many of the shack's idiosyncrasies, including the caneite ceiling lining and the batons that I remember with some guilt, moving them up top the wall. The pub had a blank moment, with NO white wine for the dinner for ten. Rose had to do, hastily, and one has to say they were scrambling for traction about the meals the whole time. But who cares? Home is home, clanking plumbing, ghosts, aged retainers... all figuratively speaking, folks!
So we said farewell and packed, thinking that all was well for trip; alas for me, one of the drop down corner jacks did exactly that and dropped down, as we took off. Not sand slowed our progress but the left rear jack. Bent. Able to be retracted but an embarrassing exit was made. Tail winds sped us homewards, until at Pt Augusta we discovered that our favourite fuel stop has NO low-flow diesel pumps a caravan outfit can reach. Food for humans only was the order of the day, and separate stop needed. No problem, really, since there are plenty of others. We won't go there again.
Home with a tail wind, filling up at Redhill on Zan's recollection of the distance a Mazda 3 can go on a quarter of a tank. Interesting roadhouse, with resident Emo bloke & girl server. Hmmmmm.
Home James at last, and happy as ever to see Ochre Ridge.
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