These three high-speed boats, lighter, faster and rougher-riding than the older wooden ones, are part of the large fishing fleet at Robe. It’s not that I know so much about boats. I don’t, but the owner of a wooden boat gave me the good oil. The yellow thing is the “Travel-Lift” that carries the boats and lowers them into the harbour.
I chatted to the owner of this wooden fishing boat as he scraped and painted. It was built in the 1980’s, and regularly takes him and his crew 150 kilometres out to sea, long-line fishing for a week at a time.
Standing on a corner of the main street through Robe, S.A., is this beautiful early cottage, known today as “Greymasts”.
Going from Cricklewood Road towards the Madurta Crossing, and into Milan Terrace, I’m always struck by these superb gums.
On a crisp spring morning near Jamestown, looking across the paddocks towards the Belalie Hills, the sun rose. No doubt it does the same thing every morning, always spectacular.
SOLD
Hoi An’s a charming old town, heavily populated with tailor-shops, tourists and restaurants. A frail little old lady rowed us across the waterway in a boat like these. It would have been just as easy to cross the bridge nearby, but much less fun.
A row of poplars or something similar, with the low winter sun shining through and casting shadows across the road, with bright green farmland beyond. This is in Oakley, Hampshire, in the U.K., where our daughter and her family lives.
Hanoi’s a city packed with tiny shops and motor scooters, millions of them, and above every shop is a dwelling. My guess is that the income from each shop is tiny, like the shop, but the owners are universally happy.
In the morning, after a warm night on board the junk on Halong Bay, we saw several fishing boats like this. A family survives on what they catch, and they live on board.
Halong Bay; anyone who visits Vietnam should see Halong Bay, and stay overnight on a junk, as we did. We sat here, watching the colour of the sky becoming slowly deeper, and the forested limestone pinnacles disappearing into the mist, as one lone fisherman puttered home. The red sails belonged to another overnight junk.
SOLD
