Here we go again!

We are happily tooling along the roads of the South Coast of NSW, heading in a roundabout way for the Spirit of Tasmania ferry in Melbourne on Dec 6.

Even our first day out of the Central Coast was not just a matter of driving to Kiama, where we were booked into a beachside caravan park.

No, once we got through the Sydney area, we veered east to the Royal National Park, emerging onto that glorious coast north of Wollongong. Avoiding that metropolis, we then headed west along a forest road which brought us to Robertson, then we deviated back towards the coast, eventually reaching Kiama from the south.



A Kiama dairy cow, albeit made of fibreglass, wearing one
 of the quilts in a display we saw in that town.



On the way we took in lots of wonderful country, with even more waiting for us around Kiama. That’s where my maternal great-great-grandfather came to from Northern Ireland in the 1850s, becoming one of the founders of the Kiama Agricultural Society (with one of his descendants serving on the committee ever since), as well as helping establish the little white Anglican church near the blowhole.

We walked and walked around Kiama, loving the fact that one of the finest pieces of real estate on a headland just south of the blowhole and lighthouse is still occupied by the lovely little showground. G-G-grandfather George Grey would be pleased!

After 2 nights there we headed further south through Nowra for John to have his own little sentimental journey to Currarong, where his maternal grandmother had lived and where he spent many holidays as a child. It’s a lovely little spot, out on a peninsula that’s mostly a bombing range for the Navy, and while the little creek feeding into the ocean is now lined with holiday homes, they were mostly empty mid-week.

And so we came to Boorabee National Park, fronting the southern part of Jervis Bay. We are in a camping area known as Green Patch, which must be the only one in Australia  . . . possibly the world . . . with a grave right in front of an amenities block.



Harriet Parker's grave amid the bushland camp area.



It’s the grave of Harriet Parker, who died aged 19 in 1887 when accidentally shot by a girlfriend while they were larking about in a neighbour’s hut. Harriet was the daughter of a lighthouse keeper nearby. The girls had gone to fetch horses but called into the hut to make a cup of tea. One put on a big hat she found there (covering her face), picked up the rifle lying nearby, and when Harriet came in the door carrying wood for the fire, bumped into her, discharging the firearm.

The crimson rosellas have become a nuisance here, apparently hurling other birds and small mammals out of nesting holes in the trees, and they are certainly unafraid of humans, landing on our picnic table as we barbecued chicken last night. Even a pair of wood ducks potter around almost under our feet; some king parrots swooped in just before some rain started; and there are signs of bandicoots at night. It’s a lovely bushland setting with very few people here mid-week. Next stop, in another national park, Pebbly Beach, north of Batemans Bay.