The last border crossing

Landscapist's delight through South Australia, field after rolling field of wheat up against a brooding grey sky. I've taken hundreds of landscape photos - keeping busy on the back of the bike - so many that this phone periodically freaks out and doesn't respond. Fingers crossed it hangs in there a few more days.

We are in Broken Hill at our penultimate caravan park. One more night of tenting then we will have a ceremonial burning.

It is dusk, the air is still with nothing but the sound of crows sqawking and white cockatoos shrieking like it's the end of the world. There are two couples camping near us. 2 blokey blokes on motorbikes whom I've dubbed "Brokeback mountain", and a middle aged man and a girl who is probably (but who knows?) his daughter whom I've dubbed "Lolita". I cannot stress this enough, I will not miss never setting foot in a caravan park again.

We paused briefly in Peterborough, long enough to take photos of an old steam train. Pics below for the anoraks among you.