By now, you know how it works. We find somewhere to ask for water and we end up not only being given the water but also a place to camp and, in this instance, a tray of hot food for dinner.
This time it turned out to be an off-season hotel whose cafe and garden were currently populated by the owner's extended family. As we ate our tea we had the prying eyes of two wide-eyed and very cute granddaughters and the owner (the granddad) was keen to inspect each item of equipment that we removed from our bags: the tent and its elaborate pole system, our camping mats with their inflation bags, our gas stove, the Kindles and so on.
Amusingly, with the days that bit shorter now (it's dark a little after 5pm) and with our dinner handed to us on a platter, our evening routine was completed by 7pm and we found ourselves tucked up in the tent alarmingly early. No doubt this was the first of many such nights and we approach the depths of winter.
The following morning, the granddad sat down and began writing on a small piece of paper with some concenration. After ten minutes he handed us the slip with a telephone number and some words: "When you reach Australia, please call this number. Your friend, Suleyman."
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