Since 2013 I had not need for a personal motorbike. Fact is, in that year I sold my beloved Triumph 1050 ST, replacing it with an incredibly reliable Hyundai i30 for Genevieve to scoot around the city in.
My lack of need related to having access to a work bike upon which I did almost 1000km per week until my retirement in late 2024. The lack of need to pay for fuel, tyres or servicing was also more than welcome. Still, when retirement day came and went the need for two wheels became very real.
Yes, I looked at Harleys thinking the extensive community around that marque may be attractive. I looked at BMWs. Rode one; hated it. Drooled over another, found out the price; hated it. Researched the hell out of a Suzuki GSXS1000GT and thought long and hard.
The dealership was next level fantastic. Not having the exact bike I wanted, they let me test ride two of its siblings in different guises with the words, ‘take as long as you like’. So I did.
The motor was sublime. No, more than that. It was sublime with horsepower. Lots of horsepower. It made the work bike look slow. It handled. It stopped. It looked the goods. I was sold.
A couple of weeks later Scarlet arrived. Deep red and just stunning, no other name would suffice. Whilst we haven’t ventured far yet, she is the perfect travel companion. The age old cringe-worthy saying that the bike was an extension of my mind, is not far off the money. I merely think about railing a corner and she responds. The excitement of riding has returned in bucket loads. I look forward to heaps more adventures.
A belated post at best. A very long overdue one is a better description. Despite the time lag the news is still somewhat sad.
Yes, you heard it here first; G-String is gone. Our single axle, go anywhere, mostly fantastic Zone caravan has moved on to new owners. The decision was not an easy one, yet it was a necessary one. As retirement approached towards the end of 2024, we re-evaluated our travel plans figuring overseas for the next couple of years was the best option.
Along with that was the sensible consideration that no good piece of machinery survives well sitting idle. So with some trepidation we sent G-String off on new adventures.
For over 30,000 km she had served us well. Dutifully following firstly Puma, then Panther wherever we pointed them. No dirt road was too much of a challenge, no cold or hot out of the way destination too much of a chore. She had been a faithful servant for over three years.
Good bye old friend. Maybe we will meet again on the road someday.
If the Middleton sunsets are outstanding, we’re not sure how to describe the sunrises. Devoid of afternoon haze, the pure morning air bathed in deep orange light punctuated only by the silhouette of a windmill, is Australia at its best.
After enjoying the cool morning air we mounted up to head into Winton to have a look at the new (new to us) Waltzing Matilda Centre. The trip in over a couple of hours was brilliant. With countryside changing almost as often as roos, emus, wild pigs popping up to say g’day, it was never boring.
Arriving at Winton, we fuelled and headed to the centre. After handing over $38 each we entered with great expectations. We had previously visited here a couple of times prior to the old centre succumbing to a fire a few years ago. Back then we loved it for its good Aussie content and authenticity. What it lacked in flashiness was its strong point.
Well if ever there was a case of some loony from the big smoke stuffing up a good thing, this was it. The centre was full of everything but authentic Waltzing Matilda material. At one point we stood with a group of others inside a curtain like structure trying to see a light show about a dust storm. Not only was it almost impossible to see, but it was also obvious the fool who designed it had never had a speck of dust on their boot let alone been in a decent storm! We left extremely disappointed and $76 per couple poorer.
On we went to Longreach. The 175 or so ks was frankly pretty boring. The roads were good, the road trains interesting and that’s about it.
We settled into the Longreach Caravan Park for the afternoon. After a few chores, we were joined by Billy the Brolga who hung around for ages looking for as sucker to give him some food. ‘The Branch’ was our choice for dinner. What a splendid little restaurant this is. With the food making some of the coastal and city offerings look pretty average, we ate heartily. Billy would have loved it.
G and Peter planned to head off reasonably early the next morning, so an early night was in order.
Breakfast was nearly as good as the previous dinner and also at The Branch. By 7.50 they were on the road having said good-byes to Richard and Denise who were staying another day or so.
The plan was to get to Bauhinia Downs on a good run and maybe Moura on a fantastic run. With only one option in Peter’s mind, Panther was instructed that this was not an economy drive. She dug deep from the get-go with the speedo nudging 100 all the way. G-String understood, strapped in tight and clung on.
We flew through Barcaldine and Jericho before fuelling at Alpha. Next stop was Springsure for fuel and lunch. No not just lunch. The worst toasted ham cheese and tomato sandwich and bacon and egg sandwich money could possibly buy. With tomato still cold, cheese not melted and ham next to frozen it was pure hell. We did not have time to whinge for a better offering as Moura was now firmly achievable.
Out of Bauhinia with 76ks to go we were motoring along nicely through some hills. For a second Peter could not make sense of the picture ahead. He could see a van in front and was catching it fast. Way too fast. Then all become deadly clear. What he could see was the top of a van on the other side of the crest but could not see the tow vehicle, for it was much lower. The entire unit was coming directly at us on the wrong side of the road, overtaking over the crest of the hill, and fast.
Panther buried into the bitumen under hard brakes as Peter jagged left the few feet available before a ditch spelled major crash. G-String all but disappeared into the rear of Panther with the full expectation she would leave some significant skid marks. The car being overtaken managed some braking and a sidestep left to allow just enough room for the idiot in his 79 series ute, towing a dual axle van, to angle between us at speed.
It’s not often Peter or G get flustered on the road. This one was different. It was close. Really close! And to rub salt into the wound, old mate in his 79 gave us a friendly wave. Not an ‘I’m sorry I almost killed you’ wave, rather a ‘how are you mate’ wave. He was lucky we had nowhere to turn around for he would have found his lodgings for the night included a hard bench to sleep on and an iron gate for a door.
Not long after we came up behind a road train hauling cotton. Initially Peter was trying to figure out how to get around him to keep the average up. It was not necessary. We will never know what engine was in that thing but once he had seen us he parked his right foot against the firewall and motored. Only one hill of mountainous proportions slowed him down. All others we just bumps in the road as his speed matched ours easily. It was entertainment plus.
Moura for the night in the Apex park was a treat. Just us and a few others in a huge paddock for a donation of $5 each. Adding to the experience was a decent sunset and an all-night symphony of V8 79 series Toyotas accelerating out of the mining camp opposite! What’s not to like?
Moura to home was uneventful save a stop at Kilkivan to have lunch and catch up with our good friend Katie. With G-String parked up we reversed into the home garage with a sense of relief. Our experience with our good friends had been amazing. We had loved re-visiting the country we hold dear to re-kindle memories and make a few more.
Day Twenty and Twenty-One: Around Mt Isa and Mt Isa to Middleton
This one is best kept short to let the pictures do the talking.
Friday was spent in and around Mt Isa. Highlights included an underground mine tour for Denise and Richard, although it was not quite the real thing, and a visit to the Granites for our whole group, including Emma our tour guide.
We could go on about it, but at the end of the day the granites are mesmerising rock formations just south of Mt Isa that take on spectacular colours at sunset.
After a Buffs Club feed, we took a couple of night photos of the famed Mt Isa mine then hit the hay.
Saturday was the almost 500 km drive from Mt Isa to Middleton Pub via Dajarra and Boulia. Dajarra held us up for about half an hour as we had a coffee and a chat to a couple of the locals Peter and Genevieve knew many years ago when they lived there.
We reached Boulia 300km after leaving and after trying in unsuccessfully to get a good picture of a wedgetail eagle. The eagles out this way are massive majestic creatures. They have absolutely no trust in a car and caravan pulling up nearby so make their way for the nearest tree as quick as possible.
At Boulia we said our goodbyes to Ron and Julie for they were heading to Birdsville. The last 200 km to Middleton was a drag however the changing countryside made for a quality drive despite the inherent lack of anything but elusive eagles, cattle and spinifex. The Middleton Hotel however was at its best. Great food and a sunset to die for.
Waking up to a Normanton sunrise will go down pretty well on the list of top eight things to do at Normanton. Freshly cool, we noticed there were no croc drag marks on the ground near our vans and that the tyres were all tooth mark free.
Peter and G headed into town to the tin shed marked up as the best coffee shop in town. Perhaps this was an historic site, for although the blackboards outside told of amazing coffee and other associated treats, there was no one at home. Finally after 6.3 laps to the main street they located a little gold mine.
The arguably tumbled down, let’s say, weathered with memories, Central Hotel, was serving fantastic coffee, quality tea and a really decent bacon and egg muffin. Our thanks go out to the greedy lady before us who bought all the pre-made offerings meaning ours were fresh from the pig and chook.
A look around revealed the hotel apparently served drinks, hot food, good times and as a special treat, an impending table tennis tournament. Briefly we imagined the honour of holding the Far Northwest Qld doubles championship title, however thought others with greater skill may be more likely to take out that coveted prize.
Whilst breakfasting we noticed a high-vis man taking pics of Panther and G-String parked in a side street. Briefly, as the car was impinging on a white line just a bit, Peter thought it may be the Far North Qld Parking Police setting the scene prior an expected influx for the big tournament, but it turned out to be a fellow Landrover lover having never seen a Discovery towing a van this far away for a mechanic before. We chatted all things Landrover, shared our travel website address, and went our separate ways.
After a bit our full crew gathered before heading ever south towards the Burke and Wills Roadhouse, then Cloncurry. With no towns in between, the first almost 200km was filled with listening to music on its 43rd cycle around the clock from our limited selection and avoiding ballistic missiles approaching from behind.
It may have been that Peter had not looked in his mirror for a bit too long, or it may have been his head was just in a fully relaxed position up his backside, but his instruction to G was clear. “Can you call that bloke behind us on the radio and ask if he wants to come past.” I’ll pull off if he does. Peter had seen a car behind them that in his mind had approached quickly and looked as if it need to get to its destination with more haste than he.
“That car behind the Zone caravan. If you are on the radio, do you want to get past?” Silence. Then from Richard, “Was that you Gen?” “Just calling the car behind the Zone, do you want to come past?” G replied.
The mirth in Richards voice could hardly be contained; “That’s us.” It would appear that Peter had mistaken Richard and Denise’s car and van for a sedan in the mirror despite the fact they had been there for nearly 120km. Needless to say Peter learnt for some kilometres, without much credible defence, what and idiot he was.
We stopped at Burke and Wills Roadhouse after a couple of hours for a bite, pee and a go at the defibrillator after seeing the fuel price. We noticed that Australian staff, as at most outback service businesses, were few and far between, with an Asian-Canadian lass travelling lite, or least without her bra as she wobbled her way out to serve our pies.
Headed south again we made good time to Cloncurry, passing through Quamby, noting the pub was for sale. Fuelled up, we did the 50 or so km to Corella Dam, our destination for the night.
The site selection process took on new heights, depths and lengths this day. Finally after about half an hour we settled right beside the lake in a next to perfect spot. Denise whipped up a spanking cheese platter whilst Richard set a magnificent fire. Our day was completed with a sunset over the lake.
Rising not too early we mounted up and headed into Mt Isa. The road in, having been travelled way too many times over the years, is still picturesque. We dropped into the old Mary Kathleen township that used to service the Mary Kathleen uranium mine. What is left is not much but concrete slabs. The visit was definitely worth it however, to understand what a bustling community this once was. Leaving the area glowing with information, we arrived shortly after in the big city. Upon entry, not more than 326 metres from the town limits, there it was. That bloody resplendent Coffee Van!!. We are truly haunted.
Going largely our separate ways to do house keeping things, we spent the afternoon reacquainting ourselves with where things were in the town. As often happens, we met a police officer we knew from 20 odd years ago and chatted for a while.
Richard and Denise caught up with Richard’s daughter, Emma, at the famed Buffs Club as did Peter and G.
Our afternoon back at the van was relaxed looking at the changing reds upon the huge rock behind the van park as the sun said good-bye to another day.
Getting away just a bit earlier than planned we attacked the 40 ks of dirt to the turnoff to Georgetown just out of Forsayth. Well we attacked with as much vigour as we could still getting mowed down by a briskly driven Kenworth, and not long after by a revved up local hitting every 60th corrugation in his Hyundai excel.
It’s funny how the memory fades over time and adds bits that really aren’t true. So it was with Georgetown. We remembered it a s a beautifully kept little town with a great shop and a wonderful park. Ron remembered it had great sausages at the butcher shop.
Reality was it is a dusty little place with one shop worthy of the shop designation, and we haven’t got a ruling on the sausages yet. We spotted a coffee van resplendent in its livery but alas it might as well have been a signpost, as it had nought but a driver.
We fuelled and turned towards Normanton some 300 ks to the westish. Just as we got underway, the brakes on the right side of Richard and Denise’s’ van locked on, leaving a cracker of a skid mark on the road in downtown Georgetown. A well-seasoned hoon would have had a challenge matching it.
After a bit of electrical guesswork we moved a few things, wriggled another and said a prayer to the voltage gods before hitting the road. The combined effort must have worked as it did not play up again all day.
We got off the road for a committed, yet very polite tour truck driver who overtook us and continued on as did the same resplendent coffee van. We did not get off the road for POP (Pensioner on Patrol) in the red bongo van who reckoned his real-estate was indeed ours. His gesture to us as we passed was interpreted as ‘hello, I love your Zone van’ although the positioning of his fingers may have suggested otherwise.
Croydon was next at about the halfway point. It was everything Georgetown wasn’t. It had a lovely little park, a decommissioned Police watchhouse doubling as a doghouse for two beautiful Labradors who, like their owner, were waiting for their new hose to be completed before moving in; and a café.
The café was complete in all respects. Serving mostly servo food with an Asian twist, it was only challenged in unique things to talk about by the funny little man with a long beard, very short T-shirt, suspenders and a potty little gut hanging over his belt. Like the coffee van, he turned up everywhere.
We had a feed under the umbrella near the pub before heading off again. On the outskirts of town we located a coffee trailer with twocustomers evident. One was the local police officer and the other was the driver of the Georgetown coffee van!!! We figured the Croydon coffee was fantastic or the coffee van coffee was crap……or both!
One lane bridges, big rivers, transparent Brolgas (G and Peter didn’t see them whilst everyone else did) and a few random roos filled out the afternoon as the road got better and straighter. By about two and a bit we rolled into Normanton. We fuelled up, watched the lady with her van almost wipe out the bowsers then had a look at the Purple Pub and the huge model croc. G and Peter reminisced about their dog Jarra sitting in the mouth of the croc more than 20 years ago. Julie did the same, but it was her in the crocs mouth back then. We recreated the moment for Julie but did not have a spare dog on hand for the full re-enactment.
We noticed that Normanton has had some major money spent on infrastructure over years including a spanking Christian College but still needed three working hotels to service a mere 1300 residents. Its thirsty work in the north. And it had the same bloody coffee van!
We found our camping spot in the heat just north of the town towards Karumba. Once set up, we sat beside the river at a croc safe distance and yarned. Well we yarned and watched fisherman Ron put on a masterclass. Literally every time he cast he hauled back in a lure! To make this class outstanding he demonstrated how to cast into a tree, snag a lure on the bank and lose one, only to find it at his feet. We were blessed.
Julie and Denise excelled again. Their combined pasta effort was delicious at the top end of the scale, leaving us full and contented, ready to enjoy a magnificent sunset over a croc infested river. Taking photos was a balance of getting close to the water but making sure a safety tree was between us and anything with nasty teeth.
The long day in the saddle had left us beaten and ready for bed.
Not so early this morning Peter and G headed off on a promised adventure, taking on two of the Cobbold walking tracks. With but a few geographical mistakes they managed to finish the Diggers Track and Dell’s Track with but a wet shoe when Peter may have almost fallen into the creek getting ‘that shot’ for this blog!
For the remained of the day each of us set about fixing the things that needed fixing, looking at the things that needed a look at and soaking up the sun and a well-earned rest day whilst taking the opportunity to pat any dog that happened to pass within 200 metres. Julie, Ron, Richard and Denise headed out to the quartz blow for a look returning not underwhelmed yet not disappointed.
Julie dropped around to advise she was cooking damper for lunch. Sorry have to stop typing now. If Julie is cooking, we’ve got to go!
Back on deck after a wonderful damper full of really nice stuff, we lazed away the afternoon before gathering for dinner at the on-site restaurant. The food was pretty good as was the conversation that covered everything from the Olympics, to overflowing and exploding caravan toilets, all whilst we munched on crumbed steak, lamb chops and lasagne.
Tomorrow we hit the road again for about 350 ks to reach Normanton.
Just before sunrise Peter and Denise headed off into the hills on the 4.5km Russell’s Lookout walk. So named as a bloke called Stuart Russell used to hang about in the area in about 1898. This one headed up and continued up. It was nothing too challenging until the last 800 metres where some scrambling shoes were needed. Not sure what old Stuart was on about, but the lookout at the top was essentially closed in by trees not permitting any expected sunrise perfect vistas.
Back down the hill for breakfast and the crew gathered for the long awaited gorge tour. We joined about 50 our closest friends on three buses before heading the few short km across the Robertson river sand bed gathering again at a big shed.
Our group of 14 were guided by a young British bloke called Rob. Given he had been born and bred in these parts for at least the two months he did a pretty decent job of explaining the ins and outs of how Cobbold Gorge was created, found and managed. He also espoused his vast knowledge of the flora and fauna around although had to admit the numbered yellow disc markers on the ground were reminders to him to stop and explain something or other. It was so tempting to mix them up and have him detail the taste and uses of the deadly red thing instead of the husky brown thing, but someone might have died as ‘Red is Dead’ is the rule of the bush.
The boat ride the little unstable electric boat for the length of the gorge highlighted Rob’s navigational skills…..absolutely none. We bounced and scraped our way up between ever narrowing cliffs till we could go no more. Along the way we learnt heaps about the gorge, looked at spiders, moss, and other creatures. On cue, Julie dropped her steel water bottle on the floor of the aluminium boat sending most of us sky high in fright before settling into a nervous laughter only those about to capsize understand.
The return trip revealed a couple of freshwater crocs sunning themselves on the banks of the gorge as well as a low speed passing manoeuvre as another boat came out way.
It was our turn to walk next. We climbed along and up the side of the gorge, stopping every now and then to examine sandpaper trees, some other tree bearing fruit that tasted like microwaved poo and little flowers that smelt like Dettol.
The crowning glory, however, was walking across the glass bridge directly above the gorge. Costing about $1million a few years back the bridge spans 13 metres with a direct downward view into the gorge below. We donned our surgical shoe covers, to stop scratching the surface, then marched out into the middle putting out height fears aside just long enough to grab a photo and scamper to the other side.
Our return trip was via the northern side of the gorge with entertainment provided by two little kids, Ollie and Ollie’s brother. Their insights made the tour an outstanding event. Back at the bus, we returned to Cobbold Village unscathed.
In the afternoon Richard and Denise jumped in a beautiful black helicopter for a ride over the gorge and its surrounds. Returning they were beaming as the trip was the icing on the cake for the Cobbold visit.
Our afternoon was spent catching up doing not a lot of much. Mainly we prepared for one of Julie’s feasts. And what a feast it was. She cooked dumplings on top of scrumptious stuff in the camp oven that made the mouth water. As usual we talked, laughed and defended the unfounded allegations of snoring levelled at Ron and Peter by G and Julie.
We had agreed a turn out time of 9am was appropriate, as we had but a couple of hundred ks to reach our overnight destination of Cobbold Gorge to the southwest. A sleep in was the order of the day. Until….. the speed charge wallaby decided right on 7am was the best time to empty the recycling bin full of bottles next to Ron and Julie’s van. Job done, we were then all awake and ended up getting away a few minutes early.
On the way out we noticed a group of about 20 Rural Fire workers lining up for breakfast. Based on last night’s panic we reckoned we would seek morning tea somewhere else. Anywhere else! Richard was well pleased to see this little hamlet in his rear view camera.
Headed towards our first stop at Einasleigh we motored along mostly on dirt road of varying quality. Again we dove into and out of dips, gullies and the odd washout. Roos and cattle were our constant companions with one big jumper deciding to drag race Ron and Julie for a bit before cutting directly across in font of them.
Not that far before reaching Einasleigh we came across the spectacular Einasleigh River crossing. Only ankle deep, it presented no problems, yet was the perfect back drop for those iconic photos of our 4wds in the remote outback we can brag about for years. Any well driven Hyundai Excel would have cleared the obstacle but that’s not the point of a good story.
We dropped in to see Copperfield Gorge opposite the Einasleigh pub, including a walk along its banks. There were fish of a size Ron was very interested in, but he chose not to hunt and gather this time. Genevieve befriended a calf, chatting quality bovine for a short time whilst learning of its home life and shortage of good long green grass in the harsh brown land.
Julie headed off towards the still used rail bridge crossing the southern end of the gorge. She came back a little bemused as to any self respecting trian that would dare to cross that structure. Her description of the rehabilitation work was thus; it looks like they put up a steel stay and hoped the next one would support it. From our viewpoint she was right on target.
Upon leaving we got the inevitable photo of the group outside the iconic pub and spoke to the equally iconic owner who was recovering from and equally iconic long, hard night it seemed. He was a decent chap and had a decent story to tell.
Off we headed toward Forsyth on a cracker of a road that wound its way along every ridge line it could reasonably find this far from the coast. We came across road works of significant magnitude turning a rotten dirt track into a wide open bitumen highway. Just not yet.
Forsyth was the surprise Mt Surprise wasn’t. The pub for lunch was clean, efficient ,with great food and even better service from the two English backpackers and the old Australian bloke keeping them in line. It was a blissful experience to say the least.
The last 40 odd ks to Cobbold Gorge was dirt with interest. More dips, cattle, and roos with a few thousand corrugations thrown in. Still, the country was picturesque verging on beautiful in its own right.
Arriving at Cobbold, we noted it had not much changed from last time we were here. The dam, now called a lagoon was bigger, but that about rounded out the enhancements. We set up, watched the Broncos get rounded up by the Bulldogs and ate cheese.
Julie, however was heart broken for her sipping glass now 14 years old was no longer. It had not survived a category 6 fall from the overhead cupboard to the floor of the van whilst crossing corrugation number 4591. She sadly carried it to its last resting place in the big green bin of eternity.
Daylight faded as did our energy with dreamtime fast approaching.
With our plans now completely changed due to yesterday’s power outage, we bounced out of bed, scoffed breakfast and made out way to the Donna Cave for our first tour of the day. It seemed half of north Queensland had also been power afflicted, as the tour ended up being 30 people with one straggler rounding it out to a neat 31.
Donna was a completely different experience to the Royal Arch the previous day. It was much smaller, yet much more spectacular in its intricate stalactites and stalagmites. A minute after entry to the cave via some very steep steps, we found out that the name being a shortened version of the ‘Madonna’, was so named for its first feature halfway down the stairs. One of the tites or mites (not sure which one) showed the form of a regal lady. The shadow she cast was even more lifelike with Ron making the very real observation that her boobs got bigger with each step into the cave.
We very slowly moved from chamber to chamber mesmerised by what nature could throw up if given a few million years of encouragement. The odd rock fall was evident, and it wasn’t lost on any of us that they had occurred at a moment in time and their mates far above us could at any moment join the party down below. The trick was for us not to be there when that happened.
With a bit of time between the first and second tours we packed the vans, hit the dump point and had a coffee before heading into the Trezkinn Cave for a look. A smaller group this time added to the experience that was highlighted by a close up look at a formation called the chandelier. At about a bit to 12 we were done with caving and on the road towards Mt Surprise via the Savannah Way Alternate Route.
Just as we left the city of Chillagoe, G alerted Peter (yelled at him) to not hit ‘them’. ‘Them’ are correctly named Guinea Fowl and appear in abundance in the area. Not native as far as we know, Peter has re-named them Waddle Ducks, for their little bums go hell for leather side to side when walking. He swore upon a Landrover badge he would never place the life of a waddle duck in mortal danger again.
For an alternate, the route was a good one. We had mostly dirt road in mostly pretty good condition. Dips and culverts were our friends but nothing to set us back at all. We crossed a couple of creeks that were frankly pristine. We lunched at one after Pete the Picnic Place Picker, failed again. In his memory he had a picture of a creek he had stopped at years ago just near a left turn, just near a cattle station. Finally giving up after not finding it, we stopped a close second best only to happen upon the real thing a few short kilometres later.
Mt Surprise came up in the early afternoon. And what a Surprise. Like stepping into a lift to see your boss face to face and it is obvious for the next 13 floors he has let one rip moments before your entry. Something instantly smelt off.
It took a bit to find fuel. It took a moment to find out the pub was open but did not do meals, and according to a local, had an unfriendly publican. Although this was not our experience. He seemed OK by Mt Surprise standards.
Our visit to the shop of horrors revealed a lady desperate to sell her shop so she could go and meet with Elon Musk and tell him where he is going wrong with implants into the human brain. We excused ourselves quickly fearing being a future brain wave subject. Next was the van park.
The little man zoomed around like a wallaby on speed to situate us somewhere near where he wanted us to be, but demanded Ron and Julie have a powered site so he could fit another van in if it came calling. It didn’t!! It appeared he was the manager and told us with certain authority that the police would charge us if we even thought of using the massive free camp site just down the road. Peter was tempted to tell him, but let’s face it we are on holidays and what would we write about if there was not the odd out of kilter personality to endure.
We spent the next hour or two fixing the little things that go bust on any trip. Peter straightened the radio ariel on the van. We fixed a technical hiccough with Richard and Denise’s van rear camera, and Ron dreamt about his new bulbar.
Dinner was next, to be ordered from the little man’s wife. Armed with the knowledge that dinner was only to be cooked between 4pm and 6pm, and that the kitchen would stop cooking before 6pm, we did the unthinkable and ordered our food early to be picked up at 5.30pm.
We dropped back over with no apparent urgency to be told ‘we are under the pump; we’ll get to it.’ We waited patiently and genuinely enjoyed the entertainment as customers were rejected at the counter only to inform the lady that they had pre-ordered as well. Finally our orders came off the assembly line. They weren’t half bad either. The burger was a solid seven out of ten and the fish was a genuine slab of barramundi.
