It's A Quiet Road I Promise!

South West Rocks to Gladstone

I explored the gaol in the morning.

The gaol was built to house convicts building a breakwater to improve the safety of ships seeking shelter from storms. The storms prevailed and the breakwater was eventually abandoned, especially as sailing ships gave way to steam and the need for safe harbour half way between Sydney and Brisbane was less urgent.

South West Rocks was a benign place to be a convict. The climate was agreeable and there was usually time to go fishing or even surfing.

The gaol site also housed German detainees during WWII. The detainees developed cultural activities, medical services, and cottage industries to the benefit of the surrounding communities. Unfortunately a combination of paranoia and false information (what's new?) convinced the powers that be that a German submarine was about to pop out of the sea and whisk the detainees (most of whom had never set foot in Germany) away. They were summarily whisked elsewhere and everything they had built was burned. The gaol site was left to nature and vagabonds for a while before being restored and becoming the tourist destination that it is today. Walking through the site provided much food for thought on the ways in which humanity treats (and mistreats) our fellow humans.

The gaol's current residents couldn't care less.

Having spent a sombre morning in the gaol, the afternoon was for more in-the-moment activities. Back in 2018 Roger rode from South West Rocks along the Macleay River to Gladstone. He waxed lyrical about the beauty of the ride: "It's a lovely little road, so quiet, right beside the river with lots of pretty picnic spots." I left Arakoon Campground on the shared pathway that ran through the forest in to the township of South West Rocks, while Roger took the car to Gladstone and pedaled toward me.

Cursing my husband's faulty and no doubt rose-coloured memory I pedaled my little legs off while big trucks rumbled intimidatingly past and fences rudely prevented me from getting off the road to loll about in picnic opportunities beside the river. When it wasn't trucks it was grey nomads with big caravans and fishermen pulling oversized boats and nobody conceding an inch of bitumen for me. I was glad I'd worn my hi-vis shirt, unfashionable as it was.

"I swear it wasn't like this when I rode along here! It was lovely! Really!"

Apart from the traffic, the road had some good points. It ran beside the Macleay River, which was wide and sparkling and well used by fishermen.

I ate my lunch beside a cow yard, looking out across the flood plain. The cow yard smelled of cow poo. The river sparkled on the other side of the cow yard.

The grass was green and sprinkled with yellow flowers. There were sheep and cattle to talk to. I had a long conversation with a friendly goat who came alarmingly close to climbing over her fence and following me home.

We had a little photo session, but once she got up onto the second strand of barbed wire I began to worry that she was going to come right over the fence and then I would be responsible for a silly goat out on the busy road. So I pedaled away very quickly.

I rode past the remains of the Kinchela Boys Home, another reminder of humanity's inhumanity to humans and in recent history too.

Gladstone's main street was bustling with business on a Friday morning. Everyone had come to Gladstone to eat at the pub, play on the playground, and shop for secondhand bargains. I went for a walk along the street to check it out for myself.

"Eat me!" Screamed the home made soft serve macadamia and honey ice cream with a sprinkle of lemon myrtle. So I did.

The verdict? I can't say I'm a fan of lemon myrtle on ice-cream.

I met Roger back in South West Rocks, taking in the view over the bay toward the Gaol and the Arakoon Campground. If I had strong enough binoculars I could have checked on our tent.

On the way home we took a detour to the Smokey Cape lighthouse, which bore the honour of being the most elevated lighthouse in New South Wales. From the Cape we looked out on surf rolling in on endless stretches of beach punctuated by densely wooded headlands. Clouds lurked over the horizon and a teeny tiny cargo boat floated far out to sea.

Looking north across Arakoon National Park.

Looking south: South Smokey Beach with Hat Head in the distance.

The lighthouse wore a spotless coat of white paint, and if we had wanted to spend lots of money we could have stayed in the equally spotless little white cottages that once housed the light keepers.

Back in camp a new clutch of campers and caravans had moved in, with hot competition for the sites with water view. We tidied up our camp for the rain that was forecast to arrive overnight, slapped a few random mosquitoes, dodged a few dozen kangaroos that hadn't read the "Do not feed the animals" signs, and went to bed with our books.

Good night from the Arakoon Campground kangaroo gang.

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Today's ride: 24 km (15 miles)
Total: 386 km (240 miles)

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