Into Perth
A glimpse out the window the following morning presented an aspect that was, predictably, quite substantially different from what was on offer as dusk rolled in the previous evening.
While the mist and mizzle didn't allow a great range of vision the scenery that was visible offered was relatively lush and offered the promise of rather spectacular views to the right hand side of the train. Unfortunately, as previously indicated, we were looking to the left, where we had a view of hillsides rather than the depths of the Avon Valley.
The Avon Descent white water race was something I recalled vaguely from the days when I watched things other than the cricket and rugby league on Channel Nine, and I'm sure that, had we been looking out the right hand side under conditions offering better visibility I'm sure I would have been impressed.
There were, however, more pressing issues that needed our attention. Experience suggested that the gap between finishing breakfast and the arrival at the East Perth Terminal would be too small to allow for much packing and preparation, so it would need to be taken care of before breakfast, and before that could be done there were two showers needed, and with the preliminaries out of the way we were on our way to the Club Car when the call for the Red sitting came.
We found ourselves with new mealtime companions, and as the introductions were made there was something said that prompted me to suspect that the gentleman opposite, who volunteered Townsville as his home base, knew me. The word that I was from Bowen threw him for a bit, but a question about pubs, specifically where I drank at in Bowen got the bells ringing again.
Well, I answered, I started at the Grand View. The remark produced an observation that he'd seen Donna and Ted in Thredbo recently, and that was followed where I'd gone once I'd left the GV. The news that we'd shifted to the QB and the explanation that followed produced references to Browny, and left me convinced that I should have been able to put a surname to the face.
Introductions on the Indian Pacific are largely confined to a first name basis.
We were well inside suburban Perth when we rose from the breaky table, and before long we were pulling into the terminal, and the train part of the journey was over.
There were final details like collecting checked luggage still to be negotiated, but more importantly we had to find Madam's new friend, who'd generously taken time off work and had volunteered to pick us up from the station, convey us to the Travelodge, where we were booked on for the next two nights and then take Madam to Kings Park for a session photographing wildflowers.
While that last bit was taking place I was expecting a couple of iPod hours, perhaps followed by lunch in town, a wander through the CBD and even a possible visit to a CD shop (78 Records) that seemed like a place worth exploring.
As has been often remarked, the old internet is a wonderful thing, though it can have its pitfalls. I'm only too aware of the propensity of online communities to degenerate into flame wars, slanging matches and general nastiness, but I've been quite amazed by the apparent civility and generosity of the little blogging community that Madam contributes to. We've met three people from it now, and they've all proved to be quite wonderfully warmhearted and interesting people.
Once the introductions had been made it was obvious we were going to be a party of four rather than three as Yuko's partner Mark appeared after parking the vehicle and there was that usual slightly uncomfortable pause as new acquaintances try to figure out what the hell to talk about. Crowded railway platforms aren't the most congenial get to know you places, but once the luggage had been claimed and we were en route to the city things seemed to be flowing fairly smoothly.
I'd heard something to the effect that Yuko lived next door to the Travelodge, and the reports turned out to be accurate. After dropping us off with the luggage, we arranged a rendezvous in about ten minutes while cameras and other paraphernalia were organized, and set off expecting to be unable to check in but hoping we'd be able to deposit the luggage for a while.
As it turned out our room was ready, and with check-in complete we hurried upstairs, stashed the bags, collected our wits and headed off on the Kings Park excursion.
Fine, I thought. A few hours in the park, bloke to talk to while the photos are being taken, music on the iPod. Looks good. Bit of lunch and take it easy for the arvo.
How little I knew.
Mark, it turned out, apart from a major interest in photography, wildflowers and bird life shared a number of interests with me, and as we strolled through the park the blokey conversation was interrupted by frequent indications of wildflowers, particularly the tiny orchids that were worth Madam's attention, along with the odd technical tip.
After the circuit around the park, we adjourned for coffee, and out of the blue came the observation that the light looked promising if we were inclined to visit the escarpment, and we were soon en route to Gooseberry Hill for further wildlife photography.
While I must admit it didn't do a whole lot for me, I should point out, as I did to Mark, that experience suggested that I didn't need another obsession. As I also pointed out, the train trip had been my indulgence, and the wildflowers were Madam's thing, so I was happy to tag along.
It seemed I'd done something right, since as we made our way down the zigzag hill I was asked whether, since we were in the area, I was interested in visiting a winery.
I obviously don't do please don't put yourselves out well enough, and though I suggested I'd be happy with a spot of lunch and maybe a tasting on a full stomach if time permitted, I found myself decanted at Sandalford, ushered into the tasting area and told to take my time.
With three people waiting nearby while you're the only one doing the tasting, taking your time isn't exactly easy, and while they're also discussing dinner options it's difficult to devote the attention that good wines deserve to a very attractive range. In any case, much of what I'd tried came from Margaret River meant I could remove one possibility from the list of places I really needed to visit.
From there it was on to Houghtons, where, as you'd expect going from one winery to another, the experience was substantially different.
Sandalford had been friendly, but the girls in the tasting room, while happy to pour samples and give a comment went about their other tasks and left you to it. The young bloke in the tasting room at Houghton, on the other hand, was a salesman, and a classy operator at that. Inquiries about varieties, regions and styles developed into an ongoing conversation that had Hughesy ordering half a dozen and placing himself on the email list.
In the meantime, my companions had taken a stroll around the grounds and through the gallery before ending up in the Tasting Room, and by the time we'd finished it was getting on for four, and the fact that we'd missed lunch was starting to tell on all concerned.
Back in the car we made our way back to the city, arriving just before five and splitting up to put cars to bed, deposit cameras and freshen up before joining back up to head off to dinner at a reasonable establishment called Caffe Italia, which does the BYO wine only bit, so I had an excuse to knock over one of the two bottles that had made the transcontinental odyssey with us.
That Brook Eden Pinot Noir mightn't have been the perfect match for the entree of Arancini di carne al sugo (rice balls stuffed with cheese & peas) but it went down quickly enough for me to order a bottle of Waterwheel Cabernet Merlot to go with the main course. Having sighted Maccheroni all'ossobuco (pasta with osso buco in tomato and basil sauce), a hearty red seemed like the way to go and the Waterwheel seemed to go down well with the other mains ordered around the table.
We'd arrived shortly after opening time, and when we left just after seven the place was filling up nicely, a factor that should have entered my consciousness at the time but had a significant effect on Thursday's evening meal arrangements. Still, we'd eaten well, were feeling no pain, and the short stroll back to the corner that marked the divergence of the two parties' paths was enough to remind us that tomorrow was another day that would need a gathering of strength to negotiate.
More significantly, after five days on the road there were laundry matters that would need to be attended to once we’d passed on a thank you bottle of Rockford Alicante Bouchet, after which it was a matter of gathering strength for the morrow and ensuring that the morrow would be greeted with freshly laundered clothing.