With the spit being located to the north of Surfers Paradise I went through my former neighbourhood one last time in the morning, stopping only to pick up a cheque from the estate agents. This was my ticket to freedom and with it in my pocket I at last cycled away from the skyscrapers of Surfers Paradise for good and I didn't look back. Apart from when I got to a hill a little way down the coast and the view back towards Surfers Paradise was pretty good. I looked back then. But just for a bit. Long enough to take a photo. And briefly think back over the times we'd had in that weird little place. But then I cycled away around the hill and I didn't look back. And it wouldn't have mattered if I did, because the hill was in the way now.

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Soon I was cycling up another hill, quite a steep one, when a car pulled off the road just ahead of me and parked up. The driver got out and waved me to a stop. His name was Craig, he said, immediately giving away his nationality with his strong South African accent, and he told me that he was planning to do a bike trip himself soon. He seemed enthusiastic to know about my trip and how long I'd been travelling. Having been off the road I'd not given this much thought and so I told him six years, primarily because it sounded better than half an hour. This statement led to more friendly questioning and eventually to him asking “Have you got a blog?”

“Yes. Have you heard of the website Crazy Guy On A Bike?”

“Yes! I follow ALL the journals on there! I love it! I'm always reading on there. What's your blog's name?” At last it seemed I was meeting a real life fan.

“The Really Long Way Round,” I said, before pausing immodestly to take in his reaction.

“Oh... yeah... erm... I think I follow that.” He said, trying to maintain his enthusiasm through what was, fairly obviously, a lie.

Craig left quite quickly after that, but meeting him had still been a nice experience. His uninvited friendliness reminded me of how good it was to be travelling in this manner. And soon I was emphatically reminded of the same fact when I was able to turn away from Gold Coast at a suburb called Palm Beach. This place, fifteen kilometres from Surfers Paradise, had been the destination of my longest pedicab lift (two and a half hours, $150, to answer your questions) and in a way it was fitting that it was where my association with Gold Coast should draw to an end. I cycled inland, and before I knew it the city was behind me, giving way to forested hills, to signs warning of koalas and kangaroos, to the real Australia. This was what freedom looked like. It felt so good to be out of the city, and to be back amongst nature and to be finally truly on the road again. Or at least it did until I came to a sign warning that the road gradient would climb at 14% for the next 800 metres. Surfers Paradise was flat, I hadn't cycled a real hill in months, never mind one that climbed at 14%. Still, it was only 800 metres, I thought. It didn't seem very far, or at least it didn't seem very far as I approached the sign. Once I passed the sign and the 14% kicked in, 800 metres started to feel like a verrrry long way.

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I struggled through the climb. And the next one. And the one after that. In fact there was a lot of climbing for most of the day as I made my way back into New South Wales. But eventually I made it over the hump, and I had a glorious downhill as my reward. It brought me to a town called Murrawilumbah which, by the way, I've spelt wrongly. It was a nice town where I made it to the information centre five minutes before closing and got myself some maps. After then trying and failing to buy some allen keys (Dea had taken mine, I just had to hope, with a good deal of optimism, that nothing would go wrong on my bike now) I made my way out of town. On the way I met an older couple on bikes who stopped to talk with me. They lived here and, having done a lot of cycle touring themselves, wanted to give me some advice about where to camp. Unfortunately it didn't sound like I would have many options on the road ahead and they ummed and arrrhed about this predicament for some considerable time. I did wonder if they might offer me a bed for the night in their home but this thought either didn't occur to them or more likely it did and then they decided against it when they saw my cuddly toys (I'm not sure Australians really get why I have a platypus called Mr Plopples strapped to my front pannier.) Anyway they told me I wouldn't be able to find anywhere around the next village of Uki and instead suggested a spot down by the river that I would cross before then.

That turned out to be pretty terrible advice, the spot by the river was a rather public place next to the rather busy road where some rather suspicious men were doing some rather suspicious things. I went straight past and carried on towards Uki but, deterred by my advisors, I turned off the road before I got to it. (And, by the way, when I went through it the next morning I saw that Uki had some fantastic spots to camp!) The side road that I took instead led up towards the extinct volcanic cone of Mount Warning and I consequently had to climb, for several kilometres, in the wrong direction, until I found a place to camp. Not that I'm bitter or anything, and as chance should have it I did finally end up in quite a nice place, down by a little stream. It felt good to pitch the tent here, to light up the stove again. I was back travelling once more and it had been a great first day, with a great ending, falling asleep to the sound of water bubbling down through the rocks.