BOAT
SWEET
HOME
The gentle curves and auburn cliffs of the Murray River in South Australia pair perfectly with the keg fridge and craft beer tap on this houseboat adventure.
Words Alexis Buxton-Collins Photos Morgan Sette
BOAT
SWEET
HOME
The gentle curves and auburn cliffs of the Murray River in South Australia pair perfectly with the keg fridge and craft beer tap on this houseboat adventure.
Words Alexis Buxton-Collins Photos Morgan Sette
ONE
of the joys of heading out on a road trip is watching the minimalist dance performance, staged by enthusiastic oncoming drivers, evolve as you put more distance between yourself and the big smoke.
ONE of the joys of heading out on a road trip is watching the minimalist dance performance, staged by enthusiastic oncoming drivers, evolve as you put more distance between yourself and the big smoke.
It begins with a barely perceptible lift of the finger, then a hand is cautiously released from the steering wheel. If you haven’t seen anyone for days you might even get a full wave. But this is the first time I’ve seen someone let go of the steering wheel entirely, stand up and gesticulate enthusiastically with two hands.
Then again, this is no ordinary road trip. Though I’m three hours from Adelaide by road, the extravagant bends and curlicues of the Murray River continue for 600 kilometres before meeting the ocean south of the city. It’s a journey that would take weeks at the rate I’m driving.
A houseboat may not be the most efficient way to travel, but it sure is relaxing, so I lean out and return the wave.
On this journey you can have the entire river to yourself.
In truth, it’s nice to see another person; the three friends I’m travelling with (plus a lively ten-year-old terrier-kelpie cross) are off exploring the rest of the boat. With three bedrooms, a full kitchen, a bar out back and hot tub on the top deck, there was no need to call shotgun before we embarked.
Fortunately, navigating is simple. All I need to do is follow the wide ribbon of cloudy jade water as it meanders beneath rusty auburn cliffs and through broad, richly forested floodplains until I find a nice spot to moor for the night.
Other boats have already made that call and a merry bunch of middle-aged guys have decided to set up on a sandbar. They cheer and throw shakas as we pass, their picnic chairs and lower torsos hidden under the water.
Ahead, a cap of red sand that looks like it could have blown in from the Simpson Desert sits atop chalky white walls of limestone and steep banks of mustard-coloured sand. Spotting two trees to tie up to, I steer towards the bank and the others hop out to moor the boat. Behind us the cliffs glow softly in the afternoon sunlight.
Everyone gets a turn at playing captain.
As afternoon fades to evening, the cliffs slowly leach colour upwards and the sky turns from deep blue to a gently layered pastel dream of coral red, yellow and apricot. Even the elements seem loath to rush and a late-rising moon means the sky overhead is soon flecked with a myriad pinpoints of light that are reflected in the inky river below.
Over the next few days, leisurely mornings give way to relaxing afternoons and unhurried evenings until I have to pause and count on my fingers to remember the day of the week. “River time” the locals call it, which also happens to be the name of the house beer for the week.
We’ve chosen to start our journey from an out-of-the-way spot called Wilkadene for two reasons. One is the location, 20 kilometres up the road from Renmark (the largest town in South Australia’s Riverland). It’s a short drive but a full day’s journey by houseboat, which means there’s not much traffic on the water. Second, and perhaps more importantly, there’s an onsite brewery and our boat comes equipped with a keg fridge and beer tap.
The sheep grates and lingering smell of lanolin inside the Woolshed Brewery leave no doubt as to the building’s former purpose and when we arrive we find the owner Tom Freeman at the bar, chatting to one of his neighbours. Mark Lucas came to work as a wool sorter decades ago, and liked the area enough to stay. Now he’s a citrus farmer with a sideline in wattleseed – the nutty seeds of acacia trees that go for hundreds of dollars a kilo. Some of Mark’s crop goes into a dark brown ale at the brewery that gives off a rich hazelnut and coffee aroma. Tom pours me a taster and the rest goes into a sweet balsamic glaze he encourages us to try.
With no stores around, it’s important to stock up on supplies.
A bowl of giant avocados on the bar comes from another neighbour – “Help yourself,” Tom encourages us, “they need to be eaten.” Even the beer uses rainwater from surrounding properties, and Tom tells us that he sends deliveries of beer back in return.
Multicoloured cliffs carved out by the bends in the river overlook a broad floodplain.
Even the beer uses rainwater from surrounding properties, and Tom tells us that he sends deliveries of beer back in return.
“It’s a wonderful way to get on with your neighbours,” he adds with a grin. I get the feeling we’d meet the entire neighbourhood if we stayed here long enough, but we’ve got a river to explore.
“Do you know your port from your starboard?” asks Harry, one of our bartenders from earlier and now our houseboat coach, as we first step onboard. One look at our bemused faces is all the answer he needs. “Don’t worry, it’s easy,” he says reassuringly. “Just stay on the right hand side of the river, take the bends wide to avoid sandbanks and you’ll be fine.”
Our instructor has the strong hands and assured manner of someone who could fix any mechanical problem, and after running through the basics of driving he comes to the most important piece of equipment on our boat. “Pull the tap down,” he says, “and you’ve got yourself a beer. Easy as that.” It looks simple, but just to make sure we get it he’s happy to demonstrate. Columns of bubbles fizz up and burst at the top of the glass, a refreshing, lightly hopped mid strength beer perfect for long summer afternoons. “I guess I could have this one,” he says with a cheeky grin before inviting us to have a go.
“Just stay on the right-hand side of the river, take the bends wide to avoid sandbanks and you’ll be fine.”
Smashing a bottle of champagne on the side of a boat always struck me as wasteful – so this is a far nicer way to celebrate our launch and after a hearty “cheers” we’re underway. A few minutes of instruction and a driver’s licence is all you need to operate a houseboat, but the legal alcohol limit is the same as on the roads so I extract a solemn promise from the others that they won’t drink the keg dry while I drive.
It takes a while to get used to the long, slow turns needed to navigate the river’s curves, and it’s tempting to overadjust, but I’m soon feeling comfortable behind the wheel. Then I round a bend and another houseboat appears further up the river. There’s an initial moment of panic as I wonder how I’ll get around it. Is the river wide enough? Where are the sandbanks? Immediately I mentally picture a collision playing out in slow motion.
“You’ve got this,” three voices say confidently at my shoulder, “there’s plenty of room.” And it’s true – in places the broad, sluggish river is well over a hundred metres wide. I move the wheel gently and we glide to the right, leaving a good twenty metres between the two boats as we pass. Across the water I can see everyone on board giving a friendly wave. For the first of many times, I return the gesture.
When it gets too hot, there’s plenty of room to swim.
Going for a paddle can get you close to the abundant birdlife.
Over time the cliffs give way to shallow banks as we enter a broad floodplain where endless streams, creeks and anabranches meander between forests of black boxes and red gums. Their hollows and nooks provide homes for gliders and possums as well as the kookaburras, whistling kites and shrieking corellas that serenade us each morning on the river.
Spoonbills with comically splayed beaks and magisterial pelicans eye us cautiously from their roosts in flooded lagoons, only alighting when we stop to swim in the broad channel. And when we tie up for the night, these birds are usually our only company.
“The South Australian part of the river is a lot quieter and wider than the other side of the border,” Mark told us at the bar with a parochial puff of the chest. “It means you have to be more self-sufficient but you don’t need to go far to be on your own.
“You can explore the creeks all day or just sit in the hot tub... and Tom can always bring some more beer if you run out.”
“Sometimes I’ll just head a few kilometres upstream and stay there for a week. You can explore the creeks all day or just sit in the hot tub... and Tom can always bring some more beer if you run out.”
On our last night, we find such a spot only fifteen minutes from the brewery. It may be aspirationally named, but there’s plenty of space to explore Amazon Creek by kayak. Nosing into the creek, the broad vistas we’ve grown used to close in until all we can see is a band of water disappearing between walls of stately gums. Miner birds and striped ringneck parrots squawk desperately at our approach but once we pass them the only sound is the dip of our paddles and the hum of bees visiting the flowers rising from floating mats of duckweed.
The onboard kayak and SUP are perfect for exploring.
It feels like a private world and it’s easy to see how you could spend a week here, listening to the chorus of birds at dawn and dusk and losing count of the stars at night. But despite the leisurely days our time has passed surprisingly quickly and we need to return the boat.
On the way back to the brewery I see another group just starting their trip and give them a friendly wave. “What the hell,” I think and let go of the steering wheel to wave with both hands as they pass. Welcome to river time, I think of their journey ahead enviously.
Even when the river narrows, there’s plenty of space.
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