Wandering Wednesday–Road Trip in the Charger (2)

Road Trip Adventure in the Charger (2)

Part 2

No Headlights

The highway, so straight, never curving to the right nor the left, was hypnotic. Again, in the late afternoon, the burning sun on the back of my neck, now sinking in the West, and the rushing of air from the open window, lulled me into a state of semi-sleep.

By increments, as sunset turned to dusk, the air cooled. I trusted Rick to keep us safe on the highway to Sydney. I noted Cordelia resting her head on Mitch’s shoulder and then I sank into a deep satisfying sleep.

[Photo 1: Sunset near Sale, Victoria © L.M. Kling 1989]

‘Oh, no!’ Rick said.

‘What?’ Mitch cried.

‘We have no headlights.’

‘What do you mean, no headlights?’ I asked.

Car slowed to a stop by the side of the road, again. Groggy from sleep and the hypnotic effect of the endless highway, we piled out of the Charger and milled around the non-functioning headlights.

Mitch peered at the offending lights. ‘Are you able to fix them, Rick?’

Rick pulled up the bonnet and in the dim light examined the engine. He poked around at the dark nether regions of the Charger’s insides.

Mitch hovered over Rick’s back while he prodded and poked at the parts in the dimness. ‘Do you need a torch?’

‘Do you have one, Mitch?’

Mitch shrugged. ‘I don’t…didn’t think…would you have one in the glove box?’

‘Might have, but the battery’s gone flat,’ all mumbled to the engine.

Mitch had already left to torch-hunt in the Charger’s glove box. At this time, I watched Jack busy himself sorting through luggage at the rear of the vehicle.

Cordelia sat all hunched over on her duffel bag. ‘I still don’t feel well,’ she said.

‘Are you carsick?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s worse than that,’ she answered. ‘I think I need to see a doctor.’

I gazed around the silent darkened landscape. ‘Maybe at the next town, we can try to find one.’

Jack called, ‘Hey, I’ve found another torch.’

The feeble light of Rick’s torch wandered over the car engine. 

‘It’s the alternator, it’s cactus. Needs replacing,’ Rick said. ‘We’ll need to park here for the night and in the morning, I’ll fix it at the next town.’

Cordelia clutching her stomach walked up to the lads. ‘I need to see a doctor; I’m not feeling at all well.’

Mitch glanced at the girl, his eyes wide and brow furrowed. ‘Perhaps we better push on and find a doctor—hospital—something.’

‘How can we?’ Jack said. ‘We have no headlights. It’d be dangerous.’

‘I’m not driving without headlights,’ Rick said.

‘How far to the nearest town?’ Mitch raised his voice. ‘The girl needs help.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘How far is it to Dubbo?’

Mitch grabbed the RAA strip map, Jack handed him the torch and with the stronger light Mitch flipped the pages and then studied the relevant page.

Cordelia sat down on her bag and was silent.

[Photo 2: Twilight at Brachina Gorge, Flinders Ranges, South Australia© L.M. Kling 1999]

‘Says here,’ Mitch began, and then continued, ‘we are twenty miles from Dubbo.’

‘I’m still not sure…’ Jack said.

‘Oh, come on,’ Mitch huffed, ‘only twenty miles. If we use the torches for our light, we can get there safely.’

‘What, waving the torches out the side of the windows,’ Rick said, ‘Are you mad?’

‘If we go slowly, we can make it,’ Mitch said. ‘Come on, give it a try. For Cordelia’s sake, we have to try.’

[Photo 3 and Feature: Rick will save the day…eventually © courtesy R.M. Trudinger 1983]

At Mitch’s insistence to save this damsel in distress, we piled back in the car, and crawled down the highway, torches flashing back and forth from the rear windows.

After a few minutes, Rick shook his head, his curls flopping about his damp forehead. ‘It’s not working.’

‘What about,’ Mitch sighed, ‘what about, if I sit in the front and you and me shine the torches from the front.’

‘If you think it’ll make a difference,’ Rick muttered.

Mitch changed places with Rick who was driving, and Rick moved into the front passenger seat where Jack had been sitting. Jack then bumped Cordelia into the middle and sat behind Mitch.

The car crawled a few metres with Rick and Mitch waving torches from their front positions.

I looked behind me at the expanse of dark landscape, and the sky clotted with the Milky Way.

‘I hope the cops don’t catch us,’ I murmured.

‘What cops?’ Jack said.

The Charger slowed, and then stopped.

‘It’s not working,’ Rick said.

‘But we’ve hardly moved,’ Mitch said.

‘I think it’ll be better if we don’t use the torches and I drive by the starlight.’ Rick sniffed. ‘I think my eyes will adjust. And we’ll take it slowly.’

‘I can do that,’ Mitch said.

‘No, I’ll drive.’ Rick pushed open his door and marched over to the driver’s side. ‘It’s my car. I know how to handle it.’

Mitch breathed in and out with an emphasised sigh. ‘If you insist.’

Rick forged ahead on the highway to Dubbo at a leisurely twenty miles an hour. I know it was twenty miles (not kilometres) an hour as it took us an hour to reach the outskirts of Dubbo. Mitch couldn’t resist the urge to hang his arm out with Jack’s torch, offering slim beams of light to guide Rick as he drove. Fortunately, we met no police on patrol.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

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Travelling Thursday–Road Trip in the Charger

Road Trip to Sydney the summer of 1979 – Episode 1

[Based on real events but some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40-years ago.]

Lost Control

A conference on the gifts of the Holy Spirit. I wonder what gifts God has for me? I pondered while dozing in the back seat of my brother Rick’s Chrysler Charger. And Dad…why was it that Dad had to go all on his own by car to the conference? Oh, well…much more fun travelling with my peers.

Crunch!

I sat up. Rubbed my eyes. ‘What happened?’

The car fishtailed. Rocking the carload of us back and forth.

‘Hey, mate!’ Rick, my brother yelled at the driver, ‘Jack! You trying to kill us?’

Without reply, Jack, bit his thin upper lip and swung the Charger to the right, and into oncoming traffic.

I gasped.

A truck bore down on us.

Jack, who reminded me of Abraham Lincoln, clenched his strong jaw and corrected back to the left. Keep left, that’s what you do when driving in Australia. Jack’s usually blonde curls appeared dark from perspiration.

The semitrailer gushed past us, sucking the air out of our open windows.

Rick held up his thumb and forefinger in pincer mode. ‘You missed them by that much.’

[Photo 1 and feature: Rick’s Charger in strife © L.M. Kling circa 1984]

Rick’s navy-blue tank top was soaked with sweat around the neckline under his mouse-brown curls, and under his strong arms. Mid-January and the full car with only open windows for air-con, steamed with heat. And body odour.

To my right in the back seat, Mitch, taller and thinner than my brother but sporting dark brown curly hair, wiped his damp mauve polo shirt and then sighed, ‘That was close.’

Cordelia, in the briefest of shorts and tight-fitting t-shirt, showing off her classic beauty and assets, sat the other side of Mitch.  She clutched her stomach. ‘I feel sick.’

Mitch leaned forward and tapped Rick on the arm. ‘How long till we reach the next town?’

‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ Cordelia said.

Rick nudged Jack. ‘I think you better stop.’

Jack rubbed one hand on his blue jeans, straightened his long white shirt, placed his hand again on the steering wheel and kept driving.

Cordelia cupped her hand under her chin and groaned.

I smoothed my white wrap-around skirt, and then brushed my light cream-coloured blouse patterned with blue roses. No way did I want Cordelia to mess up my most flattering-to-my-slim- figure clothes.

[Photo 2: In my slimming white wrap-around, Clealand National Park © M.E. Trudinger 1979]

‘Stop!’ Rick shouted.

‘I can’t!’ Jack said and continued to speed down the highway. The golden expanse of the Hay Plains dried out by the fierce summer heat spanned the horizon. White posts flitted past. The red-brown line of bitumen of the highway stretched to its vanishing point on that horizon. A faded white sign flashed past. Dubbo, 265 miles. How long had Australia been metric? A few years at least; not that one would know travelling in outback Australia in early 1979. Still…

Another groan from Cordelia.

Rick screamed at Jack. ‘Stop!’

Jack slowed the car and rumbled onto the gravel beside the road.

Cordelia leapt out and hunched over a shrivelled wheat stalk. I looked away and covered my ears from the inevitable sound of chunder.

‘That was close,’ Mitch said.

‘Remember that drunk guy, your brother brought back to Grandma’s?’ Rick said. ‘Took me a week to get the smell out of her Toyota.’

‘Hmm,’ Mitch replied. ‘That was unfortunate.’

‘You mean, the guy who kept singing “Black Betty”?’ I asked. I remembered that fellow. He had messy blonde hair and a moustache. He lounged on the back seat of Grandma’s car while I sat all prim and proper in the front waiting for Mitch’s brother to drive us to Lighthouse Coffee Lounge. ‘He kept saying I was so innocent.’

‘Well,’ Mitch said, ‘you are.’

I guess I was at 15; but hated to admit it.

Cordelia stumbled back into the car. ‘That’s better.’

[Photo 3: Proud owner of his Chrysler Charger © courtesy of R.M. Trudinger 1983]

Rick and Jack arranged to swap places. So, after a brief stretch of legs and a nearby scraggly-looking bush receiving five visitors, we set off on our quest for Sydney. After all, we still had ages to go before arriving there for the Revival Conference. We hoped to arrive with enough spare time to see the sights Sydney had to offer.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

Easter, the season for holidays and intrepid road trips…

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The Hitch-hiker

Travelling Thursday–Risky Road Trip to Brisbane (3)

When Angels Jump Off (3)

Seedy in the Graveyard Shift

“Phew! Pooh! What’s that smell? Rob! You’re disgusting!” Tania revived by the potent fumes fanned the stale atmosphere with a spare cushion.

“Who me?” Rob shifted his skeletal frame and adjusted his pillow.

“Ugh! That’s foul! I’m opening a window.” Karen yanked at the sliding window and stuck her permed head into the stiff breeze.

“Looks like we’ll have to stop,” I said.

“Are we there yet?” the brunette whined.

“I’m hungry, can we stop? I have to visit the ladies,” the afro blonde said.

“No, and we’re not stopping, we have to keep on going, or we’ll be late,” Tom said and then swerved. A kangaroo skittered off onto the embankment and into a clump of bushes.

[Photo 1: Watch out for kangaroos © L.M. Kling circa 1988]

“Aw! I’m bored! I want a break!” Tania said.

“Are we there yet? This is so boring! How far north do we have to go, anyway?” Karen flung empty chip packets around the cabin.

I jabbed Tom on his skinny arm. “The tribes are getting restless and we are running out of fuel, or haven’t you noticed.”

The two girls chanted, “Are we there, yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

I turned the map bought in Orange around in my hands. The signs seemed unfamiliar and did not fit the expected location.  “I hope this is a shortcut.”

Screech! In a matter of seconds, Tom slowed the van to snail’s pace and eased into some northern New South Wales town. At the Shell Roadhouse, we piled out into the icy air, and milled around while the sleepy attendant filled our tank. I shuffled to the kiosk, but I was jaded with the nausea of no sleep and exited with nothing.

Bill had another go at Tom. “Isn’t it time to let someone else drive?”

Tom anchored himself in the driver’s seat and refused to budge.

[Photo 2: Feeding time for roos © L.M. Kling 2022]

As I loitered by the plastic-coated restaurant, the smell of cheap coffee and stale hamburger grease made me queasy. I contemplated quitting the tour of terror. I filed through the meagre number of notes in my purse. I’ll get a bus home. Anything but get in that van again.

Bill hailed me. “You coming?”

The girls scuffed in their “Ugg” boots towards the Toyota armed with packets of fantails, cola and salt-and-vinegar chips. So innocent.

I sighed and made the decision to trail after them. My minimal influence was better than none at all to get us to Brisbane alive. All aboard and plugged in, on my insistence, Mad Tom Max revved up the engine and the van like a bullet shot out of the station and into the moonless night. I strained to keep my eyes open in the hours of imminent death, singing, praying and talking, willing myself not to fall asleep. Bill sat beside the driver, rambling in conversation to a young man focussed on one thing and that was to get us to Brisbane dead on time.

[Photo 3: Over the Great Dividing Range © L.M. Kling 1989]

The grey light of dawn crept over the horizon to our right. On the side of the road a truck burned. Bright yellow flames leapt and danced within the cabin. Tom slammed on the brakes and the van screeched to a halt, skidding on the gravel. We jumped out to inspect the bonfire of truck metal. A man stood behind his truck shaking his head and watching the monster “Mack” melt and burn. I lifted my camera.

“Don’t!” Tania glared at me. “That’s not appropriate.”

My cheeks prickled with humiliation; the shame of it, a 16-year-old girl telling me what to do. I spent a few minutes’ vigil observing the truck driver’s unrecorded misfortune.

Not to be outdone in true and noble acts that show up their leader, me, Tom hopped from his seat of privilege and targeted the forlorn truckie to comfort. He asked if he was alright. He was. They nodded and commiserated over the loss of a magnificent vehicle. The truckie indicated that help was coming in the next half-an-hour. Tom turned and strode towards the van. As he passed me, he tipped his pointy nose up at me, and the smug smile pasted on his mouth read: Look what a good a virtuous guy am l!

Ready to step into the driver’s seat, his smile switched to a scowl. Bill perched in the coveted seat, a wide grin spread between day-old stubble. “I’ll take it from here, mate.”

[Photo 3 & Feature: Safe at last on the Gold Coast © L.M. Kling 1989]

As we passed a shimmering green sign with the name “Brisbane” in silver on it, Tom brooded in the back of the van. Couched either side of this red-faced man, the girls soothed him, whispering schemes of revenge. Rob rocked and rolled in slumber in the middle row under a pile of patchwork quilts.

We wound through the Great Dividing Range, and I rested my head while viewing the lush green hills and the white timber houses on stilts that grew and multiplied as the out-lying townships morphed into the suburbs of Brisbane. We arrived at the Conference centre 23 hours after departing Melbourne.

I thanked God. The angels had hung on, this time.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016

Feature Photo: Safe at Last on the Gold Coast © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 1989

Note: Story based on real events. Names and sequence of events have drifted into the realm of fiction.

***

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Travelling Thursday–Risky Road Trip to Brisbane (2)

When Angels Jump Off

Part 2

Passing Road Trains

Bill reclined in the row of seats in front of them, making no comment. Rob in the front passenger seat, dozed as he rested his curly mop on the passenger window.

Petrol at Orange and the youth filled their tanks with lollies, chips and soft drink.

I found the “ladies”, a grotty dive around the corner. Tania ignored me as she primped her ebony bob and patted her round cheeks with blush in front of the scratched-metal excuse of a mirror.

I sauntered back over the cracked pavement of the service station to the van crouching by the pumps. Tom sat there, in my seat, hands hugging the steering wheel and a grin on his lips.

“Right, we’ve wasted enough time, I’m driving,” Tom said.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked. Tom was 18, full of testosterone and a sense of immortality. “What about your P-plates?”

“Pff! Who needs them, we’re in the country,” Tom replied. “The cops won’t care.”

My manager’s warning echoed in my mind. Don’t let the youth drive. This was a company van. “l think it would be better if someone else drives.”

Bill stretched out, comatose on the middle bench seat, while Rob leant against the bonnet, eyes averted and licking an ice cream.

“Rob?” I pleaded.

“It’s alright.” He bit into the cone. In a languid tone, he said, “I’m sure Tom’s a good driver.”

Tania planted herself in the front passenger seat. She curled her lip and snarled, “Better driver than you. At least we’ll get somewhere.”

“Fine then, I hope you know what you’re doing.

“Relax! I know what I’m doing. We’ll be at the conference in no time,” Tom said and turned the key. The engine puttered contented with its new master. “Anyway, we’ve wasted enough time with you stuffing around.”

I gritted my teeth and crawled into the dark recesses of the Toyota. I chose not to fight this battle. I needed a rest, but had an uneasy feeling about the next few hours.

[Photo 1 and Feature: Road Train at Dawn © L.M. Kling 2013]

Our new driver, engaged the gears, and catapulted the car onto the highway. Tyres spun on the bitumen. I smelt burnt rubber.

Bill rolled off his seat and woke up with a start. “What’s happening?” He rubbed his eyes, and then batted at the wads of sleeping bags, sweet wrappers and lemonade bottles. He craned his neck peering at Rob and me each side of the back three-seater bench with Karen holding her duffle bag in the middle. Confused, he pulled himself upright using the driver’s seat and eye-balled Tom. Then he looked back at us, eyes wide. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t ask!” I said. Reflector posts and shadows of trees flitted past. In the dim light, the whites of Bill’s eyes glowed. “You’re letting him drive?”

“He insisted.”

He jerked his muscular arms. “Do you know how fast he is going?”

“What?” I peered at the speedometer. The needle hovered between 160 and 170 kilometres per hour. “Oh, crap.”

The vehicle mounted a low rise and flew for a few seconds. The floozies strapped into their respective seats screamed as if they were on a roller-coaster ride.

Bill gripped my arm. “You’re in charge, do something.

I tried. “Hey, Tom, I think you’re going a bit fast, could you slow it down a little.”

Tom ignored my pleas and we watched the needle creep up to 180 km/h. “Tom, slow down,” Bill urged. He patted the lad’s arm. “You’ll get a speeding fine.”

“No, I won’t,” Tom said.

“We have to make up for lost time. We’re already three hours late,” Tania whined.

“So what if we are late?” I begged. “Better that, than dead on arrival.”

[Photo 2: Meanwhile, we passed Canberra in the night. Canberra was probably gearing up for their Floriade Festival © L.M. Kling 2010]

Tom’s Teutonic features hardened like flint, eyes staring through the screen, mouth a thin line set in grim determination, and his jumbo ears deaf to our pleas. The more we urged and begged, the more resistant he became and the more he pumped the accelerator. The more we feared for our lives.

“Come on, Tom. We don’t want to have an accident.” Bill put a strong hand on Tom’s shoulder. “The angels jump off when you go over the speed limit.”

“No they don’t.” Keeping his sight fixed on the road, Tom flicked the hand from him. “We have three hours to catch up. I want to get to Brisbane by the four in the afternoon.” The needle pushed up to 190 km/h.

Bill, Rob and I withdrew, accepting our fate and praying that the angels will hang onto the van for our sake. I was not sure how much time had passed. For a moment, time seemed irrelevant. All was clear, all was calm. I forced myself to stay awake. We pelted along the highway in the dark countryside.

[Photo 3: During the night we travelled west of the Blue Mountains probably on the Newell Highway. Here are the Three Sisters in the Blue Mountains © S.O. Gross circa 1960]

Somewhere along the stretch of Tom’s speedway, we rearranged ourselves. Bill moved to the front passenger seat, and Rob and I sat in the middle row. The girls curled up in the back of the van, putting their full trust and unbelted bodies at the mercy of Tom’s driving. Titan-size trucks, sympathetic to our driver’s need for speed, waved us on and we passed the road-trains of travelling tonnes of steel.

“The angels jump off at this speed, Tom,” Rob said and then yawned.

Tom laughed and made the whole van wobble and swerve into the gravel. He then swung the van to the wrong side of the road and stayed there.

“I’m not happy Tom! What do you think you’re doing?” I batted him. Blinding lights bore down on us. “Watch out, Tom!” I pressed my foot on an imaginary brake-pedal and screamed.

“Calm down, Grandma!” Tom laughed as he slipped back into the left lane with only millimetres to spare. The van shuddered with the slipstream.

“God! That was close!” Bill wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

“That’s nothing!” Tom pressed the throttle to the floor and relished the roar of the speeding engine.

The needle on the fuel gauge sank into the red zone. Hope. We would have to stop for petrol. Using my finger as a signal, I alerted Bill to the need for petrol.

[To be continued…finale next week]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

Feature Photo: Road train at Dawn © L.M. Kling 2013

***

Want more Australian Adventure, but too expensive to travel down under?

Why not take a virtual travel with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

Click here on Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Travelling Thursday–Risky Road Trip to Brisbane

2023 and it seems road safety has become a thing of the past…Or has it. the road toll, so the news states, is the worst it’s been in 10-years. I’ve noticed other drivers taking more risks, and becoming impatient with little old me who tries so hard to keep to the speed limit. After all, I don’t want to upset “Karen” our Toyota Corolla’s GPS guide. She’s constantly reminding my hubby of what the speed limit is.

Anyway, in light of the danger ever-present on our roads and the desire to be safe, I am reminded how close I came to disaster on a road trip to Queensland in 1989. The following piece is part 1 of a 3-part series of that trip.

When Angels Jump Off

I considered my new leadership role a breeze, but I had yet to encounter mutiny in the Toyota.

Part 1

Up the Creek and Behind Time

My boss, called me into his office. “I want you to lead the group traveling with you in the van.” He glanced at me, wise hazel eyes over silver-rimmed spectacles. “Are you okay with that?”

“Sure.” As a former secondary school teacher, I imagined a straight-forward venture; an uneventful hike up the Highway to the Conference on Queensland’s Gold Coast. All that the leadership required of me was a slight detour into the countryside of Wagga Wagga to collect Bill.

“Who else will I be taking?” I asked confident to handle anyone in the Toyota Van with me.

“You’ll have Rob,” my manager said. I pictured tall, scruffy Rob, in his early twenties as the quiet observer. My boss cleared his throat. “And three youth.” Their ages and quantities of either gender remained fuzzy around the edges until I met them. “I’d advise that you don’t let them drive.”

“I won’t.”

***

 [Photo 1: Our unit front with Dad © L.M. Kling 1990]

On the morning of my maiden journey to the Conference, Rob, with Karen (17), Tania (16) and Tom (18), stood gazing out the window of the unit my husband and I recently bought. I mentioned the tall eucalyptus trees out the front of our home would have to be chopped down. My young visitors condemned the soon-to-be slaughter of trees. The group seemed harmless enough, if they loved nature.

[Photo 2: On our way—Yarra Ranges © L.M. Kling 1996]

By the afternoon we bounced along in the trusty Toyota van, through the magical high country, a blur of misty mountains, crisp green pine trees and miles of white line on the grey bitumen. We powered northwards through Bright, wending through Wodonga, and over the river through to Albury. As we approached Wagga Wagga, the sun cast dusky orange over the fields and rolls of hay.

[Photo 3 & Feature: High country, Myrtleford North-Eastern Victoria © L.M. Kling circa 1988]

“Where are we meant to turn?” Tania, the chubby brunette of the youth-trio asked. A melted puddle of red in the west was all that remained of our natural source of light. I turned on the head-lights.

“Should be soon. What does the map say?” At the helm, I flicked the switch to high beam and peered through the insect-splattered screen hunting the sign.

Karen leaned her bird-like frame through the gap in the front seat, her blonde fuzz tickling my cheek. She asked, “What map?”

Behind me paper rustled and chip packets crackled.

I pointed behind me. “It’s there somewhere.”

The lanky Tom rolled his blue eyes. I dared not admit that the road map had become the latest casualty in the rush to depart. Left behind! “Anyway, don’t worry. I’ve been to Bill’s farm before.” The turn-off must be around here somewhere. A sign shrouded in darkness flitted past. Too late! On I go.

[Photo 4: Wagga Wagga © L.M. Kling 1989]

Rob stared out the window at the fading shades of blue sky.

We charged along the highway, in and out of Wagga Wagga, I was sure that the turn-off was the other side of the town. “Not too far,” I said.

“What road did you say?” Karen asked.

“I’ll recognise it when I see it.” I hoped I would. In the dark. Strange how the road I want always has the sign missing. I sped onwards, white posts every tenth of a kilometre, their red reflectors winking at me.

But none of the road names seemed right. With Wagga half-an-hour behind us, each kilometre of searching for this elusive road ate into our time. “Are you sure you know where you are going?” Rob’s question annoyed me.

“It’s just up ahead.” I wasn’t about to admit that I had no clue. I’m good at navigation. I follow my nose.

“l think we should turn back.” Tom’s deep voice boomed from the rear seat. “We should call them and get directions.”

“It’ll be a waste of time, but if you insist,” I said and turned the van around and tracked back to Wagga Wagga. These were the days before mobile phones, so we hunted down a working telephone box. I climbed from the driver’s seat and into the crisp September night. While the others waited in the van, I phoned Bill and received directions. With the precious piece of paper detailing the road to Junee and subsequent route to Bill’s block, I marched to the driver’s side of the van, hopped in and turned on the ignition.

“Stop! We have to wait for Tania and Tom!” Karen yelled.

We waited. And waited. Half an hour later, the pair strolled up the Main, cradling fish’n chips in newspaper and nibbling at steaming Chiko rolls.

[Photo 5: Wagga Wagga Council Chambers © L.M. Kling 1988]

As they climbed into the cabin, I said, “We could’ve been there by now, Bill’s waiting.” However, Bill had some more patience to exercise. His directions were not straight forward and an hour dragged by as we meandered through the farm blocks, one false turn after another on our tour to Junee in the dark. Tom, the young man of Aryan features, sat between the sniggering Tania and Karen. They doted on him and while sipping Coca-Cola, he lapped up all the attention slathered on him. After occupying their mouths with greasy food, the smell of which lingered, the youth tribe grew bored and simmered with repressed rage.

Acid comments spat and floated around the cabin. “Aren’t we there yet?”

“Sure you know where you’re going?…We’re two hours behind schedule…This rate, we’ll never get to Brisbane.” Under pressure, my fine skills of navigation evaporated.

In the mist, a pin-point of light appeared on the side of the road to Junee. As we approached, a white ute emerged from the fog. Beside the truck, we saw a man waving a torch. It was Bill.

With Bill and his gear bundled into the van, we sailed onto Orange.

Some three hours late, Tom was not happy. “We’ll never get there in time.”

The girls cuddled each side of him and chorused their support. “Yeah, if our leader didn’t get us lost!”

[to be continued next week, same time, same website…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

Want more Australian Adventure, but too expensive to travel down under?

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And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Travelling Thursday–Sellicks Beach

[In answer to today’s prompt, I have never been to Kangaroo Island. So close and yet, so expensive to get there. One day I hope to travel there. In the meantime, I’ll continue to enjoy the beautiful beaches of Adelaide and down the Fleurieu coast.]

Sensational Sellicks Beach at Sunset

[Part 2 of the K-Team’s adventure on the Fantastic Fleurieu.]

‘Let’s see Sellicks Beach at sunset,’ I said, ‘it’s a perfect day for a sunset on the cliffs.’

Photo 1: Perfect any time when the sun reflects off the cliffs in the afternoon © L.M. Kling 2015

This time, like sheep, the K-Team heeded my voice and followed Hubby and me out from Hallett Cove, and then by car, we made a convoy up Lonsdale Road to the expressway heading for Sellicks Beach.

Photo 2: Hills rising above Sellicks Beach dominate the skyline © L.M. Kling 2018

After the expressway, on South Road, we passed the turn-off to Victor Harbour. I looked back. ‘Um, I can see P1’s car, but where’s your other brother, M’s car?’

‘Behind P1, I think,’ Hubby said. ‘Can’t you see the car?’

I glimpsed something resembling M’s car. ‘I think so.’

Photo 3: Searching of a different kind a long time ago; T-Team and K-boys looking for crabs at Sellicks Beach © L.M. Kling 1995

We reached the road leading to Sellicks Beach and turned. P1’s car turned too. ‘I can’t see M’s car.’

‘Maybe he went to Victor Harbour,’ my husband said.

‘I hope not.’

Hubby sighed as we neared Sellicks Beach. ‘Now where do we go?’

Photos 4 & 5: Down the Ramp to the sand and what’s there? Rocks, shells and sea flora © L.M. Kling 2018

‘Down the ramp.’

‘What ramp? I don’t see a ramp.’

‘Right there.’ I pointed. ‘Turn right.’

He who argues with Sat Nav’s and ignores their instructions, didn’t turn where I told him to, but kept driving on the road above the cliffs. ‘Where do I turn?’ he bleated.

I indicated behind us, but not in a smooth-calm voice that the Sat Nav would have. ‘Back there!’

‘What? Why didn’t you say so?’

Huffing and puffing, Hubby manoeuvred the Ford around making a U-turn. Then he detected a car park on the same level as the road. ‘We should park there.’

Photo 6: View of Sellicks coastline looking north towards Aldinga © L.M. Kling 2018

The thought of trekking up the steep slope to our car after the descent to the beach didn’t appeal to me. ‘No, let’s go to the lower one.’

‘Fine then,’ Hubby muttered and then drove down the ramp to the lower car park. P1’s car followed.

Parked in the lower car park, we waited for M.

Photo 7: View of Sellicks Beach coast looking south. An earlier visit when low tide. © L.M. Kling 2009

‘I think he took the road to Victor Harbour,’ P1 said. ‘He seemed to disappear around the time of that turn-off.’

Hubby pursed his lips and shook his head. We waited and observed cars parked on the beach. Waves already lapped at the ramp leading to the beach. Seemed some drivers had left it a little too late to escape the beach and rising tide. Perhaps the owners planned to camp the night and fish. One four-wheel drive vehicle drove through the surf to climb the ramp back to the road.

Photo 8:  Fisherman at Sellicks Beach © L.M. Kling 2017

‘Let’s have some afternoon tea while we wait,’ I said and then opened up the back of the station wagon. Before I’d finished serving coffee and hot cross buns, M’s car rolled down the ramp and parked beside P1’s car. We gathered around as M and his Swiss passengers stepped out.

Photo 9: Looking south at Sellicks Beach, November of 2017 when the tide was lower. © L.M. Kling 2017

Photo 10: Fishing at Sellicks. That day, in April, the tide was higher, and so not safe to drive on the sand. You can see others with their 4×4 all-terrain vehicles thought differently © L.M. Kling 2017

‘I took the road to Victor Harbour and had to take the scenic route to get here,’ M said.

The K-Team watched the sunset on the Sellicks cliffs; a regular paparazzi of K-clickers with their cameras captured the sun sinking on the horizon.

Photo 11: Sunset K-Paparazzi © L.M. Kling 2017

Then, with the sun gone, the K-Team wound their way back to our place for a roast chicken dinner.

Photo 12: Sunset on Sellicks Waves © L.M. Kling 2017

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2017; updated 2019; 2023

Feature Photo: Black and White Sellicks Sunset © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1984

***

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Wandering Wednesday–Camping Hazards near Mt. Liebig

[I have been preparing The T-Team with Mr B: Central Australia 1977 to be ready for publication soon. So, below is an extract from the T-Team’s adventure.

While three of the T-Team faced the perils of climbing Mt. Liebig, a drama of a different, yet equally challenging kind unfolded for Mr. B and his son, Matt as they stayed back at camp.

Extract from The T-Team with Mr B: Central Australia 1977, a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981.]

Bull Meets Mr. B

Mr. B and his son, Matt napped under the shade of a bean tree. A southerly breeze ferried through the dry creek bed, spiriting away the father’s snorts. Matt tossed and turned on his inflatable mattress that was exhausted of air resulting from a small, elusive puncture. He imagined the three others of the T-Team, beating a path through the sweltering heat and stinging spinifex in their quest to the summit of Mt. Liebig. Matt chuckled to himself. “Suckers!”

[Photo 1: Mt Liebig at sunrise with bean tree © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

In a nearby tributary, a bull spied the T-Team’s father, son and daughter trekking in the distance, and stamped its massive hooves in the loose dry sand. Once the family had vanished, the bull trotted towards his stamping ground which possessed a gigantic bean tree as a feature in an otherwise dull bed of dust. His quest was to reclaim his territory that the humans had invaded.

“Matt, ma boy, do be careful. Don’t go too far from camp. A bull might get you.” Mr. B squinted in the direction of distant thumping, then rolled over and resumed snoring.

A monstrous brown hulk loomed through a cloud of dust.

[Photo 2: Resident cattle © L.M. Kling 2013]

Matt bolted upright “Dad! Dad! Th-there’s a big- ugly- brown – ugly- big – brown – ugly – b-b-bull!”

“Aw, Matt, stop kidding me.” Mr. B blinked and rubbed his eyes. “That’s enough of the jokes.” A short rumble from behind sent him scrambling to his feet. He flailed his arms while galloping. “Quick! Into the Rover. Now!”

“But Dad!” In the sweltering heat and moment, the boy froze, glued to his air mattress under the bean tree. Terrified, he witnessed his Dad bound over the dirt and fly into the empty Rover parking space and onto a thicket of spinifex. Matt winced. The massif of angry brown trod closer. It paused, pawing the ground, taunting its human prey.

[Photo 3: Cattle Yard © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

After rubbing his punctured behind, Mr. B scrambled for the tarpaulin and rummaged through the baggage. “Er, d-don’t worry Matt. I-I’ll charge this bull before it s-sh-shoots — er — us.”

“But, Dad, the bull doesn’t have a gun.”

“Well, neither do we, we’ll just have to be satisfied with this boomerang and spear, till I find the damn gun.”

The bull stalked, narrowing the gap. The son clambered up the tree and gasped as his father fought with a rucksack that had entangled his legs, while he waved the pathetic weapons above his head.

[Photo 4: Mr. B wishing his nemesis “subdu-a-bull” © S.O. Gross circa 1945]

“But Dad, they’re only souvenirs.”

“Why Matt, how can you say such a thing? Where do you think these genuine Australian artefacts are made?” With all his effort, Mr. B thrust the spear at the beast.

“Yes, Dad, sold in Australia, but made in China.” Matt watched as the menacing bulk of fury stomped the ground, dust billowing into a cloud around it. “Too bad the bull doesn’t know the difference.”

“Don’t be sarcastic at a time of crisis, son.” Mr. B flung the boomerang at the charging bull and ducked behind the tucker box. The projectile bounced off the bull’s hide, provoking it into a tumult of frenzy. Grunting like an eight-cylinder engine, he stormed towards its human attacker, screeching to a halt at the edge of the tarpaulin. As the bull glared down at him, Mr. B could smell its leathery breath.

[Photo 5: Meanwhile, Mt. Liebig in afternoon and more generous ghost gum © S.O. Gross circa 1946]

With a nervous smile fixed on his face, the father edged his way to the bean tree and climbed aboard. The bull stomped and snorted around the sacred bean tree while its victims trembled in the lofty branches amongst the beans.

From this vantage point, Mr. B spotted the rifle leaning up against the tucker box. Unfortunately, the bull sat between him in the tree and the tucker box.

Hours passed.

Father and son sat in the tree.

“Dad my bottom hurts,” Matt whined.

Mr. B sighed, “The others’ll be back soon. They have a rifle.”

“But Dad! I have to go!”

“Hold on,” Mr. B snapped.

The sun edged to the horizon.

Mr. B bit his lip wondering if he’d be stuck up this tree forever.

“Dad! I really have to!”

Mr. B turned to his son who was now rocking.

The distant hum rang through the golden landscape. Mr. B adjusted his grip on the branch.

The hum became louder. An engine.

The bull rose and sauntered out of the campsite, then disappeared into the bush.

“Just wait, Matt,” Mr. B said. He scrambled down the tree and grabbed the rifle.

Matt’s voice floated down. “Dad, it’s too late.”

As the sun disappeared below the horizon, the rest of the T-Team returned to find Mr. B clutching a rifle and pacing the clearing. Matt remained lodged high up in the bean tree.

“As you can see, while you’ve been climbing your mountain, we’ve had a not-so-welcome visitor,” Mr. B remarked.

[Photo 6: Mt. Liebig at sunset © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

“Somehow, I think the B-family will be taking a guided bus tour next time they go for a holiday,” I muttered to Rick.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2023

Feature Painting: Mt. Liebig in watercolour © L.M. Kling 2017

***

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Wandering Wednesday–Brachina Gorge, Flinders Ranges

T-Team: Young and Restless in Brachina Gorge

It could’ve been Good Friday; most probably was. One thing was for certain, it was the Easter long weekend, when throngs of city folk in South Australia head for the outback to camp. My brother and I joined our youth group friends on a camping trip to Brachina Gorge, Flinders Ranges. Ah, those were the days!

[Photo 1: Road to Brachina © L.M. Kling 1983]

Another thing was for sure. We had reached Brachina Gorge after a long day of driving and everyone was, let’s just say, less than civil with each other. At least no kangaroos had been slaughtered by car, no copious amounts of beer had been drunk in the car, and thus no unfortunate accidents causing us to escape the car had happened either. Not like some Easter in the future when the T-Team explored Chambers Gorge.

[Photo 2: Approaching Brachina Gorge © L.M. Kling circa 1983]

So, late Good Friday afternoon, we stopped in Brachina Gorge just before the track became too suspension-crunching rough.

B Calm sautéed his dehydrated rice on his personal gas cooker. He wasn’t grumpy.

I peered at the sizzling stubs of rice and deliciously smelling onion. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Cooking,’ B Calm replied.

‘Looks good.’ I mused how B Calm could settle down and cook his dinner. The rest of the crew bumbled about the narrow sandy rise above the riverbed, searching for a decent-sized patch to plant their tents.

[Photo 3: In search of a tent site in Brachina Gorge © L.M. Kling 1983]

Storm bowled past B Calm. ‘This place is rubbish! Can’t we move on?’

B Calm ignored Storm and continued frying. The cliffs of the gorge shimmered salmon-pink in the late afternoon sun.

[Photo 4: Brachina Cliffs late afternoon © L.M. Kling 1983]

Storm paced in front of B Calm. He moaned, ‘There’s nowhere to put a tent up! Who chose this place?’

The culprit, my brother, also ignored this feedback. He hovered over the rock pool, searching for his tucker tonight. Yabbies.

[Photo 5: Tributary Creek in Brachina © L.M. Kling 1999

]

‘Any luck?’ B Calm called.

‘Nup,’ Rick replied. ‘But I just caught a tadpole.’ He then tipped back his head, opened wide his mouth and popped the tadpole in.

[Photo 6: Rock Pools in Brachina where yabbies and tadpoles thrive © L.M. Kling 1999]

‘Ew! Yuk!’ the girls, Summer and Autumn screamed. ‘That’s disgusting!’

Triv sniggered.

After a gulp, Rick shuddered. ‘A bit too salty.’

Storm stumbled past. ‘This place stinks!’

‘Find us a better place then,’ Rick replied.

[Photo 7: In search of Camping Paradise © L.M. Kling 1983]

Storm stomped down the road that led further into the gorge and disappeared around the bend. The sun, by this time had slunk below the horizon to light up other parts of the Earth. Twilight lingered, dusting wisps of cloud in shades of crimson.

[Photo 8: Sundown in Brachina © L.M. Kling 1999]

B Calm glanced in the direction of Storm’s venture. ‘He’ll be back.’

Sure enough, as the twisted bushes on the neighbouring ridge turned to ink against the fading sunset, Storm returned. ‘Still reckon this place is a dump,’ he muttered.

[Photo 9: Silhouettes of sunset in Brachina © L.M. Kling 1999]

For the rest of us, the ancient mystery of the Brachina cliffs had convinced us to stay put. Tents lined the banks of the creek. And our small group of friends gathered around the roaring fire, sausages sizzling in frypans and billies boiling for a cup of tea. Brachina, and the campsite Rick had chosen, was more than good enough for us.

[Photo 10: Campfire of content © L.M. Kling 1983]

‘Maybe we’ll move on in the morning,’ Rick promised; more to allay any remaining discontent, than a firm promise.

[Photo 11: Ancient mystery of Brachina Gorge © L.M. Kling 1999]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; update 2023

Feature Photo: Sunset on Brachina © L.M. Kling 1999

***

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Travelling Tuesday–Saas Fee

The Matterhorn Rebellion

[K-Team European Adventures 2014]

One morning in August 2014, I rose early to catch the sunrise on the mountains surrounding Saas Fee in Switzerland. My husband also woke early to organise the earlier-than-other-places’-check-out at 9.00am. A shadow of disappointment rested on us as we adjusted to the reality that we would miss viewing the Matterhorn—not as a result of the weather, the weather was perfect, but because certain members of our gang feared they could not afford the expense of travelling to the other side to see the Matterhorn. (In retrospect, in a large travel group there’s always going to be differing agendas and opinions where to go and what to do and plenty of drama to go with it.)

The fallout from the Matterhorn Rebellion had settled and we had made the best of our Saas Fee visit with the previous day spent up the Honig instead. An aside here, how family myths are created. One member of our crew, insisted for years to come that I had been stalked and attacked by goats up on the Honig. I was not stalked and attacked by goats. Although, the thoughtless person who left a plastic bag of waste tied to a bench seat, has a lot to answer for. Let’s just say, that anyone who sat on that seat was assured of company. Goats, that is.

*[Photo 1: Goats, and mountain view up the Honig © L.M. Kling 2014]

Hence, the next morning, our last in Saas Fee, after catching the sun’s rays spreading over the mountains, we ate our muesli breakfast admiring the view…until the others in our party made an appearance.

 *[Photo 2: Dawn on the Dom © L.M. Kling 2014]

However, for some members, the novelty of early starts had worn off. So, after some more drama, where the morning views of the mountains surrounding Saas Fee were not appreciated, my husband, his brother and I were left to sort out the garbage. Saas Fee being a green village, had a particular protocol regarding waste disposal.

*[Photo 3: Morning Saas Fee, Switzerland © L.M. Kling 2014]

I rang the hotel management. My Swiss-German being non-existent, and my German not much better, this was a challenge to understand what we were to do with the waste. We were meant to have an orange bag for the garbage. Where was that? My husband hiked down to the hotel reception, while his brother and I vacated the apartment. We waited in the courtyard for my husband to return. He did, just before the taxi arrived—and with an orange bag.

*[Photo 4: Saas Fee, a town surrounded by the Alps © L.M. Kling 2014]

En route to the car (being a car-free village, all cars had to be parked in a carpark outside Saas Fee), with the loads of bags the others left for us to transport by taxi, the driver stopped at a humble wooden hut. He took our orange garbage bag and, after opening the door of the hut, tossed the bag inside. I marvelled that even the garbage-disposal sites were disguised as mini alpine huts.

*[Photo 5: A hut like this in Saas Fee ©  L.M. Kling 2014]

After finding our car, and loading the baggage into it, we walked to the cable-car station. We caught up with the rest of our party at the Revolving Restaurant at Mittelallalin. We rode the two cable-cars and then cog-wheel train which went through the mountain tunnel to Mittelallalin at 3500m. The brisk but thin alpine air, the blue skies and bright white peaks of fresh fallen snow melted the misunderstandings of morning away and peace was made.

*[Photo 6: Now that the garbage has been dealt with—my hubby grabbing sunshine outside the Revolving Restaurant © L.M. Kling 2014]

*[Photo 7: What lies behind the Dom–the Matterhorn, of course © L.M. Kling 2014]

At 1pm, the younger members of our party decided to head down the mountain and start the drive back to Wattwil and the farm. Us “oldies” stayed to investigate the ice-caves inside the Fee glacier. When we prepared to leave the mountain, we saw the line-up for the cog wheel train was wide, thick and long with skiers who had the same idea. Maybe after some lunch the crowd would thin. Not so. Lunch did nothing to thin the crowd. Took us nearly an hour, crushed in by school-age skiers and their big ski gear bags whopping in front of our faces, and slowly inching forward as we watched three cog wheel trains cram skiers and snow-boarders in and then leave without us. There was even a “ghost” train. It came. It went. Without any passengers. Go figure!

*[Photo 8: Line-up of a different kind in the Ice-caves of the Fee Glacier (c) L.M. Kling 2014]

 ‘Why the long face, son?’ his mother asked.

‘All this way, I’ve come,’ he muttered, ‘perfect weather, and we were so close…and I still couldn’t see the Matterhorn; thanks to the Matterhorn Rebellion.’

So, as the sun set on the Alps, disappointment settled in the hearts of certain K-Team members, who had missed out on their goal to see the Matterhorn.

[Photo 9: Sunset on the Alps, Saas Fee © L.M. Kling 2014]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2018; 2022

*Feature Photo: Dawn on the Dom © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2014 

***

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Virtual Travel–Romantic Road Bavaria

[Over the weekend I have wiled away some time in virtual travel courtesy of YouTube, particularly reliving our exploration of the Romantic Road, Bavaria. I also delved into some research of Nördlingen (mostly Wikipedia). I wanted to find more information about Kaiserhof Hotel Sonne but was sadly disappointed that the algorithms were on the side of “Booking.com” and “Tripadvisor” which dominated the search engines.

If anyone out there has some history pertaining to this hotel or can direct me to some resources, please share in the comments below.]

We passed through Ulm which was featured in this postcard but didn’t visit Ulm. We stayed in a town nearby called Burgau for a few days while we explored the Romantic Road. Our Tom-Tom, which we named Tomina, took great delight in leading us astray. In our quest to reach our Burgau apartment, Tomina decided to take us on a roadway that was closed to traffic.

Similarly, over one-hundred years ago, this postcard chased Theodora Bellan across Bavaria, originating in Sofflingen (a town that Google maps doesn’t recognise), then Nussdorf, and finally found her in Ludwigsburg.

The Romanitic Road was one part of Germany, that despite the wars and modernisation of the twentieth century, never lost its Medieval charm. A reason I so wanted to travel this road of the Romans when we travelled to Germany in 2014.  

Romantic Road

The next few days we explored the Romantic Road, although Tom Tom always tried to get us on the freeway. Friday, we did Tomina’s circuits in by never obeying her commands and instead following the Romantic Road signs.

 Highlights of the Romantic Road:

Nördlingen–the town of my Trudinger ancestors and having lunch in the Hotel Sonne restaurant which was owned by the Trudinger family until the 1960s. We then walked around the medieval wall. Hubby amused fellow travellers by greeting them with an Aussie “G’day”.

[Photos 1, 2, and 3 Aspects of Nördlingen © L.M. Kling 2014]

1. Red Rooves were filmed in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
2. The Wall of Nördlingen.
3. Kaiserhof Hotel Sonne

[Photos 3 & 4: Wassertrüdingen © L.M. Kling 2014]

4. Rain in Wassertrüdingen
5. Reflections in the water of Wassertrüdingen

Dinkelsbuhl–the church, St. Georges Minster, the ornate carvings and artwork and the bejewelled skeleton of a martyr executed by Emperor Nero on display. And…that day, Goths and Emos aplenty.

[Photos 6 & 7: Dinkelsbuhl © L.M. Kling 2014]

6. St. Georges Minster
7. Segringer Tor

Rothenburg ob der Tauber where we enjoyed the delicious sweet pastry as well as the beautiful sunny day that showed off its cobblestone roads and medieval buildings at its best.

[Photos 8, 9 & 10: Rothenburg ob der Tauber (c) L.M. Kling 2014]

8. Sweet Treats
9. Typical Rothenburg Street
10. Rothenburg ob der Tauber most popular

Challenges of the Romantic Road:

  • Too many tourists especially at Fussen on the Saturday we visited, caused us to be trapped in a massive traffic jam that held us in a virtual carpark for an hour.
  • So many tourists at Neuschwanstein (Mad Ludwig’s Castle). If we’d attempted to buy a ticket, we would have waited a four and a half hours or more to enter the castle!
  • Traffic jams and rain, both especially heavy that particular Saturday in August.

[Photos 11 & 12: Neuschwanstein and surrounds © L.M. Kling 2014]

11. Neuschwanstein with Schloss Hohenschwagau in foreground
12. Schwansee

We took a break from the Romantic Road one day to visit my relatives. Tomina had trouble with the “dud” roundabout, so we ended up travelling the “scenic route” through the back way off the motorway through corn fields and behind slow tractors. The hour’s trip took two hours, but once we arrived, we had a wonderful day.

In Burgau we had no internet. I think Hubby coped…although to be honest, he was grumpy at times. I guess there’s something to be said to slow down to the pace of snail mail and send postcards as folk did over 100 years ago…especially when there’s no internet.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; updated 2022

Feature Postcard: Ulm © 1905

Postcard Front: Ulm, Bayern

Postcard Back

***

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