You need to book a little ahead to peer through the five powerful telescopes on a dark night event at Gin Gin, an hour north of Perth.

You can take a cloud check in the morning if it looks to be really overcast but most of the time the Gin Gin astronomers will give the heavens a go. That means giving you an experience that leaves you feeling awed by the universe and just a little worried about that day our world is going to die.

If you are a traveller and a bit dubious about booking ahead for the monthly dark night date (when the moon is not around to stuff things up with its light), take heart from the sad tale of Guillaume Le Gentil. You will never be as unlucky as he was when commissioned in 1760 by the French Academy of Sciences to go to Pondicherry in India to observe the transit of Venus across the Sun.

Poor Guillaume was delayed a year in Mauritius because France and Britain had declared war. In February 1761 he set off for India again, still sure he could make Pondicherry in time for the June 6 transit. A monsoon blew him off course for five weeks then the ship’s captain heard Pondicherry had been captured by the British. He sailed back to Mauritius with his frustrated passenger.

Disappointed Guillaume had to make inaccurate observations of the Venus transit from an imperfect position on a heaving deck. Rather than return to France, he decided to hang about in the Indian Ocean for eight years until the next transit. He did a heap of observations on the skies, seas and natural history then figured out the best place in the world to observe the transit would be the Philippines.

He sailed to Manila. The governor gave him a hard time. Word came that Pondicherry was back in French hands so Guillaume escaped and arrived in the Indian town a good year ahead of the transit.  He diligently studied and prepared. The night before Venus did her thing on June 4 the skies were crystal clear but before dawn clouds crept over the skies.

They thickened up nicely to totally obscure the planet’s transit of the Sun the next morning. A couple of hours later the skies cleared again. Le Gentil got the shits, mentally and physically, made worse by news that Manila’s skies had been perfectly clear for Venus to slide across the Sun.

Still sick from despair and dysentery, Guillaume started to make his weary way home nine months later.  He was so weak he had to recuperate again at Mauritius; he took months to get passage on another ship; it was damaged by a hurricane and had to turn back to Mauritius. The journey took a year until at last, after a stormy voyage, the star-crossed astronomer staggered back to Paris 11 years, six months and 13 days after leaving.

He had been presumed dead. His heirs were fighting over his estate. The academy had scrubbed his name from its board. Money entrusted to his agent was missing. So were eight crates of specimens. So was his wife: she had married someone else.

That story is just to make you feel better if you do strike a rare cloudy dark night, or if you need that cloud check option. Regardless, the Gin Gin experience of the observatory in the scrub and the Gravity Centre next door is memorable.

The Gravity Centre with the 45m Leaning Tower of Gin Gin is an interactive playroom full of thought-provoking, funny, bewildering and terrifying tales of our world and far, far beyond it. Driven home is the realisation that the more we know the more we realise how little we know. The Leaning Tower defies gravity and challenges lurking vestiges of vertigo. You fill up balloons and cart them up, hanging out in space (pictured) to drop them and watch them land at the same time, just as Galileo did at Pisa.

We digested as much gravity information as we could over a picnic tea as we waited for the star gazing team to arrive at the observatory next door. Before we peered through the telescopes on our perfect starry night, feeling a little guilty about Guillaume, we learned stars we were looking at probably weren’t there because things happen (like they explode or collapse) in the 5000 light years or so it takes their image to reach Earth.

A lecture preceding the peering included disconcerting video footage. Beautiful Venus is ugly, seething with molten, poisonous rivers and toxic volcanoes. I now look more suspiciously at our evening star.

My favourite saucepan constellation is also seen now in a new light. The bottom of it is actually Orion’s belt and a scope was trained on one of the three bright stars, the Horsehead Nebula, a swirling pinkish cloud 1500 light years away.

Randy Orion is chasing the Seven Sisters across the skies, according to the ancient astrologers who decided on the images represented by the stars. One’s imagination must be extended a few light years to pick out what the constellations are supposed to depict.. Apparently they were proclaimed by bored mead-sodden shepherds lying on the backs at night:

“Hey Trogga, what do you reckon those stars look like?”

“Oh man, that’s gotta be a fish.”

We learned that space is all curves and waves. We are not sure what was here before the big bang but the universe is expanding faster and faster. Stars are disappearing and getting further apart, so enjoy their glitter while you can.

Not only will we have lots more black between the stars. We will also not be here because our Sun is going to start getting bigger, swallowing the close planets before exploding and collapsing. Earth has a pretty fragile existence anyway, so before that it could get a wee wobble up, get seriously hot or cold if the Sun fluctuates, or get hit by a comet now shooting towards us.

And if you think we are special, take a look at this. https://www.youtube.com/embed/XE0aAZE0kp4?feature=player_embedded

 Gin Gin’s Gravity Centre and Observatory are well worth a day and a night. Guillaume would have loved the place. It really makes you appreciate every damned day and starry night.

 

Germans, Swiss or French? We took bets when the 4WD Britz motor home with a middle-aged couple pulled in beside us at the Geraldton caravan park.

Right first time. Dieter Bott, 62, was on his annual holiday to Australia. He’s been coming every summer since 1989 to windsurf on the West Australian coast, except for one year when he went east.

For the last 10 years his vivacious wife Leila has accompanied him as he hops on his board and hoists his sail anywhere between Esperance and Exmouth.

He’s tried Geraldton before. It is proclaimed to be the wind surfing capital of the world and embraces its windy status in its slogan: “You will be blown away by Geraldton”.

Dieter wasn’t planning to hit the water on this stop in Geraldton. He and Leila (right) were heading for Gnarloo Station, which he reckoned has the best wind surfing conditions in the world.

Tony and I have been shaking our heads at the numbers of older couples from Europe cruising around north and western Australia, revelling in heat and isolation while the folks back in Munich and Geneva endure freezing rain, short dark days, packed snow and packed streets.

Europeans seem to love Australia more than the Aussies who cower in cities, rarely exploring the great unpopulated regions of our land, in summer cringing off to cooler climate belts.

Not so these hardy European couples – from young backpackers to grandparents – who ignore the dust, flies and swelter. They soak up the freedom, solitude, wildlife and stunning landscapes with an appreciation that evokes the spirit of the European pioneers who learned to live in and love the wide brown land.

Escaping the European winters, they hit the road between Perth and Darwin in our summer months when the Grey Nomads have moved south, adding to the luxury of lack of crowding. We are often astounded by the visitors’ knowledge of Australian highways, byways and wildlife. They are astounded by our welfare system.

Leila, a Croatian who has lived in Germany for 30 years, explains in her interestingly accented English that people in Australia are friendlier: “No stress here. Back home, rush, rush and no time, no time.”

Dieter agreed but said he was starting to notice changes. “People get busier and busier every year in Perth.”

He has an accident investigation business back home and has it set up now so he can take extended annual holidays. He and Leila are here for three months this summer, exploring and enjoying the land and coast in a way few Australians bother to do.

We meandered out west because the long Western Australian coast was becoming too crowded in high summer. We were delighted to discover the wheatbelt towns.

In little Mukinbudin we found Jessica and Goran Henryson (below) admiring the cheap, high-quality facilities at the caravan park and the sparkling Olympic swimming pool complex next door.

German, Swiss of French? The Henrysons were from Sweden. Goran was a retired industrialist and Jessica an engineer working in public relations as a lobbyist for renewable energy.

Jessica asked if she had mis-read that the population of Mukinbudin was only 400.  The amenities were so excellent. We explained that the Royalties for the Regions program and Lottery West had done much to spread some of the heady WA wealth into the regional areas. (Queensland could take a leaf from Perth balance books: precious little public revenue comes out of Brisbane despite the mining rake-offs in the eastern state.)

The Henrysons were on their fifth visit to Australia, driving up into the hot, dry northern wheatbelt summer because rain was forecast in the south. They were escaping rain. They wanted hot days, grand scenery and friendly bush people.

For the first time their Australian visit wasn’t including Coober Pedy, the little town under the ground in the South Australian desert. They had had fun hunting for opals there and had made many friends. Coober Pedy was a real frontier town, said Jessica, but said sadly it was starting to develop a little too much.

“They have footpaths being built there,” she said a little indignantly.

Europeans flock to Australia to escape oppressive cold, crowding and civilisation. At this time of the year on the Darwin-Perth stretch the sturdy Scandinavians and Saxons outnumber Aussies, who cling to city comfort, coasts and coolness. Our pioneering spirit, forged in Europe, seems to have been dimmed by soft conditions in the too-lucky country. 

 

Eeriness – not quite chills down the spine but close to goosebumps – grows as you take the guided tour around the HMAS Sydney memorial at Geraldton.

It starts as you peer at the silhouettes of 645 seagulls – one for every life lost on November 19, 1941 – that form the dome over the five pillars at the heart of the monument.

Retired wheat farmers Bill and Barbara Henville were waiting when we drove up in Isabel. Bill stared at our Global Warrior and offered what we have found to be our standard greeting: “That thing looks like it could go anywhere.”

Volunteers wait daily at 10.30 to take tourists on a tour of the stunning memorial and explain the significance of the symbols. It’s moving stuff. Tourists without the time to spare skipping by, ignoring the free guided opportunity, never know what they miss as they take a cursory look at the five segments and glance at the information about Australia’s greatest naval disaster.

Bill and Barbara were in good spirits when we called. Their volunteer guide association had won a community award the night before. Guides take turns at waiting for interested tourists. Like Mary Heritage in Maryborough, sometimes no one turns up, sometimes they have 30 or more accompany them.

“We love it,” said Barbara, stowing a little brush and shovel in her car. She always brings it so she can sweep up cigarette butts and any other bits of rubbish discarded by irreverent travellers. After you hear the stories, you would not want to leave a fingerprint on the gleaming structure.

Four flag poles and four ship propellers are at the entrance. The propeller screws are set bottom-up, depicting a ship going down. An old bollard retrieved from the wharf has significance. HMAS Sydney, pride of the Australian fleet with an outstanding battle record, tied up to it on her last visit to Geraldton.

Visiting sailors were feted by the town before the well-armed Leander class light cruiser sailed away to her doom. A few weeks later, on a casual cruise back to Freemantle after completing an escort duty, she came across the HSK Kormoran, a German raider disguised as the Dutch ship Strata Malacca and flying a Dutch flag. She was planning to lay mines and attack troop ships and cargo vessels.

At 5.30pm, south-west of Geraldton, the Sydney challenged for the Strata Malacca’s secret call sign. The Kormoran was silent. Six seconds later her gun ports were opened and she was destroying the Sydney’s bridge. Both ships were doomed in a battle lasting an hour. Accounts came from German survivors, who last saw the torpedoed Sydney at 11pm sailing into the distance. She disappeared in a destiny with death.

The burning Kormoran was scuttled by her sailors. Of her 397 sailors, 315 survived. Some were lost in battle; others drowned when two lifeboats tipped over. Seventy made it ashore at Quobba; others were picked up by Aquitania, Centaur and smaller ships. The survivors were repatriated to Germany in 1947 but of the Sydney there was no trace – except for a mystery corpse that floated ashore on Christmas Island. Believed to be that of a Sydney sailor, it was exhumed, examined and eventually reburied in Geraldton.

Solemn ceremonies on November 19 have been held around Australia for the lost Sydney. At the 1998 remembrance on the hill in Geraldton, about 30 seagulls appeared and hovered above as the bugler played The Last Post.

Seagulls are believed by some to represent the returning souls of sailors lost at sea. They are not numerous in Geraldton. Among the people at the commemoration were architects Charles Smith and Joan Walsh-Smith. Inspired by the appearance of the seagulls they designed the five-part memorial. Under the umbrella of the town’s Rotary club, four elements , rich in poignant symbolism, were built and dedicated in 2001.

Most haunting of the segments is the statue of a woman wearing a wedding ring, trapped in the fashion of the time and gazing in anguish out to sea, hoping forever for the return of her missing sailor.

The fifth element was never to be built until the grave of the Sydney was discovered.  On March 12, 2008, the wreck of the Kormoran was found. Using data from German survivors, the HMAS Sydney was found on the bottom of the sea five days later.

Uncannily, the tormented face of the statue on the Geraldton hill was found to be staring directly in the direction of the grave of her husband.

The fifth element was built with almost aching symbolism. Waters flowing in the pool of remembrance, “Closing the Circle”, represent the sea gushing into the boiler room of the doomed ship. A circle of 644 seagulls is engraved around the pool and a map of the sea and coast is etched on the bottom. The final seagull, 2m high, flies on its side in the direction of the HMAS Sydney grave with the tip of its wing in the water pointing at the map co-ordinates where the wreck was found.

Many more symbols are explained by daily Bills and Barbaras in an absorbing hour. Gardens are planted in rosemary for remembrance and in blood-red roses named Courage. The stele represents the prow of the HMAS Sydney. The designs and remembrance wall of 645 names and memories has more to digest until you reach the line from Hamlet under the last inscription: “The rest is silence.”

 

Despite dire predictions about bad roads and rogue waves, despite being sandblasted by Indian Ocean breezes and despite the frustrating buffalo fish, Australia’s most western point on the mainland was a treasure.

It was also an adventure that again proved the worth of our Global Warrior Isabel.

We want to go back to Steep Point sometime but the best months are taken 10 months and two days ahead. That’s the limit for forward bookings at the national park on the headland poking into the ocean on south side of Shark Bay.

“All the sites on top are booked out,” Ranger John said in a Pommie accent when we phoned. “I won’t be there until late but I will put your campsite up on the board.” We had no idea what that meant.

Before negotiating the 100km of sandy road and 40km of loose sand dunes we had to pass the turnoff to Useless Loop, a closed town where evaporation fields create the finest salt in the world. Its intriguing name comes from French explorer Henri-Louis de Saulces de Freycinet, who dubbed the area "Havre Inutile" ("Useless Harbour"), because he believed the inviting harbour to be entirely blocked by a sandbar.

Now the mining company at Useless Loop wins awards for helping save endangered animals especially the burrowing bettong.

Isabel sailed over the corrugations people had warned about and easily climbed over the sand dunes that have a reputation for sucking in 4WDs of all descriptions. She never missed a beat.

We found the ranger camp and peered at the blackboard. It said Ranger John had gone to Useless Loop. We figured we were the Batts at Scavengers. We wondered at the significance of the camp name but it turned out to be a super site inside the Bay with fine sand and cornflower water.

We had intended staying only one night so we could go to the sign and take the picture to prove we had been at the extremity but we ended up staying three. We left with some notable sized whiting in the freezer and a notable catch of fine sand blown into all of Isabel’s crevices. And ours.

Steep Point, further on than Scavengers, itself is a barren piece of rock with some of the best shore fishing in Australia, if you don’t get swept into the sea by a king wave. Gusting winds and sneaky swells are part of the deal. Spray-laden swirls can sweep around crevices and dash you into the ground or hurl you into the ocean, even if you are a fair way back apparently.

A little disappointingly, the ocean was quite well behaved when we arrived, despite the stiff wind. We did the photo thing, had a celebratory beer and retreated a few ks to our sheltered little campsite in the bay. A few of the boys at the “sites on top” turned up there too after giving up for the day.

We threw out lines in and watched in astonishment as a school of sizeable fish, easily visible in the clear water, swam past. Then another one. Then a school came back but catch one of those fish we could not. Tony tempted them all ways he could think of but they were not interested. Fortunately the whiting were and we pulled in some of the best specimens we have ever landed.

We ploughed back over a couple of sand dunes to tell John we wanted to stay another two nights, despite the rising wind. We asked him about the schools of fish. “They’ll be boofooloo bream,” he advised. “You can’t catch them because they eat weed and if you do get one you can’t eat it. They taste terrible.”

We happily caught whiting, watched the buffalo bream (which probably gave Scavengers its name) saunter past and less happily battled the breezes that blew above 60 knots. We gave thanks that we were in Isabel and could retreat in comfort from the sandblasting, unlike the bunch of young Kiwi people two sites away. They were chilling out in little tents, sleeping bags and the backs of utes with a Yamaha pergola that periodically disappeared.

The kite-surfing Aussie among them was unable to get his rig up, which was a good thing as we were quite sure he would disappear towards Hartog Island and maybe further afield. Like Madagascar.

A 4WD with a camper topper appeared beside us on the second night. The topper was gone the next morning.

Apparently the winds abate in glorious weather between Christmas and April but Steep Point camp sites then are booked out 10 months and two days in advance. Who the hell knows where they will be then?