The reasons were two fold. Firstly we had not been away with G-String since our mid-year Western Australian sojourn, and secondly we desperately needed to see how Panther performed with the van in tow. With good friends Sue and Trevor, accompanied by ‘Henry the travelling dog’, urging us to join them for a week-end at Cooyar, we had both the motivation and the destination sorted.
Leaving afterwork on Friday afternoon, we soon realised that the trip would be a far less stressful one than if Puma had been the Choo Choo in front of this freight train. Panther powered down the highway, keeping up with other traffic and importantly, not holding anyone up. The real test would be the Peachester Range.
Tight, relatively steep and always heavily trafficked, the range must have been on a week-end away too. Panther hauled up the hill, not once dipping under the speed limit and pounced out of corners with authority. We were not disappointed.
Kilcoy came and went as Kilcoy mostly does, with the dreaded D’Aguilar Highway unfolding in front of us. As the afternoon wore on, so did our ever increasing hunger. Moore necessitated a stop at Tilly’s Cafe. Not much to look at from the outside; or the inside for that matter, Tilly’s is the bomb. For the princely sum of $12 we were served two full grown milk shakes lapping the top of huge containers and a medium chips.
Let’s put this into perspective. Not only were the chips the best we have ever eaten. Yes, I will repeat it, ‘the best we have ever eaten’, there was enough in the medium box to feed a mid-sized African nation. They were not the big ‘M’ fries that look as though need a good feed themselves, these were freshly cut out of gorilla sized spuds at the local sawmill.
We choofed on towards Blackbutt. The fabled range was nothing but a nonchalant pimple to Panther as we continued to work our way through the best chips we had ever eaten. As we entered and left Yarraman we realised that we had never seen the countryside so green. Recent rain had transformed what is normally a dismal brown landscape into a vibrant, lush, almost English setting. The change was inspiring and a good sign for the week-end ahead.
At about wine o’clock we dropped down into Cooyar, flicked left at the pub, then left again into the Swinging Bridge camp grounds. If Yarraman is usually brown and drab, Cooyar is usually doubly so. Not this week-end. The town was stunning. Green grass everywhere, creeks flowing and good friends waiting.
Henry saw us first. We are not sure what he recognised, but he welcomed us with a screeching bark, a scream and a rapid fire yap all wrapped into one. His little backside shook the rest of his body till finally a belly rub settled him down to an almost silent ‘I’m in heaven’ growl. Henry is always so happy to welcome us to his piece of Australia.
We sat, we talked, we enjoyed what is an amazing spot to camp. Cooyar has set about welcoming visitors. It has done so brilliantly.
We say we do it to support the local economy. Truth is we did not feel like making breakfast this Saturday, so ventured the few hundred metres across town to McCoys Cafe for a feed. Not before passing and having a wobble on the Swinging Bridge. So named as it is a walking bridge strung by wire rope across Cooyar Creek enabling the easterners to walk into town as opposed to driving the kilometre or so around the long way. As we stood in the middle, we had to question the journeys taken by those who chose to have a barrel full at the pub then took on the bridge in late night darkness.
Breakfast was up there with the best. Ex-GP motorcycle racer Gary McCoy has very successfully turned his hand to making one of the most succulent bacon and egg rolls in the land. Washed down with great tea and equally good coffee, we were set for the day.
Piling into Panther we headed towards an old rail tunnel that was apparently a great spot to visit. As we hit dirt we noted that Panther didn’t rattle, we could barely feel corrugations and we could still talk at a normal level. G was smiling a very happy smile.
We arrived at a fence with a gate seemingly in the middle of nowhere. A sign on the gate told us we were at the Muntapa Railway Tunnel. A bigger sign a few meters away told us that the tunnel took an army of people, a very long time to dig a very long tunnel so a very long train could find a way through a mountain. It said absolutely nothing about the mosquitos!
As we walked down to the mouth of the tunnel they started. A couple at first, then a few of their mates, then the whole mosquito clan all wearing their own Tartan, desperate to suck the blood from intruders. We quickened our step only to be run down. We zigged, we zagged, we slapped, we swore, but nothing could defer the onslaught. Bigger than small ponies, they galloped toward us stinging with authority through our shirts, pants and at one time I’m sure, my hiking boots.
Given the war we were fighting with nature, the tunnel visit was fleeting. We marvelled at it’s enormity. We looked for the bat colony living inside, but figured all the bats had been eaten by mozzies. We sped back to the car; but not before visiting the other end of the tunnel to be engulfed by the stench of bat poo.
Don’t get us wrong, we loved our visit to a hidden piece of Australian history, but the sanctity of Panther’s air-conditioning devoid of buzzing and biting was welcoming. We headed off with the in-car navigation and Google arguing which way was which, so ended up following our noses on dirt tracks till the tracks became roads, became bitumen, became Cooyar.
At sometime during the day. Honestly I can’t remember when it was in the order of things, we dropped into the usually dry falls at Maidenwell. With all the recent rain they were now a veritable level three dribble spilling into a stunning murky brown pool, beckoning us to strip down and take a dip. We didn’t. It would take another 10 inches of rain before that hole was washed clean enough for us to jump in.
Our afternoon was the way week-end away afternoons should be. We did not much. Being well practised now, we figured we did it pretty well. A BBQ at the pub went down well as we had a yarn to a few locals and a few new residents claiming to be locals. The band was equal to the best we’d ever seen in Cooyar, with entry tickets taking us back a few generations to a time we barely remember.
Sunday morning saw us injecting yet more funds into the economy at McCoys. The coffee was as it had been the day before as was the bacon and egg delicious.
About 11am Pete and G headed off, leaving Sue, Trevor and Henry to enjoy one more day in this little piece of paradise. We saw Yarraman come and go, Blackbutt halt our trip for some bakery delights and Kilcoy throw us a very nice pie.
The week-end away had done it’s job. We had genuinely relaxed away from house cleaning, mowing, washing and all the must do chores life necessitates. Cooyar had delivered in spades. We will be back.
