The Drunk and Jobless World Tour has taken me across the globe, from the bottomless lakes of Malawi to the frozen wastelands of Russia, but I’ve always avoided the South Coast of New South Wales. It’s a bloody awesome region with heaps to see and is just 150km from my house, but I hate driving through Sydney, so I’ve found other places to visit instead. That all changed when I needed somewhere to escape to after tiptoeing out of Chateaux du Granny, so I pointed the del Sol towards the coast and floored it.
After rolling through the outskirts of Nowra, with its charming mix of muffler shops and abandoned trolleys, I wound up in the seaside hamlet of Huskisson. Known for its azure waters, golden sand and emerald trees, “Husky” was a thousand shades of grey during my visit, but still lovely. It’s a hive of activity in summer, when Sydney’s glitterati rock up to take selfies and bash their wives, but in winter it’s quiet and peaceful, blanketed by the melancholy known to all slumbering resort towns.
Husky is a top spot, but the local caravan parks are a bit pricey, so I decided to spend the night in Barry instead. Unfortunately, Barry no longer answers my calls, so I ended up spending the evening in the similarly-named town of Berry. I’m glad I did, because this leafy village is a hidden gem and well worth seeing. I assumed it would be quiet and boring, but Berry has heaps of cafes, restaurants, shops, parks and pubs, so it’s a “berry” nice place to visit.
There are two good piss palaces in Berry – the Great Southern Hotel and the Berry Hotel – and I enjoyed a schooner in each. But I’m poor, so I grabbed a couple of bottles of the cheapest plonk I could find and absconded back to my camp at the Berry Showground. Budget-friendly and peaceful, it’s an awesome place to stay, but the camp kitchen being closed forced me to binge drink in the laundry instead. The stream of pensioners washing their sheets after a session of caravan park wife swapping added a certain ambiance to the evening, and one of the shrivelled-up lotharios even offered me some advice. “Go see the Kiama Blowhole,” he told me, whilst licking his lips. “Trust me, it’ll change your life.”
I had a memorable encounter with a girl known as ‘The Gosford Blowhole’ when I was younger, so I was keen to meet her southern counterpart. Kiama’s only 20 minutes drive from Berry, and when I arrived I was greeted by blue skies and incredible coastline. I saw the famous lighthouse, took a wander through the bustling streets, and checked out the sprawling Bombo Beach. Kiama is a really nice spot, and I was kicking myself for not visiting sooner. A gorgeous seaside town is great, but what I really wanted was the experience the ‘Blowhole’, so when I saw a bosomy young lady with too much makeup and too little clothing, I swaggered over and slyly suggested that I was there for the blowhole.
“Right this way,” she smiled, taking me by the hand and escorting me across the street. I was so excited I almost fainted, and had to keep thinking about the Raisers’ 1994 premiership season to avoid making a mess in my pants. The buxom filly took me out onto a headland and whispered, “We’re here.” I dropped my trousers in anticipation of a mind-bending journey to the limits of erotica, but all I got was a bunch of Chinese tourists giggling at me and snapping photos. ‘The Kiama Blowhole’ was chuckling, too, so I asked her what was going on.
“The Kiama Blowhole is behind you, knobhead,” she sighed. “And I know it’s winter, but it’s not that bloody cold!”
Turns out the Blowhole is some sort of natural feature where water shoots up into the air 🤷♂️ It’s not as big or as wet as some of the holes I’ve encountered, but I decided it would be in poor taste to try to root it, so I went home.
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