What even IS a sense of direction?
I’ve found that even the most ordinary mini-adventure can end up a bit chaotic. My first clue that my ‘unerring’ sense of direction was living up to expectations once again should have been when, after just two stops, the train driver announced, “This train terminates at the next station.” Not an auspicious start to my adventures!
As it turned out, the next train through would be going all the way down the line, stopping at all stations, and was due in just a few minutes. In the interim, my trusty bike and I propped up the wall, keeping a weather eye on the comings and goings until the train squealed and rattled up to the platform. This being my second train-and-bike adventure in as many weeks, I now knew that the carriage closest to the driver is the best choice when encumbered by a bike. This assessment is in no way based on perceptions of safety, merely on the fact that the front carriage tends to be rather like the front row in a classroom – no-one really seems to want to sit there. Except me, of course, when I have an enormous bicycle to contend with and need the extra space.
As I was unclear as to when my stop would come up, when a couple of rail guards ambled through the carriage, checking tickets and generally having ‘eyes on’, I inquired whether the train went to Rockingham as well as Mandurah. This elicited a confused look and a highly accented apology as the young female guard went off to confer with her colleague. They returned together, both wearing the bemused expressions that I’ve become moderately familiar with whenever I travel. Whilst English was clearly not their first – or possibly second – language, they managed to assure me (firmly) that the train did in fact go to my preferred destination.
This confused me, since the train Tannoy system had announced very clearly that the train terminated in Mandurah. Squinting in that special way lost travellers have, I eyeballed the line drawing above the windows opposite me. There, in colourful detail, was each of the MetroNet train routes. As the drawing was in minus 500 point text, it took some determined squinting to establish which coloured line I needed to track and then to make sense of the station names. My surprise when I finally located Rockingham – three stops before Mandurah – was profound.** It also went a long way to explain the guards’ confusion – which I had put down to language difficulties, rather than the dealing-with-an-odd-customer difficulties it turned out to be. I guess they had an entertaining story to tell when they got to their morning coffee break!
Given that my objective when leaving home had been to ‘ride the rails’ to the end of the southern line, it was clear that Rockingham and coffee at a beach cafe was now off the agenda. Instead, I’d stay on the train through to Mandurah and make things up from there, despite only having researched the cycle options from Rockingham to the beach. How hard could it possibly be?
Well, next clue that my internal navigation system was glitching arrived as I wheeled my bike off the platform and out of the station, only to discover a total absence of handy signs saying things like ‘this way to the foreshore’. So, approaching another ‘lucky’ staff member, I asked how to get down to the beach. She looked baffled, then asked then asked in heavily accented English, ‘Mandurah beach?’ Given that we were, after all, in Mandurah I replied that this was indeed the very beach I meant. She looked at me, looked over her shoulder at the train waiting on the platform, turned back and said, “You must go by bus.”
In retrospect I realise that she must have thought I wanted to know which train to catch, but at the time I was so flummoxed that all I could do was wave at my very large and very obvious bicycle and exclaim incredulously, “I have a bike!” She glanced around again, clearly hoping to escape the confused tourist, muttered, “I ask,” and hurried away. Eventually returning with a co-worker, who looked about as happy as she did (which is to say not very), she explained that they were not ‘from here’ – by which I assumed she meant Mandurah, but who knows really. My face presumably showed disappointment, because she then pointed towards the crowded car park and said “I think, go that way”. To the repeat of my well worn look of incredulity, she shrugged and added “Sorry.”
Right. That sorted that out. Thanking them both, I turned my bike around, wheeled it out of the station, mounted and cycled off towards what looked like a main road. In so doing, I passed the shuttle bus – the very bus I would be catching if NOT on a bicycle. In a mini lightbulb moment, I realised that if I followed the bus I would probably end up where I needed to be.
Sadly, buses are quite a bit speedier than cyclists, especially those compelled to wait for a pedestrian light. By the time I made it to the road, the bus had made good its escape and there was absolutely no point in attempting a belated version of hot pursuit. It had vanished. Looking around I noted a sign pointing off to the right. It read ‘Town Centre.’ Given that my goal was ‘Mandurah Beach,’ I turned the other way and cycled up to the next set of traffic lights in the hopes of finding some street names for a MrGoogle-conference. At this point, a couple of chirpy beeps and a “Coming through!” heralded a mobility-scooter trundling up behind me. Stepping aside and then realising, almost too late, that this was an opportunity not to be missed, I called out to the departing back. “Excuse me – do you know the way to the beach?”
Gopher-man slowed, stopped, turned his head and looked at me over his sunnies. “Mandurah Beach, love?” he asked. Taking a deep breath, I nodded. “Ah,” he said. “You’ll need to turn around and ride down the road, past the train station. Beach is about three kays dead ahead.” Thanking my laconic saviour, I backtracked past the ‘Town Centre’ sign and headed down the hill. After riding a fair way with no sign of the waterfront, I started to wonder whether local ‘humour’ had been in play. Had gopher-men been less obliging than I thought? Was he, as the locals say, ‘having a lend of me’?
With my options being turn back, hop on a train and go home, or continue on the off chance of success, I chose to simply carry on. This turned out to be the correct choice (finally!) as I eventually glimpsed my first view of the Peel Inlet (aka *Mandurah Beach). Flags fluttered athletically in the breeze, mooring chains clinked against the jetty and cumulus clouds scudded across the the pristine blue of the sky. To top all that, it was too breezy for flies, for which I was grateful. The seagulls, however, had just hunkered down and carried on their endless squabble for prizes and territory. Some things never change.
After a restorative beverage, I headed off to explore what other points of interest the foreshore had to offer. There wasn’t a great deal to see, really, other than the broad expanse of the inlet and the occasional passing tourist vessel. The ‘beach’, such as it was, did not impress, but the Black Swans and fluffy grey cygnets were an entirely different matter. I noticed several as I rode along, stopping to admire the graceful way their necks arch above their delicately bobbing bodies and the way the seem to move serenely over the top of the water, rather than through it.
Moving on, I came across an art installation that tickled my fancy. The information board said it was a temporary installation called Djakal-Maali, a hybrid creature inspired by the Pink and Grey Galah (Djakal-ngakal) and the Black Swan (Maali). Created by the Mandurah Arts Collective for the Arts Festival using recycled materials, this magical creature appears to be coming in to land on the water, legs out and wings spread to protect his landing. He provided a perfect backdrop for my picnic lunch, a peanut butter sandwich that hadn’t travelled particularly well but which tasted all the better for the view.***
There was only a minor glitch – and there’s always one – on the return trip. Like many a stranger in a strange land, I headed for a likely-looking starting point from which to set off. The lack of signage made me wary, however, so I only rode a couple of blocks before finding one of those most elusive of things, a street sign. This told me I was heading in the right general direction, but not on the correct street. Ever hopeful and not keen to turn back, I headed off to the right, working on the assumption that the two roads, both of which started at roundabouts at the waterfront, probably ran more or less parallel. After a block or so of magical thinking, I encountered an intersection that looked promising and headed left, continuing up the hill. Fairly soon I rode past a bus stop that listed the shuttle bus, which only operates between the station and the foreshore. This meant I was onto a sure thing and a trip home was assured. Although nothing more than dumb luck on my part, this was pretty much in keeping with my modus operandi when travelling. You get used to it.
NOTES: * I now know that Mandurah Town Centre is on the Peel Inlet / waterfront, on the other side of which is Town Beach – an actual beach that faces the ocean; there is also Hall’s Beach, which is twice as far (6.8km). This also goes some way to explain the ‘Mandurah Beach?’ questions. ** Yes, I have lived in Perth for over 30 years. Clearly my spatial awareness needs attention… *** Djakal-Maali has since spread his wings and found a new forever-home in a beautiful green setting at Lakelands Community Gardens. Visit him if you’re in the area.
