Day 6 – Yarram to Welshpool

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One last look around reveals my missing sock hiding in a garden bed by the laundry. I return it lovingly to the fold.

We head to Yarram bakery cafe too early for breakfast rolls so we get cheesecake and vanilla slice instead. You can do that sort of thing when you’re burning 3000 excess calories a day. Or so I tell myself.

3/10 Beef Wellingtons, but the coffee was pretty good.

We have a look at Port Albert on the map, considering its historical connection to Walhalla via all the places we’ve walked through. The decision not to make a 16km detour to check it out is pretty easy given the tender condition of our feet, even when we find the hilariously named Christopher Robinson trail marked along the coastline.

We’ve gone from hard-bitten mountain people to giving cinnamon donuts 3/10. Hobnailed hiking boots going up the stairs, silk slippers coming down.

Oh bother.

-Voltaire

There’s little to say about the day’s walking. The track is manicured gravel, and not unpleasant to walk on. We head south for 5km to Alberton, then turn east-south-east and continue for a further 22km in a straight line. The scenery changes a little, and there are delightful interruptions by cows, and a couple of shy echidnas, but the trail is steady and unwavering as a rock. Well, maybe not the sort of rock you’d hang your hammock from.

Some organisational structural changes have occurred within the expedition. Promotions have been made within the ranks due to the difficulty of recruiting outside talent at this late juncture. I have been promoted far above my station to the position of Chief Botanist, and Robyn has been invested as Vice President In Charge of Snacks and Lunchtime, and Restmaster General. In celebration, we enjoy a delicious lunch of cheese and crackers and twiggy sticks on the grass of Hedley Recreation Reserve. I do not suggest those who follow our walk attempt to recreate this, as it requires either a 300m road bash with a wattle that will try to kill you, or negotiating two barbed wire and electric fences and the possibility of being shot. Nice grass though. We take our boots off to air our toes in the refreshing warm breeze. Robyn is bitten on the foot by an ant. On balance it’s a splendiferous lunch.

Six kilometres from Welshpool, the knee I hurt six months ago in Tassie begins to twinge. It’s been really good for the last couple of months, so I’d thought the healing process was pretty much done. I guess not.

I’ll have to be careful. I’ll use voltaren and strap it tomorrow and see if there’s any excess weight I can shed from my pack. I can limit my water carry and maybe ditch a little extra food. I’m not yet worried, but I’d be foolish to ignore what my body is telling me. Tomorrow is only 21 dead-flat kilometres.

Welshpool is a tiny town, with barely a takeaway and a post office. The motel we’re booked in is closed on Mondays, but a key is made available. The room would best be described as a well-appointed and spacious tribute to rural decay. The kettle smells like somebody tried to boil a bunch of burning kettles. The shower is clean and the water is hot, but the bathroom predates the invention of good taste.

For dinner we have butter chicken from the unexpected Indian takeaway across the road. It’s so good I forget to take a photo. 9/10 whatevers. The forecast is for rain overnight and some tomorrow. Que sera sera.