Alana, my 13-year-old granddaughter, and Gert, my sister-in-law, spent New Year 2003 in Astoria, Australia prior to a week-long trip to explore Kangaroo Island.
We checked out of our hotel at ten on the dot, a polite young fellow waiting to drive us to Cape Jervis where we expected to hop on a boat for the short trip to our destination, Kangaroo Island.
Everything seemed to run so smoothly. I was impressed by the great service.
The bus ride was comfortable, quiet, rural, and relaxed. Then the driver stopped, turned, and announced that we had arrived.
“We’re supposed to be going to Cape Jervis”, I said.
“The boat sails only once a day and you’re too late. Get off now and you’ll be picked up. You can get to the island tomorrow,” he assured us.
Obediently Gert, Alana, and I slipped off the bus in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. But we weren’t there more than a minute when a young fellow drove up, addressed me by name, and said he had come to take us to the “ranch”.
What ranch?
“Hop in”, he smiled.
We did.
Looking back, I don’t know why we reacted so casually to an unexpected demand in Australia.
But, we did!
So there we were in the back seat of a sedan with a young handsome chauffeur, a gentle green pastoral view of hundreds of sheep and two massive barns.
We were enjoying our trip so much that all three of us were unprepared to stop in front of a magnificent home, be welcomed by the host, and invited to enter and join their family for the most delicious lunch.
The hosts had expected our arrival even though I had not booked a mainland ranch stopover.
“You three ladies will be staying in the freight car,” the white-haired grandfather announced.
“What!” I gasped.
My response was greeted with laughter and a detailed explanation.
In 1942 he jumped aboard a railway freight car with other uniformed young men, he told us.
They were cargo, a load of guys going off to war, in support of the allies. The train headed to
Cape Jervis, the nearest Pacific port where they boarded a ship.
The old fellow said he had been very anxious about leaving his home that day. He wondered if he’d be fortunate enough to return. His fear was what lead him to memorize the white painted numbers on the weathered wood strips of that particular freight car.
He promised himself that, should he be lucky enough to return, he would find a way to buy that particular car.
George returned to his home in late 1945. He smiled, remembering his purchase of that well-used rectangular box on wheels and all it meant to him both then and now.
Family members added to his story, telling us that their sheep ranch had started small, but now, with the support of extended family members, their acreage had grown.
Their livestock operation was booming and they had offered visitor accommodation since the eighties.
The freight car, our accommodation that night, was superb!
Enlarged and elegantly modernized, it had a bridal suite, complete with a spa, that thirteen-year-old Alana enjoyed. She had a magnificent view as well as a noisy donkey to serenade her.
We had a screened-in verandah, fireplace, full kitchen, spacious master bedroom, and full bath.
Everything about the ranch was welcoming.
The afternoon was perfect for petting sheep and taking photos of the donkey.
We bid goodbye to our hosts the next morning and went on to beautiful, tranquil Kangaroo Island where we strolled golden beaches, photographed magnificent rock formations, laughed at koalas and yawning sea lions.
Fairy penguins entertained us with their midnight swim.
For four days that January we relaxed together in the Aussie sun and fresh air.
It couldn’t have been a better way to launch the new year.