Trying to find a rhythm

A bridge, a tree, Roger, Tamara, Clara and Faz on green grass in Nowra, on the first evening of our road trip down the Princes Highway.

We hadn't left Sydney proper until well into the afternoon, so we didn't travel far that first day. When we found an area we sort of wanted to stay at, we discovered that a good number of the camping grounds were booked out for the night, not surprising considering it was the height of holiday season. Called around and we finally found a place that would take us, back in Nowra.

The place was run by, and was full of, bogans. This one bogan, a guy, had pitched a one-man tent on the spot next to us. As the night progressed, he got progressively drunk. Roger struck up a conversation with him. Said his woman had kicked him out. Poor guy. Homeless and woman-less for New Years.

We got the hell outta there in the morning, before Tamara realised she forgot her towel on the clothes line. Half an hour later, we got the hell outta there for the final time.