Trip from Sydney to Mildura

My trip began with a fifteen-hour marathon by train and coach to Mildura. I’d chosen this over flying partly to save money and partly for the flexibility to change my dates, though I did wonder whether I’d made the right decision. Fifteen hours is a long time to spend getting somewhere! But, to my surprise, I really enjoyed the journey. There is something wonderfully relaxing about travelling by train, watching the scenery change through the window while having absolutely nothing you need to do. It gave me time to unwind, let go of the usual busyness and simply be. The journey became part of the holiday itself.

One of its loveliest moments was a conversation with an elderly lady who had been a nurse and had recently lost her husband. We really connected. There was something quietly special about meeting a stranger in transit and finding ourselves sharing a little of our lives. That encounter alone made me glad I’d taken the slower route.

I arrived in Mildura at around eleven that night. Thankfully, I’d had the foresight to book a motel rather than attempt to set up camp in the dark after such a long day. Camping could wait. For that first night, a comfortable bed was exactly what I needed.

Train & coach route

As you can see from the map, my journey included a change at Wagga Wagga, where I got off the train and boarded a coach for the next leg to Mildura. It was only a brief stop, so my glimpse of Wagga Wagga was limited to the railway station. A little taster rather than a proper visit—perhaps something to remedy another time!

Boarding the train at Central Station

The train departed at 7.40 pm, a relatively civilised hour compared with the 4 am departure from Mildura for the journey back to Sydney. By then, though, I was well rested and raring to go, so even that decidedly uncivilised start didn’t bother me.

Views from the train

The canola was out in force, its brilliant yellow flowers turning whole fields into swathes of gold. Watching those luminous stretches of colour pass by the train window was a lovely part of the journey.

Memorable moments: The Jaisalmer spit-shine

In 1997, Ally and I were backpacking through Rajasthan, India. We found ourselves in Jaisalmer, the "Golden City," and signed up for what we imagined would be a majestic three-day camel trek through the Thar Desert.

The reality was a bit more abrasive. Our camels were incredibly bad-tempered, and the seating was a masterclass in discomfort. However, the desert scenery was spectacular, and as the sun began to set on our first night, the vast, shifting dunes almost made the saddle-soreness worth it.

Our expedition leader, a local man of practical habits, began preparing dinner over the campfire. As he was plating up, he noticed one of the metal dishes wasn't quite up to his standards. With a loud, guttural clear of his throat, he delivered a hefty spray of spit directly onto the plate, then gave it a vigorous buffing with his filthy shirt sleeve.

We watched in paralyzed horror as he piled our food onto the "cleaned" surface. But, being young, exhausted, and absolutely starving, we ate every last bite.

The consequences arrived with the morning sun. As we set off the next day, Ally’s stomach decided to stage a full-scale revolt. She signaled that she had to get off, and the camel performed its awkward, jarring "press-up" maneuver to kneel in the sand. Ally dismounted, threw up, and climbed back on. A few hundred yards later, the process repeated. Press-up, dismount, vomit, remount.

Eventually, the sheer physical labor of the camel’s gymnastics became too much to bear. Ally simply said, "Fuck it," and began projectile vomiting directly from the height of the camel’s hump. I have never seen her so sick. We eventually limped back to the Jaisalmer Fort, where she spent the next several days in a darkened room, recovering from the most scenic—and hygienic—disaster of our lives.