Toowoomba to Perth: Section 4

A word to the wise courtesy of my experiences during my Cardwell layover – early to bed will increase the probability that you get a full night of rest; “working” backpackers are not necessarily so keen for their second-year visa that they will actually rise and shine as necessary to start their working day on time, or at all. Or bother to turn off their mobile phone alarms, presumably believing that excessive use of the “snooze” option is the equivalent to actually getting out of bed.

It was like a blimmin’ frog’s chorus, between 4.30am and 6.30am, when, I would say, their mobile phone batteries finally gave out.

Day Nine : Mission Beach to Ravenshoe via Daintree

After falling asleep to the lingering feeling of pitch and roll I woke early with the aim to get to Daintree or Cape Tribulation for a look see and maybe to hang around for the night. To make things more interesting, I went “the back way” through Atherton and Mareeba; this plan also let me fit in a walk on the Atherton Tablelands before chillin’ at the beach, mon.

Yeah, right. Somehow, before I left Toowoomba, I did a mischief to my right foot which has plagued me since. It is criminally painful when I walk on it for long distances and flares up something intolerable after a bushwalk (such as after Eungella). I haven’t had it seen to, in the hope that I will wake up one morning and it will magically be better. I also don’t think a Doc is going to tell me anything new “hmmm, looks like you’ve bruised something in there, try not to walk on it” – DUH! So I’ll save my $50 for something more exciting and just grit my teeth. But it does put the kibosh on anything really challenging in the way of a bushwalk so my trip to the Atherton Tablelands was disgracefully easy. A few happy snaps of some waterfalls and a few brief forays into the wilderness and that was it.

Mind, in some ways that was alright as I knew I had some land to cover and I was feeling a bit pressed for time as my favourite species of driver was out en force on this day; add to that population the Sunday Driver and I’m sure some of you can feel my heat from there!

So anyway, what I can tell you is Atherton is not especially interesting, the access roads to the Tablelands from Mission Beach are bland, over-farmed, rolling hills supporting the local dairy industry, and the “sites/sights” spring up out of nowhere via some obscure road through someone’s property. Very strange arrangement and nothing like the brochure.

So, that was the Tablelands through to Atherton and as I say, nothing exceptional. Atherton to Mareeba and onward to Port Douglas is quite striking in its variability. Around Mareeba it is dry inland scrub and salt lakes (a lot like the area around Norseman in WA) and allows access to Mossman Gorge; it is also home to … THE BIG MANGO!! Which is just like most of the other Big Whatever’s in that it is a very large fibreglass object stuck in the front of some dubious-looking establishment claiming to sell the only … (in this case mangos) in the country. Funny, I skipped it.

After that it was rainforest yadda, yadda, yadda, Daintree river (brown, sluggish, crocs, the usual), Cape Tribulation – just like Mission Beach only further north and if you can sense my less than captivated feeling you would be on the money.

What can I say? I was a bit over it. Felt like I wanted more than pretty, lush greenery and beaches. Felt an urge to stop sinking my hard-earned into The Smart State and to instead Go West (young man). Yes, I know I said I was going to take the Karunda Railway but honestly, by then I had seen so much rainforest I felt there wasn’t many surprises in store from that exercise except add-on costs that are never in the brochure. So I did. Go West that is, to the open air, where the skies are blue and the rain don’t fall.

But I did go through Karunda – up the hill, as I figured I had already paid for my petrol so why pay for the railway/cable car that would do the same thing? Well I’ll be damned if it wasn’t pretty, hilly, green, (blimmin convoluted roads) and very crowded.

Frankly I was so glad to be out and away from the North Coast I can’t tell you. Way too many people for my sanity. By the time I hit Mareeba again at 3.30pm I had shaken off most of the (always SO SLOW) traffic and could really hit the skids.

I had some thoughts about getting from Mareeba to Undara Station (for the lava tubes… patience, patience, I will explain) but after traversing the extra specially windy, sometimes scarily elevated roads through the real Atherton Tablelands (to the aft of Atherton and toward Ravenshoe – absolutely breathtakingly beautiful) I was pretty shattered and decided that a stop at the nearest place was in order. I should also add that I was about desperate for the loo which is very distracting when you are dead tired and trying to “push on”.

Undara would just have to hold its horses, off the road and into Ravenshoe. That is, Raven’s Hoe for the uneducated amongst you, not Raven Shoe, as I quickly discovered. Well Ravenshoe is the Land that Time Forgot. There is no caravan park (read: cheap accommodation), there is an expensive-for-where-you-are looking Motel and looming large at the end of the road (figurative and literal in my case) was the Tully Falls Hotel.

The sign said “Budget Accommodation”. With a sigh, I wondered whose version of budget I was going to encounter and pulled up.

This old girl was built in the 1870s and is slowly being resurrected by its new owners. The outside of the place has been re-painted in fetching cream with burgundy trims, the XXXX Gold signs are clearly new (no bullet holes) and there is no mis-spelling on the chalk boards telling you the daily specials which are either Roast Beef and Vegies (Monday, Wednesday and Friday) or Roast Lamb and Vegies (All other days). Gravy optional extra.

I love these kinda places.

I unbent my long-bent bits and staggered inside just as one of the bar patrons ejected himself through the same entryway, but in the opposite direction. He mumbled something about my car headlights which, upon turning, I discovered were still on. Country hospitality, even in the midst of a spew they’re happy to help.

Having rectified our mutual “issues”, we both re-entered the fire-place warmth of the sportsman’s bar where I was greeted by the barmaid who was clearly desperate for some interesting conversation that didn’t contain the phrase “another one thanks love”.

“Come a long way” she said.

“Yep”.

‘Where ya goin?”

“Perth”

“I been there, liked Fremantle but Perth, I could take it or leave it”.

“Yeah, it’s like that, you could bring up your kids or retire there but not so interesting for young people.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, credit?”

“Yep, on the plastic thanks”

This conversation from a girl behind a bar in Ravenshoe with four bedraggled, leathery, rusted-on biding-their-timers for company. Later I was to find out from one of the residents that at least two of them were called Jack and Jill, and “they’re an old couple that just like to have a good time”. So there ya go.

“Want to see my signature?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s credit isn’t it. Ok, well I trust ya. Here’s the key, I’ll show you the room.”

Up the creaking, well-polished, two flights of (caution, lowered clearance) staircase to the lodgings. A verandah all the way around for looking to the streets and a fine view of the mill, narrow dark-wood doorways with brass knobs, randomly numbered so don’t go thinking that in the Tully Falls Motel 12 is directly after 11, openings in the (caution, narrow clearance) washed-out green, enamel-based painted corridors. Well only on one side, the other side of the rooms leading to the verandah were mostly white (enamel-based) painted, (yellowing, fly-spotted) lace-curtained French Doors!!

Inside the room I was satisfied at the evident lean of the wardrobe toward the French Doors, while the floor insistently sloped to the contrary. The door needed a good shove to open and the French Doors didn’t close true enough for the sliding bolt to fit into its well-worn hole. There was as is always the case in such establishments a vanity basin stuck half-way up the wall at a height of no convenience to anyone. The concave mattress promised a night of suffocation if I rolled the wrong way.

Upstairs communal kitchenette and TV room – cosy enough and already occupied “G’day”, “Hi”, and the amenities were a dream. Swing doors on the toilets, industrial sized, green-concrete showers.

The residents stayed to one side of the upstairs lodgings (I was told) and as I walked with my guide past their doors I heard phlegmy harrumphs and coughs, shuffling, scratching and the crackle of wrappings and at the one door that was opened, three cartons of Woodstock and Cola.

Shivering (Ravenshoe is QLD’s highest town at an elevation of some 8900m) I said “um, are there heaters?”

“Nah, no heaters. Here’s the blankets and stuff, go for your life. I’ll leave you to it, ask me if you need anything” and thrusting at me the room key, dangling on a Carlton Draft lanyard, she was back downstairs to attend to the howls of the thirsty mob.

No worries, got my gear, sorted myself and off into the TV room, y’know, to be sociable. The bloke from before was still there, Gladiators yelling enthusiastically at him from the box.

“Hi” I said. “Do you live here?”

This second question came within the 10 seconds that I had looked at the bloke and realised he was lucky to be 20.

“Yeah”

“How long have you been here?”

“Three months”

“True? What brings you here?”

“Oh, I was working at the mill but I got a better job the other day. My second week this coming week. I’m a stumper – y’know, I put fence posts into the ground”

“So… why are you here? Not, at home or… something?”

“Oh, had a fight with my olds three weeks before my 17^th birthday so I left”.

“Musta been some kinda fight. You’re darn brave I reckon, I wouldn’t have just left at your age”

“Yeah well,” he shrugged.

‘So how did you get here then?, Ravenshoe…”

“My dad follows the mines, y’know. First we were in WA until I was 12, then we were in South Australia. Now we’re here. Where are you from?”

I told him I was from Perth and he said that his family used to own an Italian restaurant there. Then a Small World thing happened. Turns out the restaurant in question was in Maddington! He lived in Kelmscott though, he pointed out many times. He never wanted to work in the restaurant, and at one point he opened his own carwash down in Kelmscott. He said he didn’t charge a lot but because he got so much business he didn’t have to worry about not covering the costs.

Comes from a mixed family, “dad” is actually step-dad. I didn’t find out what happened to his real dad. He calls one of his brothers his “full-blood” brother, and the other, younger two are just his brothers.

He used to get really good marks at school, and this stayed the same when they went to SA. He was great at sports too, especially field events, and used to represent his school in the inter-school sports. Then, when they moved again, he decided he’d had enough of doing great things for some school that would get all the praise and leave him with nothing. He decided to aim for 4^th in all his events so there was no danger in accidentally getting a place on the inter-school team.

He also stopped trying to do well at school, and he couldn’t anyway because he had to look after his younger brothers while his mum and dad were at work. Because he was cooking their dinner and cleaning and stuff, he didn’t have time to do his school assignments and eventually he stopped trying.

Chris said he was always good at maths and could do it in his sleep, but his English was not so good. When he left home he tried to get into the Army, but his English scores in the screening test let him down. In the maths screening, he got all 75 questions right and they said that he would have walked into an Officer-class position if his English had been passable so in six months he was going to enrol to do Year 12 again.

I asked him if he ever saw his brothers and if they missed him. Chris said that his younger brothers come into town to go to school. The last time they saw him they gave him a huge bearhug and wanted him to come home with them. But his “full-blood” brother Andrew, well, he was just a dickhead. They had a fight the other day and “I pushed his head through the St Vinnie’s window”.

“Why?”

“Oh, he was saying stupid things, like ‘oh Chris, you think you’re so big and tough now that you’re not at home. Come on, I’m tougher than you’ and he tried to fight me. So I pushed him. The school teachers came and yelled at me but I didn’t care. He’s a dickhead.”

Chris also told me he’s got a computer in his room that he built himself from scraps. He couldn’t afford a new one so he made one. I told him I was impressed that he could do that, and it was a shame he was wasting his brain on stumping. He said he knew heaps of people in Ravenshoe that bought the flash new cases and then bought the bits they needed so it wasn’t really such a big deal.

I said it sounded like he had given up a lot of his talents but it was good that he was doing something positive, despite being out of home.

After a while our conversation petered out, but I kept thinking that this kid would have been one of them that goes under the radar – no-one notices that he’s not coping with all the changes of being in a blended family that moves with New Dad’s work and foists all the responsibilities on the oldest child. Then, before he’s even finished with school, he’s out on his own in the world.

Lucky in some ways that his world is still no bigger than Ravenshoe.

Eventually we said our goodnights, and upon retirement I discovered that the mattress held up to all my expectations.

Day Ten: Ravenshoe to Croydon

There is no morning in Ravenshoe, only a pinkish glow that turns into grey light. I saw Chris before I left, sitting on the fire escape stairs of the Hotel decked out in his Hi-Vis workwear, head lowered between his knees. Bit early for despondency I thought, but looking at the morning and thinking about our conversation last night… maybe not.

I saw him again as I was leaving, out the front of the bakery. I hope his job didn’t let him down.

Next stop took me further into the “real” bush, through Mt Garnatt and to Undara Station to view the lava tubes.

Another exciting thing happened pretty much right out of Mt Garnett…

There’s these signs from Ravenshoe onward informing you that road trains use the road and those universal yellow-and-black diamond street signs showing you who will win if you don’t shove over and let them pass, so there’s no excuses for the non-English speaking or illiterate road users.

Sure enough, rising through the morning sheen was the blurry shape of a roadtrain and me within 20m of a one way bridge. Decisions, decisions. Well shit I haven’t slowed down yet and if I do now I will end up with a new vent right down the front of my car, courtesy of the bridge rail, so I’ll take my luck with this one and let him pass.

We got through – just and I pulled right off the road when the truck got to me. Pah! It was just a baby! Only two trailers. But you know, that was enough for me to really switch on my careful driving brain, and it also gave me a good opportunity to check out the kerbsides.

You might laugh, but this is an important consideration for country driving. You need someplace to go when things get dicey on the road, say if someone coming in the other direction misjudges the length of the road train they’re overtaking and suddenly needs the bit of road you are using, and when the roads are not of any particular interest to a major business operation they are likely to only be 1 ½ cars wide so you are gonna end up in the dirt some time. Better to know what kind of dirt you’re hitting so you can work out how to get there and back on the road again in a controlled fashion, rather than Dukes of Hazard-style.

Good thing, the kerbsides pretty much all the way from Mt Garnatt to Cloncurry are hard-packed coffee rock or ochre-granite. Small, round rocks, bit of slippery dust, then low-cut grass. This is good kerbside for the on-again off-again high-speed driving that I was going to do for that entire stretch of the trip.

So onward to Undara and FINALLY I was on the kind of road that I so love to travel. Open bitumen, few cars, bush either side. A lot of it was ironbark and …? Of a greyish green persuasion, the dirt being a mixture of grey basalt bulldust and the aforedescribed pink granite.

Now, the other thing that really became prominent to my notice were animals of the domesticated and untamed versions. In particular, the driver West of the coastline should watch diligently for bovine obstructions. These supremely stupid moving mountains that blend perfectly with the roadside vegetation (not sure about the wisdom of Darwinism under these circumstances) will make tidy work of your front end should you happen to get in their way. Unfenced paddocks mean the unwary driver will be taking home their next T-bone on the radiator grill.

Otherwise, I should note in rapturous tones the eagles (someone told me they are the famed Wedge-tail and someone else said that wasn’t likely as they are only found in WA). My understanding is that these birds are endangered, but apparently no-one mentioned it to them. Thankfully less stupid than the cows but equally as single-minded when it comes to food, these Lords of the Sky swoop, swirl, perch, peck and prey wherever there is fresh roadkill. And out these ways, there is plenty. AND, they’re not shy at all to stare down any vehicle hurtling at them if moving means they might not get the best bits of whatever it is they’re ravenously engorging. Crazy.

The number of times I have had to actually stop or slow down to about 20km p/hour as I drive around a carcass with an eagle or two perched stubbornly atop. Then, when they deign at the 11^th hour to shift, they flap up and prematurely swoop around again with a single purpose in mind – to get back to dinner. So they basically give you at least two chances at the jackpot.

My concern is twofold – I don’t want to hit them because they are endangered and because I loathe killing anything but also because I would be in a fine jam with one of them stuck in my radiator. So it is mutually beneficial if they get out of the way so that I can get on my way. Try telling them that…

The other animal obstacle that I began to encounter with increasing frequency I have just mentioned. Roadkill is infinitely more dangerous than moving animalia because a 6-foot from tip to tail Boomer, on its side and inflated to 3 times its size thanks to the potent combination of decomposition processes and the blazing Outback sun is a rock that you are not gonna get over. When you are bearing down on one of these monoliths with a roadtrain or even a (bloody) Grey Nomad bearing down in the opposite direction, you don’t have many options.

A second problem with roadkill is that it attracts the predators as previously described, giving you several things to be considering when staring into the rippling glare at “that moving black thing” emerging in the middle distance that may or may not be a 53m long road train.

However, I am not truly complaining. Seeing these random obstacles told me truly that I was travelling as I love, into the space and nothing.

So back to Undara – the point of this place is that it is a station-turned-National Park due to the discovery of lava tubes formed when the Undara volcano erupted umpteen million years ago (they told me the specifics on the tour but I forget). The lava tubes are enormous basalt, granite, manganese and quartz caverns that stretch for 22 km (as far as they have discovered) from the original eruption site.

I only took a 2 hour tour but it was sufficient to impress me. Our guide was a cardboard cut-out Crocodile Dundee with the unlikely name of Levi (I asked him, he isn’t Jewish) who had the witty repartee down pat mixed with an exceptional knowledge of the local geology, biology and ecosystem.

All in all it was a really terrific way to kill several hours, and I recommend it to anyone.

Having done the tourist thing, I knew that I had to keep moving so I made a plan to get to Croyden by nightfall. This is a very ‘me’ plan – Normanton is the next big town from Undara which is precisely why I didn’t go there. I hate the big towns and so far they haven’t been kind to me (e.g., Mackay, Mt Isa).

I stopped at Mt Surprise to get fuel and asked the lady what the road out to Normanton was like.

“Fat and skinny, just like what you’ve been on. Watch for the road trains and you’ll be fine”.

Well it wasn’t the road trains that are the problem but the caravans!! Road hogs! I was off the road so many times, Ma and Pa Kettle coming the other way don’t seem to realise that their 4WD is quite sufficiently equipped to deal with the edges and it is not their supreme right to use the entire bitumenised section of the road when the road is too narrow for two cars.

Never mind, the drive to Croyden was, apart from close encounters with various fauna including wallabies and an Old Man Goanna strolling across the path, uneventful and relatively peaceful.

An indication of the contrariness and irony of these seemingly forever parched lands are the shallow undulations in the road prefixed with a warning “road subject to flooding, markers indicate depth” followed by a post marked with graduations every 10cm. A cursory glance at one’s surroundings would suggest water has long been a distant memory yet some of the posts topped out at an extraordinary 2m from ground level. I could not imagine that the water would not be absorbed readily into the cracked skin or sucked into the vast, thirsty throat of the dry earth surrounding me long enough to reach such a height!

Further, I crossed many bridges indicating a river flowed beneath, and was thrilled that these are as faithfully described in Australian legends, blinding-white sandy crevices improbably fringed and peopled by an array of native plants, resolutely sticking out the tough times, waiting patiently and verdantly(!) until the fabled flood blasts through from the North and sates their thirsty roots again.

So, Croyden. Is so small it’s entirety can be caught in a few words: houses x 10, pubs/restaurants x 3, general store, petrol station x 2, health-clinic cum daycare x 1. Peaceful, relaxed, red-earth and blue sky, any perambulation faster than a saunter will get you a sideways look.

Thoughtfully, there is an ample caravan and camping ground that amicably informs the visitor “If the office is unattended pick a site and come back later”. It is managed by a sole middle-aged woman who was not around when I arrived. When she returned she apologised profusely, saying she had been at the local CWA meeting that had dragged on and on. I paid for the night and let her get back to making bikkies for the music festival that was to happen at the coming weekend.

“Shame you’re not going to be around” she smiled at me.

“True,” I said, “I would have liked to see it. Seems to be the way, I’m too late or too early for everything going on around. Ah well, it can’t be helped.”

The absolute best thing about Croyden was the evening chorus. Galahs by the hundreds, like pink and grey clothes pegs swinging, hanging, flapping and carrying on about the powerlines. Shouting at the sun, daring it to go down, squawking, flustering and flying about whenever anything at all approached the powerlines.

Smaller groups of eagles, kites and ravens roosting in their own high places stared haughtily at the circus, with an occasional fluffing of the chests or a casual flap of powerful wings.

Night fell, and a full moon stared down on the also full campground. I met and spoke with many more fellow travellers, sharing information and places been. One of them was a retired miner from NSW heading (with special permission) into Arnhem Land for a spot of fishing. Only being charged $50 per night by his mate who runs a show in there. There was a couple from near Swan Hill in Victoria. We shared notes on the follies of caravanning, glancing at the ocean-liner sized examples surrounding us, and they pointed out a bowerbird bouncing near my tent.

Day Eleven: Croyden to Mt Isa

From Croyden the dirt is deep ochre, trees poke like the bristles of a brush from the dry soil, exclamation points surprised at their own survival.

Eagles and kites circle and soar, masticating cattle appear randomly at the edges of the road and everywhere there is land. A turn upward to Normanton and the old bloke at the servo was surprised I wasn’t going to Karumba like the hordes – it is the last bit of sealed road in the Gulf region and therefore the only place the caravan-driving beach- and deep-sea fishing enthusiasts can access their passion.

Nope, for me it was South, next likely stop being the Burke and Wills roadhouse. South of Normanton is yellowing, endless savannah, more fat-skinny road and a frustrating number of trailer- and caravan-hauling oncoming traffic with inevitable kerbside travelling (mostly on my part again!). Saltbush and gibber plain sections are a common sight for sore eyes; I shook my head and considered how stupid Burke had been to dump his supplies so early in his journey. I ruminated that Burke was gifted with equal measures of determination and foolhardiness to make it to the Gulf Country at all, and how remarkable it was that his group even considered returning the way they had come.

To prove a point to myself (and to keep me awake at the wheel – it’s pretty warm inside the car with no tint, no air con, the sun beating down from a clear sky and nothing alive or dead higher than your knee to provide shade) I started to count oncoming traffic. Ok only the Nomads. 11.30 I started and stopped when I got to the Burke & Wills Roadhouse at 2.30pm. Sixty nine (69) unique vehicles passed me during that period, and one madman doing about 130 clicks around the bends in a camper. Gawd knows where he was going, but I dunno about his hurry coz nothin’ moves fast in these parts… whatever it was, it probably wasn’t even there yet when he arrived.

That, dear friends, is one heck of a lot of traffic. The great part is that with so many people on the road, and so many of them armed to the back teeth to avoid or resolve any of the unexpected situations that Outback Oz could throw at them, I would have ample help should I run into any problems (good news Dad!).

Just before the Burke & Wills Roadhouse appeared like a blessing before my sun-strained eyes, I had a strange encounter. I could see something flashing up ahead, and it looked like white streamers tied to a pole, flapping in the wind. As I drew near, the pole transmogrified into a person! Yes, this was a Frenchman called Michel and he, kitted out as he was in painters coveralls rolled down to the waist, a peak-cap, wild hair and pulling a canvass trolley tethered to his waist, was walking around Australia.

We exchanged some words, I checked that he was sufficiently equipped with water and mentioned to him some of the terrain ahead of him, chastised him for not being covered over in the sun and heat (to which he replied, breathing deeply from his emaciated, Ambre-Solaire torso, “I am ok, it is ok”), and we parted ways.

The Burke & Wills is typical of a midpoint roadhouse, workman’s dongas painted out in leery colours to help you pretend they’re something comfortable, a clear space at the back somewhere for tents that, depending on when the last rain fell, may or may not have a few struggling blades of grass, ridiculous prices for everything, beer on tap for breakfast, sundry truckies, passers-through, Nomads, locals come in for a paper or a bottle of milk, and tired-looking backpackers (English and Irish girls this time) manning the counter services.

A brief stop and it was onwards to Mt Isa. From the Burke & Wills the terrain is much as before, however, leading into Cloncurry I was compelled to exclaim at the enormous cairns and piles of granite rock that are cast about the otherwise entirely flat landscape.

I should have stayed in Cloncurry, at first bite similar to Ayr. Leaving Cloncurry one may turn East toward Julia Creek/Hughenden/Emerald or West toward Mt Isa. Going West as I was, the rounded red-earth clusters of hillock, remnants of once mighty mountains of the Barkly Tablelands, bubble and rise around the driver winding her way towards Mt Isa and are an impressive sight.

Mt Isa though, is firmly fixed in my “Take It Or Leave It Basket” with a preference for the latter.

You can smell the place before you arrive and slipping through a gap in the ranges, it appears before you, filmed with fine grey dust. The most remarkable thing about Mt Isa, apart from the obvious smell and the sick feeling post-departure, is that the town was truly really built around the base of the Xtrata Mines!!. You may do your weekend grocery shopping at the major shopping hub located thoughtfully under the smoke stacks, and the haze will end any discussion about sunburn.

True to the genus “mining town”, accommodation is at a premium – space and cost. I jammed into the only caravan park (of four options) with camping space, along with at least the matched pair for each of the travellers that I had passed on the road earlier that day.

The fact that this joint was 5km from the town centre and close to my original entry point from Cloncurry was a positive twist of fortune given the controversially dubious air quality in Mt Isa proper. It was also yet another instance where I was the unwitting subject of the kindness of strangers.

Standard conversation with a trio who invited me to join them at Boule lead to an offer of a roast dinner that evening!! The cooks, Stan and Jude, put on a great spread. They were up from Adelaide and were heading North for marine adventures in the Gulf before heading East to the Cape (York).

That clear night, I joined a small contingent around a campfire to listen to the resident bush poet who paradoxically was English. She rolled out some old favourites like Clancy of the Overflow and the Man From Snowy River, as well as some modern and more irreverent rhymes, whose authors and titles I do not know to tell.

I retired that evening as an involuntary audience to the heady tones of Dark Side of the Moon being broadcast via some thoughtless person’s in-tent stereo system to the whole caravan park. Great album, nothing against it, but let’s just say I was exhausted and therefore was not in the right mindspace to appreciate this great work of musicianship.

My overnight in Mt Isa was also the only night so far where I was so cold I had my sleeping bag, a blanket and an extra sleeping bag to keep me warm and I was STILL cold!! My feet were like iceblocks all night, the upside being that there wasn’t much adjusting required when dawn finally broke and I had to get out of bed.