Margaret River - Thumbs up, thumbs down (Nov-Dec 08)

Hello! You join me six months further on in my journey round Australia. I have been struck from time to time that there's something I've been forgetting to do, and that thing is to update my travel blog!

A huge amount of water has flowed under the bridge in storytelling terms so I'd best crack on and recount my travelling tales before a whole load more stuff happens. If there's anything guaranteed in this life, it's that stuff (both good and bad) happens.

When I spoke to you last I was still in Margaret River - the beautiful wine-producing town in Western Australia that couldn't be more laid back if it tried. I'd found myself a place to live, a loaf to butter and a glass of milk to declare half-full. The country roads reverberated with the sound of me whistling a jaunty tune as I cycled on by. The sun shone bright day after day after day.

To be truthful I was bored of my surroundings and seeking work. It had been my lifelong dream since about 5 minutes before leaving Perth to work on the area's famous vineyards. But the season was unseasonably quiet, the grapes swelling untroubled on the vines, leaving me twiddling my thumbs at home. My journey on the harvest trail had hit the doldrums big-time.

I passed the time playing guitar, and reading the free local paper, an unassuming weekly bugle concealing a work of unintentional comedy brilliance. I refer of course to none other than the hilariously pointless feature known as 'Thumbs up, thumbs down'!

To the uninitiated (basically everyone outside the Margaret River area) this involves anonymous readers writing in to comment on subjects meeting their approval or disapproval. Examples include:

• "Thumbs up to the Margaret River Police for having the hardest job in the world and doing such a great job."
• "Thumbs down to no drinking fountains in Margaret River."
• "Thumbs up to sugar-coated carob free almonds."
• "Thumbs down to people not paying tradespeople on time."
• "Thumbs up to all the shops who decorate their windows at Christmas."
• "Thumbs down to people who take social sports too seriously."
• "Thumbs up to Nanna Rose's new smile."
• "Thumbs down to the P-platers (learners) and other drivers who scared me and my horse on Caves Road."
• "Thumbs up to great beauticians."
• "Thumbs down to anyone who wants to bring one million people to Margaret River."
• "Thumbs up to the Augusta Pharmacy."
• "Thumbs down for vineyard workers not being supplied with portable toilets."
• "Thumbs up to those taking part in Movember."
• "Thumbs down to those who broke into the privately-owned helicopter at a hangar party."
• "Thumbs up for Saul's blue cheese pizzas and burger Fridays."
• "Thumbs down to people who try to get out of paying their bills."
• "Thumbs up to our beautiful display of native flowers."
• "Thumbs down to people who steal wood from their workplace."
• "Thumbs up to Mess Fest – best ever!"
• "Thumbs down to rude graffiti on signs."

Fantastic! I always enjoyed those. But not as much as I enjoyed imagining the respective authors clutching the paper in triumph and yelling, 'they published my idea! Yes! The system works!'

And even now, many months later, I lie in bed at night wondering if the workplace wood-stealer was ever brought to justice.

I enrolled as a WWOOF volunteer in a bid to clock up some time towards my second working visa. This entailed me cycling out to a palatial countryside residence to help a lady called Carmel dig irrigation trenches round her fruit trees. In exchange for working mornings I received nutritious vegetarian lunches and the healthy glow of a man at one with his spade. Who needs money anyway? It was an interesting diversion for a couple of weeks.

I was joined by another volunteer, Ben from Germany, who had a cracking beard. He smoked rollups and had just travelled by car all the way from Darwin, an immense journey (and one I’d like to do someday). Soon we’d dug all the trenches, weeded all the weeds and dotted all the Is and crossed all the Ts in a gardening sense on Carmel’s property so it was time to say our goodbyes.

Around the same time my tireless inquiries about work finally hit paydirt. I got word of a working hostel that lay an hour down the road in Manjimup. This being of course a place where the twin baubles of farm work and accommodation happily collide!

I tried to research this fabled place of labour on the net but found nothing but a fuzzy JPEG of some wooden sheds and a couple of old reviews from 2005/6. As per most working hostels it was as well-advertised as the average Taliban hideout, and twice as mysterious.

I phoned the number and spoke to a flustered-sounding woman called Naomi who assured me yes, they had a couple of beds free and some work. After weeks without earning any money, that was good enough for me! I arranged to leave my house-share at short notice, and it was only a matter of packing my bags and booking a bus ticket to Manjimup.

Just one problem: the date was now 23 December.

Oh bollocks… Christmas!

Coming soon: Christmas 08 – Bondy does Manjimup