bikes

I ride nervously into Coonabarabran. Las t night, I read that the town derives its name from the an Aboriginal word, gunbaraaybaa, which in local tribe Kamilaroi dialect means... ahem... shit. This morning, mercifully, the air is fragrant with the treacle-sweet aroma of honeysuckle. Children dressed in green tartan uniforms walk to school, shouldering superhero backpacks. A comfortably overweight woman strides purposefully along the footpath, being lead by a shaggy-haired minature dog. It looks like she's following a furry vacuum cleaner. The vacuum barks at me and hoovers along the zebra crossing. Main Street is also the Newell Highway, so I keep well to the left as B-double trucks rumble slowly downhill. Outside the newsagent, two old blokes, dressed in neat shorts and long socks, discuss the affairs of the day. Both are sitting on mobility scooters. We all have an attachment to a set of wheels, I suppose? At the roundabout, I turn left and catch my first glimpse of the Warrumbu...