While not virgin campers, we are definitely novices and our previous test runs coincided with a spell of perfect English summer weather – blue skies, puffy clouds, burbling brooks. On these occasions it seemed only a matter of time before Ratty and Mole punted past our tent. We hadn’t taken cooking equipment on the brief test trips and I’d been equally impressed and alarmed by the other campers’ kitchens and what was considered essential camp cooking kit (a fruit bowl? Really?). So with visions of warm evenings grilling some little something picked up at a local grocer, we booked a week in a tent in the Lakes.

We’ve stayed in those vast, tarmaced caravan parks before (on honeymoon in Dorset in a 1979 Kombi camper van) and this time specifically sought out a camp site that would be a bit closer to nature. The first site was absolutely beautiful – a few farmer’s fields littered with boulders, criss crossed with dry stone walls and with long views across the valley to the fells above.

Well, I say that now. I only discovered these charms on about day 3 when there was a brief break in the pelting rain and gale force winds and I could actually take in the surroundings rather than scuttling between car and tent, head down and zipping the fly sheet behind me.

It rained. It poured. It blew. I’d taken the warning about not cooking in a tent very seriously and at first thought that was the end of my cooking plan. But our first day’s walking had gone a bit awry, ending up as an 8 hour tour of the valley rather than the 2 hour scenic tramp that I had packed light snacks for. Sod the fire safety instructions. I was wet, cold and had been trudging along for more hours than my hips could handle and I wanted hot food. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, half a spoon of rosemary improves bog standard beans no end and I’d remembered to pack a jar. Never have baked beans tasted so good. Truly manna from Heinz.

So having successfully not set the tent on fire, and getting fed up with pretty ordinary pub food down the road, I started to really enjoy the adventure of indoor one pot camp cooking, especially the new discipline of having everything in its place (including The Man) and prepped to begin with. And, just because we were in a tent and it was p$%*ing down, there was no reason to let standards slip and cocktail hour was adhered to. Note: that is chardonnay-viogner in the mugs. I know it looks a bit, um, questionable…

I’m quite chuffed with my range of one pot wonders, although you can see a bit of a theme emerging in my repertoire:

– eggs with onion, potato and paprika sausage;

– chickpea stew with onions, olives and paprika sausage

– pork saussies with onion and bruised apple (they’d been in the boot)

It might not have been quite the lolling about of a warm evening after a trip to some lovely farmers’ market that I’d imagined, but those pork sausages, made on a National Trust tennanted farm from heritage breed pigs, are the best I’ve ever eaten. The leftovers also made an excellent addition to (yet!) another potato, onion and paprika sausage stew.

One up side of the constant rain and our under-preparedness for the weather was that I had a good excuse to seek refuge in the tea houses of the Lake District and launch a one woman search for the perfect scone. Also, I’d forgotten the little trivet thingie to sit the coffee pot on the camp stove = need for a caffeine dispensing establishment = tea house. We struck gold first try at the Yew Tree Farm, which was owned by Beatrix Potter and used as a stand in for her real house in the film ‘Miss Potter’. The cheese scone was a sterling example of its kind, but the plain scone with damson jam and cream was a masterclass in how to achieve light (and enormous!) scones. And they served proper tea in a proper pot.

Some of the keen hedgerow foragers in the cooking press over here make quite a fuss about damsons (like Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall etc) and about sticking them in gin, but I hadn’t encountered them before. We’d found they really are common in the hedgerows as we did our epic tour of duty around the Duddon Valley the day before. When I was a kid my mum made a really outstanding plum jam, halfway between sweet and sour, that we used to eat with sausages and cheese (correct this memory if I’m wrong Mum). This damson jam had that same tartness that went really well with the cream so I’ve also brought home a jar, inspired to make scones, but also to eat with cheese and crackers. Post script: last night I made a last minute plum crumble using crushed amaretti biscuits in the crumble and a spoon of the jam mixed in to boost the uninspiring plums, which got the thumbs up from The Man.

The Man knows my weaknesses and inveigled me to try this camping lark with promises of jaunts to local markets for fresh produce and al fresco meals under the stars… The rain was a bit of a dampener on that, but sitting on a boulder in a rare dry(ish) moment, eating one pot fried eggs with paprika sausage, looking out over the imposing expanse of the Fells with only a farm house in the distance was pretty magical.

So, I’m a novice camp cook. What’s your camp cooking speciality and what do you do when it rains?

Installments one , two, three, four, five and six.

There are few things in this world as simple or as satisfying as the humble damper. There are many master damper makers out here in the desert, and I’ve recently had the opportunity to sample some fresh off the fire. Oh, the guilty pleasure of indulging in a bit of damper with butter and homemade jam for breakfast, lunch and dinner – all on the same day! I submitted willingly even though I could feel my soft bits getting softer with every bite.

This particular bush trip was part of a week of celebrations, workshops and cultural activities that is the “Blackstone Festival”, put on by Papulankutja Artists. Check out their blog at http://papulankutja.blogspot.com/. They make beautiful paintings at Blackstone, well worth a look if you are in the market for something sublime that is also ethically produced.

The first of our dampers from this particular bush trip was made by a great chick from Margaret River named Jodie. She put a lot of love into that damper but it was unmistakably the product of a white girl still learning, shaped rather like a very large Hershey’s chocolate drop. Nevertheless it was delicious, and we ate it with gusto and lashings of butter and slightly fermented fig jam (the pot I bought in Waikerie some weeks ago).

The second of our dampers was produced by an older lady who learned how to make it almost fifty years ago, at a time when there was a bounty on the heads of dingos and flour was the major commodity sought after by people from this area in exchange for “dog skins”. Here’s her recipe, and some photos of the process.

Mrs Mitchell’s Campfire Damper

½ portion plain flour
½ portion self-raising flour
Warm water
A pinch of salt

Mix dry ingredients together in a large bowl, adding water a little at a time and kneading until a smooth, soft dough is achieved. Clear away the coals from a hot fire, best one that has been burning all night. Place dough onto hot sand and pat down into a flat cake. Cover with coals and leave to bake for approximately 20 minutes. Beat off ash using a green sprig of tree leaves. Serve warm with butter and jam and a huge cup of sweet tea.

Served with home-made Red Wine and Pepper Plum Jam (the fly is optional). Yum. [I think she means the jam, not the fly - Zoe]

Scoffing damper in the morning sun. Note the little red coffee plunger camping mug by my knee – a handy way to make a decent morning brew if you prefer coffee and everybody else is drinking tea.

Installments one , two, three, four and five.

It’s been a couple of weeks since I ran into Camel Man’s Wife and begged for a fillet of camel to play with in the kitchen but to date they have yet to deliver. The camp dogs have done better, with the Camel Man’s Boys dropping off enormous sections of back bone at various places around the community for them to chew on. We had one little dog drag a stinking piece of hump fat at least twice his weight into the arts centre last week in an effort to keep it for his own exclusive pleasure. He was most indignant when promptly chased back out.

I have nevertheless managed to get my paws on a little bit of dromedary on the sly. A friendly sparky called Richard had been staying with the Camel People while working on various jobs around the community, including fixing our hot water system (we had endured over two weeks of luke warm showers). Over coffee one morning before the sun had much of a chance to warm the day he offered me some freshly dried camel jerky. Marinated in sweet chilli sauce and coriander seeds, it was among the most tender, tasty jerky I’ve eaten – and having lived in Namibia for a couple of years where biltong from all kinds of bush meat is a fav snack, I’ve tasted quite a bit. Nice work, Camel Man. I almost forgive you for being so tight about providing meat for the rest of us.

Ever wondered what a camel’s oesophagus looks like?

Despite the lack of camel there have been some other unusual menu items to get excited about. Roo tails are a favourite camping meat out here and can be purchased frozen at both the community store or road house for $7 a pop. Surprisingly there is considerable variety in the quality of tails – I am reliably informed by a long time connoisseur that the black ones sold at the road house are a little tough.

Roo tails are prepared in the manner described in my last post, by first singeing off most of the fur in the flame of a hot fire then wrapping them in silver foil and buried in hot coals. If silver foil is unavailable, they are just buried directly in the ashes. Silver foil is, I have come to appreciate, the single most important cooking aid for camp cooking other than matches. Almost everything cooked on the fire is wrapped in foil: roo tails, emu, damper, lamb chops, potatoes and bananas (that last one is my idea). The only exceptions are traditional bush meats such as tirnka and marku (witchetty grubs), that go straight into the ashes. (Forgetting the foil is an almost unforgivable act of negligence and results in grumpiness all round when a great meat meal is ruined by the presence of grit on the cooked flesh. Forgetting the salt is also a sin, and forgetting both will get you permanently labeled incompetent.)

On this particular trip I forgot the foil, but as the provider of both the tails and the salt was promptly forgiven. Lucky someone in the other car had some foil tucked away under a tarp in the back of his troupie. I turned up late, so most of the women had already taken off looking for tirnka. I was left with one of the older ladies and her ten year old grand daughter and promptly instructed to cook all the meat I had with me despite the fact the other women wouldn’t be back for hours. I was given responsibility for fur removal and handling the shovel but was under close supervision lest I create an unevenly cooked tail charcoaled one side and raw and hairy on the other.

Breaking out the foil …

Getting bossed around (note the crow bar – a multi-purpose tool that no bush woman can do without – in fact it was one of the first modern tools taken up by Aboriginal women out here – a welcome if some what less personal improvement to wooden digging sticks of old).

The final product. Served with salt and eaten dexterously with a sharp knife. The meat is stringy but tasty, the flavour coming mainly from the lovely sticky fat between each of the tail bones (think ox tail stew, without the stew).

Given that few readers of this blog are likely to be able to find themselves a tail down at the local supermarket (unless, of course, you are in Alice Springs), I instead present below a recipe for roo and bean stir fry, courtesy of my mate Matt, the handsome tradie from earlier entry. Not only handy with a hammer, Matt has proved himself a bit of a gourmet in the kitchen and recently whipped up the following dish while out camping. Note the only implements he had with him at the time was a pocket knife, a fry pan and a (hopefully washed) lid from a can of dog food bent into the shape of a spoon.

Matt’s Roo and Bean Stir Fry

Stir fry a fillet of kangaroo, cut into fine strips, with chilli, garlic, salt and pepper to taste. Add some mushrooms, bacon and a tin of smoky barbeque baked beans.

Best eaten directly from the fry pan while sitting on your swag under a clear winter desert sky.

Pamela’s journey continues here.

Instalments one , two, three and four.

I’m in lovely Warakurna community at the moment, located at the base of the Rawlinson Ranges in Western Australia. The remote Giles weather station, located just up the road, was built in 1956 and was the first permanent colonial occupation of the area for hundreds of kilometres in any direction. Many older people living at Warakurna now were children at the time, their families living independent existences centred around the myriad of rock holes and hunting grounds scattered throughout the ranges.

By virtue of its tenure as a piece of Western Australian Aboriginal reserve excised by the Commonwealth government fifty years ago, the weather station is the only place in the entire Ngaanyatjarra Lands where alcohol can legally be consumed, and officially only by the station’s six employees. Have I considered dropping into the weather station to say hi and flashing my big blue eyes in the hope of a cold one? Not for a moment. My research permit is far too valuable. Luckily for us, Coopers make a convincing birell (brewed without alcohol) that tastes great straight out of the freezer. While barbecuing steaks over our fire pit on Saturday night, for a brief moment I almost forgot it wasn’t the real thing.

With some time on my hands over Easter, some of the ladies organised to go out hunting for tirnka (little goannas). Armed with crowbars as digging sticks and billy cans as shovels, 8 women and 2 dogs packed into a troopie and made our way to tirnka country.

Tirnka country

We wandered through the bush for a couple of hours, stopping to dig at holes where there was evidence of recent action. It was a very successful hunt in the end, with eleven (!) tirnka bagged. We made a fire, sat down with a cup of tea and proceeded to cook up the catch. The preparation process involves removing gut then burning off the skin in the open flame for a couple of minutes. The lizards are then buried in coals and left to cook for about twenty minutes. The cooked flesh is delicious – pale white, smooth and tasty –hints of chicken (!) and fish and just a little bit smoky. No salt required. We got back to town on dusk, the ladies subsequently missing the Easter Sunday prayer meeting and making me three hours late for a sausage sizzle being hosted by the neighbours. Not good manners, but at the end of the day I think we were all where we really wanted to be.

One of the ladies left this little fella on her handbag on the dashboard while she continued hunting:

The meals I’ve been cooking for myself and the occasional guest in the donger have been far less exotic but nevertheless delicious. I’m very excited to present my first blog recipe below: creamy corn fritters. The recipe comes courtesy of Ed, who prepared them on this occasion and who has spent a great deal of her four years living in Warakurna devising new ways to make tin foodstuffs interesting. She insists that the cream corn is the magic ingredient in this mix – without it, the fritters have trouble hanging together.

Creamy Corn Fritters

1 tin corn kernels
1 tin creamed corn
½ cup self-raising flour, but might need to add more depending on consistency of batter
2 eggs
a little bit of milk
1 onion, finely diced
Garlic, salt and pepper to taste.
A handful of fresh coriander (an option only available if you’ve been food shopping in Alice Springs recently)

Fold mixture together until dry ingredients are wet. Make sure batter is thick. Don’t over mix. Fry over medium heat until cooked through and golden brown. Serve hot and drizzled with kecap manis (sweet soy sauce) and a spoonful of home-made tomato relish on the side (in this instance made by Waikerie “Cobwebs” ladies). Best appreciated in the company of a handsome, hungry tradesman.

Instalments one , two and three.

It’s been a long and arduous couple of weeks of eating, but have finally found my way into the Ngaanyatjarra lands and some civilised eating options. I arrived in the tiny community of Tjukurla from the tourist resort of Yulara at Uluru a couple of days ago, and have been eating fabulously, if somewhat humbly, since.

My enthusiasm for food has been somewhat diminished over the past fortnight by a persistent stomach bug that left me feeling exhausted with nausea but thankfully with few other symptoms. Not that I was missing out on much. With the exception of some excellent home cooked meals with friends in Alice Springs, eating since leaving Adelaide has been a rather mundane affair. Under siege from a meat craving, I ordered lamb shanks and mash at the dubious Glendambo Road House, our overnight stop between Adelaide and Alice. These shanks were enormous – quite literally an example of the proverbial mutton dressed up as her younger sister. But they were rather tasty and quite possibly the only redeeming feature of a place that otherwise makes no apologies for the appalling state of their accommodation. The bunk-house we were offered looks so bad that my travelling companion and I opted for sleeping rough on a tarp next to the ute rather than risk bed bugs. A sprinkling of rain initially left us doubting this decision, but then a cold, strong wind blew the clouds away and we slept contentedly under the magnificence of the Milky Way.

Ginormous Glendambo Shanks

Alice Springs is the dinner party capital of Central Australia, a consequence (so the locals tell me) of there being few other quality options worth repeat visits. One place that has piqued local interest is the Vietnamese Restaurant on the south side of “the Gap” near the market gardens that uses some locally grown produce. The place has an airy al fresco dining area decorated with coloured fairy lights that looks out on the MacDonnell Ranges, perfect for languid dining on warm desert nights. The food’s not bad either.

The tourist destination of King’s Canyon was our next stop. The canyon (well, more a gorge, really) was stunning. But the only accommodation options were at the tourist resort in the national park and we soon realised that eating was going to be an expensive disappointment. We narrowly escaped being fleeced at the resort restaurant, which has attempted to convert itself into a fine dining experience by placing table cloths over the plastic furniture and hiding the contents of bain-marie from public view. It looked like a bistro and smelled like a bistro, but as soon as we sat down I knew we were in for an expensive time of it. The waitress’ clumsy execution of the placement of a napkin in my lap set off alarm bells. One glance at the menu confirmed my fears: $38 for a steak and no mains under $25. We beat a hasty retreat to the bar for very ordinary pizza and Carlton Draught (which still managed to cost us close to $60).

Our eating options at Yulara, the tourist resort servicing Uluru and Kata Tjuta, were similarly limited by expense and quality. So we cooked for ourselves at the campsite, my companions enjoying such delights as tuna and corn omelettes and heat-and-eat spinach curry while I nibbled on the occasional piece of bread and butter in between bouts of nausea. I was treated to a proper dinner on my last night by my mate Ian. Ian had been determined to make his four days at the Rock a budget experience, so much so that he actually bothered to bring his own supply of tinned “Big Eats” with him all the way from Perth. Our simple meal at the café that night consisted of a hamburger and a pizza washed down with two bottles of wine. The experience cost him more than four nights’ worth of camping fees. I felt momentarily guilty until I remembered that I was shouting us two nights in a proper hotel room with crisp white sheets, a flat screen tv and the convenience of an ensuite (all in the name of a good night’s sleep – it worked).

A four hour drive west found me arriving at Tjukurla the next day at lunch time. With an esky full of fresh fruit and veges, I treated my host Vicki to three nights of simple nutritious meals of various tastes: lamb chops casseroled in tomato sauce; tofu vege curry; and pork chops marinated in soy and honey. On the third day, under pressure of a second person in the house, her septic system blocked up and the stench of raw sewerage overflowing into the shower stall and laundry drain overwhelmed all traces of delicious cooking smells in the kitchen. The problem, which she had lived with for six months, had recently been “fixed”, but in keeping with the lack of care that typifies so much of the work that happens out in Aboriginal communities, the contractor who initially did the job repaired the hole in her sewerage pipe with a bit of gaffer tape. Understandably it’s sometimes hard to maintain an enthusiasm for food in such circumstances. I know a number of people, particularly those who live alone, who struggle to continue to care for themselves properly when living out here.

I’m now in Warakurna and staying with my friend Edwina, who makes the best coffee in the Lands and is an expert in the art of preparing “donger delights” (for all of you who may not know, a “donger” in this context is slang for a transportable home!). Stay tuned.

P.S. Edwina has a pack of nine (yes, nine!) little puppies currently living under her veranda – just about enough for a tasty little puppy casserole. They are being fattened up on Weetbix and milk as I type this.

Instalments one and two.

Day 6: Glenelg, Adelaide

I’m currently holed up in a motel in the Adelaide beach-side suburb of Glenelg. Kind of like Perth’s Fremantle without the hippies, or perhaps Melbourne’s St Kilda minus the cool. Sleeping 300m from an ocean beach is my idea of heaven, but turned into hell yesterday when the stench of 500 rotting carp dead in a nearby waterway wafted over the area. A cool breezy change is helping clear the air, and not a moment too soon.

I’ve spent the past couple of days in at the State Library of South Australia and the Royal Geographical Society of South Australia looking through albums of photographs from early exploration parties through central Australia. Exhausting work (no, really, it is!) and I’m already over it. It could, however, be much worse – the guy next to me in the library reading room appeared to be attempting to reconstruct a cricket test match from 1937.

Eating these past few days has been non-remarkable, partly because of fiscal restraint on my part, partly because of lack of inspiration. Restaurants abound in Glenelg, but most are over-priced Australian-fusion fare. But this morning’s breakfast at a café in Henley Beach was fantastic: creamy scrambled eggs with a side of warm smoked salmon tossed in baby rocket and served with perfectly browned toast and great coffee. I sat and ate as I watched a group of teenagers haul themselves out of a rough sea at the end of a 2km ocean swim. I had driven north to Henley this morning hoping to attach myself to an informal training swim held by the local Aussie Masters club, but took one look at the churning sea and thought better of it. I think I’ve a way to go before I’ll be swimming the 20km Freo to Rottnest.

During my meanderings through the archives I came across the following entry in an account of a government expedition into Ngaanyatjarra country in 1903. It was written by a young Herbert Basedow, whose life’s work was recently celebrated in an exhibition at the National Library of Australia. This one goes out to all my fellow photographers, who know as well as I do what a pain in the arse we can be:

“After I had spent some time with the natives and taken several photos, an old man gave me to understand that my presence was no longer required. In fact, he actually turned me round to face our camp and gave me a slight shove towards it.”

For those of you who have no idea where Ngaanyatjarra country is, here is a link to a map of the area that familiars call “the Lands”.

Given my pre-occupation with the library this week, the only photo I have for this post is of a gem I picked up in amongst shelves crammed crocheted footy earrings, decorated jewellery boxes and jars of tomato chutney in a little craft shop in Waikerie. The name of the shop, “The Cobweb”, doesn’t exactly in still a sense of confidence in the freshness of their products, but this jar of fig jam was clearly made with love. A lot of love. I’m looking forward to sharing it with Edwina, who will be hosting me during my stay at Warakurna community. Being a good country girl from Hay, she is herself a great enthusiast of the stuff. Thank you, lady number 53A from Waikerie, we will enjoy it.

The first instalment of the tale of Pamela’s journey is here.

Day 1: Canberra to Mildura (700 and something kms)

This morning the Parents sent me off into the world with a stomach full of poached eggs and bacon and in a ute packed with donated blankets and clothes (thank you Wamboin craft group, and Trish and Glen). I only got as far as Yass before I stopped for a coffee (it was a slow start). It was the beginning of what turned into a disastrous day’s eating.

Handy Hint #1: If you are ever in the position of having to buy a tall flat white at McDonald’s McCafe, make sure you ask for a double shot.

The coffee was in fact so bad that I couldn’t drink it. But against all logic, I actually chose to stop at the next McDonalds (Gundagai) to buy another one. But this time, a long black. I figure there’s not too many people in this world who can ruin a long black.

Turning off the Hume Hwy, I made north for Wagga Wagga and then west through a landscape that produces so much of our food, gourmet or otherwise: the endless, empty wheat fields of the Hay Plain; the orchards and irrigation flats of the Murray-Darling basin rivers of the Murrumbidgee; the acres of land cleared for grazing around Balranald. I was playing tag with a truck carrying 600 sheep for live export to Saudi Arabia, the driver of whom stopped to check on his flock almost as regularly as I was stopping to pee.
 

 

We were motoring along with not a care in the world, until suddenly just outside Narrandera I was confronted by a barrage of fruit flies of gigantic proportions.
 

I had completely forgotten about the “no fruit” rule in orchard country. The resulting loss was profound. Into the bin goes the kilo of NZ apricots brought at Woolies Dickson (no great loss, weren’t that nice anyway); a Tupperware container harvest of my own cherry tomatoes (these, on the other hand, were very yum); the one capsicum I had managed to grow this summer (just the one, lovingly tended for months!); and the last of the yellow plums off my tree in Kaleen. All this beautiful food now sits in the bottom of a bin somewhere on the Sturt Hwy. How depressing.

I was so upset I resolved not to buy any other food for the rest of the day. So I nibbled my way to Mildura on boiled eggs, carrots and a slice of tasty cheese. All washed down with sips of a long black that was getting on for six hours old. Finally pulled in to Mildura around 8pm, paid ten bucks for a tent site at a caravan park on the banks of the Murray River, rolled out my swag beside the car (who needs tents?!?) and popped on the billy to make myself a cup of instant miso soup. While waiting for the water to boil, I headed to the amenities. The Ladies featured a striking fake-plant-fairy-light-sculpture that I loved so much I considered stealing it.
 

Handy Hint #2: When instructed to mix instant miso soup with a small cup of boiling water, make sure the cup is VERY small. Or add a double shot.

Day Two: Mildura to Adelaide (a leisurely five hour drive)

Handy Hint #3: Check the weather report to make sure it’s not going to rain in the middle of the night when you decide to forgo the shelter of a tent and sleep out under the stars…

Today was Gourmet all the way. It started at Mildura’s most famous café, Stefanos, with a truly gourmet hot cross bun (generously sized with big, juicy raisins, perfectly spiced, glazed with marmalade and still warm – I would drive hundreds of kilometres just to get my hands on one of these) and a coffee. Perfect for a drizzly autumn morning. I don’t usually have a great deal of time for men who like to put their faces on bottles of sauce, but it has to be said that the presence of celebrity cook Stefano in the neighbourhood has given the local foodies something worth cooing about. And what a perfect place for Gourmet to be, with the best of fresh fruit, veges, meat, olive oil and wine all locally available. His cafe stocks it all, from blood-orange marmalade to squid-ink pasta. I couldn’t go past the “Murray River gourmet salt”, soft flakes of perfect pale pink harvested from local lakes. Delicious. My sagely frugal (and gorgeous) sister-in-law will be horrified to learn that I paid $8 for a bag of the stuff, but I figure I was merely spending a little of what I saved by sleeping on the ground in the rain last night.
 

I was in no hurry to get to Adelaide, so I pottered along the highway, stopping at wineries, fruit stalls and coffee shops along the way whenever the whim took me. I had a particularly tasty spinach pastie from the bakery at Waikerie (home of Nippys – the makers of the best commercial ice-coffee ever). The filling was a bit too salty but I was totally sold by the caraway seeds on top. Nice.

There is something particularly indulgent about tasting ten different wines at ten thirty in the morning, particularly if (like me) you have no idea about wine. I found a couple of organic bottles near Renmark, and a rather yummy 2005 cab sav as I came through the Barossa. Think I’ll save that one for next time I fall in love.

Please note that the family Virgo has already advised me that I didn’t stitch the pictures together too well.

My old and dear friend Stevie is a regular commenter here and blogs on his beefchange (like a treechange, but with cattle) at WoodenSpoon.  He and our friend  Captain Ken (that is his nom de progrock.  No, I am not kidding.) are part of a group of friends who started camping together at Araluen on the last weekend in November every year since their first year at university, 1983. When I was in Year 7. Just sayin’.

We first went three years ago, and again this November.  We had planned to go each time in between, but life and a Federal election intervened.

The hosts are Fabian and Judy, at the family property on the Deua River.  The valley is in lush stone fruit growing country, 30 clicks inland from Moruya and a couple of hours from Canberra.  There is a beautiful old wooden house with about 80 rainwater tanks, an Aga cooker and a big fireplace. At every turn there’s another little verandah with a couple more comfy chairs to sit in and admire the view.

A ten minute trek down the truly stupid hill takes you to a beautiful grassy flat near the river.  It wasn’t in flow this year, but there’s still a beautiful warm swimming hole surrounded by very steep treed banks.  And there’s a nice little flat shady spot where responsible parents can nurse their hangovers and respond when one of the kids shouts more loudly than usual from their floating crocodile.

As the years have gone by, there are more and more kids, but adults still slightly outnumber them.  There is a core of four-day campers, and others come and go for a night, or a day or two as they can manage.

There are some Big Serious Jobs that smooth the whole event, like mowing the flat with the tractor and chainsawing up enough wood to keep the fire burning all weekend.  Fortunately there are many big capable men who really get into those bits, which leaves the chicks some time for sitting around.

There is usually one big special meal together on the Saturday night.  The rest of the time, you make something when you or the kids are hungry and whoever fancies some is welcome.  Special meals in the past have included camp oven pizzas made to order by Simon, a whole fire roasted pig, a baked dinner, etc.  They are not always successes – the spectre of The Great Boiler Chicken Disaster of 1987 hang heavy over the air this year, when a paella with chicken and chorizo for sixteen was to be the main event.

Fabian was the Maestro of the paella and others brought tapas to share – huge green olives a, fiery spiced almonds, batatas bravas and anchovies with pickled chillies.

Fabian was planning to triple this Gourmet Traveller recipe for eight, and it had some specific information about how the cooking should be done for authenticity:
 

The first stage was the lengthy browning of chicken pieces and chorizo.  Fortunately Fabian has a gargantuan wok from their Webber. While that was going on, the prep squad had mobilised. It takes a long time to infuse six litres of chicken stock with saffron on a gas ring, but there were many helpers.

Also, there was a bloke just standing around. Perhaps he was trying to work out whether the camping party had been infiltrated by one of the Milats.

One of the tricky things that the recipe didn’t mention was how to manage water from the tarp above you bucketing into the wok. We found that stationing a tall person there to artfully empty the pooling tarp worked OK.

It’s hard to serve paella glamorously when you’re to be eating off your lap wearing a headlamp and it’s pissing down, but you’re very unlikely to get any complaints. I had two helpings, and extra for breakfast. Next year: Woks of Fire!

There’s a set of the paella, and of the whole camp at flickr.