Odd. Really.

I'm blogging in a internet kiosk in a dodgy pub in an obscure surfing fishing community somewhere in WA, about 200km north of Perth. I am drinking cheap beer and eating deep fry and watching a group of weather beaten fisher types watch Jaimie Oliver on the TV behind the bar. Two boys are playing Midnight Oil and Guns 'n' Roses on the Jukebox. We've sorted ourselves a dingy little room but its clean and it has a shower. Hard to believe that only this morning we were waking up in a beautiful farmhouse and being fed fruit salad, sheep's yoghurt and wheatgerm for breakfast! Up and down really. The whole travelling lark. UPDATE: lapsed on the swearing front already.

• 5 January - Clarification: You may ask how exactly I ended up in such a godforsaken hole as Lancelin. I had my little heart set on visiting a historical oddity - a Benedictine Monastery that was established during the mid 1800s and produced its own flour, woodfired bread, olive oil and wine. We rocked up to this town and it was dusty and hot and miserable and not at all what I had imagined. There was no room at the inn (a biblical irony?) and thus we were forced to drive for an hour to the first place marked with accomodation on our map. Lancelin. Home of desperation.