The hostel in Cable beach stretched its lazy fingers into my life for another seven days after the last post. Broome as nice as it is, had interest enough for maybe four whole days at most, for the rest of my time I forced myself into more uncertain ground and went to the beach every day working on my tan and procuring an ear infection from swimming in the sea so much. This overstay happened while I waited for confirmation of an appointment in Melbourne and when it came, slightly irksome in its parochial attitude in terms of this organisation's comprehension regarding those that live outside the state, left just a couple of days to arrange the flights - two of the worst timed and connected plane trips I have ever taken, making even the insomniac arrivals that Ryan air schedule seem reasonable by comparison.

For five glorious hours on the way back (I will leave you conclude if I am being sarcastic or not) I was a guest in the departure lounge of Perth domestic airport waiting for the connection back to Silvio. My time was pleasantly spent, reading, sleeping and people watching, this was not such a wasted chunk of the day, noting that I felt none of the pent up anxiety and frustration readily visible in my fellow passengers; you know the type, these are the people with phones that beep into life on touch down and then instantaneously leap into a flurry of textual twitters hopeful that their magical incantations will expedite the proceedings; Landed now - stood up - got bag - on my way out - going to the carousel - waiting for bags - got bags - coming through the doors - where are you? (a long way if you have any sence)- the ones who are out of their seat and down the plane before the door is open. If I thought for one minute that the luggage handlers, or on International flights, Customs officials as well, were as strongly motivated, I would hurry too, but alas, in all my time in the air this has never been the case. With no home to go to, no reason to rush, the tent site wasn't going anywhere, I found the lounge seats a very relaxing place to spend my... Captivity.

With Broome behind me and only the faintest idea of the next leg in my mind, Silvio and I made for what I hoped to be a short day behind the wheel, opting for a couple of hours up to Derby, described in the Lonely Planet book as the administrative heart of the Kimberly's, maybe, we didn't stay long. Mindful of the tyre situation, but more concerned with driving the same road twice, we copped a left to take in the first section of the famous 4 wheel drive Gibb River road, ending up for the night at the Windjana Gorge national park - which, I was informed at Derby, was about to shut for the wet season, along with about 75% of everything else up here in the top end.

Windjana was the most remote place I camped in my trip and due to its imminent close down, the campsite was completely empty. Time to camp naked under the stars in just my flysheet then, a romantic moment for any traveller - please bear in mind this is not intended for sexiness, it was bloody hot - I am sure by this point in my trip you will guess what happened when the sun went down, blinded as I was by a pair of powerful headlights as the large Toyota ignored all the other space in the very large campsite and once more defied my gasps of indignance by plopping the late night cooking, pot bashing, occupance right next to me. Lacking flatulence to show my disgust this time I found another gesture from the animal kingdom, my baboon white arse faced in their direction, hopefully illuminated under the half moonlight.

The road out of Windjami had no tarmac, that had been left over a 100 kilometres behind, just dirt and rock, now white, the deep reds left a little behind and kept waiting again up ahead. It took a couple of hours to drive the stretch, the tyre shredding at Karijini still playing heavily in my mind and well, Jesus, it was twenty past four when I drove off the campsite with 120 kays to the main highway, so there was no reason to push past 60. Just as well as several cattle meet me with their eyes as I rounded a corner and three stood stock still in the road. In stopping for them, to make up their mind what sort of cow or bull the snout of Silvio represents, I just looked at the surroundings, I last saw this sort of wiry tree, sunblasted rock vista under the Sicilian sun. The cattle about as well fed (as in not) and looked after (as in not) as their Italian cousins too. Though happy, the happiest I had been for some time, there was an imbalance that had come along for the ride too, a longing in a way I have not experienced before, but something not unique, a brief look at any map of the new continents provides the quickest answer, I had started to see this land in shades of my own past travels, I am not the first to feel this pangs, Derby and Exmouth being two familiar English cities.

When back on the tarmac it was a straight belt, an extra ten hours on the two I had already driven, but I didn't mind, it was a perfect day. Though hot, I guess mid to late thirties. There was such a light and embracing breeze that cooled you; like being hugged by a tepid lover, if that can sound romantic. After driving straight through, Fitzroy Crossing, Halls Creek, and the closed for fire damage Bungle Bungles, Silvio and I came across our first excited glance of the next to come, a left turn road sign indicating Alice Springs 1078 Kilometres - across the Tanami desert, no petrol, no towns, some fine shortcut - before continuing along until the end of this road, literally, became Wyndham. The run up past the eastern edge of the Kimberly, even picking up the other end of the Gibb River Road, was spectacular in how the landscape, table top mountains, rolling valleys and trees, encompassed my two lane road as it wound its way along. Unlike Europe where most of the landscape wonders that easily fall to mind are vertical, the Alps, the Pyrenees, the Kimberly's are not tall, but vast and wide, holding the mystery of the unknown in the valleys and rock faces you know that you cannot see and probably unless on foot could not get to. The flat tops to the mountains and the sloping sides of thousands of years of shale and erosion makes the area look like a hundred mammoth Christmas presents have been hidden under a blanket and then forgotten about. This was a long drive and when I remember this road I distinctly remember my mood, calm, happy and not the least bit tired considering the length of time I had spent in the car that day, and also.... content, as if I had finally been given permission to stay on the country, by either Tash, or what ever spirits guard the land. One of the final valleys before Wyndham smelt ominously of wood smoke as we drove up to it and so yes I have now driven through a bush fire as well. I tried to stop and take photos, but a good shot was not the highest priority at that exact moment, the roadside as it was dancing in intense red and yellow flame. The valley as we drove out of it was hung low with smoke and in the late light of the day it almost could have been the early morning mist in a Cornish valley. Not all things were perfect that day however, Wyndham when I eventually arrived, just after sunset was to be honest, a little disappointing, the campsite was shit box, the night humid and sweaty, the wind fierce and the sand gritty, small and indifferent to my flysheet. Quickly forming small sand dunes in the tent before I managed to get the rain cover over it.

Wyndham in the morning, the very early morning was deserted, but for a very angry Indigenous man I drove past who was keen to get a ride in my car, the town is split in half, the port, two Kilometres away from the inland town, the two banana'd around the impressive Bastion lookout, named I easily concluded for it's height and panoramic view. I could not guess how far I could see, the view out over the estuary, the clearly visible flood plans, which I guessed at five kilometres wide at one point, westerly into the mouth of the Cambridge Gulf and the Mulligan Ranges, up to the Timor Sea and east to the Ord River Ranges, you could see for miles. Several years ago Tash and I with some friends climbed Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh, this was similar but in Panavision. Actually the similarity to where I stood and Scotland was a little unnerving, the mottled camouflage of the dark cloud shadows and grey mud flood planes stretching out into the distance looked, but for a slight shift in colour like the fields on the other side of the Firth of Forth.

From here there were two days in Kununurra, where I just rested and read a book, balance in travelling means that days like these are a necessity and though I recognise it I am not so good at actually paying attention to the fact. Kununurra was the last major town I spent time in Western Australia, after three months I left the state behind at around twenty past ten in the morning (I had been driving since six!) and continued the long push through to Katherine in the Northern Territories. The towns on this route, all two of them in 500 kilometres, in fact one was only a roadhouse, were all heavily populated by Indigenous population and a curious thing happened; it scared me, I didn't stop, kept going until we reached Katherine in late afternoon. NT has a bit if a frontier feel about it, the police here and in Darwin have a heavy visible presence, the Indigenous tribes, three of them - and they are not all simply Abbo's or "Black Fellah, as intimidated as I was, you could still see that there are differences between them and though there were many who presented themselves in the way that cause white Australians to criticise them, there were significant numbers who held themselves with pride and the confidence from understanding one's relationship to the world, which were two feelings that were very far away from me at that precise moment in time - and also the army, the whole area a major training ground, because any deployment is likely to be towards Asia, rather than below to deal with the pesky New Zealanders. As was to happen a couple of times in the next two weeks I spotted not a facsimile, not a brief ghost of a past place, but an exact replica, in Katherine the army houses had a very familiar feel to them, illustrating that cheap housing of the sort I grew up in, had also found favour out here too, as had even cheaper red brick pub decor as I noted a while later in Alice Springs.

Darwin is simply 300 kilometres higher up than Katherine, not much in this country, but this distance pushes the place early enough into the hot temperate wet zone, I hated it. Even though things were cool, relative, I had been hotter, no more than four days previous to be honest, the mid after noon thunderstorm brought little relief and immediately after the humidity exploded. One of the reasons why I am no fan of Sydney is because my Achilles heal in these things is humidity; up there it was not good. Maybe only an hours worth, but still fainting is not a pastime I care to familiarise myself with. By this time of year the only people on the campsites are migrant workers and a few long stayers, it is not a good look and my campsite (I curse the Lonely Planet for their Best Picks) was right by the airport, it had very few redeeming qualities and I was very quickly showing Darwin my rear number plate.

The Kakadu national park, as famous as it is, was at least open in the face of so many more campsites and touristic opportunities I discovered along the way that weren't. However it seemed to me that perhaps both the Indigenous and animal population had all gone on holiday. It was pretty empty, myself, a pack of French tourists and some cave paintings. In the middle of the park is the most north western town I was to visit, Jabiru, like nearly all the towns up here, a place built to service a local mine, itself a tricky political proposition as all the land up has traditional owners. My notebook with its usually wild and scrawny writing has a wonderful and only just decipherable spiritual and aboriginal paragraph written here and inspired I remember by a conversation I had at the Park Information centre. Travelling provides many lessons, one of which is that your appreciation of the world can easily shrink to fit your geographical surroundings. I was being my normal chatty self (that is after three days of no conversation, I was dam well going to have one) with the lady behind the counter, by this point, so early in the wet season I had started to enquire about what was open and shut in the area. She commented "it is hot today" and I replied "no I don't think so" - because from where I had just been, the 39 degrees that she then claimed the day would be, wasn't that hot. Jabiru and the Kakadu at this time of year still escaping the humidity of Darwin or breathless heat I encountered on the way over from the West coast. She disagreed, "ohh no it is hot" and I gave in, but suggested that it would rain later anyway. It wasn't the first time I had heard the phrase "no we don't get the rains until after Christmas" either and I nearly went back the next day to say "I told you so" after a two-hour deluge found the town later on that afternoon. Wherever I went up there I brought the rain with me. My notebook scrawlings attempt to tie this together with the permission to stay on the country that I felt around Wyndham, it felt like Tash, all harshness and bluster brought with the appalling weather for the earlier two months, for no reason other than show, before finally giving in and this was the present I now brought. I consider that the Aboriginal cave paintings, that defy any "savages" tag by their complexity had had an effect on my Psyche, the dreamtime spirituality is a pretty simple concept to grasp if you are willing to pay attention to your ebb and flow. Mind you even I was having trouble contemplating that my Cosmopolitan late wife had become an earth guardian, a shoe guardian perhaps, a defender of the designer boutique perhaps, but well, this is probably why it stayed in the notebook.

Last Tuesday found me leaving the Kakadu National park, East of Darwin and headed down to a place called Tennant creek where there is a left hand turn to Queensland. I stopped in the town, well four shacks and a Police station, to see if I had signal on the phone and surprisingly there was, a rare thing in the last month. The night before as I cowered in my tent somewhat perturbed both by the thunder storm that had raged all afternoon and washed out the campsite, leaving me perched right outside the amenities block and the cacophony of sound being produced by the wildlife (all intent on attacking me, as the thought process goes) I distracted myself from the imagined animal Armageddon with some thoughts of work and so called my sister-in-law, Amelia to talk to her about a website idea she had mentioned. At the end of the call she told me that I had received a letter and went home to open it for me. Had I not spoken to her I would have been in the depths of Queensland before finding out that I had to return back to Melbourne urgently.

I spent the next seven days driving through three states and three time zones. My Aussie compatriots have an odd way of driving along these straight deserted highways, they barrel along twenty kays over the speed limit until they come up to another car, usually me as I don't tend to drive fast. With Silvio being a 4 litre with a roof box, anything over 110kph and he gets a bit raucous with the petrol consumption, which at $1.70 at the pumps in some of the outlying areas is not funny. They come up behind you and just sit there, expectantly, I have yet to work out what they think my reaction will be as there really is no where to go other than straight ahead, but eventually, eventually!! after ignoring many more convenient opportunities - hedging far too close to the rear quarters of my car and moving our first left to see what is ahead, roadtrains being the feared predator and then always back far right, for god knows what reason, maybe the hope of a inner overtaking lane or the search for Elvis - before gingerly overtaking me. Several months a go I watched in horror as the car in front overtook the car in front again - I suspect as many of us do, he had his cruise control on - The car overtook was hovering around 106kph and the dude overtaking maxed the speed limit of 110, he was on the wrong side of the road forever. They have no concept of "the danger zone" when overtaking.

Well I say that, they do now. I have streaked three quarters the length of this country, about 2.5K kilometres in true European style, hang the roadtrians, drop down to third (Silvio only has 4 gears and leaf springs on the rear, they are not so progressive out here) and waste some petrol as the speedo found the numbers upwards to 160. Oddly that is only the ton in mph, but with the size of the car and the width of the road trains, both of us on these small bumpy two lanes, tramlined from constant lorry traffic and with me facing the wrong direction, it felt much more exciting, even before I have to block out the image how a stray cow or Kangaroo would complicate things in a twisted metal catastrophe kind of way.

Along the way, the devils marbles, Alice Springs (the worst campsite I have yet stayed on), Uluru and Coober Pedy. I was continually impressed with the views out the window, expecting as I was "the big nothing" of the red centre, but instead got a continually changing Zoetrope of green trees and shrubs against a red and blue backdrop, the trees and shrubs continually changing height like a Lego stop motion film, this was mesmerizing and as I dragged my attention back to the road for the third or fourth time, very similar to watching the flying trees, rhythmic shapes of telephone poles and the syncopated beat of one field passing in to another from a train. Except I could sleep on a train, I was getting fatigued. After avoiding so many tourist tick boxes on this trip, now reaching the 30,000 kilometres and five-month mark, there was one that had to be seen, Uluru is as majestic and has as much charisma as any large rock could want. It reminded me of a giant multithreaded decaying Elephant, not such a macabre description perhaps, the smoothed surface of the rock faces look like tough hide, or canvas complete with pleats, draped over elephantine rock face skulls facing outwards from the mount and in places rips and tears exposing the more jagged scars underneath. It is truly a magnificent beast and until 1950, the guidebook informed, hardly ever visited. Shamefully of course we now do and though the climb was closed when I was there, I felt it would have been pointless, sympathising with the local owners, the Anangu, after many months of trying to find solitude on the various campsites, I understood how difficult it must be for them to find the sanctity in a moment when we tourists are continually clumping round - like trying to meditate in a shopping mail.

From Uluru, back through Port Lincoln, which in the sun was just as scary as in the rain, skirting Adelaide and then to my appointment. After this Christmas, which I am spending with Natalie and Jeremy. See you in the New Year.