It's my growing interest in the South Coast of NSW that led
me to stories of the markets that abound there, in a
different town each Sunday, and the largest of them all, in
the little village of Candelo. My last trip to the coast
gave me the pieces of a plan for the Southern Market ride.
The plan, briefly, was a loop through the NSW south coast,
from Canberra via the well-travelled Kings Highway to
Batemans Bay, a patchwork of on- and off-highway stretches
to choice overnight accommodation, as much as the entire
morning at the market, then a different route back up the
range and home to Canberra.
This was such a marvellous plan, with so much excitement and
promise, and the last market before Christmas, that I
splashed invitations far and wide; but all to no avail.
Despite the manifold attractions, I had only one acceptance,
Greg Bodell, a Clubman Tourer out of Sydney.
In the future I'd like to explore other routes from Canberra
to the coast (for example, the dirt via Araluen to Moruya),
but once again, the Kings to Batemans Bay, where Greg and I
were to meet. There is no reason not to enjoy the Kings, and
the famous Clyde hairpins, but for the throng of travellers
headed for their own delights of the south coast.
These hairpins led me past the lovely riverside at Nelligen,
and crossed the bridge over the Clyde river into Batemans
Bay, where I found Greg guarding a semi-legal parking spot
in the busiest main drag on the South Coast. Greg arrived
before me, and settled his lunch, so while he stood watch
against the tide of traffic, I joined the queue in the
classic fisho on the river bank.
Disposing of lunch, we stuck to the coast road, through
Malua Bay and Tomakin to the Mossy Point turnoff, then
followed George Bass Drive to the Moruya River, along its
rich banks into the town. The highway is inevitable here,
but no trial on the beautiful south coast, mottled forest,
field, and lakeland.
A brief diversion took us through Dalmeny, another charming
seaside village, and on to the fringe of Narooma where we
rejoined the highway, since Narooma can hardly be missed.
Not far beyond is the turnoff to the Tilba collective, a
short but sweet slice of swervery into the village of
Central Tilba, where we paused for refreshments.
On through Tilba Tilba, into some nifty tight sections
through lush and open dairy country, Greg's Duck did a
little dance into a sharp 45-marked right-hander; Greg said
later that unprovoked, it just shook its head. Close by, we
rejoined the highway briefly, for the last time that day,
then crossed to the Bermagui road.
After some lovely sweepers and delightful views towards the
coast, we crossed the bridge into Bermagui, looped the town
on the lookout ride, then exited onto the Tathra road. This
has it all: rolling green fields, forest canopy overhanging
the road, rocky outcrops, tight sections, open sections,
even a strip of dirt, this time only 2km, and people working
on Saturday, as I heard later, in the rush to have it fully
sealed before the Christmas deluge of tourists. It can't
come soon enough, as they've strewn lemon-sized rocks in a
couple of places, over which the little Beemer trembled and
skated.
The last stage of this choice excursion is through the
Mimosa Rocks NP, a small but rich park on the coast. It is
rocky here, with tangled, jagged outcrops everywhere, heavy
forest (perhaps even some temperate rainforest), and
shipwrecks; the park is named after the paddle steamer
"Mimosa" which went down offshore in the mid-19th century.
The road through the park twists and dives through all this
natural and historical splendour, well-marked little dirt
tracks heading off into the rocky forest or towards the
ocean, walking trails, camping reserves, beaches, picnic
spots... another jewel of the Sapphire Coast, like so much
of the region, worthy of repeated visits.
Suddenly the forest peeled back and we burst out of the NP
onto the bridge at Mogareeka Inlet, the mouth of the Bega
River and the start of the long golden Tathra beach. We
followed it into Tathra, momentary confusion between the
three well-established caravan parks in town, then settled
into our accommodation.
Each of the van parks offers lawn camping, vans, and a range
of cabins (leaving aside the posies of holiday units, the
B&Bs, and the motel rooms at the pub), something for every
taste and budget in tempting Tathra.
The major distraction late on Saturday afternoon in the
little town would usually be a dip or a stroll, and we set
off along the main drag towards the centre of town in good
time, the sky clear at last as the sun fell and a fresh
onshore breeze carried the ever salty tang over the
beachside along the lower part of town.
As the road that runs straight up the beachfront approaches
the retail precinct, it switches away, with limited
pedestrian access, so we crossed the road towards the beach
where the long stretch of pale gleaming sand abruptly runs
into huge cliffs, a massive rock outcrop pushed into the
ocean, carrying the upper part of town.
We stumbled over a discreet path leading upwards and into
adventure, and we had to strain our stroll as the path
jerked to and fro up the steep gravelly rock face, almost
disappearing at times in our nature reserve environment of
spindly high canopy eucalypts.
Filmed with light perspiration in the warm glow late on a
summer afternoon, we were blitzed by the sea breeze as we
reached the top, rejoining the road from the beach on the
main street of the upper part of town. Our stroll continued
past a few shops and down a ramp carved into the rock, down
again to the waterline on the relic wharf, from where we
admired the beach and the lower part of town, now fading
into shadow.
Once more we hiked up a steep rock face on a barely-marked
path through relic bush, emerging into a memorial garden
overlooking Tathra's rocky tip, and a vast swathe of the
Tasman, deep ocean falling away within sight, the edge of
Australia so steep here. It seemed a little precarious, on
one of the east coast's finer points of rock, a finger
projecting into the deep, surrounded by roses and little
plaques and living, vibrant memories standing up to the
ocean and all the weathers of the ages.
Close by the garden is the pub, where we sought our just
reward. The ocean pushes in here too, with tall windows in
the dining room looking north to the tree-cloaked cliffs of
the Mimosa Rocks NP, and east clear to New Zealand. We
compared notes as we talked about our ride, our bikes, other
bikes, and more, while the ocean sat at our shoulders and
swallowed our words in the cleft of sea and sky far in the
east.
Eventually, our talk turned to dinner, and we set off along
the menu trail. The pub has an interesting diversity,
particularly seafood, but nothing captured our attention. A
roadie dragged in bulky black band equipment, a possibility
for later.
We headed out a different door from the pub, overlooking the
motel units perched in an undignified stack in a lake of
concrete, and walked up the other side of the street back to
the intersection where the road to the beach fell down the
cliff face. Stumbling once again, another indistinct route
back to the same path, near dark but familiar now, we
followed it down the cliff to the beach.
Nearest to the cliff is the High Tide Cafe, on our path so
we surveyed its menu too. Here, and the locked and deserted
Surf Club, was the limit of our beach excursion, but
clearly, this cafe would be a pleasant and informal retreat
after a spell at the oceanside, packed as it was with
relaxed adults and sandy kids bolting everywhere.
But we moved on to the Bowling Club, where we were crammed
into a tiny bar between the smokers, the pokies, and the
uglies. Their menu was very ordinary, and we coped for the
duration of a few yarns, then fled to the street that we now
recognised as Tathra's tourist precinct.
Well dark by now, we skipped the low end eateries and paused
at the pizza parlour, or rather, the Mimosa Rocks Pizza
Restaurant. A typical pizza takeaway even to the row of
plastic chairs, its menu included some real peculiarities,
and "gourmet" pizza, so we took seats and unfolded the
details of the menu. Greg gave me to choose, and eventually
I selected an elaborate seafood combo, and a different
seafood, Mediterranean inspired. They were expensive, three
times the cost of the mass-produced big names, but turned
out to be the best pizzas I've tried, yes, even the
lifesavers in the Rebels; this night we could recognise the
gastronomic high point of the lower part of town, a triumph
of imagination.
Even our energetic foot tour around town couldn't create the
capacity to absorb these magnificent pizzas, though we made
a creditable effort and were amply rewarded for our care in
choosing this establishment; I look forward to a return
visit. In time, we had to abandon the ruins, and rolled back
to our accommodation, where we each had a round of
stretching, yawning, and relieving, then fell into bed.
Dawn came and went, and the relaxing resort weekend away
kept us in its arms until after 8. We promised ourselves
breakfast at the market, and made do with a cuppa as we
surveyed the languid van park, sputtered awake and fumbled
with our packing.
On our way soon enough, out of the van park and up the beach
a few hundred metres, we came to the rocky cliff face we had
stumbled up and down the evening before. With the tyres and
us still warming up, we swung into the sharp right-hander at
the bottom, then pushed the bikes hard into the rising
hairpin, straining the bikes and ourselves at little more
than walking pace in what must be the most abrupt mid-town
incline anywhere in Australia.
A few more such aggressive twists brought us once again to
the clifftop, and we passed through the upper part of town
and along the Bega valley, the road winding through remnant
forest and straight across lush emerald river flats with
herds of grass watchers lost in their dreaming.
A break in Bega for fuel and funds, and we were back on the
highway for a few km, then turned to Candelo, a delightful
road dancing through forest and pasture into the village.
There was hardly room for two more motorbikes in the main
street, yet we squeezed between cars and secured all the
stuff we didn't want to hang on to in our next foot tour.
Then we slipped over the fence, down the bank, and into the
market.
The crowd matched the cars in the street, milling, weaving,
dodging, bumping, in and out and swirling around some 100
stalls covering the reserve. I am an enthusiastic market
goer and I like to admire each flower, check each book
title, study each antique, while Greg is precisely the
opposite and, just long enough into the morning for me to
lose track of how long we'd been there, I looked across the
market reserve to see him mount and depart for his return to
Sydney.
So I was alone, but briefly, until I bumped into a gaggle of
Beemer pilots and pillions from the ACT. These travellers, a
dozen or more, had another club function the day before, and
had chosen to make a day ride to the Candelo market.
So I still had people to bump into, as I continued my
examination of the market. Like markets elsewhere, there
were plenty of junk toys, junk tools, and tacky
extravagances. But to redeem the market, there were swathes
of crafts, rustic art, native and exotic plants, and produce
from all over southern NSW.
Before I knew it, we were deeply into lunchtime, and the
food stalls in the market were closing, closed, or sold out.
I cast one more long glance over the market, and headed back
to the bike via the rope and farm implements tables, rapidly
being packed away; it was my turn to pack my books, my
fruit, my ground cover.
My foot tour of Candelo had revealed a road to the water
tower above town, and I took the dusty, twisting route up
and down several hills on a lookout ride. From this peak the
village lay splashed across the rolling hills and valleys of
the south coast hinterland.
The town was almost back to normal as I rode across the
bridge and turned right to the pub, just a few hundred
metres away but out of sight of the market. The pub was
busy, as the whole town on market day. Its kitchen was fully
engaged with an interesting and diverse menu that eventually
led me to a fresh and tasty tandoori rollup. As I sat on the
verandah with lunch, the BMW club expedition finally settled
on their plan, and passed by the pub heading north on the
shorter route back home, via Bemboka and Brown Mountain.
The last of the market traders gradually slipped out of
town, back towards the highway and Bega, north to Bemboka,
or south. As lunch ebbed out of the town, I quit Candelo on
the road to Myrtle Mountain. But I could not escape without
without one more surge of excitement as I paused on the last
intersection in town, with the Tantawangalo Forest road
(another option for dirt riders, 33km up the range to the
Mt. Darragh road), while I fumbled with my earplugs, a tiny
helicopter with trellis body and bubble head revved up, a
massive noise flooded the town until it lifted off, circled
the town, and was swallowed in the sky.
So, the last keeping to the ride plan, less the comfort of
company, I headed south again, rich rolling dairy farms
gradually gave way to wilderness reserve, until I was
swallowed in the forest reserve for a short stretch of rich,
dappled swervery leading to the Mt. Darragh road.
This little-known road climbs from the Pacific jewel,
Pambula, to the heart of the highlands, Bombala, passing the
villages of Wyndham and Cathcart. The 79km ribbon of tar is
stretched over mostly mountain forest, streaked with farming
valleys, winding up the face of the range and tightening
again and again, large earth cuttings dripping greenery
leapt up as the road twisted away, many with a drop into
dark bottomless forest beckoning on the other side. The road
surface is sound and inviting, a rarity in rural NSW, and
remote enough for me to see only six cars and two bikes in
its length.
Just out of Cathcart, the bitumen continues to Bombala
through the more open and level highlands, while a dirt road
cuts more north to Bibbenluke, 8km of dirt compared to 40km
of tar. I've been this way before, because of its economy,
and the visual delight of Black Lake, a public fishing
reserve lost in the wavy terrain at the edge of the Snowies.
But on this trip Black Lake proved to be green, fish
vanished as grasses flourished and a flock of sheep munched
their way across the near-dry lake bed. Even though this
road is dusty and stony, with several long sections of
corrugations, it is a choice shortcut.
At Bibbenluke, I was caught up in the traffic straight away,
and I passed a dozen cars before the junction just south of
Nimmitabel. But the highway here is rich in risk, and I kept
quiet through the open country and big sweepers of the
southern highlands, following my instincts instead of
companions. And sure enough, I saw three candy cars going
the other way between Nimmitabel and Canberra. But
otherwise, the familiar trip north was excitement free,
barring the fresh excitement of a motorcycle weekend deep in
the country, from the ocean to the sky, the span of the
sparkle of the Sapphire Coast. Can't wait for the next
Southern Market ride.
--
Gary
aus.moto: we ride the ones and zeros
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