In 2024 we did a Rally in a Valley. In September 2026 I did a Different Rally, in a Different Valley. At the same time Cindy did an entirely different valley, the Hunza, and she has already piqued a lot of interest talking about that.
Common between the Rally and the Different Rally was superb organisation by the BMW Owners Club of South Australia, and wine. The 2024 Rally was in the Barossa, the 2026 Different Rally in the Clare. Fairly subtle, but the Barossa is warm and all about big reds, while the Clare produces spectacular Riesling and cooler climate reds. However, to make that comparison friend Paul and I had to get down there.
The plan was to avoid the Barrier Highway through Broken Hill. Yes, it is easily the quickest way, but unless one is fond of goats and kangaroos in various stages of deadness it is a bit of a slog. Regardless, the direction heading from Brisbane to South Australia is strongly hinted at in the destination state name. South, in case Cluedo wasn’t one of the games you excelled at. The method was to discuss and decide the following day’s destination whilst perusing the menu at the local pub or club and get onto the Googs Maps to choose a motel within comfortable walking distance of town highlights, i.e. the local club or pub. Bingara was the first stop, because Warialda had the Warialda 200 on. This is the challenge with travel in the back blocks, no-one but the locals know that their biggest weekend in decades is the same as the one you want to stay, until you call. “Hello this is Amy at the BF Nowhere Settlers Hotel.” “Hello Amy, my name is Duncan, I am looking for two single rooms for tomorrow night, do you have anything available?” “Sorry but we have the 150th BF Nowhere Sheep Riding Festival this weekend! Nothing available, sorry!” “Amy, perhaps I should have mentioned that Paul has won the Rapacious Ram Riding event at the past 10 BF Nowhere Festivals, and I am his manager?” “OMG, is that right?” “Well not in the strictest sense of right, I’m now regretting I said that, so I’ll try somewhere else…”
Day 2 plan was to park in Parkes. Started with a coffee in Barraba, very civilised thus far. Then a bit of nice dirt down to Dunedoo, although this section had a couple of those motorcycling moments. No.1 moment was a 4WD coming around the corner at speed on my side of the road. The thought is “This is the big one” with a closing speed of maybe 160kmh, I have literally nowhere to go that won’t be harsh. Luckily, the 4WD is maybe poking at the mobile, notices they are nowhere near their lane, and swerves back in. Such is life, keep going. Then with ample grazing extending as far as the eye can see, a kangaroo unexpectedly leaps out from the side, a friend close behind. Two fingers on the front brakes always ready, instinctively everything tightens including the two fingers, and slow down enough to allow the leader to nearly get past me with the friend going in behind. I hit the leader’s tail, they spin around and crash, but I keep going. Excitement over, we headed to one of the great lunch venues on the planet. The Dinki Di Dog’s Eye in Dunedoo.
Dinki Died, and a quick look at Neptune on the amazing 1:38 million scale solar system with the sun 133 km away at Siding Springs observatory we pushed on. The small size of Neptune increases one’s appreciation of the power of gravitational pull, it just doesn’t seem possible that something 133km away could influence it. Speaking of gravitational pull, the power of the bikes to suck every insect onto their fronts was enormous. Never in riding travel has the relentless splattering been so relentless, every stop required a go at the windscreen with the squeegee and a refreshment of the coated visor to briefly return to 20/20 vision. Into Parkes and we were done, except that the GPS insisted the entrance to the hotel was through a paddock, so some cross-country was done before deciding it was just ludicrous.
A wander into town for a gastro pub dinner, and the routine was set. Then immediately broken on Day 3, with Paul sensibly delaying the start due to an auto wash facility just over the road. A problem with splattered insect infestation is that it brings on ant infestation. Sometimes it occurs in cars but ants don’t like crawling up tyres, and the side stand is their stairway to heaven. So overnight the crowd builds up and a huge convoy is in gridlock trying to get up and down the side stand. Over the road and wave the card at the machine then try to select the correct function. It starts with the foaming spray, which leaves a film of soap on everything, but tempts the user into going full blast and trying to remove everything. Let’s just let the foam do its work, rather than trying to finish the job in one minute. So we select the foaming brush. This thing is ridiculous, by the time the brush is taken out of its holder half the suburb is buried under a mountain of foam. Applying it to the motorcycle ends up with it looking like a giant pavlova. Righto, let’s stop mucking about, turn up the pressure with the rinse. Bang. All foam and stickers and paintwork is gone. But the motorcycle is clean.
Due west, within 50km the whole auto wash experience was proven to be a total waste of time. Our destination for the day, based on random bookings made in the gastro pub the previous evening, was Griffith. But we didn’t want to go the shortest way, because of Australian Finke and Dakar race legend Toby Price. Toby was born in Hillston, which is pretty much BF Nowhere, serious western NSW. To get there, we headed due west to Bogan Gate, famous as the gate on the Bogan Fence. The Bogan Fence was built in the 1970’s, due to the migration of mullet-haired people named Dazzer into the settled districts which was destroying western civilisation. Unfortunately, the fence couldn’t stop panel vans, so they got in.
Condoblin was coffee time. It was a Sunday, so some slack cut for Condoblin, but getting one was never going to happen because there wasn’t a café open. A water from the news agency was as good as it was going to get. Press on. Another place I had never been to, but Paul had, Lake Cargelligo. Straight to the lake, we faffed about, took photos, discussed lunch options. Fisho’s Hot Bake looked like the go, open according to the Googs. Up the street, Fisho’s was definitely not the go because it was shut. Bloody Googs. OK, to the IGA for a biscuits, cheese, and salami snack lunch. Back to the lake, dining, and a walk to the war memorial. There was a warning sign, but this caused more comfort than it should have, because the pictured bird is only swooping people in China. OK, unlikely to be swooped by a bird who is currently harassing people in Xi’an. Let’s wander.
An acknowledgement of sacrifice with my hat off, suddenly bang on the back of my head. It was a magpie, familiar colours to everyone in Australia, but nothing like that expected from the Chinese magpie pictures. I happily admit to losing my s#!t with swooping magpies, how did their antisocial behaviour become more important than children’s eyes? If I could stab children in the eyes with a pencil because they came into my yard consequence free, then fine, go hard magpies. But I was having none of it given how hard my ancestors worked to get to the top back in Africa. That magpie was chased with threat of mobile phone chucking around the park, until it gave up and we all calmed down. Back on, we pressed on to Hillston. The insects hadn’t gotten any better, impacts were constant, and then suddenly something went up my sleeve and started scratching and biting up near my elbow. A few smacks only seemed to make it angry, but then it calmed down or died. The upper forearm then became itchy, luckily we weren’t too far out of town. Over many years we’ve had bees, wasps, and flying ants, and many others, so the Stingose in the first aid kit has had more use than anything else.
Expectations were not great for Hillston. Western NSW towns aren’t famous for their tulip festivals or gothic architecture, but it was a very nice little town and looked like it was doing okay. Paul forced me to eat some chips which made the dragonfly injuries better, nothing like chips when used for first aid. A chat with some locals who confirmed that Hillston is doing okay, and we headed south to the day’s destination of Griffith.
I had never stayed in Griffith previously, and my feelings about it were a bit coloured by stories I had heard as a child from my mother’s family just to the east in Leeton. It has a very strong Italian heritage, including some who were naughty Italians. I remembered the disappearance of anti-drugs campaigner Don Mackay in the 1970’s, after he’d blown the whistle on some of the naughty people, he has never been found although some of those involved in the hit ended up in jail. Also, the town was famous for a while in the 1990’s with some of the naughty families committing insurance fraud by crashing into each other in their cars, they made a fortune until one of them found Jesus and ‘fessed up. So I was waiting to see what it was like. Like Hillston, it was okay, and surprisingly big. Being a Sunday night it was quiet, but the Googs said that a fabulous Italian restaurant was open just up the road. Again it was wrong, I was losing confidence in the Googs. Never mind, down to a nice steak restaurant and Griffith was done.
Next day, we headed west. A problem with GPSeses occurred at this time, mine insisted west, Paul’s insisted south. I was in front so ignored his “we are going in the wrong direction”. Eventually, we got to a road heading south, and it was loose gravel and very dusty, and there were trucks. Okay, we’ll turn around, we’ve only done 60km out of the way which is nothing, I’m not saying sorry. Eventually to Hay, it was another expensive re-fuel at around $2.50/litre for 91, then into town for the coffee.
Still no sign of the Cindy’s backpack, so we moved on. About 10km out of Balranald, a couple standing by the side of the road next to their car, holding what looked like a large roof basket. We’d better turn around. They were happy to see us, it was pretty heavy and they couldn’t do anything other than stand there holding it. One fastening had broken, the wind had gotten under it, and it had left the car which would have been exciting to see. So we hid it in the bush, and they could drive into town to get some straps or something, hopefully remembering where they’d left it. We left them to it, had lunch in Balranald, then along the Murray to Mildura. Day done. Off to the supermarket to refresh breakfast supplies – Paul and I were following the do-it-yourself process as going out for breakfast is a schedule destroyer, and fearsomely expensive with many a teen’s first car purchase covered by artisanal sourdough smashed avos at their parent’s café.
Then to a craft brewery restaurant, very nice. A weird experience while we were there, a nice bloke started talking to me at the bar after he saw my Triumph jumper, he’d owned one. Paul and I went back to our table, sitting next to a lady who was alone, but had an awesome burger. Some pub chit-chat with her, mainly in praise of her burger. Our meals were delivered. Next thing a young bloke with very long hair came in and sat down at the burger lady’s table. I didn’t think much of it, maybe he was her son or something. But within about five seconds of him sitting down the Triumph bloke had raced over and escorted the lady with burger, including her drink and cutlery, over to his table with his wife. Paul and I looked at each other. What is happening? Turned out that young bloke was a problem, Triumph bloke knew it, and swooped in to rescue the burger lady. He didn’t need to buy a drink for the rest of the night, and we had a great time.
Clare. The destination. We headed west still, through Renmark. Some discussion with Paul about fuel. Morgan will be fine. Morgan was also fine for lunch, Paul went into the Morgan Sweets on the River. Not appropriate I suggested, I don’t want dessert for lunch. But they also had pies so everything calmed down, even though they were enormous so some regrets were carried through. Then west again with a slight north, and we were in Burra. My praise for Burra is effusive, it supplied 5% of the world’s copper for 15 years, and is a very nice little place. Only a bit down the road is Clare, so we rolled into the Discovery Park just to the south. Only a few of the SA BMW club people were there, and like us they were just checking in. Where is registration? Oh that starts at lunchtime tomorrow. What? Well, you are a day early for the Rally. What?
Quite a few of us had become confused about the timing. Not me, I could blame Paul because he had booked the accommodation, I had no idea. But luckily there were a few there, mainly from the Victorian BMW Club and they are a lot of fun. That night we went to the Magpie & Stump hotel at Mintaro and had a ball. Next day we had a nice sleep-in, registered, and I entered my kilometres to get to the rally. Paul and I had both started from our home, but my bike was parked about 2ft behind his bike so could claim the biggest distance. A lunch at the Rising Sun Hotel in Auburn, then back to the park. The SA Club had recognised that motorcyclists touring wineries was never going to end well, so had organised the wineries to come to us. That also didn’t end well, but we had a fabulous dinner with wines getting there.
Due to the timing confusion, I had to miss the second day and head off the next morning. Plan had become a bit discombobulated, but I’d decided to ride to Sydney, catch up with daughter Kate and her man Ger, leave the bike with my sister Liz, and fly home to meet Cindy on her return from Pakistan on our wedding anniversary. So a bit of a commute to Horsham in Victoria, with a stop in the famous murder belt town of Truro. Like Snowtown just to the west of Clare, Truro was not involved in the serial killings by Christopher Worrell and James Miller but was simply a place where five of the seven bodies of young women murdered in just a month and a half were disposed of. But there needs to be name so Truro got it.
Last bit of sight-seeing before getting into Horsham was a place Cindy and I had been before, the Jane Duff memorial near Mt Arapiles on the Natimuk road. Just fascinating that three little kids aged 9, 7, and 4 out collecting Broombush twigs in 1864 lost their way in the endless scrub and survived for 9 days and 8 nights and walked for over 100km before being found. The eldest Isaac and Jane the middle child carried the youngest Frank as much as they could. The men who found them didn’t even have any food with them because they assumed the kids were dead, and had been reported as such in the Melbourne newspapers.
The reason for heading this way came to light the next day with a quick visit to the parents and the grandparents in the Stawell cemetery, everything looked okay there and one big weed was removed. Then another bucket list sight-seeing experience at Moliagul west of Bendigo, where the Welcome Stranger nugget was found sitting 1” below the surface near a tree. Still the largest ever lump discovered, it contained 2,284oz of gold and is worth $13,619,217.92 at the time of writing.
It is a bit of a grid pattern of roads as one approaches the Murray River. Google Maps wanted to go east and north to the day’s destination of Finley in NSW, the GPS wanted to go north and east, which turned out to be three minutes longer. But the GPS is sitting right in front of me, the Google Maps is in my pocket. Do I stop, pull out the Googs, and try to figure it out? But stopping means losing the time the GPS route has added. Like claiming clothing cleaning expenses on the tax return, you know it is sort of incorrect but not totally incorrect, so you throw the extra $1500 of dry cleaning expenses on and take the GPS route. Into Finley, the insect splatter had been extreme. Find motel, find car wash the priorities. Bike clean, and wander into town. This is Finley, surely limited in cultural experiences. Maybe the Country Club Hotel, gets some good review. Inside, it was very classy, food was superb, wines sublime, and one got the feeling that the big Finley people were there, a fox hunt seemed possible. That didn’t happen or I simply wasn’t invited, so I pushed on east the next day. Then north, then a bit west to Leeton, home of many other buried relatives. To the cemetery, it took ages to find the grandparents, but nearly sat on the great-grandparents because they are on major thoroughfare. Then east to Young, chosen based on its approximate location halfway to Sydney but way off the Hume Highway.
An influence on the Young decision was that I was now on a gold rush highlights theme, and Lambing Flat at Young was the scene of riots against the Chinese during the gold rush in 1861. The situation wasn’t Australia’s finest moment, the Chinese were used to very hard work under frugal conditions, and the average miner didn’t make that much money so the situation was ripe for a bit of agro. The Lambing Flat troubles were Australia’s longest lasting civil disorders; they went on for around 10 months, and thousands of people were involved. Ironically, the one big night of violence and pushing the Chinese off the gold fields resulted in no deaths, and the only real casualty was a miner who was later shot and killed making an attack on the police camp. These days there is a beautiful Chinese garden at Lambing Flat, a very serene place. I was very lucky to get accommodation in Young according to some I met at the motel, the orchid festival – tractor races – Michael Jackson Impersonator’s Extravaganza or whatever was on. Down to the Australian Hotel rather than the Chinese restaurant for dinner, some thought had gone into that, and the result was never going to be morally satisfactory. But motels still have bibles, and my very worn copy fell open at random at Acts 2:46 – “They broke bread in the pub and ate together with an accompanying Clare Valley Reisling.”. Can’t argue with that.
Into Sydney, the plan was to leave the motorcycle with my sister, engage with family, and fly up to meet Cindy on her return from the big ‘Stan, not coincidentally our 31st anniversary. The plan worked perfectly. Then two weeks later we flew back down, and I rode up via Thunderbolt’s Way to Armidale, and home. Yet another superb event by the South Australian team, who are at a serious disadvantage when it comes to Rally venues, not one doesn’t have world-class wineries. A big thanks to riding buddy Paul, it was a lot of fun.
