Syd Soyley is a True Blue outback backpacker, licenced professional adventurer, and genteel vagabond. He travels the world bringing his readers the grundiest travel log and extreme vacation guide on the Net.
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VIII
Part IX
Adventures in Dirt Cove, Part VII
We stood in the doorway and watched with considerable amusement as the only copper in town was arrested and carted off by his robotic partner. Deprived of their vehicle, Constable CARES was forced to piggyback a sullen Constable Ed up the dirt road, trundling along at a top speed not much faster than a one-legged wallaby.
"He didn't leave his credit card, did he?" asked Garland hopefully.
It was nearing midnight, and I was feeling more than a little pissed from the many bottles of cheap local plonk. I hadn't eaten in hours, either.
"Well, yer in for a treat," said Wally. "Uncle Wally's got the best pub food in Dirt Cove," he boasted.
Only pub food in Dirt Cove, I reckoned, but ordered something called a "Pubman's Lunch" anyway.
"Just a second now, I makes dat," said Wally, rummaging about under the counter for some filthy dishes. "Uh, hang on 'til I cleans off dem tables," he said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the rorter collecting scraps abandoned by earlier diners.
"Dere," he said, depositing a horrid, jiggling plateful of unidentifiable leftovers in front of me. "Some good, wha?"
My gut started Waltzing Matilda at the sight and it was all I could do to keep from adding some used grub of my own. "Where's the loo?" I groaned.
Wally led me to an unlabeled door in the corner. "Customer's gotta go in the crapper," he announced, booting it open to reveal a small washroom. Cecil was lying on a mattress on the floor, a damp cloth pressed to his injured forehead.
"Cecil sleeps here," Wally explained, dragging the woozy bartender to his feet and propelling him out the door.
That might account for its better-than-average cleanliness, I thought, rushing for the lone toilet.
When I
emerged sometime later, I noticed a ratty handmade bill
tacked to the wall, advertising something called the
Dirt Cove Spooky Stroll. According to the sign, the
tour guide was none other than Garland Wrongwrub himself,
who at this moment was face and eyes into me dinner.
"Dis yours?" asked Garland, his mouth full. "I thought it was free or somethin'. Dere's still some left ... you want a pickled egg?"
I politely declined, but bartered the price of the meal plus a beer in exchange for a ticket on the Spooky Stroll.
"You like ghosts, buddy? I knows all about ghosts. Ghosts used to be alive but now they're dead."
Right. First rate paranormalist, this bloke. From what I could gather, the one and only stop on the tour was the so-called "Leaning Lighthouse," which for some reason had been moved about a kilometer into the woods by the town's forefathers.
Garland informed me that the crowd would gather at midnight in front of the bar. I waited outside on the steps, but wasn't terribly surprised to discover I was the only one.
My guide emerged from Uncle Wally's, chugged a final beer, then tossed aside the empty. "Here ye! Hear ye!" he shouted. "Welcome to an evening of spookiness and strolling. Ye are about to embark on a journey in da land of da supernatural. Da faint of heart or loose of bowel should go home out of it." He belched loudly. "And I hope you're wearin' good boots 'cuz we gotta go muckin' through da woods."
Scary stuff, that.
We set off down the road and into a ditch -- there was no visible path. Garland staggered through the thick brush, the branches whipping back in my face. "Next stop, Boggy Gulch -- the final resting place of the Leaning Lighthouse!" he exclaimed.
Hours later, the sun was rising as I spotted a familiar looking rotten tree stump. "Hmmm," Garland mused. "I t'ink we were supposed to go left back at dat big rock ... but dat's okay, I knows a shortcut!" He veered off into the bushes, and I trudged wearily after him.
As we entered some thicker woods, Garland told me a little about our destination. His drongo ancestors had moved the lighthouse from the coast to prevent Upper Lower Cove fishermen from taking advantage of the light. Beauty logic, that.
"They never told no one they were moving it, see, and a bunch of ships hit da rocks and some b'ys drowned. Sometimes at night you can hear their ghosts screamin' and howlin', right? At least I thinks it's ghosts. It might just be da teenagers. They hangs out dere a lot. Come to think of it, I always thought da spirits were a bit foul-mouthed ... who knows?" he shrugged, then stopped suddenly.
"Shag!" cried Garland, diving for some bushes. "Get down before he sees ya!" he hissed.
I dropped to the ground and scrambled over to where Garland was huddling in the bushes like a frightened animal. From this vantage point I could make out a rugged looking bloke about thirty meters away, swinging an axe at a tall tree with great enthusiasm, but poor technique.
"Did he see
us?" Garland whimpered, covering his eyes. "Dis is his land.
He don't like trespassers! He sees us, we're dead!" He
rocked back and forth, whining.
"No worries, mate," I assured him, taking a few quick snaps of the woodsman. Just then the tree he had been attacking fell over with a mighty crash, causing Garland to emit a loud, girlish scream.
Bugger! The woodsman's head snapped around. "Get off me land, ya gee dee youngsters!" he shouted, brandishing his axe and charging in our direction.
I turned to find my guide had bolted like a gazelle from a lion. I glanced back at the axe-wielding ocker crashing towards me through the underbrush and decided Garland had the right idea. I took off after him.
"I saw ya, Garland Wrongwrub!" shouted the
woodsman from
behind us. "I told ye if ya come back on my property again
I'd kill ya! You were warned, ya dirty dope smoker! Now I
can kill ya fair and square!"
"Great bloody shortcut, mate!" I panted, catching up to my guide. Garland was crying loudly as he ran, and I noted with mild disgust that he had apparently wet himself.
At times like these, the True Blue Aussie adventurer must reach deep into his outback backpack of experience, mates. I thought of me time amongst the Mugapi Tribesman of Kenya, and how I had narrowly escaped death from multiple spear insertion by scaling a Tuwoomba tree -- the Mugapi are notoriously afraid of heights and terribly near-sighted. I figured this situation called for similar tactics.
I spotted a fair size birch overlooking a steep hill and quickly took to higher ground. Garland had fallen a bit behind -- I was high up in the branches by the time he reached the base.
"How'd you get up dere?" he wheezed, looking up. Just then, the woodsman burst through the thickets a short distance away.
"Time out!" pleaded Garland as the woodsman raised the axe and advanced towards him. Garland produced an inhaler from his jeans jacket pocket, took a quick puff, then leaped for a low-hanging branch, his spindly arms straining as he struggled to pull himself up.
"I called a time out, b'y! Shag off, now!" he whined, kicking his legs as the woodsman took a swing and missed.
"I warned ya!" shouted the woodsman, swinging again wildly. "Last time ye piss on da side of my house, I tell ya!" he cackled. Somehow Garland managed to pull his legs up, just barely out of the hatchet's reach.
At
that point the woodsman started chopping at the tree,
and I found myself pondering the wisdom of climbing a birch
to evade an assailant armed with an axe. Too right!
Thwack! Thwack! "I'll cut yer treehouse down, ye shaggy baggers!" he cursed.
Time for Plan 'B', backpackers: Sacrifice the Guide. I aimed a swift kick at Garland's hands, wrapped around the branch below my perch.
"Aw b'y!" said Garland. "Give it up b'y!"
Another kick. My Tilley Longwalker Bigheel Kodiaks connected with his fingers again, breaking the skin.
"Aw b'y! Me hands!" he yelped, and let go.
Garland dropped down on top of our attacker, knocking him towards the edge of the embankment. The woodsman teetered on the brink for a moment, flailing his arms and sending his hatchet flying upwards, then fell. He crashed to the bottom of the steep hill like a rag doll, the axe plummeting after him, flashing in the morning sun. There was a sickening wet crunch.
Well mates, if the fall didn't kill him, the axe embedding itself in his groin certainly did.
"Aw b'y," said Garland weakly.
Related Links:
Dirt Cove Home Page
Dirt Cove News:
Shagwater Peninusla to get full-time Mountie
Dirt Cove News:
Lighthouse leans forward to the future