Our first foray into Wilpena is to walk up to a lookout and survey the amazing Wilpena Pound. Named a pound because it was used to run animals. The landmark was formed when the rock in the centre of the range eroded leaving a circular bowl. Its named means “cupped hand”.

Our next visit takes us up the side of the Pound to its highest peak, St Mary Peak. On the way up we spot mountain goats and on the top a trio of wedge-tailed eagles rise from the valley in an ascending spiral. We look north to see the Flinders Rangers, which locals believe was formed by the Rainbow Serpent - parallel ridges seem to have been pushed aside by the path of a very large snake.

There are also mountain bike adventures along a section of the Mawson Trail and around the rocky boundaries of Rawnsley Park.

The 30-foot walls of the rocky gorge are burnt orange in colour and dotted with optimistic sugar gums that grow out of cracks at awkward angles. We are probably walking along an ancient river bed - our path the once-submerged river rocks and boulders - that is little more than my arm-span wide at one point called The Narrows. Progress is slow, as we take the time to test out our fabulous new camera gear.

As well as unfamiliar scenery, we are introduced to a new animal - the strangely named Euro, who is a cousin of Skippy but has black paws, woollier fur and comic larger ears. We startle a small group of them on the drive out of the park, perhaps with our choice of music - the new Ween album (thanks Scott!).

Time to get my new mountain bike (purchased to replace my much-loved commuter hybrid bike that someone stole from outside of the NGV - curse ‘em) off the car roof and into the mud. I haven’t been this scared in a while - the trails are more tracks for mountain goats and I can’t get visions of me sliding down the muddy hillside out of my head. Ben, on the other hand, is a natural - he has that ability to turn off his brain and trust and so jumps logs and hurtles down gullies safely. Like skiing, mountain bike trails are graded and I am looking for green (easy) and just managing blue (intermediate) but giving a wide berth to black diamond (really really hard and scarey). Mountain biking trails also have curious names like Dodging Bullets, On a Bender, Textbook 10 per cent etc.

In search of a good coffee we head to the bike shop and get chatting to the owners - two young couples who have moved to the country in the last couple of years. They are enthusiastic riders, passionate about the town and the area and dreaming up new ideas for attracting funding, and preserving what few services are in town (having recently lost their kindergarten). They share tips about tracks and invite us to join them at the pub, where we hear travel stories about the places that we are going to see - nothing like some local knowledge!

We aim for Melrose today - a huge 150 kilometres up the road - and somehow manage to make the trip last the best part of the day. We stop at Gladstone (home of an historic gaol and not much else) and then the well-kept secret that is the Stone Hut Bakery. Along the way we are surprised at the tiny country towns through which we pass - they are neat places where well-kept sandstone cottages look to the road. Perhaps for answers as to how to survive - most towns are in steady demise as businesses close and people move away.

Melrose, at the foot of Mt Remarkable in the Southern Flinders Ranges, is even more surprising. It is a rare mix of country hospitality and historic buildings, with great food and a dynamic and welcoming young local community. There’s a bike shop in town and a group of enthusiastic riders who are determined to put the town on the map for mountain biking. A network of trails has been created on private land between the town and the national park, and the annual Festival of Fat Tyres attracts people from around the world to circumnavigate the peak after which the town was named.

The weather hasn’t let up, infact it blows and the rain thuds through the night, so we decide to leave the tent in the car and move into cabin 3 in the caravan park - a standard hose-out set-up with a noisy heater (the choice is easy - have a conversation or be warm) and a television bolted high on the wall.

The best thing to do on a rainy blowy night is not to sit in a dim cabin, but to venture out to the pub. Especially in South Australia, where the pale ale is cheap and on tap (pity they don’t know what measure a pint is!). The North Star is a renovated old building that has a cellar door, gallery, expansive restaurant, bar with open fire and very friendly staff. It will be our second home during our stay, and is sister of the Prairie Hotel, about which we hear frequently and which we will visit at Parachilna in the Central Flinders Ranges.

We give the Corolla the day off and are taken for a walk around the back paddock by our friendly canine host - a brown border collie called Jackie - then climb onto the mountain bikes to investigate the famous Clare Valley Riesling trail. Once a railway line, this 25-kilometre trail is easy riding and passes soap factories, cellar doors, a Jesuit church, restaurants and cute B&B cottages. The valley was named by the Irish but it was Polish migrants who decided that vines should be planted to provide wine at communion. But it is not red wine but white - fabulous riesling - that they do best in the valley.

Over the next few days as the weather gets wetter and windier and I get a heavy head cold, we sample riesling at cellar doors and restaurants (including lunch at the highly-recommended Skillogalee) and in front of our cosy wood stove. The 2009 Tour de France is underway, so late-night vigils are organised to follow the progress of 190 bold men in lycra.

Parent update: After one litre of blood transfusions, Phil is discharged from the lovely Kununurra Hospital and flies to Darwin on the first leg of the journey home to Armidale.

Bordertown was once home to Bob Hawke, and is currently home to a really good bakery - a rare commodity in the bush - and to a mob of white roos. We skip the former PM’s house and opt for a great pastie and a look at the strange white skippys, who keep company with peacocks and grey roos behind a tall cyclone fence.

A quick stop at Murray Bridge, a small town set on the famous river, where we see pelicans and houseboats and then we miss our turn north and find ourselves whizzing towards Adelaide on the freeway. No matter, this road takes us through beautiful scenery and the northern suburbs of Adelaide (slowly) and eventually we are back on track bouncing up the B82 to the Clare Valley and Clare.
Along the way there have been updates from my parents - Phil has extremely low haemoglobin, which in turn caused angina; nothing a transfusion of blood flown up from Perth won’t remedy in the short term. We all feel relieved.

Final negotiations are underway right now in Dublin, Ireland on a treaty to ban cluster bombs.

Cluster munitions don’t just kill during war–they scatter small, unexploded “bomblets” on the ground. When children pick them up, they are often maimed or killed. Most governments agree that they should be banned–but many (including Australia) are now trying to weaken the proposed treaty with loopholes, exemptions, and delays.

Negotiations end this Thursday. If enough of us raise our voices, we can drown out the arms manufacturers and convince our governments to do the right thing. Click here to send a message to ask the federal government to do the right thing,

Today some idiot named Jason intentionally made a pack of 50 cyclists crash. He then sped off and when apprehended by police, claimed that the crash was a result of car trouble.

“I was just driving along and I had a car failure and now I’m in trouble - I dunno.”

So by Jason’s logic, a random group of 50 cyclists have a collective axe to grind on gas/petrol driving Ford Falcon owners. That’s right! Jason is the victim here, not the cyclists.

“I’m not a cyclists hater, I’m not nothing,”

Yes you are Jason. You’re also a liar and a coward.

You mightn’t like us, but next time you are “stuck” behind a group of cyclists, have a little patience. You’ll get past in a few moments… and immediately be stuck behind another obstacle. Do you really think if the group of cyclists weren’t there the traffic would be flowing freely? Of course it wouldn’t. The traffic in Sydney is fucked at the best of times.

Cars kill cyclists. Cyclists occasionally delay cars. The stakes are higher for cyclists. Hold that thought.

Cyclists aren’t going away and nor are cars so let’s all grow up and get along. Hold that thought too.

Edit - Treadly and the BV Forums have some thoughts on Jason too.

Politicians barely listen so we need more protests like this one. Getting their kits off as part of the demonstration was the icing on the cabbie cake.

I appreciate a good cabbie and if he drives safely without being asked to, I always leave him a few dollars as a tip… that’s a hint for any cabbies reading this.

I was in a break-away and was nearing the finish line. We were a group of five but a lady walking her dog off-leash thinned the group to two.

It was down to me and a girl wearing sandals, a puffy jacket and carrying her bag in a basket on her handle bars. Her form looked good. Very good. She was tapping out a good rhythm when all of a sudden her mobile phone rang and she had to stop to answer.

Glory was mine!