The first order of business was to trickle down the road to Auburn for another delicious ham, cheese and tomato toasty washed down by excellent tea and coffee. Arriving early we spent about 14 minutes walking the streets waiting for the shop to open.
In that time I found the elusive House of the Rising Sun despite having spent my life believing it was a well known den of iniquity in New Orleans. But there it was in all its glory. Funnily enough it was located directly across the road from the Auburn CWA rooms!
We mounted up and headed north then north westish cutting through small town after small town. Yacka was the one that drew our interest most. Old buildings with faded business signs directing our thoughts to times gone when hard physical work was the currency most valued. Some pics, a wee and we were off.
In good time we motored through Crystal Brook, past Port Pirie and Port Germein before coming across probably the worst environmental vandalism we have seen anywhere. Like a barrier to common sense about 50 wind turbines formed a line directly across the landscape in front of us. The entire outlook had been destroyed by uneconomical rubbish with a half-life of just under a few thousand years. Bring on a clean coal fired power plant any day!
We passed though Port Augusta being the best thing anyone can do in that place. Last time we were here it appeared dirty, dusty and unkempt. Today it lived up to its reputation with groups aimlessly walking the streets, providing a feel of ‘unsafe’ for the visitor to soak up.
Now on the main drag west across the top of the Eyre Peninsula we noted that wheat and barley were still the crop of choice. G decided to educate both of us on the differences between the two. Apparently barely is the hairier one of the two with wheat having a longer seed poddy thing. The other yellow stuff was Alfalfa that was mixed into hay. From that point on she was able to voice with confidence, at a distance, what the next crop was.
As we crawled along the highway we began to hear some crackle on the CB radio. We made out the words “got a 6 metre coming your way, can you go to the edge of the black thanks mate?” Over the next 15 or so minutes the crackle got less crackly appearing to us that a wide load was coming our way.
A look in the mirror revealed a scene not previously encounter in all our years travelling. A pilot vehicle was coming up behind us obviously travelling much faster than us. He overtook us and the CB crackle continued. Another look and the mirrors were filled with a Freightliner towing a 6 metre wide grain tank. We called and asked if they wanted us to get out of the way. The response was no, we will let you know. And they did. The next straight devoid of traffic the call went out and the truck lit up the tarmac like a V8 supercar. He was out and around and disappearing into the horizon within seconds. The lawman in me said ‘dickhead’, yet I could not help but be impressed at being overtaken by a wide load with such commitment to on time delivery.
We fuelled at somethingorother where the burgers were nice before stopping at Minnipa to wait for Trevor and Sue coming behind us. At this location we encountered the Concrete Crapper, being a concrete water tank re-purposed to obviously dispose of concrete craps. It was at least colourful and was the pride and joy of the local Apex Club. Their sign said so.
The 15ks out to Pildappa Rock was on the best dirt road ever. Rock hard, flowing and without potholes, we marched along vey nicely. Arriving at the rock we chewed a few flies whilst selecting the best camp. We set up before beginning the afternoon wine and chat session.
It is quite amazing the topics covered in the middle of the bush without the pressures of normal life imposing. Whether Goondiwindi should be pronounced Gooooondeewindee or Gundawindy was top of the charts leading to whether Gunsynd ‘the Goondiwindi grey ‘was in fact grey or just a normal shitty horse colour.
Cold set in like never before with mercury dropping into massive shrinkage territory. We elected for the comfort of bed at a reasonable hour, if that is possible with day light saving, where lunch time seems to come well before breakfast
Feeling as though we were now full-fledged locals of the Clare Valley, we started the morning with a visit to yet another cool little breakfast spot. We did so on foot with the round trip giving us a 6k kick start. This one was the Watervale General Store. And a general store it was. Containing a smashing little café with delicious, delicate cakes, it also stocked the basic essentials and was the Post Office. We fell in love instantly.
The breakfast was top notch with only the ‘I don’t want to talk to you’ attitude of the lady behind the counter detracting. A gentle walk later we had photographed some beautiful old buildings, an ANZAC memorial and had a yarn to a lady who had taken thus far, five years to renovate her house.
Our time in town today was spent with G getting her hair coloured and buying a last addition to the summer wardrobe. This one was not in the bargain range but was very nice revealing at least the same value as the previously acquired tea towel dress.
Some of the Clare locals are avid readers
A visit to a community gallery had us interested in a striking painting by a local artist. Depicting bottle brush flowers it would be the perfect addition to our new house. It would also tick the box of that special thing we buy each holiday to remember it by.
We walked away in order to think about it. During G’s time at the hairdresser I visited another gallery with some reputation. Having lived in and visited numerous Aboriginal communities I have half and idea of what is good art and what is genuine art. This gallery provided neither. I didn’t look but printed in China stickers could have rightly taken their place on the back of most offerings.
A quick visit to the first gallery saw me walking down the street with the bubble wrapped first seen painting.
Some of the Clare locals don’t read enough
The rest of the day was spent doing very little save G visiting a local winery to taste some fruit juice. She reported it was indeed nice to an extent she bought a couple of bottles to take home.
Tomorrow we head off further north, then west towards the Ayre Peninsular. The weather is expected to be better and warmer, so we are keen to get underway.
This morning was unreasonably cold. The Clare we know from our last winter visit knocked on the door and said, ‘Welcome back Queenslander’. We froze until G found her new jacket purchased in Hay, whereupon the world was a better place once again.
After steaming hot showers and a few aimless laps of the van we took ourselves to a recommended coffee spot a few ks south. Velvet and Willow is a damned good coffee shop. The tea was made perfectly, the coffee good enough and the ham, cheese and tomato toasty up there with the best. Boasting tasteful background music from our era and a sunken eating area surrounded by century old sandstone, this place shone. Our day had started well.
Into Clare township we headed. A visit to the only auto parts store in town revealed they had just the weird part I needed to do an electrical job on the car in the afternoon. Funnily enough exactly the same thing happened on our last visit. Unfortunately the hardware shop nearby was not up to the same standard, being unable to provide a tube of Silastic.
We walked the main street for a while. G booked a hair appointment for tomorrow and I got a haircut. I’m always nervous when it comes to paying for a haircut. I never know whether I will get a fair price or whether it will have a metrosexual tax added and cost a bomb. At $25 this one was a steal. Almost worth the drive back every month or so for such a bargain. According to the hair assessor it looks OK, but not necessarily great.
Sevenhill winery is apparently the oldest in the area. It is somehow slotted into a church yard perched on top of a hill just out of Clare. Not sure whether the winery owned the church, or the church owned the winery. Probably the latter as the Jesuits brought the original vines to the area on a slow boat from wherever Jesuits come from. Either way it would be a bugger to keep a grape vine alive for months on end at sea.
We saw the sign saying ‘Sevenhill’ yet missed the one beside it saying ‘entrance 300 metres’. Our entrance thus became an unplanned visit to a graveyard, a trip down a 4×4 track amongst grape vines, a short excursion down a cycle only path, a drop down a bank back onto the 4×4 track and a drive into the back of the winery rather than the front. We figured we did not need the winery tour on offer at the cellar door. We got lost leaving as well!!
The cracker of the day however came when we visited a crypt positioned under the church. Here twenty or so priests are interned. It was as it was. No touristy polish, just a small dark place with plaques marking sealed coffin size holes in the wall. We noticed at the far end there was two empty holes. We chose to exit quickly just in case those we decide fate saw an opportunity to fill the holes with us to finish the job and move on to a new project.
For lunch we took advice and drove the short distance to Mister Micks winery. Not realising we had been here before, the vine covered walls of the old brick building gave it away on our approach. We had Tapas apparently. In my words we had lovely bread, Haloumi (G had that. I’d rather eat leather soaked in petrol), meat balls and Arancini balls. To say the food was amazing is an understatement. It was that good; served with style and cost about a third of what we are used to paying at home. It might be worth the drive back to get lunch and a haircut.
Delicious lunch. No left overs
Our late afternoon was spent on household chores. Washing, fixing little things on the van and making an Anderson plug outlet for the car so we can charge the second battery from solar panels.
Some dinner and chocolate later and we were ready for bed.
Waking amongst the general rumble of a caravan park, we packed the van and trundled off into town for a walk along the mighty Murray River. The plan was to then partake of a scrumptious breakfast sitting somewhere above the Murray just taking in the ambiance.
The walk went particularly well ,being more of a stroll with no destination. We happened upon a garden put together in honour of a famous local council bloke or something like that. It was apparently a scented garden. Try as I might I could not smell a thing.
Can’t smell a thing
Returning to the Rowing Club for breakfast on the deck, we sat, chatted then looked at the menu. Thank god the Ambos got there in a hurry, for both of us needed resuscitating. $41 for a couple of sausages, a bit of bacon and a couple of eggs overlooking a muddy creek. And I thought Noosa was unrealistically expensive. We left hungry.
G smiling before seeing the menu
Up town we located a genuinely good café. Great breaky at a decent price and lovely staff to deal with. What’s not to like. Well, a lot actually. Mildura has dress shops. G likes dress shops. Our departure was delayed significantly. G purchased a few pieces that would assist in her summer wardrobe; apparently. I was not to upset as one of the dresses has a lovely checked print so can be re-used as a tea towel when it gets old. Value was definitely there.
Not long after we entered South Australia from Victoria we encountered quarantine bins on the side of the road. Basically you get to ditch your fruit and veges into a long drop fruit toilet before heading to the offical inspection station up the road.
The inspection officer was a really decent lady. She had a look inside the van, commented that it looked brand new and left us to our day. The encounter even included getting to travel under a Dunlop Tyre bridge just like they used to have at the old Surfers Paradise Raceway when I was a kid.
Heading out towards Renmark, we encountered little until we arrived. A cracker narrow bridge across the Murray accompanied by a lovely park made our brief stay worthwhile.
A list of less than memorable towns flew by unit we pulled up in Morgan for a pic of a church and a getting desperate wee. Upon returning to the van I noticed the weather strip running the full length of the van on the left side was dragging on the ground. A quick inspection revealed something (probably a rock) had flicked up from the van tyre and knocked the head off a screw that held the bottom of the strip to the van frame. Without the head the strip was free to pull out of its runner and fly free.
Nine well selected swear words later, I had the weather strip remounted, and my order for another role of hundred mile and hour tape submitted. I decided tomorrow was the appropriate day to fix it properly.
The next town to take our attention was Eudunda. A village pretty much in the middle of nowhere, with not a green stick of grass to show, for some reason had the cheapest fuel we had seen for a thousand ks, and a couple of amazing silos to match. Thankfully the fuel was cheap as we had been battling 50km/h headwinds all day making the fuel gauge drop dramatically. Panther was sucking over 20 litres of diesel per 100 kilometres. I thought this was bad until a Mitsubishi owner told me a bit later his used that much on a good day. I love how another’s misery makes me feel so good.
It’s incredible how quickly the landscape can change as we travel. Literally one hill after Eudunda the entire world was covered with knee high barley crops creating a truly beautiful spectre. Ancient cottages perched on hills completed the moving picture perfectly.
Our day ended as we skipped through a number of little towns close together before finally coming to rest about six kilometres south of Clare.
I’m told the next couple of days are visiting wineries. No doubt I will be driving and G drinking. I wet my pants in anticipation!!
I leapt out of bed like a sprung sloth to head down to the lake and create a few iconic images. Truth was that the sunrise was a bit asthmatic and ochre cliffs were without colour. Returning half an hour later I realised G had taken herself to the showers for a long overdue hair wash and whatever else women do in there. After doing the same I still had no G back at the van.
Then out of the amenities block came my love. She was obviously not freshly showered with the only steam visible coming from her ears. A not happy G is a site to behold. Choosing listening as the appropriate communication strategy, I quickly learned that despite my piping hot shower, the same was ice cold on the opposite side of the wall, despite the same hot water system being utilised.
With duty calling, I entered the ladies showers, turned the mixer tap to the opposite side and was able to provide G with a steaming hot shower! Until it didn’t. Ice was the description. G came back a beaten woman, wondering just what she had to do to get a dribble of hot water. Apparently washing your hair in icy cold water is quote “as f&*^%d up as the Hema”. We did not discuss this matter further.
After a quick look around the lake CBD we choofed off towards Hillston. Well that is where the combination of Hema and Landrover mapping took us. Arriving in the hamlet via the Lachlan Valley Way, we fell in love instantly. What a special little place with quaint old shops, a charm that is hard to find and another lovely lady who struggled with the concept of making tea. She did however master producing cold raison toast!
On we went towards Booligal entering the flood plain area where wheat crops grew aplenty. We were on gravel road for the most part yet barely ran under 80km/h. Panther was in its element and G-string found her groove just nicely.
Booligal led us to Hay. Hay, known for its ferocious winds on the plains surrounding it was the epitome of a welcoming country town. Beautiful old buildings surrounded by magnificent gardens and some quirky elements thrown in. The food stood out with G’s caramel tart and fresh cream being top of the crop.
We had intended to camp somewhere within about 50 km of Mildura dependent upon how we were travelling in the late afternoon. I made a right knob of myself when I asked G what crop was growing on our left. She announced without hesitation it was Jojoba. Asking how in the world she knew that, thinking she had been taking horticulture classes behind my back, she announced, “I read the sign you dick”. I chose to wonder in silence at the remainder of the agricultural experiences for the rest of the day.
Offering remote camping beside the river just 20km out of Mildura, our chosen camp spot looked the goods. As we approached a potential turnoff guided by ‘that F$%*&#@g Hema the third’, we looked left to see the beast had done it again. We were past the point before it appeared on the map. Our never turn back philosophy deployed. We continued on ultimately ending up in a second hand caravan park on the river at Mildura.
All in all not a bad day. We covered huge ks, were tired but satisfied we were breaking the back of the long journey towards the Eyre Peninsular.
Out at a reasonable time, we chose to pick our way around the tourist spots of this great town. An old phone box and a tumbling café later, we were off.
Within moments ‘that F$%*&#@g Hema the third’ was on the field and making an impact. At one stage we had that beast, the car mapping system and Miss Google all arguing which way to go, spitting out directions like a drunken auctioneer.
We decided to follow the big green road sign that said Coonamble 83.
Arriving by some grace of god at Coonamble, we reckoned it was a really nice place with stunning old buildings, a convenient wee spot and a good feel. It rated just over halfway up the ‘would we come and visit again’ ladder.
Ploughing on to Warren (the town, not a bloke we know) we fuelled up at Uncle Somefellas servo before skipping over the river into town for a coffee.
The poor soul. She was still wearing the graduation robes from the South-Western NSW University of Useless Contributions to Society. She had flown through her classes leaving all others in her wake. Cup, tea bag, water; it’s not that hard. Oh yes it is!! We endured the worst tea and coffee of the new millennium.
Not to be outdone by her refreshment making skills, her advice that the amazing town gallery three doors up was a must visit, would have been brilliant…….had it been open. Her potential is unlimited.
We skulked out of Warren vowing only to return for funerals of close friends and weddings with a guaranteed good feed.
Rounding the right hand corner as we slowed into town it smacked us squarely in the face. Holy stunning silos Batman. This was the most outstanding piece of silo art we had ever seen. Positioned perfectly so it is the first thing you see entering Tottenham, there were not words. Depicting primarily a massive Goanna, the detail was so lifelike, we swore it had a heartbeat .
Having been traveling the Bogan highway to this point we wondered where they all were. Funny how a small town can serve up in bucket loads. Whilst eyeing the silo, I also spotted the allusive creature in all her worldly class posing in the main street. She looked so lonely I decided to give her a ride.
Scooting through Tullamore, sighing at yet more beautiful old buildings, we made haste to Condoblin as the day was drawing short. Condoblin is a smashing town. Kept to perfection by the local council and home to one of Australia’s biggest Ute Musters, it boasts a new multi-million dollar information centre soon to be opened, and a lovely tasteful memorial to fallen jockeys.
The real attraction however is the long line of holden utes decorated in a myriads of ways reflecting icons of the country. Condoblin is way up the ladder of re-visits.
With our friendly mapping device giving us one last bad piece of advice, we u-turned just out of Condoblin headed for Lake Cargelligo. This destination was a chance find. Planned originally just because the name sounded cool, it is a jewel in the west for NSW.
The natural lake is massive. As in really big massive. The town sits perched on its banks providing a truly idyllic setting rivalling anything in Warren for sure. We found the van park, walked the lake, relaxed and did not much.
I think tomorrow we may leave late and not go too hard. This holiday thing is starting to seem quite ok.
Oh my, how good is sleep when your head is not consumed with ‘what do I have to do at work next week?’. The night was cold, the doona was warm and the morning coffee just right. It might take a while for the internal alarm to reset though as we were wide awake to long before 5am!
First sign was a white flash in my right hand mirror. A sedan of minimalistic proportions had begun its overtaking manoeuvre. The chrome bulbar on the Kenworth towing a B-Triple trailer shone brightly with the afternoon sun reflecting magnificently, creating its own light. The outfit was a stunning site as it trundled towards us at a good clip.
No matter the two lane road, a B-Triple, Landrover towing a van and a tiny white car don’t fit. If something didn’t happen now, the Forensic Investigators would write; “White car on incorrect side of the road hit head on with Kenworth, being then driven backwards into a Black Landrover. Pick the number of dead!
As it happened the gods gave me just enough time to see the brain dead fool, jag left off the road and brake hard allowing the last ten inches of space he needed to splice the gap between the Kenworth and us.
Only once before have we come so close to not coming home under our own steam. Shaken but not stirred! I congratulated the truckie via CB on his efforts of avoidance, he returned the sentiment. We both thought the car driver was a dick. G described him more appropriately. I think he may have worked for Hema!
So the day ended poorly yet started quite nicely. We snuck out of Cooyar at about 8.30am trying not to wake the growing group of motorhome owners, all headed to the Dalby muster. As we left the town we noticed a massive horse event day in the making at the showgrounds. The population of Cooyar had multiplied. One suspected in good country style as the grog flowed into the following night, the population had again multiply with the worldwide shortage of swags taking hold.
As predicted ‘that F$%*&#@g Hema the third’ lived up to its reputation. Working perfectly for the first hour or so, it then pulled Pilates move, pointed it’s butt to the sky and blew nothing but hot air. For a moment G decided it needed to go out the window. Thank god it was shut, and the box of death lived another day.
About Millmerran, ‘that F$%*&#@g Hema the third’ jumped from the grave and put on a faultless performance for the rest of the day if you can excuse about four wrong turns into the middle of somewhere.
With a keen eye upon getting back into the car after a fuel stop, G announced she had seen a snake under her seat. She was reasonably sure it was a green tree snake. She was not sure though. Being the good husband, but completely inexperienced snake catcher, I launched into action. None of this long wire thing to twist the snake around. No, it was bare hands for this wildlife warrior.
Tension built; within but a few seconds I had eyed the culprit and with hands as swift as lighting, bagged the little beauty. He would never again terrorise the Landrover. He was yummy and just what I needed for a snack.
Goondiwindi came and went, as did lunch in a town that closes down on a Sunday. We entered NSW and promptly forgot all about day light saving time bouncing along in good time towards our goal.
We slid through Moree, Narrabri and ended up in the Pilliga Forest. Well almost. We realised our mate from the Hema camp had got it wrong again. Still, all the years my dear old dad spoke of the Pilliga Scrub now meant something despite it now having an evolved name moving form Scrub to Forest. It appeared to still be a large area of stunted trees desperate for a cup of water.
Biggest speed sign ever. Lucky we were 19 under
The last 60 odd kilometres were sprinkled with some good dirt road. We marvelled at the way Puma silenced the corrugations and just powered on until………..”Roos”. The call went out instantly making the speed drop until we entered the town of Pilliga.
The chicken Snitz and chips at the pub was….. Well we were pretty hungry so a toasted cheese on cardboard would have gone done OK.
We ate, said hello to ‘dog’ who had seen far too many litters, and retired to a cooling night. Tomorrow is another big day. The holiday will start soon.
Unready. Maybe not a word, yet as sure as I draw breath it is a situation, feeling, state of being, reality. We were as unready for this long overdue holiday as we were for a quick case of diarrhea and a slap across the head with a blunt fish. Unready just did not do it justice.
Still fashioning the rear window stone protector at 6am out of $10 Bunnings corflute because I’m a cheapskate and could not bring myself to cough up $400 for the same commercial offering, the day already sucked. Car packing. Car re-packing. Nothing seemed to be saying get in Panther and drive.
Finally a bit after lunch o’clock we settled in and headed out. Actually it was just a bit after o’clock, because we did not get a chance to have lunch. That would be had at the ever reliable Tilley’s Café at Moore.
Arriving at Landsborough, the home of G-String, we noted she had gathered a bit of dust since last we met. Still, we packed her with goodies for the trip, hooked up and motored out via Beerwah, Peachester and Kilcoy. Fuelled up, we could almost smell the world’s best chippies at Moore, bubbling away in piping hot oil, just waiting for us.
By now we were already deep into snake country, with some of Allen’s short red, green and yellow ones going down a treat. Not not sure if there was a hole in the packer but the snakes seemed to escape pretty quickly.
We slowed, we stopped, we gasped. Our beloved Tilley’s was ‘closed for renovation’. Despair hit hard. No chips. Is there no god? With rumbling bellies we motored on.
We noted that Panther was pulling like a train today. Probably due to cool weather and damp air, the nectar diesels thrive upon. Similarly G-String was hanging in after a few twitches yet seemed to have found her comfortable place for the journey. All was well.
The Bunya Nut Café in Blackbutt stood in for Tilley’s and did a fair job. The 13 year old boy running the place cooked a two point above average burger and for G a pretty decent bacon and egg delicious. There is at least three less pigs in Blackbutt tonight given the amount of bacon he served up.
The feeling of freedom was present fleetingly before we decided to try to operate our third generation expensive Hema navigation system. Having been bitten by this creature twice before with our first many years ago being named ‘that F$&*%$g Hema’, followed by ‘that F$&*%$g Hema Junior’, a few years later, it did not take long for this new model to be christened ‘that F$&*%$g Hema the third’. Logic is simply not in the box. It’s a moody bugger, so tomorrow we expect it will work fine…..until it doesn’t.
Arriving in Cooyar at the Swinging Bridge campground we realised rain had not visited for a good time. The area was dry to the bone with dust becoming our friend. Still our usual spot up the back beside the nesting parroty looking birds, was again all ours. We parked, realised our van level was not, so levelled some more. All in all a fair day for a first on a long trip. With both of feeling the effects of maddening lives leading up to this break, we set the town on fire and were in bed fast asleep by 8pm.
Crawling out of bed at some ungodly hour just to make the weekend happen, was no fun. Peter and G had planned to head off from the coast at just a bit after ‘I have to get my hair done’ o’clock, so that meant a very early start for work.
Still, as 12.30 rolled around, we were on the road to pick up G-String but a few minutes away. We hooked up, packed few things in the fridge and marvelled at our luck that all the electrics were working just fine.
With our plan of travelling up over the Peachester Range to have a bite to eat at the lovely little café perched atop the mountain, working just brilliantly, until the café was closed, we boxed on to Kilcoy where we rounded up a reasonable pie with an apple turnover as a takeaway.
Trying out Gregors Creek Road for the first time, we marvelled at not much as we dipped and turned through some semi-lovely countryside. Popping out on the Brisbane Valley Highway, before turning right at Toogoolawah and heading west. We were arguably on track, on time on budget as the saying goes.
The road west of what normally is a ‘burnt brown, wouldn’t feed a dry log’ area was deliciously green. Fat cattle everywhere. Our conversation turned to how genuinely picturesque it all was. Until…
Peter could not but chuckle. The moment he saw her he had visions of Chuppa Chupps. Wrong in every sense, but so eloquently descried, she stood alone on the side of the road with stumpy legs, a more than rotund middle and an ‘I’m not happy with you’ smile on her face. She held a stop sign for effect. We had pulled up at road works. Our new friend Chuppa marched over.
Introducing herself with the words, “Have you ever been here before”, we acknowledged we had been, however many years earlier. In the next couple of minutes we learned that we had not seen the sign at the highway and the top of the hill telling us the road was not suitable for Trucks, Trailers or Caravans. In the uncomfortable silence that followed Chuppa melted, called her buddy on the radio and we were off uphill, on a gravel road a fully loaded road train would have been proud to call its own.
Cresting the hill at an intersection, we were faced with a magnificent sign of more than generous proportions. It read ‘Not suitable for Trucks, Trailers or Caravans’. Well, what an intelligent assistant Chuppa had been. There was indeed a sign at the top of the hill, we just had not got to it yet!
After a 26.3 point turn we bumped along a road to the right that eventually took us completely around the mountain and into Crows Nest. After the obligatory scoot around the town, we found our way to the Crows Nest Caravan Park. As we pulled up we recognised the van in front was probably that of, as yet unmet, part of our week-end group, Neil and Jenny. And it was.
We found our spots, settled in and yarned for a fair bit before hitting the hay for a prefect sleep in even more perfect temperatures.
Friday woke up as Fridays do. By seven we knew today was going to be a scorcher. That feeling of ‘I’m not actually hot but I’m already sweating from the inside’ was growing by the minute. We needed to get stuff done soon before the news read, ‘Couple found shrivelled in Crows Nest National Park’.
The short drive to the National Park was uneventful. Thankfully we saw all of the signs and got there without drama. We jumped out of Panther, water bottles in hand and strode off into the depths of the bush.
First we came upon the somethingorother pool, resplendent in its stagnant waters and baking rocks. Not beaten, we picked our way along the well-kept path to the other waterhole equally resplendent and baked. Relatively experienced in bushwalking we had been keeping our eyes open to for animals and reptiles that on, any given day, could elect to snap at our heels and send us to the great National Park in the sky, but did not see ‘Gordon the Goanna’ till it was too late. Gordon had not recently served his time with Jenny Craig, as he had an enormous girth, backed by the length of an oversized baseball bat. He leapt out from the right, not more than a metre in front of us, scurrying up hill to hide amongst the rocks. We called it even, for Gordo was obviously as surprised as us with the encounter.
We then branched off towards the Koonin Lookout and falls. The track became a little more closed-in with hundreds of rocks steps to negotiate. Other than Gordo, we had not seen much wildlife thus far. Until…..a beast Peter had never before encountered flashed before his eyes. She leapt high with a speed impossible to imagine. Levitating momentarily, whilst uttering a cry previously un-heard in these parts. A piercingly loud “Fark, fk, fk, fk ,fk ,fk Fark” on repeat mode for at least five long minutes. Fearing certain death from this creature, Peter’s heart rate spiked to 257 before finally settling back at a calm 243, for this was an encounter of a lifetime. Where’s the camera was the predominant thought.
As time passed; at least two seconds, Peter realised the bush creature was just G having seen a snake. In her defence, the whopper flew out of the bush across the path giving G’s leg a kiss on the way through. Given G hate snakes with a passion, her reaction was understandable, if not memorable. Peter led the way from thereon.
The falls had apparently fallen many weeks earlier, for now they were but a tranquil trickle unable to be seen. They led however to a lovely pool 40 meters below that met a gorge headed to a distant Perseverance Dam. Quite a lovely setting on any day the mercury had not reach 40 plus degrees.
Parched by the time we got back to the car, we motored into town, there visiting the soft drink factory, IGA and the quaintest hardware store, before heading back to G-String for a well-earned rest.
We quickly noticed that Denise and Morto had arrived and apparently left for lunch in Toowoomba. A few minutes later Morto surfaced letting us know he was in residence despite not feeling well and the girls had headed south for a feed. He must not have been that poorly though as he had clearly spent quite a good deal of time leveling his caravan to within 3 degrees of horizontal!
As the afternoon lingered the rest of the troops arrived. By night fall we had about 14 of us eating, drinking and yarning about copious worldly issues including, China, Lithium Batteries, Russia, Caravans, and Destinations. Not much was left to chance. Dinner was followed by Chris delighting us with some old favourites on the guitar backed by a pretty decent voice. As the recital went on, the crowd became progressively involved, the lyrics became less accurate and indeed G could only remember ‘King of the road’ so tried desperately to fit that chorus into every song.
Saturday was a slow morning with scoot out to Perseverance Dam, followed by a trip to town so Morto could pay his dues to the local publican who had trusted him with a wine purchase the day before when her Eftpos machine had become suddenly ill. By his description, the publican showed considerable surprise he showed up at all. There are some genuinely good people in the world.
At a bit to one we frocked up and met our appointment with the Myrtille restaurant. From the moment we stepped inside this place was a winner. Understated, yet eloquently stylish, it was definitely the find of the weekend. With outstanding staff, exceptional service and unbelievably great; not just good, but great, food, we were left gobsmacked. It was so good there would never be an argument if it was suggested the chef had won a few Akubra hats. We will be back.
Saturday night followed Fridays events but with slightly less enthusiasm due to bloated stomachs and that ‘after a great meal’ lethargy. Again the night was perfectly cool, the company first class and sleep about as good as it gets.
Most of us were up reasonably early Sunday morning to be greeted by a very pretty fog on the lake behind our vans and the implied sadness of a weekend ending. We packed up, said our goodbyes and trapsed off to Hampton and down to Esk.
Esk is never Esk unless we drop into the bakery for a bacon and egg delicious. As usual it was exactly that. Lashings of local bacon with just slight runny eggs made for a brunch of champions.
Within a couple of hours we were home, unpacked and thinking about work on Monday. It rates as a pretty good weekend when that is your only negative thought for three full days.
Crows Nest, you are a winner. So much so Denise is already planning an annual event. Bring it on.
The weekend for four grew over time to be a weekend for nine. Through conversation over a couple of months the crew multiplied from Peter, G, Denise and Richard to also include Mark, Sonia, Sue, Trevor and Henry the travelling dog.
Memory can be a wonderful thing. It can bring to light past glories, adventures and places in vivid colour, sound and atmosphere. So it was that Peter decided the best way to head to Stanthorpe from the Sunshine Coast would be via Kilcoy, Esk and Gatton, followed by a scoot up through Heifer Creek, as it was surely less daunting than the Esk Range on Richard and Denise’s first outing in their new Sunland van.
We planned to meet at the Landsborough storage facility about 7am. True to form we all arrived a bit after 6.30 and set about hooking up our respective vans. Job done on the Zone, Peter and G headed over to help out our good friends.
With Richard at the helm, the car was positioned perfectly first time for an easy drop of the van onto the tow ball. One hit of the electronic jack was all that was required. Electronic dictates there needs to be electricity. There was none. The jack was as dead as a door nail.
With barley a flinch Richard set about accessing the manual winder to go old school with the job at hand. If only we could find it. Sunland security was outstanding. Hide the winder so no one can steal your van!
Not to be outdone, Peter ‘I know vans’ headed to the rear with Denise to check out the batteries. Voltmeter readings proved there was naught in the batteries. The entire system was as flat as a tac. We would not be using the electronic devices anytime soon.
In what was to be the theme of the weekend, Richard, ‘I’m buggered if I’m going to let this set me back’, remembered there was an old style jockey wheel stored under the firewood. A quick clamp on, wind down, and we were away, headed to Sunland for an on-the-fly electrical fix.
Kicking the Sunalnd people out of bed, we quickly learnt from the young guy that there was a trip switch on the rear battery panel, that if turned on, would suddenly bring the entire system back to life. Fixed in a jiffy. As if often the case a wise old owl pops up at an opportune moment. And so it was.
Looking like he may have been run over by more than the odd van, the old bloke randomly questioned Richard as to whether he knew the hot water heater drew 10 amps of current even when not turned on. Acknowledging he did not, old wise guy left Richard with newfound intellect surrounding where to turn the hot water heater off and indeed where and how to turn it back on. We were set.
Kilcoy came and went, but not Esk. A stop was necessary to grab a coffee and a bacon and egg delicious. And it was. We met Gatton before turning left to the stunning Heifer Creek.
Memory can be a bastard!! It can taint past glories, adventures and places in vivid colour, sound and atmosphere to such an extent they don’t remotely resemble reality. Peter had such a memory, for Heifer Creek was every nightmare a new caravan owner dreads. It was tight, narrow, tighter, narrower and just plain awful. And that was before the wide load met Richard and Denise on a hairpin corner. If nothing else, experience quickly came this day. We were sure we could hear utterances of profanity above the rumble of their Toyota V8.
Warwick was Warwick, being slightly greener than last time we were there. Applethorpe was still the coolest place in the state, and Stanthorpe was by-passed for our destination of Glen Aplin, a few ks further south.
We were met by a tight track leading down to a pristine camp site next to a beautiful lake complete with overly friendly ducks. Denise whisked the new van through a maze of trees with the skill of a seasoned, Jackie Howe singleted, pluggers wearing, truckie. Masterful to say the least!
Trever, Sue, Henry the travelling dog, Sonia and Mark were already in residence, set up enjoying a stunning vista. We unpacked and so began a diary of ‘let’s try again’ moments that will be the topic of conversation for yeast to come.
Peter set the scene by not chocking the inside wheel on the van when taking if off the car resulting in his beloved Zone heading for a swim, but thankfully not quite. The dumb act was almost doing it twice! Feeling out of the action, Richard took centre stage when he remember to turn the hot water back on but endured a cold shower because he forgot hot water needs gas to make it hot.
Ultimately we settled down to a stunning fire courtesy of Mark, amazing sunset and great company for a wonderfully relaxing evening.
The new day saw us trickling into Stanthorpe at comfortable o’clock for a walk and breakfast at the old rail station. Although the food was not bad at all, one hopes the management of the trains days past was better than that of the orders in the present. Potluck does not do it justice!!
None of this could eventuate however, until Richard’s car started. Which it didn’t. ARB had done half a job of installing the Anderson plug connecting the van for battery charging. Forgetting the cut out switch meant the car battery had been feeding the van all night and was now flat. A quick mess around led us to connect solar panels to the car battery hoping a few hours of sun would bring them back to life.
At just after lunch we headed to forgottonitsname (maybe Tobins) winery for an education, some tasting and some buying. Peter and Henry guarded the entrance as neither drank grape juice, favouring a sit on a bench and a nap over the evil contained in a bottle.
In the late afternoon we choofed off to dinner at the Balancing Heart winery. Met by a beautiful German Shepherd dog, we were welcome from the first moments. The staff were outstanding, the ambiance ridiculously good, and the company, that now included some additional friends from the area, exceptional. The crew ate pizza and drank grape juice aplenty.
Sunday was always a get up late and head off day. We got up early and were about to set off when Richard’s car rolled over and played dead again. RACQ was on the job in no time. We were away to Stanthorpe for a scrumptious breakfast at the unnamed café after our good-bye hugs and dog pats.
Heading home was relatively uneventful. We dropped into Denise’s parents for a quick hello and van display before heading off to get lost. A quick double back had us trickling down the Toowoomba Range headed towards Esk but not before another navigational error by Peter. We have always loved the back blocks of Gatton!
The trip home demonstrated just what a few hours of experience can bring. Richard and Denise’s travelling unit was being driven with a new confidence and authority. It appeared Peter’s rotten memory had worked a treat providing at least three year’s towing experience in but a few short days.
Reflection revealed this weekend was a damned good one. Great location, great food, great people, yet one day short. Next year will be four days at least.
