Tuesday, 5th June, 1838

Up at first light this morning to find that it was still raining. 

After breakfast, inspected the area around Rapid Bay. There is a broad flat beach with a stream heading down from the hills. These are steep and hem in the flat land, such that there is probably room here for, at best, a small town. However, I believe that the place could be a reasonable port for a larger township situated on the land above the hills face. Still, having seen the location I do not share the enthusiasm Light seems to show for the place.   

At mid morning there came the sound of horses and credit where credit is due, Stevenson's whalers appeared in our midst. In fact, the rich, satisfying aroma of sweaty, unwashed men whose clothes were stiff with whale fat arrived amongst us first and the whalers followed some ten minutes later.

What a bunch! All of them filthy, dressed in near rags and all of them of an idea that four of your own teeth count as adequate to be going on with. Several of them eyed Mrs Hindmarsh with "a lean and hungry look", one of them telling me "You're a lucky man, Sir, having a fine strapping woman such as her to do for you". I was appalled, as was Mrs Hindmarsh, though perhaps for different reasons. It occurred to me that if the man stood too close he might do for me as well, such was the stench.

The Whalers having arrived, Lipson took his leave and set sail back to Port Adelaide, leaving us to the tender mercies of these cetacean gentlemen. They loaded our equipment and Mrs Hindmarsh onto the cart - "All your baggage, sir!" said one of them, thankfully out of earshot of my wife - and the rest of us rode some of the sorriest nags I have ever laid eyes on.

We set off, following the whalers as best we could as they rode on ahead with little thought for us. We managed to keep them in sight most often and when we could not, we just followed our noses.

And such rain! As steady and as copious as a donkey pissing, I have not seen rain like it since I was in Java. Of course we were soon soaked to the skin and even Mrs Hindmarsh, sitting on the cart with her umbrella firmly gripped above her head, was soon wet through.

The whalers were not so badly affected. I suspect that the layers of grease and tallow that had penetrated their pores over the years left them with similar water resistant properties to ducks. Their clothes, certainly, seemed to repel water in the same way that the whalers repelled us.

We spent much  of the day heading to Encounter Bay. The distance was not great, but the country was very hilly, with deep gullies and sudden obstacles. We kept to the ridges as best we could and worked our way across to the South Coast, where we had an easy and picturesque ride along cliff tops into Encounter Bay, reaching it by evening. 

The country seems rich and fertile, but it strikes me that unless a large flat plain or plateau can be found, then it is probably useless for further development of population, such are the ravines that are across the land. 

The whaling camp had set aside a couple of huts, especially for our use, telling us that they had been "cleaned out for us just this morning". Exactly what they had been cleaned out of and what understanding the whalers had of "clean" is a moot point. As we settled down for the night I suspected that the answers might be (1) something so deeply piscatorial that Isaak Walton himself might be set back on his heels (2) close enough is good enough.

Mrs Hindmarsh is taking her chances with her camp stretcher again, but, I gather, did spend some time before retiring making clear: her feelings about the rain; the whalers; and the splinters in the seat of the cart. I spent time nodding sympathetically, though at what exactly I am unsure, as I was barely listening.