I’d initially been a little reluctant to camp in Rosedale. Small stop between Agnes Water and Bargara. Unnerved by a few vacant stares. Safe enough I’d eventually decided. Suitably secure pitch found in the rapidly fading light. Close to the settlement’s hotel.
The hotel was intriguing. Few patrons at the bar. A small take-away cafe at one end its mainstay. Succumbing to a generous portion of mini-chips for a few dollars and an equally reasonably priced soft drink from the virtually deaf barman.
Forced to retreat back into the darkness by the establishment’s surprisingly early closure. Barely eight. But soon found myself amongst some of the site’s permanent residents. Quite a few cousins. Did I want some pot, one asked. I declined. Politely of course. Explained I’d never smoked. Hoping it sounded better than a dismissive no.
Other cyclists had stopped there. One pair on a tandem had insisted on camping by the Gents toilet. Despite their assertions it was to get some light on their tent, this clearly hadn’t gone down well amongst the male residents. Compounded by the presence of something reassembling a Pagan fertility symbol. Strapped to the front of the bike.
Ordinarily I’d be a bit dismissive of such tales. Merely amusing ramblings of those high on drugs or alcohol. Or both. But in this instance I’d a pretty shrewd idea who they were talking about.
Tags: Rosedale
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