January 24.

The hottest day in Adelaide history. 45.3deg.

The front door handle feels like a branding iron as I close the door behind us. The world is burning hot . The streets seem strangely deserted. People are holed up inside watching the thermometer rise and praying that the power won’t fail. But we have to go out.

The car's aircon kicks into action and we hum off to take the long coastal way down to Mount Gambier in the South Australian South East. Our date is with the Grant District Council for which I am to be the Australia Day Ambassador of 2019.

It’s already 40deg and it is hard not to be fixated by the car’s temperature gauge.

From Tailem Bend, which is now "The Bend" location for motor racing, we branch right across farmlands and blindingly white salt lakes to the little fishing town of Meningie on Lake Albert. The lake stretches out green-brown to the horizon. Pelicans glide across it, low and sleek.

I’ve always loved this Town.

I gave an Australia Day speech here a few years ago with the Coorong Council.

We stop to breathe the lake air and get near the water. Ouch. It’s 42 deg out there already and the sun is fierce on the skin. Nonetheless, I have to visit the ostrich sculpture and recall the extraordinary tale of the midget bushranger who rode an ostrich to hold up coaches and steal the passenger’s money and finery. It’s a true story. I never stopped marvelling at it. The Birdman Bushranger of the Coorong. I caress the saddled ostrich statue.

It is hot and its beak has been slightly vandalised. Grr.

It is nearing noon so we explore the shoreside main street for eating possibilities. We are too early, says the pub. No grub until midday. We’ve spotted a wee cafe called …. Diner and turn back to it. It is almost opposite the public conveniences which also are a target.

The diner is cool and empty.

A huge Australian flag drapes across the counter and then,

the proprietor, Tess, emerges clad in a bright Australian flag apron.

She’s ready for Australia Day.

We order the local specialty, pan-grilled Coorong mullet - the beautiful, delicate fish found in the waters of the lake outside.

While Tess cooks, we dart over to the loos, noting their excellent hygienic standard. Country town loos have come a long way. There is new public art on the nearby green -

a giant pelican carving. A seagull is preening on its head. Whimsical sight.

Back at the diner, we take our fish and salad to one of the quirky tables where black vinyl records act as placemats. And we coo and sigh at the exquisite freshness of the fish and the skill with which it has been cooked. Tess tells us her secret. The fisherman lives next door. He simply hands the freshly-caught mullet over the fence.

This is a wonderful start to our trip.

Then again, there is suddenly a dark shadow and sorrow haunts me. My father’s biographer, Betty Snowden has phoned through a connection distorted by the remote location, sounding as if she is under water, hard to understand. Is she saying her organs are shutting down? Her husband, David, comes on the muffled line explaining that, indeed, Betty has suddenly become acutely ill with a compound of issues on top of her chemo treatments for cancer metastasized in the liver and her prognosis is dire. She tries to speak more, calling from her hospital bed, crying out and I can just understand her saying that the book looks good with its editing and if Wakefield won’t take it in its new form she will find another publisher. I am aghast, leaden with impotence. So many emotions regarding Betty’s place in my life - her extended relationship with my mother, the long ritual phone calls, the notes and recordings, her loving and fastidious research. Her academic’s dogged pursuit of a seemingly expendable detail, like an issue number or date. The progress of the book has been arduous and fraught, climaxing with its publication and inclusion in Writers’ Week wherein for no known reason Tim Lloyd chose to “review” our WW panel session and condemn me talking lovingly about my dad and the book he had not yet read as "hagiography". It was a mystifying act of malice from which I have never recovered and it resulted in the sensitive Melbourne publisher pulling the plug on the book. And it was back to the drawing board.

The road south from Meningie is one of the world’s great treats since it skirts the magnificent Coorong - a long, shallow very salty lagoon protected from the open ocean by 140 km of mighty sand dunes. The beach beyond runs for 200 km - the longest uninterrupted stretch of beach in the world. The Coorong is home to the delicious Coorong Mullet we have just consumed and also to lots of pelicans, viz the recent release of the copycat movie Storm Boy.

I haven’t driven this road in more than a decade and I rejoice at its every scenic curve.

We stop and get close to the water. Oh, my, it is hot. 44 deg. The water is an exquisite array of colours - such sweet green in striations with a yellow hue and darker greens against the bright blue sky. There’s a thin line of white sand and coastal greens far across the water. Such serene and meditative colours. - and a gently sulphuric, organic aroma. What a pity it is too hot to stand in the sun. We drive on a while but I have to connect again with the water. This is the sacred Coorong. I won't be back for who knows how long. To hell with the heat, I want to savour it. I pull off onto the dirt road at the Pelican observation point. There are some hardy European travellers, bare-chested and in thongs, coming back on a dune track from the observation point. Bruce won’t come outside. I leave the car engine on for his aircon comfort and step out into the searing heat, treading carefully across the dried sandy mud and exotic exposed rocks with their deep whorls and sharp edges. The tide is out and there are pale swampy mudflats and shallow pools reaching out to the flat, silent Coorong water. There’s that mysterious, strangely rich yellow green of the deeper water. Despite the heat, I can’t hurry away. I am experiencing a visceral feeling of the primaeval. Oh, what a place this is.

We drive onwards past the few landmarks - roads off to the right leading to Chinaman’s Well or the 40 Mile break. There is Salt Creek which is a how dead refreshment stop, cursed by a nightmare

abduction and torment of European backpacker girls. https://www.adelaidenow.com.au/news/law-order/salt-creek-attack-roman-heinze-can-now-be-identified-as-the-predator-who-kidnapped-and-terrorised-foreign-backpackers/news-story/6d73b9611cf762ddf3c62fd8e7c2037b\

But there are different sorts of nut cases out there. We pass not one but two cyclists plugging solidly south in denial of the extreme heat.

We don’t stop again.

The road with its wonderful salty arid lands vegetation, leads us south, south, south, to the outlying farming lands around the town of Kingston. Kingston is a cray fishing, lobster port. On its outskirts, it features The Big Lobster. Why can no one make a go of this? It is under new ownership now, “saved” by an heroic local landowner - but it seems quiet, and abandoned as I pull in to the closed cafe. Still a wonderful object, however. I love it.

We drive on into the town. It has picked up since last I was here. It has a sense of quiet vitality but still with the same handsome old historic

buildings in its centre. We have stayed here a few time and seen massive sculptural formations of seagrass on the beach. We once tried to take a hot chicken and chip lunch onto the beach only to have a bold seagull swoop down and nip the kidney right out of the piece of chicken in Bruce’s hand.

We reminisce as we peruse what now seems to be a quite sedate and affluent fishing town. There are lots of tourists. There are all sorts of campervans, caravans and

tents in the seashore campground. There is also a sense of heat-drenched ennui.

I find a tree and park illegally to gain its meagre shade so we can take a walk on the Kingston jetty. It is a long, famous and historic jetty, an important feature of this town. The 45 deg temp on the road has slipped to 40 or so as we walk out

towards the horizon. But, oh, the clear green water. Clarity. The purity. It is swooningly beautiful. I’d like to drop into it. I feel refreshed just looking at it. It’s a long walk out to sea. There’s the buzz of a fishing boat seeking harbour somewhere. Some campers are walking on the vast, wide, weed-blighted foreshore beach, silhouetted in unhurried holiday happiness. As we near the end of the old jetty, I hear a lightness of voices. No one is to be seen. Then, towards the jetty’s end on a ramp to the water, there are two boys, maybe 12 or 13 years old, the age when boys become so wonderfully clever and worldly. They are snorkelling around the furthest piers of the jetty, I ask if they are seeing much sealife. “only small fish so far,” they say. “but we have just got in”.

We cannot not hurry.We meander sluggishly back to our car under its mercy

of shade. Two sturdy European women campers are picnicking at a nearby table. They look ruddy-faced and hot. But, “Yep", they agree. "It is cooler here by the sea than it was out on the road."

After a sentimental circuit of Kingston, we are humming south again watching the car thermometer rise. 45. Ouch!

And now we reach lovely Robe. Suddenly, the temp has dipped dramatically.

Here is halcyon, lyrical, lovely seaside and a lot of people relishing it. Robe is almost unrecognisable since my last visit. It has become a modern seaside resort town. Where once it had arty and

elite local craft shops it now has added icecream parlours and t-shirt shops. It is a traffic jam of popularity.

We head to the seafront and find a park amid the 4-wd utes and holiday vehicles to gaze upon the sheer perfection of the sweet bay and the families swimming and playing between the sand and the

pontoon. A lovely scene. Happy. Timeless. A stunning wee bay and some really dreamy and accessible tiny island rock formations. I watch a solitary girl playing engrossed in a wee island rock pool. I watch families cavorting around their shade tents on the clean crescent beach.

We visit the cliffside coast before we leave. Adam

Lindsay Gordon’s pathway. The horse-riding poet was quite the identity here. It's lovely to have poets remembered in the tourism landscape. I quietly cheer. Yes, this is the part of the country whence poets come. My dad, Max Harris among them.

Sandy trails wind around a coastline of cliffs and bays and rock formations surrounded by oh, such pristine waters. We follow these soft pink paths amid breathtakingly lovely sand dune vegetation. It's still hot. Bloody hot. We are red and sweaty but in a joy of immersion in this superb natural aesthetic.

Back on the road and the temperature relief vanishes. The car reads 45 again. But we are airconditioned and we hum blithely south towards Beachport where, abruptly, the temperature drops again.

Beachport is another South East seaside town which seems to have grown. Another sturdy old

fishing town. Always a nice, understated place. It looks prosperous. It is absolutely swarming with holidaymakers on this hot Australia Day long weekend. The beachfront is gorgeous, busy and happy, busy with swimmers and families beside a placid, friendly sea. I think about how these people right now are imprinting happy family summer holiday memories.

We can't stay here, but I seek a loo and discover the most amazing public facility in the boaties’ carpark. It has a chain mail curtain across the door and M and F sections are identified by pictures of crayfish. There’s fresh air ventilation in the loos themselves. It is all clean and pristine, something one notes of the public facilities throughout regional South Australia. Councils are keeping excellent facilities for travellers. Sweet relief.

There’s another communication on the Betty Snowden front and I start to understand the physiology of what has happened to her. It is terrifying, I have connected with Peter Goers to help get through to the Wakefield publisher, Michael Bollen to tell him of the massive editing to the book by the respected ex Penguin editor Bruce Simms. I am able to convey the report to dying Betty that he now is keen.

Amid my flurry of anxious phone calls from Beachport, Peter demands that we retrace our route to see the Woakwine cutting. He is adamant. It must not be missed. Turn back, he insists. I'm a bit worried about petrol but we do it - and find ourselves on a perilous landing perched above a savagely deep manmade gulch. Sheer drop. Sheer sides. So terrifyingly, abysmally deep. I’m not good with heights. Timidly and very bravely, I step onto the metal landing. I can't come here now and not have done it. My legs turn straight to jelly. This man-hewn

chasm is very severe, like a micro Grand Canyon. It is just so utterly strange and extraordinary. A hercukean man-made marvel out here in the somewhere What a mind-boggling phenomenon out there in the gentle agricultural landscape. The Woakwine Cutting.

Onwards to get petrol in Millicent. It ever was a darling town. It still is. There is a charm to it. It is an unassuming place. Just a nice place. We pause and admire the pleasant shopping area, noting that it is not exactly thriving.

We skim along the outskirts of Mount Gambier to find our lodging, The Barn. We have been here before and when the Grant District Council asked if we had any preference for accommodation down here, I was quick to nominate this wonderful place set out in the farmlands amid glorious gardens.

It is 46deg as we roll in and those lovely gardens are putting on a brave, if wilted face. We are welcomed and given Room 46, a king room with a lovely garden aspect. All the newer rooms face these handsome gardens. We unpack, mix a G&T and try to sit outside on the verandah. But it is just too bloody hot. We watch a poor beetle dragging itself agonisingly along the edge of the garden bed and realise that this is wicked, cruel, killing heat. We take our drinks indoors.

The Barn is part of a working farm, a big operation which specialises in beef. The Barn's Steakhouse serves aged beef as a speciality. Also Wagyu. At dinner, we celebrate having reached our destination, or maybe the fact the Bruce poured strong G&Ts, by ordering Wagyu which is tres expensive. It is a treat. A succulent treat. The fragrant fennel slaw with it is complementary bliss.

Friday

It’s cooler. Ten degrees or so.

The sprinklers are working like crazy on The Barn’s glorious herbaceous borders, reviving them from the punishment of that record-breaking 46-degree day. Roses are perking up. Bees are returning.

The idea of Breakfast Greens really appeals on The Barn’s breakfast menu. I have never seen a breakfast dish like this. Out of curiosity, I order it.

Baby spinach with quinoa and grapefruit, avocado, labeneh, a poached egg and lemon dressing.

This turns out to be the most deliriously beautiful breakfast of all time. Of all time! The zing of lemon and the delicate sourness of the labenah with the bright citrus and rich green - and then the softness of a perfectly poached egg. Oh, how I swoon.

What a great start to the day.

Less joyful are the extensive phone calls which follow through on Betty Snowden’s sudden decline. I speak for a long time to her husband David who has just followed her bed as it was wheeled from a ward into the hospice at Flinders. He leaves the room to talk to me and suddenly, as he describes the multiple failures in her chemo-tired body and its lack of ability to respond to the antibiotics against chest and sepsis, the reality hits him and he breaks down. It is gut-wrenching. My heart breaks. One is impotent. I speak of Mary MacKillop, being in MacKillop country and we agree that prayers from those wonderful Josephite nuns who so lovingly surrounded and prayed for my father would be a good thing. I call Sister Mary Ryan, with whom I work on the MM Taskforce, and ask for Betty to be put into the nuns’ prayers. Mary gets all the details and adds Betty to the prayer order, praying for her peace and comfort and a serene passage. p>

I am emotionally drained. It has grown late in the morning as we set out on my planned day of Mount Gambier and Grant District Council tourism. Linda Hay from the Council has given me lots of advice and has lined up connections for me. She is a legend. I have been through Mt Gambier many times but always on an in-and-out media mission so I have never visited the city’s amazing sinkhole gardens.

Umpherston. Wow.

It is set in a gracious old park, groomed lawns and mature trees. And there it is, a massive deep hole

draped with creepers and at its base, hydrangea beds and paths. It is lush and absolutely spectacular. Paths and steps wind down into its core. ButI am carrying a knee recovering from serious injury, steep climbs are not the go. And we are behind in time.

We ooh and aah. We read about Mr Umpherston

and his house and the history of the place. We marvel at the mighty timber works which now surround the sinkhole and enjoy the fragrance of cut pine. A quick look at the cafe which has Australia Day observed on a table but really is just a wee souvenir shop. And we head off to the town to buy me a soft pillow. I had left my travel pillow behind for the first time ever. Spotlight does the trick.

We do a familiarisation drive around Mount Gambier, admiring handsome old preserved buildings and getting a

sense of the buoyancy of the local economy. I have always liked this city. My father grew up here until he scored a scholarship to St Peter's College in Adelaide. Famously, he had read the whole Mt Gambier library from A to Z.

We park and walk the main street, checking out possibilities for lunch. We have spotted some Thai

places. We are checking them out on TripAdvisor when a local man pauses to ask if we are lost. How thoughtful. Big tick to Mt Gambier residents for friendliness to visitors. He recommends two places. We are heading onwards when I spot Collins Bookshop. I love a bookshop. I grew up in a bookshop. I have to pop in, just to breathe the scent of new books. Aaah. I ask the desk staff where they recommend for lunch. We follow their advice since it is close. It’s a pleasant Thai restaurant wherein I order a Tom Yum and Bruce a Chicken Larp. The food is exquisite.instantly. She gives a bit of a guided tour of the rooms and stories and then introduces us to Bruce, who is on the tractor out back. Aussie Bruce shakes hands with American Bruce. Aussie Bruce is a weathered country fellow with arms covered in scratches and dried blood from a day of hard farm chores. He runs the farm part time and loves it to bits but, in truth, he says, it is a full-time job, what with all the animals and maintenance. There are a lot of animals. We meet a tame wallaby with a face tumour and watch kids riding old-fashioned trikes around a special track. We meet piglets and a big old mumma pig. We meet friendly heifers and chooks and a turkey, a donkey called Tony after Tony Abbott (because of his big ears). We stroll around a field of chainsaw carvings. And we meet a mass of gorgeous curious goats. This voyage back into the past and this meander through a world of farm animals has been like a big spiritual valium. The anxiety and sense of haste I was feeling when first I arrived at the farm has been replaced with a bucolic calm. Heather gives us a parting gift of a dozen fresh eggs from the farm chooks. I am so touched.

We cruise off to check out Mount Gambier’s most famous landmark, well, water mark really - the Blue Lake. It is a volcanic crater lake. It is vivid blue. It is a glorious, powerful pure blue. It also is glorious pure clean water and it provides the city of Mount Gambier with what is arguably the loveliest drinking water in the world.

It is not a huge mountain, the old volcano from which Mount Gambier takes its name and it is easy to drive

around. We find the main vantage point and park the car, walking downstairs and going through an underpass to cross the road and stand on the viewing platform - and marvel and marvel and marvel. It is beautiful. Just beautiful. We drink it in as if to store its glorious blueness forever.

There are others coming and going to see this

wonder - Indians and Chinese. It is a major Australian tourist attraction. There is also a plaque citing the mad leap of the South East poet, maverick politician and general daredevil, Adam Lindsay Gordon. He was a skilled horseman and his leap apparently was over the parapet and onto a perilous ledge overlooking the lake and then back onto the road again.

Lastly, we head back into the centre of town to see the Cave Garden which is another sinkhole. It is really very dramatic, set in a small central park.

It really is quite astounding that a city should have such startling marvels in its midst.

One wonders that the national tourism authorities don’t give this city a higher profile.

The cave garden sinkhole is very sheer and deep but here is a good path around it. There seems to be eerie caves leading back into a dark somewhere nowhere from the base, which is hardly surprising in this landscape of limestone honeycomb. It certainly very dark and deep and scary and mysterious - but, dammit, some local eejits have pushed supermarket trolleys over the brink and they like ignobly at base of the hole.

Back at The Barn, we change for dinner and walk across to the bar to meet the Mayor of the Grant District Council and members of the council. There are a lot of them as we walk in at 6pm but they are gracious, welcoming individuals each of whom makes it as easy as possible to get to know in the brief time available.

I’m soon engaged with Jody Elliott who is newly elected and has had a fascinating life some of it in an Australian enclave in South Korea. Gill Clayfield is experienced on the council and is deputy mayor who brags a talented journalist son who once was arts editor on the Australian but gave it all up, seduced by the lure of travel. There’s vivacious Kylie Boston, elegant Megan Dukalskis and the fascinating Julie Reis who teaches community nursing but has a PhD in rural sociology with an emphasis on the world of beef. Then there’s Barry Kuhl, the one male councillor amid these sparkling women. He is an impeccably dressed farmer and a seasoned councillor. Finally, here’s the mayor, Richard Sage. He fusses discreetly on the outskirts of the group, ensuring that everyone has drinks and is comfortable and that everyone can communicate easily. The chairs are arranged in a bit circle and conversation is animated. The council never has had so many women. It is proudly flexing feminist muscle in all directions. We are all getting along with such greedy interest that time whizzes past and suddenly it is time for the councillors to disperse and for us to go to dinner with the mayor. We pose for a group photo and make lingering farewells. The mayor’s wife, Lynette, has arrived. She is one of those people one just likes instantly. She works at TAFE liaising teaching subject.

We repair to The Barn Steakhouse and talk through a gorgeous dinner. Prawns for me. Fish for the Sages. A rump steak for Bruce on his keto diet. The prawns are divine. Everything is divine. Including a local rose called Bells & Whistles. We learn about Richard’s work rehabilitating prisoners and his varied long career in the country. We learn about each other’s families. We learn about the region and Australia Day observations. We find ourselves sitting next to the owners, the Cleves. Dale and Marianne. I sing praises of the magnificent gardens and the stunning herbaceous borders. Marianne says they are her labour of love. I am thrilled. It just adds to the finesse of this place.

Out the back are the flourishing vegetable and herb gardens which supply the kitchen. Chooks scratch away around a couple of old fruit trees in a run with two little tabby cats in residence, keeping the rodents at bay. The property grows its own beef and, famously, ages it. It's a class act. Again, a Mount Gambier treasure.

AUSTRALIA DAY.

The day dawns cool and cloudy. A huge change has drifted in overnight. The gardens outside breathe with relief and look vivid. But, me? Oh, dear. There goes the planned summer frock. I wonder about what I may wear for the Grant District Council's brunch schedule.

But first, back to the breakfast room for another Green Breakfast. Today it takes a little longer to arrive. I’m happy reading the paper and don’t really notice until the waitress arrives with the dish apologising that “the chef had to run out and climb a tree to get your grapefruit this morning”. Now that is service. The dish is even more blissful than yesterday, coming with the thought of a chef up a tree. I run through my speech and choose my cool weather backup outfit - black slacks and T with my flamboyantly coloured flowing Port Lincoln top. Mil-Lel is a few klicks out of Mount Gambier in dairy country. It was once famous for its cheese factory and Mil-Lel parmesan is still massively popular in the supermarkets, but now it is made across the border in Victoria. Other cheeses are now being made in Mil-Lel. The cookery book author, Liz Harfull filled me in on the history of cheese there. She’s a Mil-Lel girl, the most famous member of the community I think. I was lucky to have her connection to background me on her home town. I’ve actually recipe-tested for her in the past and we have in common recipe books of home-style foods, her traditional fare and mine budget On-A-Shoestring creations. She’s a best seller with The Blue Ribbon Cookbook and Tried Tested and True among them. My book, On a Shoestring - Recipes from the House of the Raising Sons is still in print - just, at Wakefield Press.

So, we find little Mil-Lel with its few houses and its sturdy old country school.

And, we find the Mil-Lel Park and Memorial Hall.

I don my Australia Day cap for walking around in the

sun. The Australia Day Council does not like its ambassadors to cover their heads or obscure themselves so I take it off for eating, speeches and photos. The Mayor, however, has an Australian Flag t-shirt and cap for the day. So do the councillors and the MC. Nice touch.

The two flags, the Aboriginal and Australian, are flying side by side at the Mil Lel grounds where two big marquee tents face each other across an expanse of desiccated grass. There’s a collection of showground buildings around the place and lots of people. A volunteer

is directing cars to park in a large paddock to one side of the proceedings while behind the more permanent of the tents is a colourful old-fashioned swings, merry-go-round and a large array of collectors’ cars.

People are seated around at picnic tables and in camp chairs and massed now seeking shade in the

big tent. It’s a good crowd. But the cooling cloud cover suddenly has vanished and with the sun out, it is surprisingly hot. Now I regret the black slacks. Oh, well.

We’re directed to a nice, tidy shed where a bevvy

of cheerful women are serving up BBQed sausages, rissoles and a mass of salad choices. It is extremely well organised and the food supplies are being constantly replenished as the gold coil queue stretches back out the door. We take our plates and are about to sit on our own camp chairs when Linda Hay, the wonderful council programming whiz rocks up and tells us that we are allocated a nice table with the mayor in the big tent. Linda is official photographer for the day. She is a busy good spirit.

We settle in with the Mayor and his wife, now familiar as Richard and Lynette and feeling like old friends. The local Federal MP Tony Passan rocks up, loud, hot and hail fellow. We chat about the perils of the River Murray which is in his electorate. He reveals that the cotton farm Cubby Station is important for flood mitigation. Without

it, and before it, towns like Mannum were all but swept away. Hmm. He brings a plate of cakes to the table.

I meander off to explore the collector cars on show. It’s another world out there, some magnificent metal beasts adorned in Aussie flags.

One has a big inflatable Boxing Kangaroo. Peaceful specialist petrolheads are lolling and chatting, peering under bonnets and doing their best to keep cool. The day is hotting up. Down near the stage area, small children are getting free rides on miniature steam engines and dads are peering with interest at the working models.