These hills are a matchbox version of the Swiss Alps. They are the territory of ambitious, training, racing cyclists with legs like treetrunks. However, it was undoubtedly going to be the nicer route and, once I was on it, it did prove this right from the start. Studying maps before leaving Adelaide in a northerly direction will reveal to the intending cyclist that he or she is facing some sort of a dilemma. Legs would favour the Main North Road or the Sturt Highway, both as flat as a table. Opting for one of these, however, would result in a semitorture for the ears, since trucks, buses, camper vans and the lot bound for Alice Springs, Darwin and Perth can be found on one road, and everything rushing towards Sydney and Brisbane thunders along the other. The option through the Adelaide Hills, on the other hand, would be extremely kind to the ears, it would also be a delight to the eyes, but it would, no doubt, pinpoint all one’s leg muscles without overlooking even the tiniest and long-forgotten ones. These hills are a matchbox version of the Swiss Alps. They are the territory of ambitious, training, racing cyclists with legs like treetrunks. However, it was undoubtedly going to be the nicer route and, once I was on it, it did prove this right from the start.
By way of good fortune, Adelaide has been blessed with good town planning. Not only did its founders put a green belt of excellent park around the square-mile of their city-centre, its successors even turned the creek bed of the small river Torrens into a linear park. Following this linear park which comes ‘equipped’ with cycle lanes on either side of the river, one can literally escape from the city of Adelaide without hearing many cars, let alone the roaring noise of a highway. Looking forward to an exciting trip through beautiful countryside, none of the city’s delights had been able to distract me. I was not going to hang around town one minute longer than was absolutely necessary. Only two days ago I had popped out of nowhere, this morning I was pedalling along the river Torrens, right through Saturday – morning – suburbia, sneaking out of town before it could even attempt to get a hold on me. My escape was aided by a long time cycling friend from Adelaide who piloted me out of town. We followed the river Torrens for quite some time around Black Hill, the road winding itself around steep hills on either side. Gum-trees, willows and reeds were growing along the creek bed, while the slopes to the left and right provided a risky home to some adventurous grasstrees, acacia bushes and a narrow grass cover. All along the way butterflies underlined the merry mood of a beginning adventure. Mistaking my chequered blue shirt for some newly introduced plant they kept hovering around me, repeatedly landing on this processed cotton in eager search of some rare winter nectar and repeatedly finding nothing.Their playful flight stood in sharp contrast to our hard physical work, the near monotonous pushing of pedals that we were going through. The mind of the butterfly does not understand the concept of climbing a mountain, yet it joins us in the joy of viewing a city from higher altitudes, the delight of looking back along deep gorges, winding roads, hidden corners and spotting the first shy spring flowers on steep, sunny slopes.
“BOGGY WHEN WET” – If you happen to come across a sign on the side of the road displaying the above three words you should pause for a moment and listen to its silent stories of pushing and panting, sweating and swearing, shoving and shouting. You will hear stories of fierce arguments between persistent muck and less persistent muscle and then you will know what to do.
I had not listened. I had had no time. I had been in a rush to enjoy myself, the new bike and the scenery. Well, I now had to have time, though I did not have to listen to the signpost’s old stories. I was right in the middle of a new story. And it was my earlier ignorance that had put me there. Amidst the rolling hills of the famous Barossa Valley, between the leafless winter-vineyards and under the pink evening sky, I was bogged, I was stuck and I was tired.
On the last few miles before reaching Tanunda where I was to stay for the night, I had opted for a “scenic route” suggested by the cycling map of the Barossa Valley. I had left the town of Lyndoch along some majestic winery on its outskirts and I had happily followed a track that led me away from a busy Saturday evening road right into the peaceful heart of fields and vineyards, vineyards and more vineyards. A glorious finish to a first day! Convinced that a sign “Boggy when wet” was irrelevant to a push bike, particularly on such a short stretch of only a few miles, and eager not to spoil the peaceful, calm sunset, I ignorantly cycled past an important notice. “If all else fails, I can surely just wheel the bike along”, I thought. Well bitumen gave way to a dirt-track which eventually metamorphosed into muck. “I have gone too far now to go back”, I ‘reasoned’. “I’ll just get off the bike and push on”.
A mile later the situation deteriorated but now it made ‘surely’ no sense to turn back. Yet the idea of a scenic route had vanished. Attention focussed solely on soft clay building up between tyres and mudguards, slowly compressing, until it eventually formed very effective brake blocs. This muck was my enemy, a strategy to defeat it my main concern. I tried to knock it off by beating the mudguards, I tried to push it out with sticks and by hand, I tried to prevent it from building up further by wheeling the bike on the grassy but soggy patch on the side of the road. I carried the bike and I wheeled it backwards. None of these methods worked for more than a few yards. The bike had become heavy, its wheels reluctant to turn. With snails overtaking me left right and centre, my multiple strategies were far more effective in building up frustration than in enabling me to cover ground and get me out of this “muck’n mess”.
Now, I was the one who was pushing and panting, shouting and shoving, sweating and swearing. Nevertheless, eventually and just after the last light of the day had vanished, a more solid dirt-track gradually emerged towards the top of a hill. My fear of further problems at dips and creeks to come was unfounded and as quickly as the trouble had started, it was over again. With only an hour’s delay I arrived at the luxurious “Barossa Junction Motel”, eager and ready to stretch my legs. Knowing more than well that ignoring similar road signs 300 km further north would result in “tent- by-theroad- nights” at temperatures below freezing, I mentally filed the experience of the last hour as a valuable lesson. Luckily, learning this lesson at such an early stage of the trip meant that I was not even going to loose out in terms of comfort of accommodation.
And this comfort, I was now going to enjoy! The Barossa Junction Motel accommodates you in cozy, converted railway carriages, still standing on tracks. They contain roomy ‘en suite’ cabins for two to four people and like most motel accommodation in Australia they are equipped with fridge, kettle, a few portions of tea, coffee and milk as well as cold drinking water or juice. There was also reversible air – conditioning acting as a heater, a most welcome feature during South Australia’s winter. On planning the tour I had decided to be as comfortable as possible at night time. At my final destination, the Arkaroola Mount Painter Nature Sanctuary, I was going to go out on bush walks. Presently however, my tent was just travelling along as a ‘safety-net’, only to be used in an emergency. South Australia does not have a real ‘An Oige’ network like Ireland, and although individual hostels are quite good, there was none around here. l did not mind. l was only too happy to enjoy the comforts of a snug warm room and a good restaurant.
Later on, sitting at a warm dinner table, indulging in ‘Rouladen’, thinly sliced and rolled beef, a recipe brought to the Barossa Valley by German settlers in the 19th century and still cooked to perfection more than a hundred years later, tasting for the first time a variety of local wines, this morning’s butterflies came to my mind, not the physical strain of the last hour. Apart from the wine, the merry mood was supported by the knowledge that long, steep uphill stretches were now over for some time to come. What more could I ask for but another glass of ‘Chardonnay’?
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