‘Erm…What was I thinking?’ is my funny, naughty and very gay midlife (crisis ongoing) memoir. It’s about traveling, dating, relationships, getting older and...I’m forgetting something...

oh...

Sex!

I started it nearly twelve months ago when I packed up all my belongings and jetted off down under and wanted to share my misadventures. And now here I am sharing a whole lot more.

Where should you start? Wherever you like. The entire archive is now currently free to read.

So depending what sort of mood you’re in…

If you like travel:

If you’re feeling nostalgic:

If you’re here for the naughty stuff:

If you’re in the mood for something more heartfelt:

If you want to go right back to the beginning:

Whilst you catch up, there’s plenty more for me to share so I best get busy.

Love, Burty x

It was the first time I’d been kissed.

I mean in a passionate way. I didn’t have an emotionally stunted childhood devoid of any love or affection despite how I might come across.

It was gentle at first. His soft lips pressed against mine. My lips parted slightly.

I’d wanted this for so long. I was fifteen.

As an awkward gangly closeted teenager I’d tiptoed through the adolescent obstacle course of having ‘girlfriends’. Each time I’d narrowly avoided having to seal the deal with a kiss whilst harbouring secret crushes on my best boy friends.

But now it was finally happening.

I tingled. Everywhere. Every nerve ending firing all at once.

The taste of his mouth on mine.

Soon it gave way to eagerness. His tongue parting my lips further.

We shouldn’t be doing this. Not here. Not now. What if someone caught us?

His hand at the back of my head pulling me in deeper.

I was losing myself in the moment.

His hand reached down to my crotch, encouraged by the bulge he was greeted with.

I surrendered to his grip. Throbbing. Eager to be released.

I hadn’t been expecting this. I didn’t have enough time to give myself completely. But how could I stop this now?

I wanted so much more…

Now who remembers their first kiss?

Well, good for you!

You probably don’t have a body count which is equivalent to the population of a small city.

OK. A large city.

Fine. A county!

Throw in the passing of a decade or two.

Fuck! Ok. Three….some of you really need to just let me tell the story with out worrying too much about the ‘accuracy’ of it all.

Anyway, that said I’ve a teeny tiny confession to make.

Remember the saying ‘You wait ages for a bus and then two come along at once’?

Well, I’d been waiting so long for my first proper kiss and then two encounters came along around about the same time.

Lucky me.

But, with that timey whimey overlap it does mean that I can’t remember with one hundred percentage certainty whether my first kiss was with my best friend at the time, like my very own episode of Heartstopper.

Or.

In a town centre loo with a random stranger who technically, because of my age, could have faced all sorts of legal consequences, not just because of the cottaging.

Awks.

***

Let me explain.

My best friend and I used to play a game.

It started innocently enough.

We’d have sleepovers.

Writing out dares on scraps of paper, jumbling them all up and taking it in turns to pull one out.

Over time I think we both got more curious how far we could take the dares.

We were probably quite an unlikely friendship to begin with.

He, overloaded with teenage hormones and having quite the reputation, was always showing off the latest girl at school who’d succumbed to his chaotic charms.

Meanwhile I’d do my best to fend off any attention from girls, choosing to spend lots of time on my own, yearning for my secret crush and rubbing myself raw with jealousy fuelled rage wanks.

So whenever I got the chance to be alone with him in his bedroom, I think it all went to my head. Not like that! Well a little bit like that.

‘Flash the other player.’

The first time the dare was read aloud it wasn’t met with protest, it had us giggling and without much encouragement him streaking across his bedroom.

My eyes wide at the sight of him in all his glory.

Our teenage experimental phase was a slow burn.

We’d certainly never speak about it beyond the four walls of his or my bedroom. It was our secret.

Throw in the complication that he shared his bedroom with his younger brother which added a layer of risk. A wide eyed brat who’d have turned on his heels and likely have outed our shenanigans before he’d even made it half way down the stairs. The possibility of getting caught likely gave us a thrill.

Months would stretch into years and the dares became more physical.

More frequently towards the end it would be preempted by raiding our parents alcohol cabinets for courage and so he’d have an excuse to pass off any of our rude antics.

‘Touch the other players cock.’

I think both of us would protest-eth a little too much. Feigning resistance whilst holding out a hand, barely making eye contact, as extended fingers brushed the others growing stiffy and recoiled with a girlish squeal.

One thing led to another.

‘Give the other player a BJ.’

His mouth would open so wide, his jaw practically dislocating so that my twitching cock would barely touch the sides as it was awkwardly thrust into the opening. Meanwhile, with my oral skills yet to be refined, I’d go at him with the suction of a vacuum cleaner, just a bit sloppier.

‘Bum the other player.’

An act so ridiculous in recollection as it amounted to little more than dry humping one another. Rubbing our cocks between the others ass cheeks. But at the time it left me gleefully questioning ‘Did I just lose my virginity?’

‘Kiss the other player.’

Weirdly, despite pleasuring each other to the brink of expelling ropes, a kiss was almost a step too far. Perhaps it was too intimate. Perhaps it would give away far too much.

A quick peck on the lips would be as far as we’d ever dare.

Until…

I visited him one Saturday when his parents were out and we spent the afternoon watching movies.

Thinking back I’m surprised we were actually allowed to spend as much time together as we did. He had a knack of getting himself into trouble. Besotted as I was, I foolishly but willingly would go along with it.

There was the time we rang up a two hundred pound phone bill calling an x-rated line at his parents expense.

On another occasion, he left my house quite drunk after we’d got our hands on a bottle of whiskey. He was escorted home by the police after being hauled out of a bush along the main road.

Fun times.

Anyway on this occasion I had to get home by a particular time and we were stood in the cramped entrance hallway of his house.

We’d already said our goodbyes but yet he’d followed me into the entrance.

The door to the main hallway closed behind him.

Our bodies were pressed close to each other.

I reached for the Yale lock and jokingly murmured ‘Awwww, have you come to kiss me goodbye?’

Our eyes locked. We stood there for a moment in silence. My hand frozen on the door.

I remember thinking ‘What’s going on?’ Something felt different.

Then it happened.

He leaned forward. I instinctively did the same.

I felt his lips on mine.

***

Could this mean more? It didn’t.

Could he want more? He didn’t.

Would it ever happen again? It never did.

At the time I of course romanticised it. He was my first love.

But with the wisdom of a little…ahem…time having passed, I can’t help but think we were just really horny little fuckers who may or may not have spent years grooming one another.

We reconnected fleetingly a dozen or so years later through facebook. Reminiscing and catching up with what was happening in each others lives.

Then faded back into obscurity again.

***

But let us not forget about first kiss 2.0.

It was during the summer and the annual flower festival was in full bloom in my hometown.

I’d been browsing shops, keeping a close eye on the time as I had to meet my mum.

On the way to our rendezvous point, I needed to go to the toilet and I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it for the car ride home.

Like a gender swapped, and gayer, Gwyneth Paltrow in Sliding Doors, I made a choice. I went to the nearby public toilets.

Spoilers, don’t worry I didn’t die! Oh, come on. It’s been nearly thirty years. If you haven’t seen the movie already, were you ever intending too?

Anyway, back to me.

Sorry Gwyneth, your candles that smell like your vagina are not wanted here. Goop? More like GAG! Talking of which…this is all about the aphrodisiacal scents of stale piss, urinal cakes and cleaning chemicals.

So, I descended the steps which disappeared below street level.

As I entered the toilets, the urinal was to my left and two stalls with their doors shut were at the far end of the room.

A man stood with his back to me at the urinal.

I’ve got to admit I prefer a cubicle as I get a little pee shy. But, as they both appeared occupied and as I planned my visit to be a quick in and out job…stop it…I approached the urinal and unzipped my shorts.

Just to make it clear as a fifteen year old teenager at the time I was completely innocent and naive to the things that could go on in a toilet.

But in my periphery vision I clocked the fact the mans head turned in my direction as I relieved myself.

I glanced back.

We caught each others gaze and I looked away quickly.

I’d say he was in his twenties. Attractive with sandy hair and glasses.

I could tell he was looking at me again. Wait. What was going on?

I finished and tucked myself away, pulling up the zip and taking a step back from the urinal.

I caught his gaze again and this time he held it.

I froze to the spot.

He turned his body towards me enough that I could see his cock was definitely not limp. He certainly had no reason to be shy.

A flick of the fingers on his free hand encouraged me to step closer.

I shouldn’t. I really had to be going. But nothing like this had ever happened to me before.

I inched closer.

His whole body turned to face me. His cock right there within reach. Mine to have if I wanted it.

He leaned in.

I felt his lips on mine.

***

Needless to say I was cock blocked by time.

I rushed away late to meet my mum, arriving flushed and a little red in the face. Double checking and triple checking that everything was in order, my clothes weren’t askew, as if she’ be able to tell just looking at me. I’m usually so punctual.

And so what might possibly have been my first kiss was also the first time I accidentally went cottaging.

In a town where the gay scene was non-existent, and knowing no other queer folk, what was a horny teenager supposed to do after that?

Regularly play truant from school to go sit in public toilets? Oh, yes exactly that!

***

Unlike the well known Hollywood actress Drew Barrymore who pretended to be a newspaper reporter, pretending to be a high school student, I’ve not had the misfortune of never being kissed.

Although I possibly had similarly problematic entanglements with men. At least they weren’t my teacher though.

I did have a teacher whose actual name was Mr Hardman. Phwoar! Sorry where was I?

Whichever of these kisses was my first, I’ve been lucky enough to share plenty of first kisses since.

Whether they were random encounters or with men who’d become important parts of my story.

Afterall, if there’s one thing I could tell my fifteen year old self, it’s this:

Practice makes perfect.

My naked skin slick with sweat. My own mixed with that of the bearded daddy who had spent the past forty-five minutes using me every which way to put a big smile on his face and in turn my own.

The small 4x8ft room was dimly lit with a red glow. The stale scent of sweat and other juices barely masked by chemicals.

Over the noise of our heavy panting was the loud ecstatic moans escaping from a TV playing porn in a nearby cinema room. Occasional bursts of chatter from other men stalking the corridors.

I’d been at the sauna much of the afternoon and the company of this older gentleman was the final act of an exhilarating visit which left me sticky, spent and thinking to myself ‘It doesn’t get better than this!’

Wow. Before you think I’ve set myself an incredibly low bar in life, I mean a visit to a sauna doesn’t get much better.

That was four months ago and I hadn’t dared go back and push my luck. Because when you have an experience that good, it rarely follows that the next visit will live up to it. But crikey, when you enjoy something that much, doesn’t it only make you want it even more?

I’d only gone as a bit of a fuck you to my ex.

He’d dumped me a few weeks earlier.

A couple of days before Valentines day.

By text.

It’s ok now. I’ve since been very gracious and forgiven him. Besties forever.

***

I’ve actually always enjoyed cruising.

And no, I don’t mean sitting and scrolling through the apps in the hope of hitting it off with someone within range before either an ad pops up, they block you, or you’ve been waiting so long and edging you accidentally shoot your load prematurely before any man on man action can occur.

I mean good old fashioned cruising.

Whether it’s ambling through a secluded wooded area and catching a glimpse of someone who may or may not actually be out just enjoying the fresh air and scenery. Waiting for them to glance your way. Playing the familiar game of will they or won’t they?

They do and they give you an approving look up and down. Followed by the faintest smirk.

It’s on.

And it’s free. No subscription fee. No pesky ads.

Or perhaps a little holiday flirtation on a secluded beach. Sun, sea and sand in your crack… amongst other things. What a treat!

Now I don’t want you thinking I spend a lot of my free time communing with nature. It’s actually been quite a long time since I’ve been for a nature hike in the U.K.

And in fact as a frequent visitor to Sitges it’s probably absurd that it took over ten years before I visited the more secluded of the gay beaches where rumour had it naughty shenanigans went on.

It’s quite the trek from the centre of Sitges to the gay beach in question and having always gone on holiday with a plus one I was more than happy to stay closer to town.

But on my last trip I was flying solo so it was now or never. Well… maybe not never… but why wait any longer?

It was also the first trip to Sitges where I’d visit the sauna. I was clearly making the most of the good holiday vibes.

To avoid the punishing heat of the midday sun I set off to the beach after breakfast.

The walk takes over an hour. It starts leisurely along the seafront before veering off. Navigating rocky inclines with prickly thickets. At one point, it even runs alongside the railway line — less perilous than I’d imagined, though not exactly relaxing.

Eventually a path descends towards a small beach clearly sign posted so there’s no mistaking you’ve reached a little gay haven.

There’s even a beach hut nestled on the cliff side half way down for refreshments and snacks and a spectacular view over the ocean.

Arriving mid-morning meant I’d beaten the crowds and still had my pick of prime spots. I claimed a patch of sand tucked into the cliff’s shade, spread out my beach towel and settled into the serious business of holiday selfies and splashing around in the water.

I’d watch as other men trickled in for their own day of beach leisure.

They’d promenade along the waters edge in their tight swimming briefs or proudly show off the kind of all-over tan I’ve never quite managed to achieve.

I’d look on enviously as I seem to only have three shades of colour.

White. So white I could be seen by astronauts aboard the international space station.
Red and white. My legs, arms and neck sporting a deeply unflattering farmers tan.
Or just scorched. Eventually succumbing to prickly heat and having to resist the urge to scratch myself red raw.

I distracted myself from my tan envy staring at bulges pressed against little pieces of fabric barely restraining what was tucked beneath. Licking my lips at the sight of swinging ball sacks slapping against oiled up thighs.

They’d amble towards what I thought was the end of the beach, expecting them to turn on their heels and return the way they’d come. But inexplicably they’d disappear.

Like an intrigued meerkat my head popped up tracking them as they vanished.

That’s how I discovered the hidden grottos tucked amongst the rocks and a path that led through a cave to an even more secluded cove.

And that’s how I found myself on my hands and knees being spit roasted thinking ‘why haven’t I been to this beach before?!’

A short dark haired stranger had encouraged me to enjoy his stubby thick cock which was ready for a willing mouth to taste it.

So I obliged.

kneeling before him I took him between my lips, tasting the saltiness of his skin mixed with sun tan lotion. As I gorged on him, I felt fingers curl around the waistband of my trunks and ease them down. I felt finger tips tickle my ass hole and I paused to glance over my shoulder.

A taller grey haired man was spitting into his hand ready to work it in. He was naked and his long thin cock was twitching eager to be inside a tight warm space.

I returned my attention to the cock I’d greedily been enjoying and braced myself for the second to slide inside me.

I enjoyed satisfying each in turn. Feeling their excitement growing and throbbing.

And when we finished I happily returned to bobbing about in the water until I got the urge to explore some more.

If you’re wondering if the next time I visit Sitges, whether I’m with someone or not, will I visit this beach again? What do you think?

***

But cruising doesn’t always go to plan.

On my first visit to Gran Canaria the notorious reputation for the dunes had piqued my interest.

I was in my twenties and I’d never been on holiday by myself let alone to a mecca full of gay men making the pilgrimage for winter sun.

At night the Yumbo centre was the place to be. A giddy kaleidoscope of noise, lights, restaurants and gay bars.

During the day you could trek deep into the sun scorched vastness of the dunes. You could sunbathe, relax and if you were lucky you’d be able enjoy the attention of other holidaymakers who were there to unwind and unload too.

It’s exhausting finding the right spot though.

Baking beneath the midday sun, trying to gracefully ascend the rolling mounds of sand in flip flops whilst avoiding the dry prickly flora. As you reach the crest of a dune beyond there is more sand as far as the eye can see with glimpses of the ocean between. Thickets of dense brush break up the alien landscape and you’d catch sight of a lone figure in the distance busying themselves as if they were looking for something.

After what felt like hours I finally found an area which appeared to have more foot traffic and I caught the attention of a handsome guy.

He was perhaps a few years older than I was. Lean and tanned with shoulder length black hair that tumbled across his eyes. He ran a hand through it pushing it away from his face.

He fell into step behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and he smiled back at me.

I eagerly looked for a private spot so that I could enjoy him, finding a den tucked away in the foliage at the end of a well trodden path.

I turned to face him and he was already moving his hands down to his shorts.

I wanted to drop to my knees and pleasure this man. I imagined his cock would be as beautiful as him. Tanned with dark hair surrounding the base. Tight full balls ready to reward me. I’d enjoy swallowing every inch as he pumped it down my throat.

But there was no flash of cock as he pulled his hands away. Instead the light caught the blade of a knife that he’d retrieved from his pocket.

I can’t guarantee that my first thought wasn’t ‘Sooooo, I’m not going to get to suck him?!’

Hastily replaced by rising panic.

He was going to rob me. Fuck! Or worse. FUCK!

He mumbled something in a foreign language which I couldn’t decipher and gestured the knife in my direction. The threat was clear enough.

I backed away from him as far as I could, but I’d managed to corner myself. Surrounded on all sides by branches and razor sharp barbs. The cozy den had certainly lost its appeal.

There was nowhere to go accept past him but I didn’t like my chances as he blocked my path.

In the panic I must have yelled because another man suddenly materialised.

My assailants retreat was immediate. He slipped the knife away and pushed past the gentleman who’d unwittingly put himself in harm’s way.

Perhaps the heinous lothario wasn’t a fan of being watched or had suddenly felt outnumbered.

But I was safe.

I nodded thanks to my rescuer as I too hastily fled. He called after me but I wanted to be anywhere but there.

I was scared and ashamed. I chastised myself all the way back to my hotel for getting myself into such a predicament.

You might think after such a close call I learnt a valuable lesson and avoided the dunes for the remainder of my visit. Do you know me at all?

***

And from nearly being a holiday crime statistic to running afoul of the law. In the more public of places there’s always the chance your antics might not be welcomed.

It wasn’t some secluded remote beauty spot. It was Bloomsbury Square in London.

In the early 2000s it was notoriously a late night cruise spot and I’d visit regularly after work at the Strand theatre on my way to catch the bus home.

At the time there were lots of bushes to disappear into and behind for a quick encounter with a stranger.

It just so happens one stranger that I approached was an undercover police office.

As he pulled out his handcuffs- a bit prematurely it would turn out - ready to make an arrest, I think I actually squealed.

I realised immediately that this wasn’t the start of a kinky outdoor role play scenario.

I stumbled over my words, scrambling for a believable excuse and the best I could come out with was blurting ‘I needed a wee!’

As it turned out that was enough.

He tutted and tucked his handcuffs back out of sight.

He informed me with a very stern look that the square was not a public lavatory and that I should perhaps go find a better place to relieve myself.

I scarpered.

And I never went back.

***

These days, cruising in a sauna poses far less risk of either getting robbed, stabbed or ending up with a police record and there’s far greater odds of success.

Usually, there’s at least some degree of certainty that you’ll leave having been felt up. Even if it’s accidentally as someone brushes past you and your towel slips from around your waist.

I have to admit, there’s something thrilling about it.

The hunt.

The casual stroll through dimly lit play spaces, deliberately diverting your gaze so as not to linger too long on anyone who’s stirred your interest. All while quietly hoping they’ve noticed you too.

Crouching to peer through a glory hole and getting an eyeful of penises in a variety of delicious shapes and sizes.

Peeking around a partially closed cubicle door to find an ass posed ready and waiting to be mounted. Not by me, of course. I think my preferences are fairly obvious by now. But, keep wiggling those bums and lure those tops in like the Pied Piper.

If you’re really lucky you’ll narrowly avoid fracturing your eye socket as you come perilously close to being impaled on on a well endowed gentlemen after clumsily slipping on a ‘spillage’ and falling head first into his lap in the steam room.

Fun times!

It’s exciting to visit a new city or country and in between all the touristy escapades put time aside to frequent a sauna you’ve not been too before. It’s a very enjoyable way to…ahem…meet the locals.

***

But let’s not linger to long with me on my knees, mouth wide and watering waiting to be filled through a hole in the wall. Let us not forget the late night enjoyment of a slightly sozzled stumble around a clubs dark room.

Like a first kiss I remember my first dark room.

Well, actually, I’m much clearer on my first dark room experience than my first kiss. There’s actually two possibilities for that rite of passage. Let’s save that tale for another time, shall we.

Funnily enough I encountered my first dark room around Valentines day too. Over twenty years ago.

This time it was the start of a relationship.

My new boyfriend at the time splurged on an impromptu romantic weekend getaway to Barcelona.

He was in his thirties and a successful IT training manager and I was in my twenties and his new project.

He’d booked a room at the World Trade Centre overlooking the port. He was clearly showing off and I was more than happy to let him.

In the evening we had gone for a late dinner and under his stewardship we then went off to find a gay club. After a few more drinks, and a little exhausted from travelling, we decided to call it a night.

But on our way to the exit, he veered off course, my hand in his, he lead me through a door I knew we hadn’t come through when we’d arrived.

“The exits this way,” he gleefully chimed as we were plunged into darkness.

“I can’t see where I’m going,” I called after him innocently. I was sure I could hear soft low murmurings.

“Just grab on to the wall.”

So I reached out. He of course knew exactly what I’d discover following his instruction.

Instead of a hard flat surface my hand touched soft flesh. Naked. Riving. I recoiled as my eyes adjusted and realisation of course dawned.

We didn’t dawdle too long and we were guided to the exit, by way of thick fleshy hand holds which thrust and grunted at us as we passed, my boyfriend not at all shy about grabbing hold of them.

During our three years together I’d learn a lot from him.

Like Obi-Wan teaching Luke Skywalker — if Luke had been learning how to deep throat Yoda’s stick.

Among the lessons: why you should never fall for the old “You’d do it if you loved me” line and also why “a romantic stroll” along a beach in Greece is possibly not going to be as romantic as you expect.

Before you know it your ass is being offered up amongst the rocks in Mykonos by said boyfriend to be fucked raw by a local.

Of course times have changed.

These days I’d have been a walking talking gay Kama Sutra letting the local pick from a variety of positions to suit him and making sure my boyfriend had his phone ready to capture the moment.

***

Whether it’s outdoors or indoors. On an app in the privacy of your own home or in a safe queer space created by a venue. Maybe the thrill of cruising isn’t just about sex. Well mostly it’s about sex.

But perhaps it’s the curiosity too. What might happen? Who might you meet?

If you go down to the woods today are you in for a big surprise?!

If you go to the sauna how many cocks is too many?

No seriously, I’m asking. All of this talk about cruising has got me all hot and bothered and I think a visit to the sauna is long overdue.

There’s a time and place to replay an argument with your mother. I’m not sure the scarcely lit basement of a gay bar, with the scent of man musk and the aroma of amyl nitrite tickling your nostrils, whilst being bent over, denim shorts around your ankles, cheeks being spread apart by the thickness throbbing between a strangers legs, with only spit easing the way, is the time nor the place.

But, these things happen.

And being 6’7ft isn’t exactly helpful in these situations, so distraction wasn’t an option. You need to pay careful attention and make it as straightforward as possible for the shorter tops, to avoid the slippery little suckers escaping. So cue me, knees bent, squatting and clenching as tightly as my unfit dad bod would allow.

All in all not an ideal time for reflecting on mother-son relationships.

As my burly companions grunts were echoed around the chamber, a chorus of moans rose from the surrounding gaggle of gays, all eagerly enjoying one another’s willing mouths. Kissing. Slobbering over excited lengths of mouth watering juicy meat. Erect attention seekers homing in on glorious hot sweaty moist holes ready to give them a jolly good seeing too.

I didn’t want to be thinking of the last time I spoke to my mum as I marched out of her house, dragging my suitcase with me, ready to co-sign an agreement never to speak to each other again.

What I wanted to be thinking of was how my insides were going to be flooded as I pushed backwards, taking each thrust deeper with a delightful squeal and feeling heavy balls slap my hole.

What I wanted to be thinking about was who was going to take their turn next from the smorgasbord of cock in the dark room.

Sigh.

I’d been back in the U.K. a couple of months and felt like I was getting back into the swing of city living after my sabbatical to the other side of the world.

I returned to my career in recruitment. I’d found a compact one-bedroom apartment in the city centre: an easy commute to work and literally a stone’s throw from the gay bars, which always helped keep the nearby grids on the apps a lively mix of new faces to be ignored by.

Since my abrupt departure, I’d had no further contact with my mother.

But the argument replayed in my head.

“Why are you so angry at the world?” The words had seethed through clenched teeth.

In the moment the words left her mouth, I realised there was no sense in carrying on the argument.

There was no accountability, because she couldn’t — or wouldn’t — see that it wasn’t the world I was angry at; it was her. I was angry because of her behaviour. I realised then that I was always going to be fighting a losing battle.

So I turned on my heels, grabbed my luggage, and eloquently told her to “fuck off.” I wasn’t proud. She berated me some more, and I told her to “FUCK OFF!” again, really driving home the sentiment with a big fat exclamation mark. Maybe I was a little proud that time. Then I strode out of her house, head held high and didn’t look back.

It sounds more graceful than it probably was. Lugging a suitcase and rucksack behind me, I’m surprised I didn’t nearly take her out while swinging the rucksack over my shoulder. She’s a small, barrel-shaped woman with a bob haircut. Whilst I don’t condone violence, an accidental screen door to the face as I steamrolled through might have been immensely satisfying.

It might seem oddly jarring that, after so much of my travels discussing the grief of losing my dad, I can now be so flippant about having an estranged relationship with my mother. But each relationship came with its own challenges, and unfortunately, at times, my mother’s behaviour negatively impacted my relationship with my dad. So there are forty-plus years’ worth of angst and trauma that I should probably see a professional to unpack.

Instead, I’ve chosen to vent it all to you lot. And if you’re finding mild amusement in my family-manufactured PTSD? You. Are. Welcome.

“Why are you so angry at the world?”

If it had been a genuine question, how very short-sighted. How incredibly blasé. Is she so far removed from the realities of the world we currently live in that she doesn’t consider how her gay son is affected by the constant noise in the news and in politics, branding queer people as less than?

Despite the barrage of hate that is constantly spewed our way, I actually try to be a happy, fun person. Some days, I’ll admit, it takes a lot more effort than others.

But I try my best.

In the wake of walking away from my relationship with my mother, I wonder how much the continuous dismissiveness of the choices I’ve made — or the constant need to tell me, “you should do this” — has stifled me.

Do I need validation to feel worthy?

If that’s the case I can also blame my mother for making me a slut! Because if I’m being completely honest I do feel very, very, validated when men satisfy themselves with me.

In me.

On me.

I don’t want you to think this is all about bashing my mother.

After all, I’ve got her to thank for me being gay.

Never mind the genetics on her side of the family which are a little suspect anyway, just saying, but if that wasn’t enough to tip the scales in favour of wanting to rut with the same sex, then barging into your parents room as a kid and witnessing your dad suckling on your mothers tit, certainly will. A nipple like an old hairy pork scratching being devoured.

My poor impressionable young brain.

It’s worse when you’re older and can truly appreciate the horrifying ordeal of finding pictures on the desktop computer of your mother sucking off her boyfriend. If I wasn’t gay before that would certainly have sealed the deal. I may have lingered long enough to check out his cock but I’ll definitely not be taking tips from my mother based on her oral skills. That pose looked incredibly awkward AF. But hey, at least we share something in common. We love dick.

So, as you might be able to tell, since returning I’ve developed something of an I don’t give a fuck attitude — more so than perhaps I ever had before. Unburdened, I’m not seeking approval for being me from anyone.

I’m allowing myself the opportunity to explore interests I’ve only ever flirted with before, and to share more of myself than I ever have.

TMI might be incoming, so I apologise in advance. But if you’ve got this far, you’ve only got yourselves to blame for encouraging me.

“Why are you so angry at the world?”

Perhaps the question she should have asked was…

“Why are you so fucking horny?”

And not all stories have a happy ending. An actual happy ending I’m talking about and not one forced upon you by a masseur in Bangkok.

While we know my travels ended with a storyline and a performance worthy of a TV BAFTA Award for Best Soap, instead I want to share with you how my time with Towanda! came to a close. The happy ending before I turned the page to family drama.

Our final stay before returning to Perth was in Busselton. Just a short 143 km drive from Pemberton, I had booked three nights in the coastal city at a small but perfectly adequate site, crammed between two others on a long stretch of road that catered to all the visiting tourists: campsites, holiday villages and resorts.

I was able to park Towanda! with ease on the small concrete pitch that I’d booked, but mild amusement was had watching four-wheel drives towing caravans trying to manoeuvre into the narrow spaces, while irritated couples exchanged directions through frantic hand signals. One couple did come prepared. They had walkie-talkies. But I’m not sure their exchanges were any less fraught.

The plan was to use Busselton as a base to explore the wider area of the Margaret River region. I also wanted to go on a whale watching excursion. I’d previously been on one during my time in the United States a few years earlier, and I thought what a magnificent way that would be to end the road trip. I booked the outing for my last full day.

Towanda! and I explored Busselton. I stretched my legs walking the entirety of the nearly 2 km-long timber-piled jetty. The length seemed excessive. 1 km would surely have done. But it was a delightful walk nevertheless, and for those feeling less energetic, there was a mini railway you could ride.

We drove west along the coast to the Cape Naturaliste Lighthouse. I finally got to go inside a lighthouse and take a tour. Fun fact: the reason the lens still spins even when the light isn’t on is because it would act as a huge magnifying glass with the sun’s rays beating down. Not ideal, particularly for a country that’s practically all kindling and ready to ignite into a wildfire.

After my lighthouse tour, I became locked in a battle of wills with myself.

Should I go to the Injidup Natural Spa?

Yes. It’s not that far.

No. It’s lunchtime. I should go get something to eat.

Yes. What else are you going to do with the rest of your afternoon?

No. Perhaps I’ll go to the caves instead. The caves are how much!?

Yes.

I reached the car park atop the craggy hillside, the waves crashing against the rocky shoreline below.

Should I put on my swimming trunks before I walk down?

No. I’m comfortable in my shorts. I’m probably not going in the water.

Yes. I should have put them on underneath my shorts anyway.

No. I’m definitely not going to go in the water. It’s grey and cloudy. It’s too cold.

After I ambled down the path towards the water’s edge and clambered across rocks and boulders for a short while bothering crabs that scuttled to hide within the crevices.

Should I take a dip in the spa?

No. I don’t have my trunks on.

Yes. I can walk back up to Towanda! and change.

No. The water looks cold.

Yes. Look how much fun those people are having, being tossed about and churned up by the waves.

No. I’ll feel fat in front of those other people.

Yes. You’ll never see any of these people again, so what does it matter?

No. I’m going to leave.

Yes. When are you ever going to get this chance to experience this again?

ARRRRGHHHHHHHHHHH! Why am I like this?

I did, in fact, traipse back up the hillside and change into my swimwear, awkwardly beside Towanda!, hoping not to accidentally flash a passerby, and returned to the spa. Despite the grey weather and the chill in the breeze, the water was surprisingly warm once you took the initial plunge.

The spa is actually a large rock pool nestled between red granite rocks. Waves of fresh seawater crash over, creating a bubbly, spa-like effect as you try to stay upright and avoid being exfoliated against the rocks.

It was a lot more fun than I’ve probably made that sound, and I stayed in the frothing water for over an hour, being bombarded by the surging waves that crashed over the rock barrier.

It made me realise how often I hesitate and probably say ‘no’ far too much. What else am I missing out on by uttering that word? What extraordinary opportunities do I let pass me by? I really need to start saying ‘yes’ more.

By the time I returned to Towanda!, the spring had returned to my step and there was a big smile on my face.

Unfortunately, when I checked my phone, I’d had an email from the whale watching tour company informing me that, due to expected bad weather, they were having to cancel the planned excursion the following day.

I was disappointed, but I wasn’t about to let my happy ending be thwarted quite so easily.

A quick Google search and I came up with an alternative plan. I was just keeping everything crossed that it would be worth it.

On that last day, I steered Towanda! towards Point Piquet. A scenic stopping point that looks out over the Indian Ocean, and a place I’d read that locals would go to watch whales. Upon arriving, there is a small car park and a viewing platform. Beyond, red rocks tumble away into the surf. I found a flat rock to perch on, away from the small crowd of people that were gathering, and looked out across the ocean. We waited.

The reason there are often so many whale sightings in Busselton and the wider area known as Geographe Bay is because it serves as a resting stop for humpback whales, who migrate south from the warmer waters in Northern Western Australia towards Antarctica after breeding.

We continued to wait, watching for any sign that whales were nearby.

Then, off in the distance, I saw it. A geyser of water erupted into the air from the waves — the exhale from a whale’s blowhole.

It was shortly followed by a whale’s fluke rising into the air before slapping down and disappearing back beneath the surface.

The crowd that had gathered watched in awe, some mumbling their excitement and appreciation upon seeing the bodies of the whales break the surface of the water — the pod gliding through the sea, adults along with their young.

They came one after another — multiple sightings. They were spectacular.

And that was the final activity on my road trip. All that was left to do was drive back to Perth.

***

Despite concerns that I wouldn’t even get out of Perth before she broke down, together Towanda! and I had driven over 5,000 km.

We’d seen beautiful sunsets and sunrises.

We’d traversed rural outback towns, lakes, mountains, and forests.

I’d splashed in beautiful turquoise waters.

I lost my own body weight in sweat scaling granite mounts to see amazing views.

I’d watched kangaroos, lizards, emus, sea turtles, dolphins, and whales freely in the wild — and managed to avoid the snakes, spiders, and other nasty creepy crawlies that you’re warned about.

I’d faced the heaviness of grief and loss.

I’d dealt with loneliness more than I ever had before.

If I had made the decision to stay in Birmingham and not taken the opportunity to travel, I always knew how that would play out. I knew what the foreseeable future and the daily grind of the 9–5 looked like.

On the other hand, I had no idea what taking this trip would be like. Beyond a vague idea of a route, I didn’t even really know where I’d end up.

Knowing now what was yet to happen, and how I would abort my travels to return back to the UK early, would I still have gone?

Would this be the right time to end the story on a cliffhanger?…

…Just kidding.

Yes.

I would have still gone.

I would have still taken the chance to do something amazing. Challenging. Brave.

I would have still taken a chance on myself.

There were, of course, other places I’d visit once I’d waved goodbye to Towanda!

Melbourne. Auckland. Sydney.

But for now, this is as good a place as any to end.

The pages will keep turning. There will be more stories to share. And I will.

But it’s time to end this part of the story the only way that seems right.

With one final, loud…

…TOWANDA!

Looking out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s no view of the Birmingham cityscape, but instead I can see directly into the living room of the flats opposite.

I should probably be mindful of remembering to keep my blinds closed. I wouldn’t want to make things awkward with the new neighbours.

It’s not where any of us probably imagined I’d be when I started out on my travel adventure just over three and a half months ago.

The time I was away now feels like a fevered dream. Perhaps I’ll walk in and find Bobby Ewing taking a shower and enjoying my loofah.

When I set off down under, perhaps a little naively, I didn’t think about how big of a part my family would play in shaping the decisions I’d make. From letting go of the grief and saying goodbye to my dad on my own terms, to seeing my mum for the first time in three years since dad died—and, if you’ve been paying attention, you know how well that went. Throw into the mix trying to avoid my sister in the town dad lived, my sister who mum also doesn’t talk to, and you’re probably getting the impression that we’re definitely not the fucking Waltons.

Families can be complicated. Juggling the emotions and the demands of people who were thrown together through biology more so than by choice. I do wonder sometimes if, had I been straight, there would have been less drama. Not because I think any of them want to commit a hate crime against me—well… fingers crossed—but because our world view and experiences are different and are looked at through a lens shaped and coloured by those different experiences.

My dad and I were very different people, but in the twelve months before his death we spoke regularly, had found common ground, and our relationship was in a good place.

Dad had settled in Pemberton many years before, along with my sister, her husband and their two children.

The town was established over a hundred years ago as part of the timber industry and is 325km from Perth in the south-west corner of Western Australia, surrounded by towering forests of Karri trees and wineries.

The first time I visited Pemberton was when dad had passed away. Don’t get me wrong, it is a charming place to visit, but I’ll never understand why anyone would choose to call it home. My opinion might be slightly jaded, not least because of my family dynamics, but also based on the stories that dad would share about the comings and goings. There was the suspected embezzlement committed by my sister’s previous employer, the murder committed by their neighbour — which may or may not have had something to do with the marijuana farm discovered behind a scrapyard. Oh, and when my sister’s husband was arrested. Not for the murder or the marijuana, but another crime altogether. There were enough storylines going on in that small town to make the scriptwriters of Home and Away jealous.

But dad, on the whole, was happy with his life that he’d built there.

As my road trip in Towanda! had brought me within driving distance of Pemberton, I knew I had to pay the town one last visit as I was unlikely to ever visit again. It was also a chance to say one last goodbye to dad.

On the day of the celebration of his life three years earlier, I’d been surrounded by strangers. My mum had made the decision, rightly or wrongly, not to attend. Having attended the family only funeral a few days earlier, I think she’d had enough quality time in the company of her daughter, trying to ignore the caustic barbs directed at her. I don’t blame her. But that left me alone to tiptoe around the complexities of my own relationship with my sister, whilst dealing with the grief of losing Dad and meanwhile making small talk with complete strangers. It was exhausting. And that was before I had to listen to my sister recite the same eulogy I’d already heard, for the third time. She certainly likes to hear the sound of her own voice, and whilst I’m pretty sure the celebration concluded on the same day it started, day could easily have turned to night and back to day and we’d have all still been stood there listening to her drone on. She almost bored my tears dry. (Reading this back, maybe I am the problem… Ahem, anyway…)

The celebration had taken place at Big Brook Dam, a reservoir providing a water supply to the town as well as creating an idyllic setting for outdoor activities and walks through woodland. There’s a large picnic area with two wooden shelters and a beach that overlooks the man-made lake. Dad often enjoyed strolls there walking the dog.

And it was there I wanted to return.

Towanda! and I had left Albany and driven west along the South Coast Highway. We stayed one night near a town called Denmark and the following day continued on our way.

I took a brief detour and visited the tourist-heavy Green Pools and Elephant Rocks. At certain angles, and if you squint a little, you can indeed imagine the large rounded granite boulders are a herd of elephants wading in the shallows on the beach.

I also carried on a little further down the road to the lesser visited but equally beautiful Waterfall Beach, so called because of the miniature waterfall that flows directly onto the beach, and Madfish Bay. Its name inspired by converging tides causing fish to become disorientated. At the time, I’m sure their frenzied leaping looked quite the ‘mad’ spectacle.

By the time I arrived in Pemberton, it was late afternoon and I’d booked one night at a local campsite. I planned to get up in the morning and drive to, and then walk around, Big Brook Dam before heading off.

I hadn’t realised at the time of booking, but the campsite was part of a larger resort that my Dad had provided window-cleaning services to. When I pulled up in Towanda!, I recognised it from my last stay when my sister had shown me around the town.

To my further delight, when I parked up there was a mob of kangaroos casually hanging about on the hillside right next to my camping spot. A joey was bouncing around trying to get its mother’s attention whilst a few feet away another joey contently peered out from its mother’s pouch.

I took it all as a good sign that I was where I was meant to be at that exact moment. I didn’t know exactly what tomorrow would bring or how I’d feel about being back at Big Brook Dam, but I just felt like it was what I needed to do.

The following day I was nervous. There was every chance I could bump into my sister walking her dog Womble around the lake—if he was still alive and hadn’t succumbed to a deadly snake bite like the last two dogs they’d had. This was very much rural Australia, where if it wasn’t your relatives out to get you, the wildfires or wildlife might.

So as I parked next to Big Brook Dam in the empty parking lot and started to stroll the 4km trail that looped the lake, I would glance back over my shoulder every now and again, straining to listen for the sounds of footsteps, hoping not to see a familiar face coming towards me. I was prepared to lunge headfirst into the nearest bush and deal with whatever creepy-crawly or slithering nasty was in the way rather than deal with my sister. I didn’t want an awkward confrontation right here, right now.

Instead, I had a very one-sided conversation with Dad, the specifics of which—if you don’t mind—I’ll keep between myself and him, if he was listening.

I had expected to cry. But I didn’t.

Instead, when I’d completed the loop and Towanda! came back into sight through the trees, I genuinely felt lighter. It was like I’d had the chance to say goodbye properly, just him and I. Not being gawked at by strangers or in an uncomfortable family gathering.

As I steered Towanda! away from Pemberton less than twenty-four hours after arriving, heading towards my final stop of the road trip, I kept my eyes on the road ahead. I didn’t look back. It was time to look to the future rather than dwelling on the past.

Which was a wonderful sentiment…

…until a month later when the proverbial shit would hit the fan and I would have no other choice but to also say goodbye to my Mum.

Well, it was more of a ‘FUCK OFF!’.

Twice.

If it was a reunion episode of Real Housewives, there would be far too much to unpack even for three episodes. Quick roll the credits!

My stay in Perth came to a dramatic end worthy of a British soap opera.

“You’re not my mutha!”
“YES I AM!”

All that was missing was a black cab to whisk me away.

I may have disembarked from my dreams of travel for the time being, but I’ll continue to pester your inbox with the concluding misadventures from down under and I’ll also be sharing other stories too.

Nothing stays the same, and with my new change in circumstances, I thought this publication could do with a bit of a rebrand.

So it’s now called Erm… What Was I Thinking?

Pretty much my life motto.

Thanks for your continued support and enthusiasm for my silliness.

Normal service will resume soon.

Well, before we head off to Pemberton — which is where we left off last time — let’s head back up north. By the time I’d come to leave Monkey Mia, I would face a literal fork in the road where I’d have a choice to make.

To recap, I’d spent the night parked up at Galena Bridge Rest Area alongside the Murchison River to recover from my escape from Kalbarri National Park, where I’d been overwhelmed by pests. Both tourists and flies alike.

Knowing there was quite a drive still to go along the North West Coastal Highway, I woke early and set off not long after sunrise.

After about an hour and in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but the Australian outback and wild goats, I came to the Billabong Roadhouse, where you could refuel, stock up on drinks and snacks, and, with relief, reacquaint yourself with functioning plumbing rather than a foul smelling long-drop toilet.

I made good use of the facilities, my regularity undisrupted by my travels (possibly thanks to a poor diet of Peanut M&Ms and Mountain Dew), and then continued along the highway for another 50km before turning off onto Shark Bay Road. It was then another hour and a half along the relentless, seemingly never-ending road before I reached Denham, the small gateway town you pass through before reaching Monkey Mia on the opposite side of the peninsula.

Monkey Mia is a conservation area, and when I arrived I was greeted at the entry station to the car park by a friendly, smiling employee, who was about to relieve me of more money.
It turned out — and if I’d paid closer attention to the small print on my booking email I’d have known this — that even as a guest with a campsite booking, you’re expected to pay a fee to enter.
It was hard to begrudge them, though, knowing the money was going into conservation to help the aquatic locals. And to be honest, there was little other choice but to pay unless I wanted to turn around and travel hours back the way I’d come.

It was a large campsite with plenty of amenities to keep families happy. It had a couple of pools, a small crazy-golf course, a restaurant and a bar. It also came with a gang of resident thugs. A mob of emus stalking the site like something straight out of Jurassic Park, ready to commit daylight robberies and snatch snacks… and possibly small pets if given the chance

I’d only managed to book one night at the campsite because of course every Tom, Dick, and Sally with their kids in tow had descended on the area during the school holidays.
In the back of my mind, I was thinking it had been an awfully long journey just to spend one night.
Despite there being no additional availability online, I did enquire at check-in on the off chance another night was available, but they were definitely fully booked.

Craftily, though, I would find a loophole to extend my stay for an additional night.
I’d obviously been enquiring for a pitch for Towanda!, which they didn’t have.
When I rechecked online later that first afternoon to see what other accommodation options were available — now fully determined that one night wouldn’t be sufficient — I spotted that they had beds available in the dormitories. For the penance of sleeping inches away from someone else’s personal space, you were allowed to park one vehicle on the site.
I made a half hearted attempt to sleep in the dormitory the following evening, just to show willing in case I was ever interrogated by campsite security (not that I ever saw any), but in the middle of the night I stealthily slipped back to where I’d parked Towanda! for a good night’s sleep.

The highlight of Monkey Mia, besides the stunning beaches — which I took full advantage of to top up my farmer’s tan — is the opportunity to experience marine wildlife up close, including dolphin feeding in the mornings. Participation in the dolphin experience is included as part of the additional conservation fee, so the extra $15 is well worth it.

In years gone by, things were done very differently, with people swimming with and overfeeding the dolphins, which severely impacted their numbers and natural hunting behaviours.
Now it is strictly and very carefully managed.
The rangers are only allowed to carry out up to three sessions each morning between 7:45am and midday, and this is entirely dependent on whether the dolphins choose to approach the shore. There is no guarantee they’ll be in the mood. The dolphins will arrive if and when they feel like it, which I can completely respect being someone who often doesn’t feel like attending anything.
If they do approach, they’re only fed a small portion of fish by the rangers, weighed out to ensure they don’t exceed the permitted daily intake.
Visitors are allowed to line up along the shore and, when instructed to do so, take a step or two into the shallow water. But no one is allowed to come into direct contact with the dolphins, and you are strictly advised that if at any time during the day you’re in the ocean and the dolphins approach, you must keep your distance or remove yourself from the water.

Knowing how busy the site was as it seemed every kid from the suburbs of Western Australia was there to ensure no adult got any peace, I imagined it would be a popular morning activity, so I wanted to make sure I got there early enough to get a good vantage point.
I made my way to the jetty, dressed in joggers and a hoodie as there was still a chill in the morning air, clutching a hot chocolate I’d bought from the nearby kiosk.
There were other people idling about, taking morning strolls, going for breakfast at the camp cafe, but the jetty was empty.
I sat down beside one of the jetty’s structural poles, legs dangling over the edge of the concrete platform.
I looked out across the void of ocean. The sky at the horizon was ablaze, glowing orange as the sun rose. The waves lapped against the jetty below, and I stared out beyond the sailboats anchored not far from shore. I waited.

The last time I saw dolphins, my family and I had accidentally gate-crashed a dolphin funeral.
In April 2022, we had just had my Dad’s funeral in Bunbury. It had been a small private ceremony with just myself, my mum, my sister, her ex-husband and their two children, and a random elderly lady I’d never met. A larger celebration of his life was planned a few days later in Pemberton.
After we’d said our goodbyes to Dad, and the old lady who was collected by her daughter, we decided to have some drinks and cake at a nearby place they knew — which happened to be the Dolphin Discovery Centre.
We ordered and found a table with seats that looked out over the bay, and we were chatting amongst ourselves when we were approached by a wiry, balding gentleman who asked if we could keep our voices down.
In a large room adjacent to where we sat, a crowd had gathered.
We apologised, although we didn’t think we were being particularly noisy, and explained we had just come from a funeral.
At this point, I think he misheard us, assuming we were asking whose funeral this was, because he looked at us sternly — as if it should be obvious — and announced, “It’s the funeral of Shanty the dolphin.” He then turned on his heel and rejoined the farewell gathering.
Despite the day we’d had, and caught by surprise, we laughed.
The absurdity of the moment tickled us. Not dismissive of them honouring Shanty but that we’d started our day mourning my Dad, and here we were now being shushed at a dolphin wake.
It was amusing, not least because of the number of people who had turned up for a dolphin’s funeral compared to our small group for Dad’s.
Now, in Aboriginal cultures, dolphins are often thought of as spiritual beings. It’s believed that the spirits of their Elders take the form of dolphins, and ceremonies are performed to honour them when they pass. On this occasion, from what we could tell, it was not strictly an Aboriginal ceremony but more of a community event organised by the Dolphin Centre.
We couldn’t make out the muffled words being spoken in tribute to Shanty, but as we stifled our giggles and conversation so as not to interrupt, we looked out over the water to witness a pod of dolphins surface amongst the waves. Seemingly they too had come to say their goodbyes.

So, three years later, I was back in Australia, staring out across the water from the jetty in Monkey Mia. In the distance, I saw the familiar curved fin of a dolphin breach the surface. Then another. They plunged beneath, re-emerging moments later, gliding through the water. I sat engrossed, watching their playful frolicking for a good long while.
There was movement beneath my feet dangling over the jetty. Something caught my eye in my peripheral vision, and I glanced down.
Bobbing in the water, its head rising out before dipping below the surface again, front flippers flapping in a breaststroke fashion, was a turtle. It seemed perfectly happy being carried along by the current.

It was such a joyful moment, getting to watch both the dolphins and the turtle.

Whilst the dolphins would later swim closer to the beach to be gawked at by the crowd that eventually congregated — myself included — this moment felt more special, as it was entirely mine.
After the rangers gave the dolphins their small offering of fish and the crowd dispersed, I wandered in the opposite direction to everyone else.
As I walked along the beach away from the camp, the dolphins swam parallel to the shore, and again I felt privileged to enjoy a moment for myself, unspoilt by other tourists.

The following day, when the dolphins were a little more antisocial and stayed at a distance because they had more interesting things to do, I was even more grateful for having seen them the day before.

I left Monkey Mia on a high, but I also think Dad was very much at the forefront of my thoughts.
Arriving back at the junction onto the North West Coastal Highway, I paused.
There was the option to turn left and carry on north to Carnarvon, Exmouth, and possibly even Broome. But, I had always talked about visiting the south coast of Western Australia and exploring more of the places Dad would have spent time. Turning right would take me back towards Perth, from which I could head further south.

The hesitation was perhaps one of those sliding-doors moments. If I had turned left, a completely different sequence of events would have unfolded.

But as if being gently guided by an unseen nudge, I flicked on the indicator and turned right onto the highway.

Philip Dixon, now lies in Chester Castle awaiting his removal to a penal settlement. He was convicted at the last assizes of having returned from transportation before the period of his sentence had expired. The “Chester Courant” gives an autobiography of this criminal, from which we extract the following account of his escape from the hulks:

“ I was removed with nine more, out of about 1400 prisoners, to Portsmouth, to the York hulk. Here I remained for nearly 20 months, during which time I saw fourteen convicts so severely flogged, that the flesh came from the back bone, and were immediately sent out to work again with the rest of the convicts, all for bad behaviour. On one occasion I was present when a convict of the name of Hatter murdered our guard, James Connor. I seized the mallet out of his hand at the time, but it was too late-the poor guard was dead! For this, Hatter was tried at the Winchester assizes, condemned, and hung.

“I was still very unhappy, and whilst many of my fellow-sufferers were fast asleep in their hammocks, I was thinking of my poor wife and children and contrived in my mind how I could make my escape from that place. I was, in the daytime, working on the gun wharf, and there I picked up a file. I concealed it under my sleeve and brought it in. The following night, when all was still and quiet, I began filling the bars of the port window of the ship; but I dared not do much at a time, lest I should be heard. The next night I did the same. I generally embraced the opportunity of working at this when the tide might be coming in and the wind made a noise so that the guard should not hear me from the quarter-deck. When I had finished a certain portion of my filing, I filled it up with brown soap, which was the colour of the paint on the bars. I found I could not get on so well as I wished that night, so I concealed myself under the hammock on the Thursday evening, when all the prisoners went to chapel.

“ During this time I did a great deal of work towards getting the iron bars from my window ; I had them all finished on the third night, I got up about twelve o’clock, to get through the window and jump into the sea, but the tide was going out at a very rapid pace, and the wind so very high that I was obliged to give it up for that night. I was, as I suppose, seen by some of the prisoners putting in the soap the next morning, and as I came up on the deck I was stopped by one of the officers. One of them went down into my ward, and found the iron bar had been out; they brought me before the captain ; they put a pair of cross irons upon me ; I kept them on, and worked in them and slept in them for three months. They then shifted me into the dockyard, where they thought I should be more secure ; but I knew better, for after my irons were taken off, I resolved a second time to make my escape, for I could not forget my poor wife and children ; they were constantly before my mind. I was determined to get some clothing out of some of the men-of-war ships, which were in the dockyard. In this I succeeded, and got a shirt, a cap, a handkerchief, and an old pair of trousers. I concealed them in my own cell, one by one, at different times, and kept them in my hammock until I could find an opportunity of making my escape. I got up one morning about three o’clock, and dressed myself with the clothes I had stolen, and put my convict’s dress over them. At the time we mustered, which was always about seven o’clock in the morning during the winter, the guard searched me, and I passed. I got into the boat, and was again detected; was called on the quarter-deck, and was stripped naked. I was again ironed and put into the black hole, and was kept there fourteen days and nights, upon a pound a bread a day and plenty of water. Seven of these days I did not see daylight, but the other seven days I was allowed to exercise an hour in the day. After the expiration of these fourteen days I was brought out of the black hole, and when I got on deck, I, for the first time in my life, fainted. The irons were kept on me. I was then under the doctor’s care for about three weeks. After this I went to work as usual, with about 20 pounds weight of iron upon me for full three months.

“ During this time my wife came to see me. I was cut to my heart on account of her great distress of mind. She wept bitterly when she saw the heavy irons upon me, and told me that both her and her children were almost in a state of starvation, as the parish would not allow them sufficient to support them. I thought to myself, when I saw her, I will try again to make my escape, for her sake and for the sake of my dear children. I could not rest night nor day on their account.

“ After having seen her, I became more determined and desperate than ever. I was again set to work in the dockyard, with light irons. I considered a plan one night when in my hammock, and which I was resolved to try the next day although I had several guards to pass, and a very long way to swim.

“ Consequently on the following night, when we had left off work to go into the small boat which always took us from our work to the ship, the York, which was on the 25th of November, instead of going into the boat I ran up to the piles, under the jetty up to my middle in water, where I remained for about, an hour and a half. When the boat was pushed off to return to the hulks, I heard the guard Say, ‘Where is Dixon?”

I heard one of them say, ‘He has done us at last, for he is not here.’

When they came on shore they were over my head, and again exclaimed ‘he has done us’; they asked one of the soldiers, whether he had seen one of their men, and he answered no. All this time I was in the water ; I was afraid to use my file to take off my irons should the soldier above me hear me ; presently, the drum on board the Victory was beaten as is usual, I then began to take my file, and got my iron off. As soon as it became dusk (it was very foggy), I began to strip, I uttered up a few words in prayer, and cast my self into the water. The tide was coming in very strongly I went at a rapid rate, and had to pass by a guard on board the Illlustrious, and several other guards higher up the harbour.

“ After I had been in the water about a quarter of an hour, I heard a gunshot ; after this several more had been fired ; I thought they were all coming to me ; I then thought it was all up with me ; I was alarmed ; but I believe it was only in consquence of the Queen having visited Portsmouth that day, and they were taking down the standard. I was so much terrified with this shooting, that when I passed by King George’s yacht, I fastened myself to one of the buoys ; it was, however so very cold that I was obliged to let go, and plunge again into the great deep. I ultimately landed at Polchester Castle, a distance of about five miles from the dockyard. When I got out of the water I was almost exhausted, and was forced to lie down for a time as I had nearly lost the use of my arms. I then started off, in a state of nudity ; I think it must have been about nine o’clock pm and travelled on some distance, when I heard the footsteps of some one, and it struck me it was one of the guards of the Portdown Bridge, where a file of soldiers are always kept. I returned back again, and went over a small hill, at the bottom of which was a small river, about as wide as the Dee. I swam across the river, which I found much more cold than the sea. I went over hedges and ditches without clothing, until it was daylight; I then got into a pig-stye, and covered myself over with straw, and remained there until night, without food or drink, and several horns in my feet.

“ I then started off again, and travelled all night, until I got to a farm house, and made my way into one of the stables where I found an old smock frock, which I gladly put on me. Here I remained all day this was the third day I had no food. Going over Epsom racecourse I saw a policeman ; I turned down a lane before he could see me, and got into a cottage, where I found an old woman ; I begged for mercy and pardon ; she took me to, the fire, and gave me a pair of stockings, a cap, and an old pair of shoes. I travelled on but was so much fatigued that I was obliged to go to a house and beg for a bit of bread.

“ On my way onwards I saw a man with some cattle going to London ; I helped him to drive the cattle, and he gave me 4d, being all he had. I wanted a night’s rest, and went to a lodging-house on the road ; I asked the woman how much my lodgings would be ; she said 4d. I had only then one halfpenny left ; with this I bought some apples. I went to bed and had a good night’s rest, and started off early next morning for London; when within a mile of the town I stopped at some common, and there was a load of coals brought to a house ; I got the coals in for them, and received sixpence and something to eat. I then went into London, and found out a man whose brother was a convict, and who had told me where he lived. He gave me clothing, plenty to eat, and 10s to start me off. I started off the day after, and went by the way of the canal, until I reached Oxford. I stayed one day on the road. I travelled on to Banbury, and from there I went to Warwick. Here I got 2s for taking charge of some cattle in the fair. Next day I got 3s 6d to take some cattle to Birmingham. I had now 7s 6d, and laid it all out in steel pens! I then wrote to my wife, and informed her where I was ; and then I went out hawking my pens”, and cleared 3s the first day. I travelled on towards Wolverhampton and earned 4s more, and got rid of all my pens. I wrote to my wife to meet me at Wolverhampton. In the meantime I bought three umbrellas. I sold them, and was able to purchase five more the next day. At night, my wife not having yet arrived, I became very unhappy, and almost mad, as I found I was as badly off as ever. The following day I went out again on the turnpike road, and there met my wife coming to meet me from Chester. It was, indeed, a happy meeting. We travelled on together to Newport, where I carried on my hawking umbrellas. My wife soon returned to Chester. She endeavoured to get my children sent off by the parish at Broughton, but did not succeed. I received a letter to that effect from her. I then left the town, where I understand about half an hour after Mr Hill, superintendent of police, arrived there in search of me. Eager to get my poor children, I got nearer and nearer to Chester, within twenty miles, at Whitchurch, where I again met with my wife. Soon after we had got our supper, the policemen came into the house, one through the front door and one through the back. I saw them both. They took hold of my wife. I heard her shout out, “ Let me alone ; what have I done” At this I leaped over the garden wall, and went off to Wem. Here I remained for about a week, and made my way to Shrewsbury, from thence to Welshpool. It being market-day, I was in the market place, when one of the police of the town came and asked me whether I knew Phil Dixon, as he heard he was in town. I referred him to a man at an orange stand, and told him that he came from Chester, and no doubt would tell him all about him. I then made off again, and went to Newtown ; here I remained for a few days, hawking umbrellas, and found that I was known by some persons that kept stalls in the market ; so I soon left there, and went to Machynlleth. Shortly after breakfast I saw two policemen one from Newtown. I was afraid they were after me. I went out and shook hands with the Newton policeman. He spoke to me, and appeared very much afraid of me. I got into the back yard, and started off for Aberyswith. I afterwards heard that five officers came down and took up another man in mistake for me. At night I arrived at a house on the road where none of the family could speak English. I had to show them my money, and put my hand to my mouth to say I wanted something to eat.

Next morning I arrived at Aberystwith I went on to thet iron-works at Merthr, where I got work at a Mr Crushar’s’, and earned 15s a week ; I remained here two weeks, and got leave to go and get my wife and chirdren. I started off, and on my way I met with a man who hawked cloth ; with him I went to Bala, on my way towards my wife. I happened to go with this man to an ale house where we met with a man that had robbed this hawker that I was with of £5. I struck him for doing this he said, ‘Very well, Dixon, you will remember this.’

I was shortly after this followed by about two hundred men, and was taken into custody and was very ill treated and beaten. I was asked my name; I told them it was James Edwards. Next morning I was brought before the magistrates, and this man that I had beaten was there, and he told them who and what I was. When I heard it I fainted, as I had not been able to see my poor children ; all my anxiety was about them.”

I would hope it was already apparent that I’m not sharing my adventures in real time. That would be madness. But I’m trying my best to strike a balance between exploring each new location and, at the same time, forming habits and routine around writing.

That said, now and again I hit a wall. Not physically of course, otherwise, I’d be black and blue by now.

Travelling can be draining. While I know it’s often remarked how much younger I look than my age, I can assure you my body lets me know I’m every one of those years and then some. I’ve developed new aches and pains.

And that doesn’t even account for my clumsiness. Today alone, as I was eating a very pleasant lunch overlooking the Waitematā Harbour, I managed to bite down with such force that I nearly took a chunk out of my tongue. It bled profusely for at least three hours. After seeking medical advice from Mum—she was a nurse, so this is allowed—I took a nap and was lucky not to drown in my own blood as I slept.

Can you hear the tiny violins playing their sympathy for me? (I’m sure someone will assume I meant to write symphony instead of sympathy and that I’ve spelt it wrong. I didn’t. I’m creating a masterpiece of literature here, people. Shall we get back to Australia?)

***

Picking myself up from my knees and wiping the corners of my mouth, I smiled at the stranger.

91 metres.

That’s how far away he’d appeared on the app.

I’d been in Albany for twenty four hours and after sightseeing that morning, I’d returned to the campsite. The campsite sat on the shore of the bay opposite Albany. The night before I’d been able to gaze across the water to see the abundance of city lights built into the hillside, flickering and sparkling against the night sky.

The site was a mishmash of tourists and permanent residents. There were about a hundred with fixed abodes, I was reliably told by the staff member who checked me in. A ramshackle collection of trailers and lodges.

I’d taken a stroll around the site soon after arriving and bumped into one of the locals. He was a wiry thin chap with long wild grey hair, dressed in jeans and a leather vest over a black T-shirt. In his hand he held a lead attached to a harness, which in turn kept his silvery tabby cat from getting too adventurous and wandering off.

Of course, when greeted with such a sight, it’s only polite to enquire about the pet whilst completely forgetting your manners and ignoring the owner. But Millie, the nine-year-old tabby cat, and a diva by all accounts, was clearly his pride and joy.

“She’s perfect just the way she is,” he said.

He scooped her up and gave her a big squeeze and fuss, which she happily accepted. And me being me, the intrusive thought popped into my head before I could stop it. How heartbroken he was going to be when the inevitable happened. I refrained from saying that out loud of course, instead I smiled and left them to their walkabout.

And no, it wasn’t him who’d get my attention the following day.

***

91 metres.

Brrrrup!

The notification told me I had a message.

You must remember at this point that I’d been somewhat neglected intimately, except for the masseur in Bangkok who’d tried to have a good rummage for my prostate.

The profile was blank, so of course I did my due diligence and requested photos, which he happily shared of himself in all his glory. Older, bearded, and tattooed.

I may or may not have licked my lips at the prospect.

I previously mentioned in an earlier update that he said he was married. I’m not here to start a debate about the rights and wrongs of his down-low behaviour. He isn’t the first guy, and he won’t be the last, who conducts himself in such a way. And, to be honest, in that moment I was more interested in how I could benefit.

So, when he needed a shower, it presented the opportunity to rendezvous in the shower block. I pride myself on having a very particular set of skills, so I busied myself in my task and satisfactorily unburdened him in barely any time.

Brrrrup!

Later, he messaged to tell me how hot the encounter had been.

He then promptly blocked me.

B-L-O-C-K-E-D ME!?

Rude!

If he hadn’t already given me glowing feedback, I may have taken it personally.

***

Albany itself has a lot to offer.

A port city, it straddles the two hills of Mount Clarence and Mount Melville. Its businesses and homes rising above the waterline along the hillside. It’s also extremely proud of its maritime and military history.

During my stay, I visited the Princess Royal Fortress, where the National Anzac Centre is located.

It’s time for a history lesson.

Originally, Albany was a British military outpost, and the fortress was built in 1893 due to concerns about Russia, to protect King George Sound. This is the large natural harbour it overlooks. The harbour was considered strategically important as it offered anchorage for international shipping routes, particularly those between Australia and Europe.

During World War I, it would become a departure point for thousands of troops heading to battle.

You can wander around the fortress’s preserved gun fortifications, magazine and trenches, and look out from the summit with stunning views over the harbour. On your way up to the lookout, the vessels that shipped out during the war are honoured. All of their names are listed along with details of how many people they carried.

I was surprised to see one ship christened with the name of my home county in the U.K.—the HMAT (His Majesty’s Australian Transport) Shropshire.

I have since looked it up as I was curious about its fate.

It was in service for twenty eight years, although by the end it went by a different name, Rotorua. It was torpedoed and sunk by a German U-boat in 1940 in waters off the Outer Hebrides.

A little fact for you: the previous vessel called Rotorua was also torpedoed by a U-boat and sank. The name appears not to have been used since. That’s probably wise.

The legacy of the Shropshire continued with a warship in the Royal Navy taking on the name. It remained in service until it was sold for scrap in the fifties.

The fortress itself never actually fired a single round in conflict. Its purpose as a deterrent clearly worked. But I was fascinated imagining what it must have been like for the men stationed there—the possibility of war coming to them hanging over their heads every day.

The more time I spend here in Australia, the more intrigued and inspired I become. I’m bemused that some visitors to Australia unfairly compare it to Europe and complain about a lack of history. This is foolishness. Of course, it’s a much newer nation, but there are a couple of hundred years of history that shouldn’t be ignored. The good bits and, frankly, the terrible.

Perhaps I have a different perspective because I not only have immediate family living in Australia now, but Australia is intertwined with my ancestral backstory.

There was an article from the London Journal dating back to 1849 that detailed the escape of my Great-Great-Great-Great-(and one more Great for good measure) Grandfather, Philip Dixon, from the hulks. The hulks were repurposed ships used as floating prisons before convicts were shipped off to penal colonies. Long story short, he got himself into some bother, was imprisoned, then escaped, only to be recaptured. Records suggest he got what was coming to him and was shipped off to Western Australia, where he died sixteen years later at the age of forty-six. I’ll share the article to accompany this newsletter.

***

Anyway, apologies. I digressed. Back to Albany.

After enjoying some downtime at the campsite and taking in the area’s history over a couple of days, I decided I should stretch my legs. And what better way than a hike?

The Granite Skywalk at Castle Rock is about a thirty minute drive from Albany.

The signage at the car park stated:

This is a difficult walk with long steep sections, many uneven sized steps and unmodified natural surfaces. A good level of fitness is required.

A good level of fitness?

I felt slightly mocked. I clearly had something to prove—perhaps more to myself than anyone else. Or perhaps it was to prove that I could do it just as much as the folk who seemed to be galloping up ahead, leaving me to trail behind.

The white emergency defibrillator box at the foot of the trail was a little alarming. Very convenient if you happen to have a cardiac event right there. Not so much if you’re an hour into the challenging walk through the Karri forest and 2,200ft above sea level.

But I dragged my dad-bod huffing and puffing all the way to the top, heart thumping in my chest. I stopped every now and again to catch my breath.

I passed a couple on their way down who were considerably bright and breezy despite the hike. Their motivational cheer left a lot to be desired though.

“The worst is yet to come!”

I hoped they’d come a cropper on a tree root and take a tumble. Smug fucks.

Finally, the end was within sight. I’d caught up with an elderly couple mid-conversation about seeing a snake. I glanced around my feet.

“What colour was it?” the portly gentleman asked gruffly.

“Black,” his short grey-haired companion replied.

“Oh, that’ll be ok then.”

Will it?Are you an expert? His reasoning sounded flawed to me.

Thankfully I didn’t see any snakes, just a bunch of lizards sunbathing.

By the time you reach the end of the Castle Rock trail—an exhausted hot, sweaty mess—you still have a little further to go to reach the Granite Skywalk. You have to climb up and over large boulders. Metal handrails are pounded into the rock to help you pull yourself up. Then, the final challenge: a metal ladder leading to the highest platform, built right into the granite.

By the time I scrambled to the top, I was just hoping it was worth it.

It was.

The views did not disappoint. Lush green farmland stretching out as far as the eye could see, the rugged peaks of the Stirling Range in the distance. I felt a genuine sense of achievement and, if I’m honest, a bit of a smug fuck myself. Although, unlike some, I made sure to be more encouraging to anyone I passed on the way down.

By the time I made it back to Towanda!, surprisingly with a spring in my step, it was time to continue west.

My destination in the coming days had probably been inevitable from the very start of the road trip. I went back and forth, trying to decide whether it was a good idea, but as I got closer, I was sure it was the right place to go.

Pemberton.

The town my dad had called home in his final days.

The rental company strictly stated:
‘Vehicles may only be driven on sealed roads/bitumen roads or well-maintained access roads less than 500 metres long to recognised campgrounds and parking areas.’

I tend to stick to rules, especially if there’s a risk of me being burdened with a hefty financial cost. I’m frivolous in so many other ways, so I think it’s best to try and be frugal in situations like this.
Which is all well and good until…

…the tarmacked road I was following abruptly ended.
Of course, the phone signal had blinked out some way back, so I wasn’t able to search for alternative directions.
Towanda! had just under half a tank of petrol. That was probably more than enough if I’d decided to turn around and retrace my route to find a different way.
But you should know me well enough by now to know that being rational in such moments is sometimes a fleeting concept in my brain.
Panic started to poke at me. What if there wasn’t enough fuel to get us back to a petrol station?

I looked at the red dirt road before us. It looked flat enough and Bremer Bay didn’t really look all that far away on the map.
I grabbed the gear stick, took a deep breath, shifted into first and tentatively pushed Towanda! forward.
I regretted the decision almost immediately.
Towanda! lurched down the pitted road, rocking as she hit one crater after another.
A dead snake stretched out across the road, baking in the sun like an ominous omen.
I hung on for dear life and prayed Towanda! didn’t fall apart there and then. Shit! What if I break down with no phone signal?
The road seemed to go on forever, but then again, I only dared to go 20–30 km an hour.
A couple of utes passed going in the opposite direction. They churned up thick red dust clouds as they blasted past. Fucking show-offs!
On the map, I could see a turn-off onto ‘Swamp Rd’ coming up. I felt sick. The road name did not inspire me with any confidence.

I bounced in my seat. My head grazing the roof.

How much longer could it go on?

Thankfully, as the turn-off got closer, I glimpsed tarmac.
I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.

As I pulled back onto a proper road, I came to a standstill and climbed out of Towanda! I circled her, making sure there were no obvious signs of damage to the tyres.
“TOWANDA!” I screamed back at the red dirt road. I whooped, sticking up my middle fingers in defiance. You’d think I’d just trekked across the harshest Australian terrain.

I’m only sharing this now as, by the time you’re reading this, my partnership with Towanda! has come to an end and she has now been returned. In full working order, I hasten to add, and side note — cleaner than when I picked her up. So shhh, keep my off road escapades to yourselves.

Bremer Bay was light relief compared to the journey getting there and that was despite me nearly falling into a river fully clothed and being dragged along by the current.
But the first stop, before I did anything else, was to fill up with fuel.
There’s a weird satisfaction in knowing you have a full tank of petrol. Simple things.

By this time, it was approaching lunch, so I followed the road along the shoreline which was mostly hidden behind trees until the road ended in a car park at John Cove Beach.
With a packed lunch in hand and a beach towel thrown over my shoulder, I meandered onto the beach to find a spot to eat.

Bremer Bay is undeniably beautiful. It’s situated where the mouth of the river flows into the Southern Ocean between the two beaches, John Cove and Bremer. The sandbank along the estuary is a safe playground for families to enjoy and frolic. When I was there, two horses and their owners were even offering bareback rides along the beach. On the horses, not the owners, obviously. Wouldn’t that have been a strange sight.

For the most part, there’s a large expanse of shallow water that you can happily splash through, which, after lunch, I did exactly that dressed in my denim shorts and T-shirt, flip-flops in hand.
The further you went, the more obvious the change in depth; the clear water darkened, and the current became a little stronger.
I watched as adults and kids would jump in from the shallows and ride the current, squealing and laughing, as the water flowed to meet the ocean.

But it wasn’t that deep in parts — with a roll-up of your shorts and a gung-ho attitude, you could wade across. The water came up above my knees, just shy of the rolled-up cuffs of my shorts.
It was as I was halfway across (because of course I wanted to get to the beach on the other side of the bank as there clearly wasn’t enough beach for me to be satisfied with where I was) that I realised…I was in the middle of white-water rapids.
At least my crossing point was going with the flow of the water. It occurred to me that getting back might be trickier.
Which it proved to be on the return. The current threatening to knock me off my feet more than once and send me tumbling into the churning water.

I’m clumsy enough on solid ground, never mind when my feet are being suctioned into wet sand. I was imagining the worst, that I’d be overwhelmed by the deluge, the force would rip away my shorts and in doing so expose me to innocent families. Parents would scream, covering their children’s eyes from the monstrosity emerging from the waters.
Let me tell you, I clearly still have PTSD from that time I was on holiday in Mexico when the waves nearly ripped off my tight little swimming briefs and tried to drown me, all in front of a beach full of judgmental onlookers. The gays.

So now, as I fought to keep upright on my feet whilst trying to save myself from embarrassment, I looked up and down to find a more suitable place to cross, where I’d be less likely to make a show of myself.
I assumed the current would slow where the river met the ocean, flowing against the incoming tide, and perhaps it would be shallower, so I traipsed along the beach, realising that in all likelihood I was going to get wetter than I’d planned to. Why I’d absentmindedly not thought to put on swim wear when visiting a beach will remain a mystery.

When I eventually made it back to Towanda!, a little sodden and in need of drying, I felt exhausted. The day was proving quite stressful.
I’d already picked out a free campsite for the night at the Pallinup River, so I decided I would make my way there. The sooner I got there, I thought, the sooner I could settle down and relax. It was only a forty-minute drive, so it’d still be mid-afternoon by the time I arrived.

I knew as soon as I pulled off the main road into the roadside rest area alongside the river that I couldn’t stay there.
It was deserted, and while other people would likely arrive and park up for the evening, I had a sudden overwhelming sense of isolation.
There was still plenty of light left in the day, so I decided I would carry on along the South Coast Highway towards Albany and find an alternative site to park up.

I knew as soon as I pulled off the main road into the car park of a community centre that permitted overnight camping that I couldn’t stay there either. Again, it was deserted and vaguely unsettling.
Albany wasn’t that much further. I already had a couple of nights booked at a campsite from the following evening, so I’d just see if I could book somewhere for tonight too. The only problem being I’d have to wait until I was in Albany itself, as there was no phone signal.

By the time I arrived in Albany it was 4:00 p.m. and I was starting to get a bit jittery about where I was going to stay as my plans had been left in the dust some way back.
A quick Google search and attempts to book at some of the local campsites proved unsuccessful. I had one other option. I was nervous because it was first come first served, and I started to worry there might not be any spaces left by the time I arrived.

Cosy Corner Campground was just under a thirty minute drive from Albany.
You pay $15 at a meter like a car park and then find a spot. Luckily — and with great relief — when I arrived (after doing two circuits of the site because I missed the spot on the first go-around), I found there was one space left. As the campsite name suggests, it was indeed quite cosy. The space was nestled between two other campervans on either side. One of them came with an awning and their own outhouse and probably actually took up two spaces.

When I opened the door to get out of Towanda!, I was greeted by the cheerful yapping of two Jack Russells who were instantly keen for me to become their new best friend and throw their balls for them.
Their owner was keen for them not to be a nuisance, but I smiled and reassured him that they weren’t a bother.

I’m not sure what it was about me — perhaps I looked a little dishevelled or had stress etched across my face — but he clearly thought I was unprepared for this camping malarkey. He very kindly offered me a spare camping chair to use. I must have looked like I needed to take a seat.
I politely declined, as I did actually have a camping chair in Towanda!
Bloody cheek, I thought.
I’d already driven thousands of kilometres and spent over two weeks travelling across Western Australia. I mean, I was practically an expert in camping — of course I’d have my own camping chair.

Irritated, I decided I probably needed an early night and that tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, I’d return to Albany.

Whether it’s the enthusiastic waves exchanged with other travellers in vans branded with the same rental company’s logo, connected for the briefest of moments, by the promise of adventure and an unspoken “me too!” before passing each other in a blur on opposite sides of the road.

There are the fleeting exchanges at tourist spots, perhaps offering, “Would you like me to take a photo of you?” and having the favour returned. Silently praying, first, that this stranger is actually good at taking photos and, second, that they don’t inadvertently swipe through your previous photos and see something they weren’t prepared for.

There are the ‘taps’ and ‘woofs’ on the apps from men hundreds of kilometres away because, unless you’re in Perth, you might as well be in the remote outback. It’s slim pickings. Unless of course you’re keen on faceless blank profiles, straight-but-curious twinks, or men with a FIFO schedule to work around. (‘Fly In Fly Out’ workers who fly in to remote locations in Australia for a set number of days before flying out again. Not particularly useful for someone just passing through.)

And then there are the times you connect with a married man and help unburden him of boredom and frustration while kneeling on the floor of a campsite shower cubicle. But there I go, getting ahead (excuse the pun) of myself again. There’s a way to go before that happens.

Ahem… even writing this is a way of connecting. Connecting with friends, with family and with strangers who’ve stumbled upon these ramblings and, hopefully, chosen to stay a while.

Speaking of ramblings, last time, there was much turmoil and many tears, but I didn’t let that stop me from moving forward. And what better place to move on to than a town with hope literally in its name?

Hopetoun is a two hour drive from Esperance.

Once the site of a nickel mine that operated on and off between 2008 and 2024 and also the gateway town to the Fitzgerald River National Park, Hopetoun has every right to be a booming tourist destination. Instead, it sits seemingly overlooked, quietly unassuming and patient, as if waiting for its revival moment. One it certainly deserves, should it come.

It was late morning when I arrived. The sun was high in the sky, rapidly approaching lunchtime.

The high street was almost blink-and-you’ll-miss-it: a bakery, a supermarket, a café, a hotel with a restaurant, a church, and a couple of estate agents—which seemed curious, given the size of the town. At the end of the main street was a small car park tucked along the foreshore, in front of a large, flat, red dirt covered breakwater known as the Hopetoun Groyne. (It’s just begging to be commented on, but I’ll resist the urge to be childish.) Boats and watercraft could be launched from there.

Stationed in the car park was a small caravan emblazoned with ‘Salty Sips Co.’ and a cartoon fisherman. They served hot drinks and snacks. The fact that Salty Sips was serving near the Groyne is deliciously amusing and probably says a lot about my sense of humour.

I immediately took a liking to Hopetoun. So much so that I wondered if I should stay an extra night. While I mulled over the idea, I drove Towanda! around to kill time before check-in at the campsite I’d booked.

There had actually once been a free camping site in Hopetoun, but it was shut down due to complaints about the detritus left behind, including by all accounts, human fouling. A terrible shame, really, that a few ruined it for the rest.

Passing the entrance to the campsite, I turned left and followed the road until Towanda! couldn’t go any further. We had reached another car park at a dead end. A path stretched out from the edge of the lot, leading toward what I assumed was the beach, so I decided to take a look.

The flat path wound gently away from the car park until it reached wooden steps that descended to the beach. Like the car park, the beach was completely deserted. I stood atop the stairs, looking up and down the empty shoreline and felt a mischievous impulse take hold.

There had been few places on my journey so far that were this devoid of people.

I slipped off my trainers and socks.

I glanced back toward the car park, trying to hear over the noise of the sea.

I reckoned I had time.

I slipped out of my t-shirt and shorts.

Propping up my phone and setting the camera’s ten-second timer, I pulled down my briefs, flung them with reckless foolery onto the pile of my clothes and pressed the button.

I hastily posed, leaning over the wooden railing, looking out to sea, as my bare ass became the focal point of the shot.

I counted in my head, and once confident the photo had been taken, I rushed back to my clothes and pulled on my underwear and shorts.

I’m not a natural when it comes to being a naturist. But every now and again it’s nice to feel the breeze against your bollocks.

It was still all clear.

Did I have time for a couple more?

Usually any pictures I do take of myself are heavily curated. Especially any I intend to post on social media. I will have taken umpteen versions of a photo until by chance I happen upon one where I feel happy with how I look. And that’s just a selfie. Imagine the consideration if my fleshy bits are going to be oggled at. The angle. The lighting. The pose. They all need to be just right.

So it went, until I was satisfied my nakedness had been captured enough.

Oh look, is that the time? It was time to check in.

I’d decided to wait until I was checked in before committing to a second night. I wanted to get a feel for the site before staying any longer than necessary incase it proved a bit glum.

The campsite, situated right next to the beach, was a little rough around the edges but had a friendly, welcoming charm. Some caravans looked older than I was, extended with makeshift lean-tos, giving the impression of a permanent residence.

Inside the office, a short woman with black hair was fussing behind the desk, speaking on the phone in a strong northern British accent. I distracted myself looking around the office walls as she proceeded to take payment details from the caller aloud over speaker phone.

Card number. Expiry date. Three digits on the back.

If only I had an eidetic memory, I’d have been able to enjoy a little online shopping spree.

I noticed a frame on the wall filled with thank you cards from previous guests, pictures of local birdlife, and I stared wide eyed mildly alarmed at, the desiccated remains of three sea dragons. Three more sat propped along the top edge of the frame and a further two were displayed along with a couple of shells on a small shelf at the base of the frame.

“Hi there! How can I help?”

I tore my gaze away from the spectacle and focused on the woman, who had finished her call and was ready to check me in.

I gulped.

Thankfully, she was a delight. Phew. The dead wildlife was starting to give me ‘Wrong Turn’ vibes.

During our introduction, she suggested I check out the National Park. “It’s not far,” she said. “In fact, I had my house built on the way out there. It’s only about six minutes away.”

“I built it on stilts for the view,” she added, chuckling. “And to get away from the snakes.”

Then she shrugged. “I didn’t realise snakes could climb!”

I made a mental note to watch where I stepped very carefully.

By the time I found my designated spot and parked Towanda!, I’d decided I would stay a second night. I marched back to the office to ask if that was possible. I was told, enthusiastically, that I was in luck. Payment was taken. Just a tap of my phone. No risk of eavesdroppers stealing my card details.

The next morning, after a stroll along the beach, I wandered over to Salty Sips Co. for a drink and who should pop her head up in the serving hatch but the same lady from the campsite. It was remiss of me, really—I never got her name. We chuckled and I wondered where else she might pop up.

I spent the next few days idling around Hopetoun. I did indeed visit Fitzgerald River National Park, as she’d suggested. The views from East Mount Barren were spectacular, and the various bays, such as West Beach, were extraordinary. At West Beach, the rocks literally sparkled, a geological phenomenon caused by their unique composition.

I enjoyed a couple of beers in the rear garden of the Port Hotel as the sun dipped low in the evening sky. I was almost surprised, and a little disappointed, not to be served by the campsite lady again.

The hotel stood proudly opposite the seafront and had been operating since 1901, when Hopetoun was a busy port. It’s hard to imagine the town bustling with activity compared to its current relaxed pace. Originally a single storey building, a second storey was added to the hotel in 1907. As is typical of Australian architecture, it featured a veranda so guests could enjoy ocean views from their rooms.

Popular with both locals and tourists, or perhaps simply because options were limited, it was reasonably busy during my visit.

Inside the bar, one of the regulars was being cut off by the bartender. He was in a wheelchair, his hair unkempt, his speech slurred. But he didn’t protest. Resigned to the fact his evening was coming to an end he just accepted the decision with a shrug. I can’t imagine such a calm exchange in a British pub. Not a single swear word uttered. No threats. No broken glass.

I’d see him again on the day I left Hopetoun. After a blissful couple of days, I was pulling out of the car park near the Groyne. I’d picked up a farewell drink, along with a little treat for myself: a trucker’s cap with the Salty Sips Co. logo, to add to my collection of caps back home.

I glanced up into the rear-view mirror just as I was pulling out and there he was. The man in the wheelchair, zigzagging across the centre line of the street, beaming a wide smile and lost in his own giddily happy thoughts.

I bid a silent, fond farewell to the town and mused what a happy place Hopetoun was. And with that, Towanda! and I rolled on, the open road ahead once more.

I stood stooped in the cage. My fingers entwined the metal mesh of the gate, knuckles white. I rattled it to test it again.
It was locked. I was trapped.

I scanned the space I was confined to. The floor was a large, flat slab of stained concrete. The back and side walls were built solidly from breeze blocks. The remaining two walls reached up to my shoulders with the same blocks, and the rest of the cage’s height and its roof was constructed out of thick metal wire mesh.
There was no way in or out other than the gate, now locked with a heavy metal bolt from the outside.

Now, before you get carried away and think this sounds like the start of a good night at a fetish party — I was about ten years old. It was over a decade before I’d start to dabble with the kinkier side of my sexuality.

My father had taken me to visit my grandmother, who worked in a burger van parked at a scrapyard. After being treated to a hot dog, thankfully with no burnt, limp onions (yuck!), I left the adults to chat amongst themselves and wandered off to explore.

I strolled along the edge of the car park, weaving in and out of parked cars, toward the main entrance of the yard. I don’t recall ever actually setting foot inside. I imagine I’d been warned plenty of times about the dangers. Accidentally being crushed to death was not on my to-do list, nor was being skewered by a forklift.

So instead, I stuck harmlessly to wandering the perimeter, within shouting distance if my dad called me. That’s when I stumbled upon the unused dog kennel.

If you’re thinking I’d been thrown into the cage as punishment to be taught a lesson, alas, I must relieve you of that misconception.
As a child with a wild imagination (which is very useful for roleplay) who threw himself into vivid make-believe adventures, I simply snared myself in a trap. Slamming the gate behind me, the sheer force jostled the lock into place.

I thought of calling out, but embarrassment was my undoing and I wasn’t in the mood to give my dad another reason to be exasperated.
I’d got myself into this situation; I’d have to get myself out of it.

I tried as hard as I could to reach the bolt with my fingers, stretching and twisting, but the awkward angle left it just out of reach. I lost track of how long I was there, lost in my hopeless task.
I rattled the gate again in frustration.

There was another feeling too. I could feel a warmth spread through me. It fizzled and popped. The spark of something that was a long way off from igniting.

And then someone else was there.

I may have romanticised this next moment in the deep core of my memory — imagining the man’s stoic silhouette, the sun blazing behind him as he loomed over me on the other side of the gate.

“Are you ok?”

My eyes flickered in the glare. I nodded and gave my faceless rescuer a shy smile. I stumbled over my words as I explained my predicament.

With a flick of his wrist, the bolt snapped back and the kennel gate swung open.

I thanked him meekly and pushed past him. As I dashed away, I heard him offer to come with me to make sure I was ok, but I waved over my shoulder to reassure him I was fine.

By the time I reached the burger van and my dad, I felt guilt-ridden as if I’d done something wrong and I was nervous that my hero would follow me and expose me. He didn’t.

The warmth had flickered out.

But the memory of it has long remained. It wasn’t sexual. Perhaps it was the thrill of danger, the feeling of being confined and restricted. In that moment, my care and ultimately my freedom had been surrendered to the man’s control.

Have you ever looked back at a moment from your childhood and you could see the start of a thread that was waiting to be pulled on and unraveled?

This was years before I could even name the curiosity I had toward other boys.

Longer still before I was introduced to the abundance of fetishes to titillate and experiment with. Like the time I obediently succumbed to the control of a Master in a long-distance relationship. It was my cock that was caged that time, during the periods we were unable to be together.

Now, as I get older and have the ability to connect with like-minded folk through social media, I’m able to embrace these kinks without shame threatening to stifle me.

Still, being me, there’s always a bit of awkwardness about whether I’ll fit in, particularly within the subcultures of the gay community. But I’ll continue to explore and discover new turn-ons.

Especially to find new ways that I can be a good boy.

That reminds me…ruff!

I’m taking this detour as the journey is about to get a little bumpy, so please buckle up.

I’ve arrived in Esperance, the furthest point on the south coast that I’d planned travelling to in Towanda! before edging my way west along the coastline back up towards Perth.

Esperance is about 705 km from Perth by its quickest route.
Taking the Albany Highway from Perth for around 188 km, I turned off to head for a town called Wagin, where my mum insisted I go see the Giant Ram. It’s listed as ‘one of the town’s major attractions’ and stands seven metres high and fifteen metres long. Hopefully, by this point, you’ve realised that the Giant Ram is not a living, breathing bovid. The Giant Ram, affectionately named ‘Bart’ was built in 1985.

I stopped and visited him for all of a couple of minutes. He’s particularly grumpy looking despite his status as a big attraction with tourists flocking to see him. (Do you see what I did there?)

Ahem… anyway, apparently Bart is not alone, as there is a network of ‘Big Things’ across Australia, including a Giant Koala, a Big Penguin, a Big Banana, a Big Pineapple, and, not forgetting, a Big Potato.

I already knew I was going to split the journey to Esperance in two, so I spent the night at a free campsite called Jam Patch. It was an area of bushland near Lake Grace, so named because of the Jam Trees that grow there, and not, as one might imagine, a vast allotment of wild fruit ready to become jarred preserves.

It was as I left Jam Patch the following morning to start the four-hour drive to Esperance that I felt the heaviness of a dark cloud weighing down on me.
In reality, the sun was up and warming my skin through the windscreen as I steered Towanda! down long stretches of asphalt.
The scenery switched dramatically between lush, undulating hillsides and scrubland, passing partially dry salt lakes.

There were brief breaks in my dark cloud too. Moments when I thought perhaps the universe was showing me I was on the right road. Metaphorically speaking, rather than physically.
Although there was no phone signal, I was pretty confident I was going in the right direction. Straight ahead was the only option. There were unsealed turn-offs, red dirt tracks that disappeared around bends into the bush, but I kept going. The road stretching out ahead of us.

The surrounding area flattened out and, on either side of the road, we were surrounded by bodies of water. I suspect in the heat of summer this landscape becomes very dry and barren.
In the distance, I saw a small single-winged propeller plane flying low before rising into the air and circling. As Towanda! drew closer to where the plane had been performing its aerobatics, I lost sight of it. The roadside became denser with trees and then, all of a sudden, the plane was gliding directly above us. I looked up to see the underbelly of the plane skimming the air just above the trees.

For a moment, I thought it was going to try and land on the road. That would probably have been a new one for the rental company. I’m sure it’s not every day someone tries to use the excuse that damage to a campervan was caused by a plane falling out of the sky on top of it.

The plane soared above the trees, then banked right, disappearing once again out of my field of vision.

It was exhilarating to see, and I marvelled that if I hadn’t been on the road at that exact moment, I would have missed it. I smiled.

A little while later, as if the universe felt I needed further encouragement — but with a little less subtlety — I drove past a road sign. Upon seeing it, I quickly pulled Towanda! over to the side of the road.

Hayes Rd.

My surname is not uncommon, but it’s always fun to see your name out in the wild when you least expect it.

A literal sign from the universe to keep going.

By the time I arrived in Esperance, around lunchtime, there were actual grey clouds in the sky. The weather down south is typically cooler, and it’s the middle of spring, so warm, sunny days couldn’t be guaranteed.

However, with a low mood already, my first sight of Esperance felt so… anticlimactic.
Similar to Geraldton, monolithic industrial structures at the port loomed over the foreshore and the town. It was not how I’d imagined it — not the beautiful turquoise waters and white sand beaches I’d seen on social media. It felt so underwhelming. I’d driven all that way for this?

That’s when I broke down and cried.

Before I go any further it wasn’t really about Esperance. It’s a perfectly lovely seaside town.
The esplanade along the foreshore is beautifully kept and manicured. Trees and hedgerows border landscaped lawns with plenty of seating to look out over the bay. A steel and concrete jetty curves away from the shore into the waves.
So, if anyone who lives in Esperance ever reads this, please don’t take offence. Your town did not cause me to ugly cry.

Not to be all melancholy, but the truth is I’ve felt sad for longer than I probably care to admit. That’s what made me ugly cry. Tears rolling down my cheeks as I sat in the front seat of Towanda!
Passing onlookers would have wondered what on earth had happened to the poor wretch sobbing in the battered old campervan.
It felt like, in that moment, every emotion that had been steadily simmering for months — perhaps years — suddenly boiled up in a maelstrom of sadness, fear, anxiety, anger and grief.
I felt like I wasn’t good enough.
I doubted every decision I’d made that led me here.
I grieved over my failed marriage, dead pets, failed relationships, the loss of my dad.
I’ve laughed it off many times, but the alternative was to be consumed by it and now here I was, succumbing to it all and being overwhelmed. I guess there’s no time limit on grief, despite wishing it had long since expired.

For two years I lived alone in my flat in Birmingham, trying to build a new life after a break-up.
But actually, I’d shut myself away. I rarely went out or saw anyone beyond my closest circle of friends (the few that remained), my boyfriend (it’s complicated), or my work colleagues (who get paid to be in the same office as me, so they really had a fairly little choice in the matter).
It was mostly self-inflicted, but I was lonely.
The time came when I knew I had to take drastic action to shake things up. I didn’t want to continue feeling like I was sitting in a state of limbo, waiting — waiting for what, I had no clue.
My tenancy was coming to an end and, instead of renewing it or finding a new place to live, I decided to take a pause. Travel. That was the answer. As I’d been reminded on more than one occasion, life was too short. I felt I needed an escape. From my life, perhaps from myself.

The irony only occurred to me, though, as I arrived in the town of Esperance: I was still alone. I had just replaced my one-bedroom flat with the confines of a campervan, thousands of miles away, where I knew even fewer people.

Sigh.

I’m sure you weren’t quite expecting this verbal word vomit when you started reading this.

As it turns out, less than an hour’s drive from Esperance town centre are the views I had pictured in my head. Although a little windier than I’d imagined.

After one night’s stay in the town centre, for most of which I was miserable, the following day I drove to Cape Le Grand National Park, where I’d booked a pitch next to the beach.

I was early, so I drove ten minutes further to Lucky Bay.
Explorer Matthew Flinders was aboard his ship, the HMS Investigator, in 1802, when he and his crew sought refuge from a storm. Feeling fortunate to have found shelter and weathered the storm in the bay, he named it “Lucky Bay.”

Now, as I watched the waves and listened to their thunderous applause against the shore, I felt my mood lift, tempered by the beautiful view.
Although I had on shorts, I also wore my hoodie and a jacket to fend off the bite of the breeze.
There were lots of visitors to the bay. Four-wheel drives were parked directly on the beach. There was even a matching campervan to Towanda! parked in the sand. I thought they were either brave or foolish, as there were clear warnings about only 4WDs going on the beach.
Despite the gusts that lashed across the sand, the sun was shining and the sea sparkled aquamarine.

The Cape Le Grand Beach campground is more unassuming than its ‘lucky’ neighbour. It’s a small site, with only fifteen pitches. Tucked away just off the visitor car park through a gate, it sits amongst bush and trees that act as a natural buffer from the winds. There’s a camp kitchen and, most surprisingly to me, flushing toilets. I’ve clearly become too accustomed to the fetid aroma of a long-drop.

Once I’d parked Towanda!, I followed a trail from our pitch through the dunes onto the beach to find there was no one about. Despite most of the camping pitches being filled, the beach was deserted or so I thought. As I wandered along the sand, which was covered in mounds of dry brittle seaweed, I was caught by surprise when I glanced across the beach to see two kangaroos bouncing along the edge of a stream that flowed out from amongst the dunes, meandering a path towards the ocean. After a moment, the kangaroos, one after the other, splashed through the water, jumping great strides onto the bank where they joined others foraging amongst the bushes.

I dared not get too close, but I watched them for a good while.

All the worries I had momentarily slipped away. I forgot, for a while, any regrets I had.

I bumped into the mob of roos again — almost literally — later, as the sun was setting and I’d climbed a bank behind Towanda! to get a flicker of phone signal. As I spun around, arm outstretched, watching one bar of service flicker to two, there they were, rummaging in the undergrowth.
I was more startled than them. They barely seemed to acknowledge my presence, their ears simply twitching. They clearly decided I was no threat. They were no doubt quite familiar with pesky, tailless intruders like me.

I saw them again in the morning too as I was enjoying a cup of tea. I wondered if they had been there all night.

It was just me and them.
Not quite the company I’d imagined, but I’d take it.
I held onto the fact that these were the experiences that would make this trip worthwhile — the unexpected and unplanned moments. This was why I was here.

My mind wandered back to the question I couldn’t shake: what was I going to do when I got back to the U.K.?
I realised…I was bloody homesick.
For a place I’d never really given the chance to feel like home.
For people I’d kept at arm’s length and never really given the chance for deeper friendships to develop, because it was easier to keep myself to myself.

Well fuck!

Fuck! Fuck! Fuckerty fuck!

What was I going to do about that?

A few very important things have become very apparent to me.

Firstly, you can never underestimate how useful a wet wipe is. I think my mum thought I’d gone a bit overboard when I went shopping before the road trip started. Wet wipes for cleaning surfaces. Wet wipes for freshening up — very much needed when you don’t have access to shower facilities for days on end. And not to forget moisturising wet wipes — you never know when a gentle touch is required, depending on how abrasive the paper in public toilets is. My buttocks need to look their best for all of those NSFW social media posts.

Next, when planning future trips, always remember to check when children break up for school holidays.
It just so happens in Western Australia, that has occurred at the exact same time as the first two weeks of my road trip. It also happens that every family in Western Australia has decided a camping trip would be ideal for spending quality time together.
And yes, I begrudge each and every one of them the opportunity to make happy memories.

I guess I wasn’t expecting quite so many tourists everywhere I went. No, the irony that I’m one of those tourists is not lost on me.
It would also prove a hindrance when looking to book campsites — which I’ll come back to later.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I have no idea what I’m doing.
This one isn’t exclusive to this trip but more a general rule in life.
You may find it hard to believe because in other aspects of my life I’m so organised, almost to the point of obsessiveness but the exact details of this trip were not thought out, other than a vague idea of where I wanted to go. I’m literally making up the rest as I go along.
Much in the same way as I do day to day back home in the U.K.

I envy those people who are able to meticulously plan what they want to achieve and where they want to end up in life. Meanwhile, it’s as if I have a physical repulsion to planning beyond the foreseeable future.
Which is quite the contradiction, when all that plays on my mind in the quiet moments of solo travel is ‘What am I actually going to do when I get back to the U.K.?’

I’m homeless. But I’m technically not jobless, which is a small win, given the fact I hit pause on my life in the U.K. because of a compulsion that I needed to travel.
A compulsion which has led me to the bed in the back of a Toyota Hiace campervan nicknamed Towanda! — from which I write this now.

“Undiagnosed, but there’s definitely something wrong.”
Someone once uttered that to me. Not about me directly, I hasten to add — if that’s what you were thinking. Rude! But I did think, jokingly, that it’d be a great title for an autobiography. Perhaps there was never a truer word spoken.

Oh well, worry not — Towanda! and I are not about to go all Thelma and Louise and prematurely end our road trip in a fiery blaze of glory. Well, technically theirs ended in a police chase and then a freeze frame. I’ll try and avoid committing a felony and turning Towanda! into my getaway vehicle.

Anyway, there’s still plenty of kilometres to go, and perhaps the answers to my questions about what happens after this adventure ends will come to me over the intervening journey.

So where did Towanda! and I end up next?

I’d spent a couple of days relaxing by Lake Indoon.
Although people had arrived to enjoy the sunny, tranquil spot, their numbers never felt overwhelming. They arrived towing boats and jet skis. Adults cheered from the shoreline as their kids were dragged across the surface of the lake on inflatables, the boats trying to shake them free.
Everyone laughed and squealed as they were flung into the water.

Every now and again, the shrill squabbling of siblings was a little too close for comfort. There was plenty of space further along the shoreline — why did they need to do it right in front of my pitch? I gritted my teeth and tried to tune them out.

It was time to continue my journey north.

Towanda! and I drove 157 km further up the Indian Ocean Drive to a city called Geraldton.
And just so you know, the sea views along this second stretch of the route were much more agreeable than when I drove between Perth and Jurien Bay.

Geraldton is a port city and the second largest in Australia for exporting wheat. That much is evident from the massive silos and industrial structures that sit prominently overlooking the bay — and within easy walking distance to the shops and cafes in the city centre.
On the ocean horizon, there was a queue of vessels incoming, ready to transport cargo to far off destinations such as Asia.

Having left Towanda! parked at the seafront under some shade, I had a leisurely amble around the town and found a nice little spot for lunch.
Having chatted with my mum about Geraldton, there was mention of a lighthouse, so by the time the two hour parking slot was up, I was driving Towanda! a few minutes down the road to Point Moore Lighthouse.

The red and white candy-striped structure has the accolade of being “the first all-steel tower built on the mainland of Australia.” Bringing you all the facts! You never know if that titbit will come up in a pub quiz, but if it does — now you’ll have the answer. You’re welcome.

Disappointingly, it’s not open to the public — which I didn’t realise until I got there — so after looking up at it with mild amusement from the car park for a couple of minutes and taking some obligatory photos, I decided to make my way to Drummond Cove, a little way down the road, where I’d be camping for the night.

When I arrived, I was greeted warmly by a stout woman with long white-blond hair. I noticed her hands and arms were covered in plasters that barely concealed the scratches and wounds that marked them. A moment of hesitation passed as I wondered if I needed to be wary of the local wildlife. Camp here at your own risk!

“You can take your pick of which pitch you’d like, but you’ve got the best view,” she enthusiastically informed me, coming around from the reception desk to point out of the floor-to-ceiling window.
Beyond the glass stretched out a lawn where you could easily have parked Towanda! ten times over.

The site was perched high above the beach, with a downhill stroll towards the dunes. From the camp’s vantage point, you could see the ocean just beyond.

“I’ll take the pitch at the far end,” I replied conspiratorially. “That way no one can come along and block my view.”

She chuckled and handed me a set of keys for the toilet and shower block.
The site had all the amenities you’d need for an overnight stay while passing through. I’m not sure you’d want to stay any longer than that.

I parked Towanda! so that when I opened her side door in the morning, I’d be greeted with a view out over the sea.

I’m sure the camp details online said the beach was within walking distance. The vagueness of how far the walk was should have raised a red flag.
The sun was high in the afternoon sky. But the walk looked manageable. All you had to do was follow the signs and arrows to “The Beach.”

And that, I would come to realise, was my first mistake.
I’m not sure how long the signs had been up — or indeed, how long it had actually been since anyone had attempted to reach the beach.

My second mistake: setting off dressed like someone going for a casual stroll, rather than someone prepared for a full wilderness hike. My flip-flops were not ready for the strain I was about to put them through.

Descending the hill was fairly straightforward.
Problems arose when I reached a large “To the Beach” sign directing unwitting beach-seekers to the left.
I followed the path along the base of the dunes. The dunes were thick with scrub and bush at this level, so I kept my eye out for a path leading upwards.

After five minutes I reached a fence and couldn’t go any further. But that’s okay — because there was another helpful sign pointing me “To the Beach.”
In the direction I had just come. WTF?
The weathered sign’s big black arrow taunted me.

I retraced my steps, muttering and cursing, being even more vigilant, looking for any sign of a path I’d overlooked.
I was almost back to the first sign when, amongst the thicket, I spotted a signpost tucked in the overgrowth. The lettering was worn and difficult to read, but it was pointing to an overgrown incline.

It was clearly not a well-traversed path. Other campers were clearly not as foolhardy to even bother.
I’d come this far. I’d felt tense and a little bothered all day. I was determined to see the beach.

I’ve always loved the sea. I find it immensely calming. On holidays, I can happily bob about in the water for hours — identifiable from shore by the sheer whiteness of my mass, slathered in factor 50, floating without a care in the world.

It has to be said, I don’t necessarily have the same urge to take a dip in Britain. I’ve always found it less appealing — perhaps wrongly so — but either the temperature of the water is going to cause mild hypothermia and it’ll take a week to extract my scrotum from its internal cavity, or the contamination is going to cause a nasty, mucousy aftertaste that lingers long after I’ve left.
But I still enjoy watching and listening to the waves slam against the shore, and there’s something extremely satisfying about enjoying a portion of chips on a soggy day looking out to sea.

For completely different reasons, Australian waters come with their own hazard warnings: sharks, jellyfish, blue-ringed octopuses.
It does feel a little less carefree too.
But it’ll be fine, I thought. I’ll just splash around the shallows like a flailing fish.

Taking cautious steps, I started my ascent, trying my best to navigate a route that would result in as little damage to my ankles and legs as possible.
By the time I crested the top of the dune, I was a hot, sweaty mess, having narrowly avoided death by multiple tiny sharp pricks.

My heart sank.

There was another bloody hill. I’d been duped by a trick of the eye from the campsite’s vantage point.

I swore.
For anyone who knows me, that will not be a surprise. The profanities spewed forth from me like Regan vomiting pea soup and in need of an exorcist. I was fully possessed.

And then I admitted defeat.

This was a task better started earlier in the day — when you had time to recover from the trek and rest ahead of the return journey. It was not a spur-of-the-moment undertaking for an afternoon outing.

So I returned to camp.
Anyone watching would have seen me re-emerge at the campsite, my dad bod heaving and gasping with the exertion of my failed excursion.

Looking on the bright side: hopefully I’ll return from my travels a little lighter around the belly.

Since I stayed, a ‘Temporary Closure’ notice has appeared on the website as they “undergo essential infrastructure upgrades and a comprehensive site assessment.”

I would suggest moving the site closer to the beach — or, as that’s probably not a realistic option, perhaps they could just trim a bush or two.

The following day I moved on to Kalbarri which is 154 km from Geraldton
This resort town is the big spoon to the Murchison River’s little spoon. The town sits nestled at the mouth of the river as it joins the Indian Ocean.

Because of the dastardly school holidays, every campsite nearby was full. So I’d already decided I would pitch up for the night at a rest stop by Galena Bridge, which was just under an hour away from Kalbarri.
It was actually convenient to do that, as it was heading in the right direction toward Monkey Mia, where I had managed to book a night’s stay the following evening.

I finally got to spend a little while paddling. It seemed safe enough to do so — on account of there being lots of children thrashing about further along.
I’m sure they’d look like a more appetising target for anything nefarious that might have lurked in the deeper waters.

Further out, kite surfers sharply twisted and turned across the surface of the water, riding gusts of wind that propelled them forward.

After lunch, I decided to go and look at a window.
Before you think I’ve lost the plot more than you already do — Nature’s Window is a natural attraction found in Kalbarri National Park. It frames views of the Murchison River.

Yes, more rocks. The geologists will be clapping with glee.

On this occasion, it was formed by wind erosion on sandstone.
And I think the National Park missed a trick. The window is not square-shaped as you might expect but, in my opinion, resembles the shape of a platypus’s head. Take a look for yourself — once you see it, you’ll be unable to unsee it.
Maybe they should consider a rebrand. Although, based on the traffic and number of visitors, I think they’re doing brisk enough business without my marketing suggestions.

From the entrance gate — where you pay $17 (and I still wonder why National Parks don’t just round it up to $20) — it’s nearly a 30 km drive along a road that cuts through flat bushland, dotted with plants bearing names like Flannel Bush, Wattle, and — a personal favourite — Pink Poker. The anticipation builds the whole way, leading up to the much-anticipated ‘Platypus Head Window.’ (Admittedly, the new name might need some work.)

As soon as I climbed down out of Towanda!, the flies were relentless.

You take a flight of stairs and follow a path for 500 metres or so. Then you’re freely allowed to scurry and clamber over the rock face. There are no safety barriers, just well-placed arrows pointing you in the direction of the window.
They’ll certainly help break your fall if you tumble over the edge. Phew. Glad they’re there.

The views though were stunning. You looked out across a vast canyon, the Murchison River winding its way below.

I was bemused to lift myself over the red sandstone rocks to find people queuing — presumably to take a photograph through the window.
Whilst there was no official time limit allotted, in my opinion, some people seemed to be taking liberties. There were full photo shoots taking place.
I was surprised someone didn’t emerge from behind a pile of rocks pulling a clothes rail with them.

The heat beat down.
The flies continued to be relentless.
I was slowly being driven mad.

We were surrounded by the most marvellous of spectacles — panoramic views of natural beauty.
“Why are you all queuing?!” I wanted to scream at them, but didn’t, so as to avoid making a spectacle of myself.

Instead, a fly darted into my mouth, hit the back of my throat and escaped before I had the chance to accidentally swallow it.
I spluttered. I huffed.

I wanted to toss a few people off the edge of the rock face. That would certainly shorten the queue.

I didn’t get a picture through the window. I didn’t need it. I’d already taken plenty, standing in awe, looking out from my perch.

So in haste — to escape the people surrounding me as much as the black cloud swarming us — I retreated back to Towanda!, using my cap to swat at the pesky buggers as well as the flies as I went.

That night I parked up at Galena Bridge. Just off the highway, the camp area straddles either side of the river.
There were plenty of other vehicles and campervans parked up, but the site was large, and there was lots of space so you didn’t feel crowded in. Most of it all it felt safe.

I parked Towanda! along the edge so we could look out through the grass dancing in the light breeze and beyond the trees to the water.

The amenities were basic — but it was free. I used the long-drop toilets once and held my breath so as not to be overwhelmed by the smell.
The bucket toilet I’d packed in Towanda! was going to get plenty of use.

Tomorrow I would be heading for the turquoise waters of Denham and Monkey Mia, and hopefully would get the chance to become acquainted with some dolphins.
I slept soundly that night, thinking of the adventures still to come.

1 recovering sphincter

1 campervan

15,845 km

Body count 7*

*No kangaroos were harmed in the making of this newsletter. They were definitely dead already.

Ah, I see you’ve come back for more! You’re either gluttons for punishment or you’re finding my adventures rather enthralling. Let’s go with the latter, shall we?

When we last left off, I was escaping Bangkok to head to Perth after being rather rudely violated on a massage table.

I landed in Perth with little fuss and spent two weeks in the company of my mum and her husband, convalescing.
It had been three years since I last saw her, and this was to be under much happier circumstances. My father’s death being the reason for my last trip down under.

Let me just jump in and mention — for anyone thinking “Blimey, Burty’s mum got over the dead husband quickly and remarried” — they had, in fact, been divorced for many years beforehand.

Having spent lovely quality time with my mum, the next part of my adventure was about to begin.
I had decided to rent a campervan to explore Western Australia in a way I’d never done on my previous visits.

The day arrived to hit the road, and I collected the campervan from a company called Travellers Autobarn.

Whilst waiting to be seen, a young English woman, who I later learned was called Abigail, was serving a young couple also from the United Kingdom. As she sorted out their paperwork, making sure everything was in order, they regaled her with their plans. The gasp she let out was audible even from the opposite side of the long room where I sat patiently waiting my turn.

The couple, in their enthusiasm and gusto, had rented their campervan for four weeks like me. However, their plans were far more elaborate: practically circumnavigating the continent. From Perth, down along the south coast to Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney, and then up the east coast to Cairns. Without the foggiest clue how far that actually is, I didn’t need to do any mental arithmetic to know it was a very, very, long way.

Abigail smiled meekly and politely gave them details of how they could extend their rental should they wish to.
She looked at me.
They’d definitely need to.

Trying not to blow my entire travel budget on something too fancy, I’d opted for their cheapest vehicle.
Abigail presented it to me, and I looked on adoringly.
At the campervan, not at Abigail. That would have been awkward.
The campervan was a little battered, weathered, and worn, but it’d be a cosy home away from home for the next four weeks. I hoped. Especially once I adorned it with a few personal touches I’d picked up ahead of collecting it.

Back at Mum’s, I gave the campervan a bit of a wipe down and loaded it with new bedding. My mum also helpfully provided me with a camping chair, some tea towels and some bath towels too. I’d already been shopping for groceries, so by the time I waved goodbye and set off, the campervan was well stocked with everything I needed.

I should mention that it’s only as I write this that I’ve decided what name the campervan should be christened. I’d already had a few suggestions, such as Priscilla. But without a drag queen onboard — or even a pair of high heels to strut around in — Priscilla should rightly remain a film icon.

However, I’ve been inspired by another icon of the big screen: Kathy Bates.

So let me introduce you to…Towanda!

The exclamation point is very important. From here on out she’ll always be referred to in future mentions as if I’m shouting at you. Towanda!

So please feel free to shout Towanda! right back.

If you don’t know the reference, stop what you’re doing immediately and go watch Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. It’s one of my favourite movies.
In the film, “Towanda!” was the fierce alter ego adopted by the central characters to overcome adversity. Hopefully there won’t be too much adversity on this road trip — but always worth having the battle cry ready, just in case.

Anyway, Towanda! carrying the weight of her cargo along with my expectations for adventure, clunkily sped out of Perth and onto State Route 60, otherwise known as Indian Ocean Drive.

So, I do have a minor complaint. The aforementioned Indian Ocean Drive should be liable under false advertising. I’d imagined spectacular ocean views given the name, as I trundled along towards my first stop at Jurien Bay, 218km from Perth.
Imagine my disappointment when the ocean vistas I was craving were set way back from the road beyond scrub and bush. It seems a little short-sighted of the road planners, in my opinion.

There were vantage points dotted along the route that you could turn into, and there’s no dismissing how spectacular the sight of turquoise waters crashing against the craggy coastline is.
Perhaps the road planners purposely wanted to keep you away from the view whilst driving so that it wouldn’t be a distraction. Motorists have to be on high alert as it is, just to avoid kamikaze wildlife flinging themselves into the path of your oncoming metal bringer of death.

I didn’t imagine my first sighting of a kangaroo this trip would be of one slumped by the roadside. Nor the next. Its limbs splayed out, inviting the insects to feast. And the one after that. Its head missing — or at least mushed beyond resemblance.
And so it went. I stopped counting at seven.

Fun fact: the estimated population of kangaroos in Australia is approximately thirty-five million. That’s greater than the number of people, which is approximately twenty-seven million. So whilst the kangaroo population can afford to lose one, or two, or seven, I swear it’s only a matter of time before there’s an uprising and they retaliate for their fallen brethren. And rightly so, based on the carnage I had to bear witness to.

Because of the trauma of seeing so much roadkill, you can appreciate how elated I was the following day to actually see an upright marsupial going about its business. I whooped. Felt embarrassed by my outburst. Realised I was alone. Whooped again.

Anyway, I picked Jurien Bay as my first stop as it was only two and a half hours, give or take, from Perth. I didn’t want to push my luck on my first journey with Towanda! and wanted to get used to her quirks and make sure I was comfortable driving her.

Jurien Bay has a population of approximately 2000 people and is considered by one website as a ‘thriving’ community. That should give you an indication of how remote some of these towns are that a population like that is considered practically cosmopolitan.

I booked a campsite directly next to the beach and arrived late afternoon. I parked up, silently thanked Towanda! for getting us this far, and treated myself to a well-deserved celebratory cider and some nibbles at the cafe attached to the campsite. I watched the sun set sitting on the white sands of the beach and, as night crept closer, retreated back to Towanda! to settle in for the night.

And I slept. Better than I had expected too. Despite being 6’8ft, Towanda! had ample room, so I didn’t need to worry about future chiropractor appointments. Instead, I could stretch out with plenty of room to spare.

The following day I woke as usual about 6:30 a.m. and stayed cocooned in my blanket for a while. I’d already made plans for the day, so I leisurely got ready, making use of the site facilities. Showered and fresh, I was back on the road by 9:00 a.m.

I’d read about the Pinnacles Desert and was mildly intrigued.

I had to backtrack 40km or so the way I’d come the day before. The turnoff road to reach the Pinnacles wound through scrub, and it’s here that I encountered the kangaroo that was very much alive. Munching on prickly vegetation, it was unbothered by my sudden intrusion.

When I reached the entrance gate to the national park, I was greeted by a smiley young clerk who took great delight in delivering her well rehearsed welcome spiel.
The price of admission was $17.
To look at rocks.
I know — I thought the same. I’m assuming the charge goes towards helping preserve the flora and fauna, not just paying the electricity bill of the gallery and gift shop.
To be fair, the $17 was for a day pass.
Again, I know — I thought the same.
It’s definitely not worth spending a whole day, sorry to any geologists amongst us. However, I believe you could use the pass at other national park sites too.

Anyway, the reward for you, the paying visitor, is an abundance of erections.
Big rocks. Little rocks. Everything-in-between rocks. Which is exactly what I wrote in the guest book as I was leaving.

The Pinnacles rise from the yellow sand, creating an almost otherworldly landscape. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had — or in the future, will — appear in a sci-fi show as an alien world.
As well as a walking trail, there’s also a 4 km driving trail through the Pinnacles. There are places for you to stop your vehicle so you can get out.
Either way, you can stretch your legs and admire the rocks up close.
And I did. You’ve got to get your money’s worth after all.
Towanda! remained in the car park, where she was unlikely to get stuck on the unsealed track.

You’ll have to forgive me, but one thought that occurred to me wandering around was that it was probably lucky the national parks set up shop here first. Had the gays beaten them to it, it would be a site to rival the dunes of Maspalomas in Gran Canaria. Only problem: there are a lot fewer gays.
Anyway, sorry — sidetracked.

On my way out I popped into the gallery, which was more of a very small museum, giving a brief history of the area and summarising how the Pinnacles came to be. If you want the specifics, I’m sure there are far more reliable sources than myself, but it has something to do with ancient marine life, limescale deposits and erosion. Sorry again to the geologists.

I’d already picked out my next campsite for the night, which was only a forty-five-minute drive away from Jurien Bay.
So in the afternoon I headed over to make sure I got a good spot.
The campsite was only a donation of $5 a night, so I wasn’t expecting much.
But Lake Indoon was magical.

We’ll ignore the facilities, which were functional. I’ve seen too many scenes in horror movies, in very similar settings, that don’t end well for filler characters who come up against a masked psycho. I’m trying to give off main character energy here instead.

But the site itself was perched on the shore of the freshwater lake, and I was able to park up only metres away from the water.
A chorus of parrots and cockatoos trilled amongst the trees and occasionally swooped down to the clearing between Towanda! and the water. As I watched their playful chattering and listened to the water lapping against the shoreline, I wondered what I had to do tomorrow.
Nothing.
I breathed in the stillness.
I made the decision there and then to stay an extra night.

Sorry to break it to you quite so bluntly if you didn’t know.

But his death is probably as good a place to start as any. Particularly as it’s the catalyst for a number of decisions I’ve made of late.

(1985) Dad and I growing Sunflowers. They’ve been my favourites ever since.

So, a little backstory. Unfortunately, my relationship with my dad was the sort that is familiar to many little gay boys growing up. Our personalities were very mismatched. I was a gangly, ‘soft’ lad with a creative imagination who flirted with being OCD. I didn’t like mess or germs; I craved order. I blame my mum for that but let’s hold fire, we can only deal with one parental issue at a time.

My dad was this rough, manly bloke who towered over me as a kid. He worked a physically demanding manual job for a plant hire firm. He often worked away from home, only coming back on weekends, and he’d come home caked in grease and oil, exhausted from the week. But the little time he had at home probably didn’t afford him much chance to really understand the mummy’s boy who he probably found a little peculiar.

Then puberty hit and my self-involved, angst-ridden teenager phase began. I was busy falling in and out of love with boys at school, daydreaming of epic Hollywood rom-com romances with a big happy ending.

Dad himself grew up on the fairgrounds, as my grandparents and the rest of his side of the family were travellers. So traditional views of masculinity were part of who he was and our awkwardness with one another meant he probably wasn’t as emotionally available as I needed him to be.

Then, when I was twenty, Mum and he made the unexpected decision to move to Australia. The speed with which they were mulling over the idea to us waving them off with a tearful farewell at the airport gave all of us left behind whiplash. Also, I try not to take it too personally, but they couldn’t have gotten much further away than the other side of the world. Antarctica wasn’t that much further, just a little chillier, by all accounts. Anyway, throwing actual physical distance into the mix meant the connection we had was even further stretched. Over the years this was tested and in hindsight, you look back and think, what a waste.

When it mattered, he was there. When I married my husband, he came back to the U.K. to cheer me on. He had accepted me for being me. When my husband and I separated, he was visibly upset for me. I know he worried about my happiness — not that we could ever have a conversation about that sort of thing.

With that said, I appreciate you’re not here for a therapy session, so let’s steer clear of my abandonment issues. But that hopefully gives you a little context as to why I likely grew up to be an admirer of ‘Daddies’.

Subconsciously, oh, who am I kidding… blatantly, I’ve always had a fondness for older men. Perhaps I’m trying to rewrite that father-son dynamic. I’m always eager to please these authoritative figures in my life. Or just as much on Grindr and Scruff. I want to be rewarded with their attention and affection, and in doing so, it gives me this euphoric sense of satisfaction. I just enjoy being a good boy.

Ahem…Let’s not get carried away. Back to my dead dad. Mood killer, I know. Sorry.

But yes, he died. Suddenly, without warning. Four days short of his sixty-sixth birthday.

He was going to retire. He had ummed and ahhed, but had made the decision to finish work. Sadly, he never got the chance to enjoy his retirement. He worked his entire life, from when he was old enough to help build up on the fair, until his last days in which he’d built up a window cleaning business in the rural community where he lived.

It feels cruel.

I struggle when I think about it too much and I know it now affects me deeply. Not just the manner of his death. A ruptured dissection of his thoracic aorta. The reality that he barely had time, if any at all, to understand what was happening. He was dead when he hit the floor. Knowing this, along with past trauma I’ve experienced, don’t worry we’ll get to that when I overshare another time, I now don’t go a day without worrying if a new ache or pain isn’t something more sinister lurking, ready to rob me of time.

Because of possible hereditary factors, I’ve had to have MRIs and ultrasounds. Luckily, except for a few vessels running a ‘wiggly’ route, that was the technical term used by the doctor, the results have all been clear.

So, I still have plenty of time. Fingers crossed. Well, I’ve got at least twenty years. Hopefully more, if I don’t continue the trend. My grandfather also died when he was sixty-four. Is it any wonder I’ve become a hypochondriac?

His death means I look at my life and decisions from a different perspective than I did before. I don’t want to waste time doing anything that I don’t love. I don’t want the regrets of ‘what if’.

So long after the awkwardness, resentments, arguments and frustrations of my childhood have been scattered with his ashes, there is only one truth that remains.

He was the first man I ever loved.

But I’ve jumped ahead.

When I last wrote, I was in the back of a taxi on my way to the Grand Palace. Unsurprisingly to you, no doubt, my savvy friends, despite the unexpected detour, I made it to my destination still in possession of all my belongings and body parts. No police interception was required and my family didn’t have to hunt for my organs on the black market.

Let me just pause for a quick side note here. I’d just like to point out that my somewhat pessimistic worst-case scenario attitude is not just limited to when I’m visiting places where there is a language barrier. Have you ever taken an Uber in Birmingham at 1 a.m. on the weekend? No babs, I’m not ok!

I like to think of it as a life skill: considering the worst and then being pleasantly surprised when good things happen instead.

Anyway, back to my search for a prince to marry. Ahem… I mean, back to the sightseeing.

The road immediately parallel to the Grand Palace was closed off and so, alighting from my wayward taxi, I navigated the rather confusing fenced-off roadway to find the entrance. I wasn’t sure if this was a temporary thoroughfare or permanently set up this way, but following the metal fencing along, you first have to descend beneath the road via an escalator. Stepping off the escalator, I found myself in a cavernous underpass that very much reminded me of an airport or train terminal. Harsh fluorescent lighting bounced off white tiles. I passed through a security checkpoint, which consisted of a metal detector and a nonchalant guard and then made my way to the other end of the vast space to ride another escalator up to the other side of the roadway. From here you could then enter through the main gate to the grounds of the Grand Palace.

Dating back to 1782, when Thailand still went by Siam and long before Jodie Foster fell in love with Chow Yun-Fat, the Grand Palace was constructed by King Rama I. There had been some dastardly goings on, including the execution of the previous king before Rama I took power and moved the capital of Thailand to Bangkok. Then, over generations, the site was added to, creating the collection of temples, chapels, towers, pavilions and throne halls that remain today.

Much of the 218,000 square feet of palace grounds you can only walk around and only some of the buildings out of the vast array on site can you actually enter. But there is plenty of historic architecture and spectacle to gawk at and admire whilst navigating between the throngs of other tourists.

Despite it being the rainy season in Bangkok, there was no let-up in tourists. The Grand Palace and the neighbouring Buddhist temple of Wat Pho were deluged with them as much as the city was by rain during my stay. But it was encouraging to see how respectful most were and that they followed the rules and signs, particularly when entering the Temple of the Emerald Buddha on the palace grounds and the Temple of the Reclining Buddha at Wat Pho. Before entering, you’re required to remove your shoes. In the Temple of the Emerald Buddha you can sit, take in your surroundings and quietly contemplate. While many perhaps used it as a chance for some self-reflection, I cheekily used it as a chance to cool down, sitting in front of one of the electric fans that surrounded the outer wall. The clinging heat of the day was temporarily vanquished.

The Emerald Buddha is considered sacred and highly revered, so you’re strictly not allowed to take any photos and you have to be careful not to point your feet in the direction of the Buddha. I sat cross legged and made sure my dainty size 12s were angled away.
It becomes apparent quickly when filing in to see the Reclining Buddha that it’s clearly not considered as sacred as its Emerald counterpart up the road, because you can take as many photos as you like. But you do still have to be respectful, as the statue is of the Buddha before his passing into the afterlife.

Storm clouds had been gathering across the skyline for most of the day and by the time I retreated by taxi back to my hotel, big fat heavy drops of rain started to fall. I went to dinner and attempted to explore the nearby nightlife, but as loud cracks ripped across the night sky and rumbles of thunder drowned out the noise of the street traffic, I resigned myself to being all cosy in my hotel bed rather than a sodden mess.

Over the next few days the weather followed a similar trend. In the mornings, sun blasted down onto the bustling streets below. By the afternoon, the grey clouds blocked the blue sky from view. By night, I was unpacking my black rain poncho and walking around like a man wearing a tent.

I tested whether I was scared of heights by visiting the Mahanakhon Skywalk. The roof of the building gives 360-degree views of the city, which stretched out below as far as the eye could see. Good news: I’m not scared of heights and fortunately didn’t have any embarrassing mishaps. There was no fainting at the sight of the panoramic views. Although I was a little wobbly in places. Especially after being catapulted up to the 74th floor in the lift, ears popping on the way.

I also went on a shopping excursion to the Iconsiam. I was told that it’s the largest shopping mall in Asia, but I’ve since debunked this with a quick Google search. However, the Iconsiam is indeed massive, with a marketplace on the ground floor stylised to look like a riverside market. Yes, they even built a shallow river indoors. The market is full of vendors selling arts, crafts, and food from all the different regions of Thailand. Riding an escalator to the next floor, you then enter the mall proper with familiar high street brands such as Zara and H&M and, for those wanting pricier options, Louis Vuitton, Dior, Cartier, Dolce & Gabbana, and Tiffany & Co. to name just a few. There are approximately 7,000 retailers. It made the shopping centres back home feel positively dreary and depressing. I’ll never be able to visit the Bullring and look at it in quite the same way ever again. Not unless Next install a waterfall feature.

On the Saturday evening, poncho ready, I ventured out to Silom Soi 4. This dead-end street is well known for being at the heart of the city’s gay nightlife. There are a collection of gay bars with other venues spreading out on the nearby streets and back alleys. Sitting beneath battered canopies you can watch people come and go. It was particularly fun to watch as eager staff from each bar would try to lure in patrons to their respective establishments as straight couples would wander along hand in hand, do a double take and slowly do an about-turn.

I sat drinking a beer and entertained myself people watching. Two grey haired chaps in front of me gossiped about a personal trainer with a big willy that they hoped would be coming out tonight. I can vouch for the size of the said appendage, as one of the chaps was keen to show off photos to his companion. My jaw started to ache just looking at it from my vantage point over their shoulder.

My presence caught the attention of another solo traveller sitting at the table next to me. He smiled and we exchanged pleasantries, passing the time chatting about our trips. He was visiting from Germany and he explained he had been to Bangkok at least fourteen times. I nodded along as he ran down a dizzying list of other places in Thailand he’d visited. He pronounced all of their names as if I had the foggiest idea where he was talking about.

Meanwhile the personal trainer did show up and we watched as he was fawned over. He greedily lapped up the attention from the two older men, and I suspect they’d have been quite happy to be lapping him up.

We returned to our conversation. My German acquaintance was so familiar with Bangkok that he was proud to exclaim he knew it better than even some locals. I was a little bemused though that out of all the things there were to see and do in this city where over 10 million people lived, and with its many temples, the one thing at the top of his must-do list to suggest to me was: have a massage.
I must have given him a look. Perhaps I rolled my eyes, as I’m prone to do.
In mock defence he held up his hands. “You don’t have to have a happy ending if you don’t want to,” he declared, “but also, sometimes, a masseur can get angry if you say no to one.”
I bet, I thought, as that’s where they no doubt earn their best tips.
I giggled nervously.
I should mention that I don’t really like to be touched. At least not by people I don’t want to be intimate with. Then it’s a different story. Personal space? Who needs it! Boundaries? Forget them!
But the notion of paying a stranger and then undressing to have them prod and poke my fleshy bits fills me with unease.

So, of course, that’s how I found myself a couple of days later on my last day in Bangkok, with a few hours to spare before I needed to check out of the hotel and make my way to the airport, being welcomed into a Bangkok massage parlour by a sweet elderly lady.

Because this trip is about doing things I wouldn’t normally do. Getting out of my comfort zone. What’s more out of my comfort zone than having someone rummage around my naked person?

As I was greeted into the parlour, I wondered if beneath the grandmotherly appearance was the woman really the powerful matriarch of a successful Bangkok brothel business.
The place was pretty quiet (ok, perhaps moderately successful Bangkok brothel business), but I hoped that was more to do with it still being early in the day rather than a suggestion of the quality of the establishment.

The lady pointed to a menu of services that were on offer and as I read through the variety of foot, head and full-body massages I smiled to myself and was slightly relieved to see that a happy ending was not blatantly advertised. I decided to go for a Thai and oil massage 90-minute combo.
After paying by card, I was escorted by a gentleman up a narrow flight of stairs to first have my feet washed. There are a couple of reasons for this: it’s both culturally appropriate but also just good old-fashioned hygiene.
Next, I was escorted up a further two flights of stairs and shown into a small purple walled room. A massage table was set up just in front of the entrance and to the right there was a shower cubicle in the corner. Given the option of washing beforehand, I thought it would be a nice gesture as I was sweaty from the morning stroll through the muggy city streets. I thought it would be better for the gentleman to have a nice clean workspace. He gave me a few minutes to undress and shower, leaving me in privacy and pulling the curtain across the doorway to protect my modesty. When I was ready, he returned and asked me to lie face down on the table. The lights dimmed.

What happened next was nothing short of a brutal assault.

I was rubbed and squeezed and folded.
He straddled the table, his hands, knees and elbows pressing into my back and legs as he proceeded to bash out any knots and tried to expel any stress from my body. I can tell you now I was the least relaxed I had been since arriving in Bangkok.
I fared better when he started with the oil, but this is where the performance began. Because that oil made his hands inexplicably very slippery, particularly around my buttocks and in between the cheeks.

His fingers were trying to carry out a deep tissue massage in my rectum. They were slippery little suckers.

The longer the massage went on, he skirted ever closer to my cock and balls, teasing them just enough to try and get a rise.
And then he leant in close. I braced myself — here it comes, I thought. Barely inches from my ear, he whispered, “Do you want a special massage?”
I’d been waiting for this. I was prepared. I’d only brought enough cash with me to offer as a tip at the end. I suspected that cash would be the preferred choice for this sort of transaction and I’d deliberately not carried much with me. For special extras you can be expected to hand over upwards of 1000 Baht.
“Sorry, I only have 200,” I gulped. My hunch was right.
His enthusiasm to continue the massage was almost instantaneously dulled. His body shifted ever so slightly away from mine.
“Oh, you don’t have more?” he questioned, as if I might be trying to trick him.
I asserted myself with more confidence and repeated what I’d said.
He withdrew his hands from near my slick wrinkly sack and for the remaining five or ten minutes of our time together he didn’t so much as slip even his little pinky in. But at least my feet finally got some attention.

We packed up the session, with barely a word uttered. I showered again to rinse away the oil and mild shame of being practically finger blasted. I dressed, handed over his tip and exited the parlour feeling no more relaxed than when I went in. But did I need a shit? Absolutely.

So my pitstop to Bangkok has now come to an end and I’ve continued my journey on to Perth. I’ll be spending some quality time with my mum before I’ll be squeezing myself into a campervan and heading off to tour the south coast.

Thanks for accompanying me this far. I hope you’ll continue to do so.

2 flights

5,972 miles

21 hours of travelling

15 hours of sleep later…

Hello! I’m writing this, my first post, from the back of a taxi as we hurtle, aka slowly creep, through the heavily congested morning Bangkok traffic towards the Grand Palace.

You’ll be unsurprised to hear that after a 15-hour ‘nap’ I’m wide awake and off to explore. I’m also awake enough to notice that the driver has deviated from the route so much that even the Grab app (the Thai equivalent of Uber) pinged me to ask if I was okay. That was very kind of it…but its next question wasn’t quite the early morning encouragement a tourist in a foreign land wants. It asked if I wanted them ‘to call the police?’ Erm… I’m sure I’ll get to the Grand Palace eventually. Hopefully still in possession of all my belongings.

Meanwhile, don’t hold it against me that I slept so long. I know a lot of people, when visiting a new destination, like to get out and explore straight away. But at 6’8ft I’m not exactly built for being crammed into an economy seat for longer than it takes to watch a downloaded Netflix comedy special. So as you can imagine, comfort, or lack thereof, made sleep little more than a wishful thought. And the onboard amenities are clearly designed for the smallest in stature. How is a homosexual of substantial height supposed to take the obligatory bathroom selfie when he barely fits inside? And as for performing a simple task such as urination, let’s just say you’d need Cirque du Soleil-level flexibility to get the right angle. Sorry, was that TMI? Well, buckle up because you clearly don’t know me well enough yet.

The flights themselves were uneventful. Even as we seemingly flew through Russian air space. No dramatic turbulence. The stewards on the first leg forgot to smile. I imagine the promise of travelling to locations all over the world is what draws people to become flight attendants. Wake up in one country, go to sleep thousands of miles away. I even considered it myself once upon a time. But I suspect the reality of being trapped in a metal tube, appeasing passenger demands and inhaling their noxious smells is a lot less glamorous. I’m therefore assuming the stewardess serving lunch was having such a reality check, which might explain the lack of finesse when she slapped a tray of chicken noodles onto my drop-down table. No choice. No pleasantries. Just: this is what you’re having. Luckily, I’m not a vegetarian. I made sure to smile back. There were still eight hours left on that flight after all and I wanted to ensure my requests were at least somewhat accommodated.

The gentleman seated beside me, who spent most of the flight canoodling with his girlfriend, was probably just silently praying that the crew kept food and liquids far out of my reach. The yoghurt erupting over him was not my fault. Blame cabin pressure! How was I supposed to know a tsunami of yoghurt would escape the carton the moment I peeled back the lid?

Spilling water on him while he slept, now that was my fault. As was reflexively slapping at him as though that would dry him off.

Thinking about it now, it did take an unusually long time for a steward to respond when I later pressed the call button for a drink. Perhaps by that point the chap was in cahoots with the cabin crew to keep himself unsoiled and dry.

Anyway, I’ve made it to Bangkok in one piece, without causing too much of a ruckus at 40,000 feet. It was a relief to see my suitcase emerge from the airport’s bowels onto the luggage carousel. Normally, I travel light with only a carry-on, but the length of this trip required more than just a few jockstraps and T-shirts. This is not Sitges.

Right, I’m off to not blend in with the other tourists. I’ve already seen far too many white people in elephant pants for one morning.

Thank you so much for reading my first newsletter (if you made it this far, that is. If you didn’t, well you’ll never know how grateful I am tut tut.) I’m looking forward to sharing more about my travels with you as I go.