From Newcastle to Newcastle North (a waterhole in the "river,") is 8 or 9 miles; a very good and level road. From the waterhole the road continues for six miles through scrub, swamp, and box trees; and this was chiefly a stretch of silky clay, kneaded, when wet, by travelling cattle, and ruined for the cyclist's purpose.
Bright green-leaved guttapercha trees are numerous along this portion of the route. The tree, or more properly bush, grows to a height of 15 or 20 feet; when a branch is broken, a thick milky substance exudes. Scratches made on one's hands or face by its thorny projections become very painful and take a long time to heal.
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At the end of the 15 miles from Newcastle station one suddenly finds oneself clear of the scrub, and, as it were, precipitated into Sturt's Bay of Biscay Plains. This arm of plain is 15 miles across; enough to make a cyclist feel sea-sick before getting half-way through.
Towards the middle of the dry season a fairly level pad is beaten; and then the ride across could be done expeditiously and without much risk to man or mount. But that pad, although traceable, had not as yet been fashioned when I chanced to get there, and as much careful navigation was called for as is needed to steer a ship through the Bay of Biscay itself when in its most cantankerous mood.
Having launched this frail barque upon this tempestuous sea (this is merely by way of variation), the voyager loses sight of land. Billows and blue grass everywhere, and not a drop to drink. One false step, and a broken neck or leg might follow. The look-out must be kept alert.
To save the barque—or perhaps we had better come back to the continent and call it a bike—I had been doing a good deal of walking; and when 7 or 8 miles had been covered I sat down to rest and make a short note of the fact that neither a tree or a shrub was within range of vision, "although afar off, to the east, what is either a low range of hills (the Ashburton?) or a line of dense scrub can be traced." The note lengthened out, and it rambles on:—"I feel it more than ever to be almost an indictable offence (against its maker) to press a respectable bicycle into negotiating such an outrageous track. Where's the telegraph line? As usual, I dunno. But no matter. This is the road right enough. Cut the telegraph wire? As soon think of cutting——
"What a sheet of water must be here when this plain is covered! Besides being 'Biscay'—lumped clay—this ground is fissured—long slits and crevices, from an inch to four or five inches wide.... Sky overcast....
"Been thinking what a mess I'd be in if a downpour of rain comes on before I could get out of this. In a few minutes all the ground would be impassable—20 miles or so of black stickphast. Bad for D (Diamond); bad for me."