Some of the many tartans adorning telegraph poles in Maclean, northern New South Wales. Bit of a Scottish heritage methinks. I’d visited almost by accident. Pulling off the highway. To pop into the local Police Station. But that’s quite another story…
His English name was Jason. Recently graduated in Hobart, Tasmania. Cycling home to Shanghai. I’d met him by chance in the small town of Maclean. His laden bicycle catching my eye as I’d wandered along the main street.
We chatted for a while in the quickly fading evening light. Jason was heading north. But presently searching for somewhere affordable to stop for the night. I explained that, unusually, the local caravan park didn’t permit tents. No room. Just a few reasonably priced units. I’d one. Could he share it? Alas, no, just one bed, I said apologetically. Besides, we’d only just met. And I knew there were other options. Had this not been the case I’d probably have offered him the sofa. He said he’d try a small hotel nearby.
A brief exchange of hints and tips for our respective roads ahead before parting company. Suggesting he visit the information centre in Ballina a day or two off. Ask for Katie. She’d found me a decent site for the night. And had been curious as to how I’d crossed Brisbane. Without sneaking onto the motorway. Or committing other misdemeanours. Often asked by other passing riders. So I’d left details of my route through the city. The V1 cycle route. Motorway service roads. The Logan Road.
I’d ended up in the small town of Maclean almost by accident. Quite literally. Pulling off the Pacific Highway south to report an instance of dangerous driving to the local New South Wales Police. Formalities complete, I’d needed a strong coffee. Small cafe on the main street. Telegraph poles along either side decorated with different tartans. Waitress Kylie explaining the place had a strong Scottish heritage. Large influx of immigrants from the Highlands.
