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.
Panther pounced out of bed already wearing her G-String, hitting the road at not much after 7.30am. Shooting out to the highway, headed north, all was running well with the big V6 making mincemeat of pulling a caravan.
Gympie came and went shortly before a left run saw us cross Bells Bridge and head into the Burnett Region. We had planned a breakfast at Kilkivan. This little gem did not disappoint. We stopped at Katie’s Café and partook of one of the best bacon and egg delicious we have ever eaten. Washed down with fantastic tea and a cracker coffee. We were set.
As we entered the café to order our fill, tears filled her eyes. From her spot in the kitchen Katie had seen G. Nothing but a bulldozer would have stopped her running to embrace her old friend. Katie, worked with us in Doomadgee almost 20 years ago. She was an outstanding police officer then and an even more outstanding person now. We spent quite a few precious minutes reminiscing about the good, bad and ugly of our time together in the north before we walked the short walk to the service station to have a similar catch up with Katie’s husband Rob who was also with us for the tropical adventure. Rob, like Katie exude a decency that is almost lost in this funny old world.
Time waits for no cat, so Panther set sail again for our scheduled meet up with Sue and Trevor at Ban Ban Springs. Over the Tansy Range we went, right onto the Something Highway and into the second hand siding known as Ban Ban Springs. The service station is the jewel in the crown of this spot. Actually it is the crown as it stands alone, save a smelly toilet block. Across the road however, is a real life spring, and a few thousand ducks making the fresh waters home. Using our vast knowledge of flying creatures we figured that they were in fact the, indigenous to Ban Ban Springs, Brown Duck.
No trip to the Burnett is complete without a stop at the Gayndah Big Orange. Peter was the model for the embarrassing, ‘here I am at the big orange’ picture as G found and scouted a nearby shop. In a travelling first her return to the car was one of empty hands. Apparently the souvenir Big Oranges did not take her fancy this day.
Soon enough Eidsvold, being our destination, popped up. We fuelled and flicked across the road to the campground of the RM Williams Learning Centre. Finding a camp in the far corner, we settled in. As is often the case, in a ground of at least 10 acres, Mr and Mrs Noidea trundled down our way and camped right beside us. If you ever thought humans were independent and capable of self-determination, just study a campground in the early afternoon. We chose to laugh.
Not long after a Landrover Discovery towing a Zone Caravan came into the area. They pulled up at a socially acceptable distance and promptly lifted their big hairy dog out of the car. We instantly reconned these were good people. Anyone who drives a Disco, tows a Zone and has a dog, is right up there in our book.
We yarned to Bron and …….. Bron’s husband, for quite a while. They were Sydneyites with he having retired as an airline pilot at the start of COVID. The Zone was their first van as they wanted to buy right once. It looked like they had done. Peter and Bron’s husband talked van weights for a bit, looked at nifty fixes for kitchen draws and got on like a house on fire. Half an hour passed, they left headed for Monto. We afternoon snacked.
As the time for the RM Williams night light show approached, G and Sue walked slowly towards the venue. But not before G spotted a 40 metre zip line and could not resist. Hearing the commotion from near the van, Peter sensed danger and began running as fast as his torn calf would allow. He barely touched the tips of the grass beneath his feet, moving with all the grace of a fat lady with a broken stiletto, for experience told him a trip for G in an Ambulance was nigh. As she let go and started to zip, Peter, now frantic, tried with all his trying might to remember the number for 000 emergency as he neared the scene of impending broken bones.
G zipped, took one hand of just for effect, slammed into the braking system at the other end and rebounded laughing her head off. No injury this time. Seeing how much fun it was the rest of had a go as well; enjoying reliving our kid years.
The light show was a stunner. Projected onto a series of metal walls, we learned a bit about RM’s life, work history and impact on the Australian culture. We heard from a few of his mates and a local singer whose fame is most probably limited to the light show.
We returned to the vans and snuggled in for the evening had become bitterly cold.
Day Two: Eidsvold to Cania Gorge:
Today followed last night, being bitterly cold. The 120m walk to the toilets was one of frozen toes, frozen thoughts and not much else. Still it looked as though the day was going to be just lovely from about 2pm onwards.
Peter headed out for an exploratory walk around town whilst Genevieve lay in bed. The town was still asleep at 6.30am with naught but the service station awake for business. Upon reaching the intersection of the highway and the steaming swimming pool, Peter had a decision to make. Straight ahead or right. Diagonally through the park it would be.
Having now reached the main street, Peter noticed a café on the corner, an Indigenous Centre, a Chemist and a second hand store. The later best described the main street. Eidsvold looked and felt like a town in pain. Where were the businesses looking like businesses. Yet with all the drear, the second hand store had left most of its goods outside on the street overnight, so crime must not feature highly.
Heading back Peter was approached by a bloke in a ute. Expecting a good old fashioned questioning as to what a stranger was doing in these parts, Peter braced himself for the inevitable onslaught. Not this time. It was a young fella who simply wanted to know where the RM Williams Centre was. “Well you’re in luck” was Peter’s reply. “It’s the only place in town I know. Turn right, then left, over the bridge and it’s on your right.” Clearly this young traveller recognised a knowledge base when he saw one, as He picked Peter out of a completely empty street as the one to ask.
A couple of hundred yards later Peter was again accosted. This time by the thundering hooves of a part grown Wolf Hound and his Kelpie mate. They pounced before Peter knew what hit him. With paw prints from head to toe the game went on till the smell of bandicoot poo proved a better offer and the pups headed on their way.
Breakfast vanished as did a good cup of coffee, followed by a drop-in to the RM Williams Centre proper. Sadly, the centre did not live up to the light show of the nigh prior or indeed to the campground. Not sure why, it just did not have that, ‘come and see me’ vibe.
After emptying the van toilets and filling tanks with fresh water we headed towards Monto. The trip, being uneventful ,led us to conclude the area had received far more than its fair share of rain in the recent past. Grass was green, cattle were fat, and creeks were running. Soon enough we ventured upon a set of painted silos. As Peter stepped into photo mode, G found a shop. Nestled within a farmers old trailer was more than 20 old eskys filled with all sorts of home made goods for sale. Demonstrating immaculate restraint G left with but a $10 packet of ANZAC biscuits at $2 per biscuit and a half share an $8 box of firwood. Not a piece of jewellery in sight.
Monto inspired to the same extent a good dose of COVID with not much to encourage us to search for local real estate for that rural lifestyle change. A few short ks later we turned right onto Cania Road set for Cania Gorge Tourist Retreat.
If Monto was a bit disappointing, the tourist park was the opposite. We settled into a fantastic spot at one end of the campground in a near perfect setting. Not overly populated, and meticulously kept, the camping experience was second to none. We afternoon snacked, gave Henry the travelling dog a walk and got comfortable with a simpler life.
Day Three: Cania Gorge:
Cold, misty and even a bit rainy, this morning was not inspiring the spirit of adventure. We elected to jump in the cars and take a trip to Cania Dam a few short ks up the road from our camp. We noted the area was immaculately kept by its Sunwater guardians, with mown lawns and enough ‘don’t go there or do this’ signs to keep even the best recalcitrant out.
A wander down to the waters edge revealed an interesting lake that obviously had not, in recent times, seen the amount of rain in the ranges that fed it the rest of the state had. It was not nearly full. Our views were supported by a sign that rambled on at length about the presence of Blue Green Algie. It proffered the folly of swimming in it, touching it, diving in it or indeed accidently drinking it. After we deliberately had a good long slurp from its depths we moved on.
The middle of the day was a drizzly loss. We occupied ourselves by gazing at the increasing number of vans coming into the park and the trying to imagine what legal or otherwise employment those who could afford them undertook. We concluded the world was full of drug dealers and people smugglers.
G and Peter headed off for a walk in the afternoon. The sign told us that the walk to the Ferntree Pool was 3.1km. Even with a broken calf, Peter thought it achievable if he limped and grimaced alternately. The track was not much to write home about as it undulated alongside a trickle trying to be a creek. Finally we happened upon a bathtub sized pool fed by a piddling dribble of milky water. We had arrived at Ferntree Pool. By now Peter’s calf was saying it was time to call it a day but the sign pointing up an almost vertical cliff said it was but 2.5 km to go. Ok now we got it, 3.1km was not for the circuit, it was only for the outward run. Bugger!
We trudged on, finally happening upon the Giant Chair Lookout, noticing it was now just the Giant Lookout as no chair was to be found. We stared into the thickening mist and decided in this weather it was just the Giant; no chair and no lookout!
Now pouring rain we descended the mountain before scurrying into the camp a site, a steaming hot shower and late afternoon snacks.
As the night worn on, we knew it was only going to get colder and wetter. Bed was the best option.
Day Four: To Boynedale Bush Camp:
We rose after a damp night to a campground filled with fog the likes of pea soup. Not quite the thick opaque pea soup grandma used to make but more like the one Aldi sells. A bit runny and you can still through it. Consequently, everything we touched was saturated and cold. Desperately, the sun tried to show, but failed badly till well after breakfast o’clock.
We packed slowly, realised a resettable fuse powering the van was not working properly and trudged out towards Biloela. We chose the bitumen as the shorter trip over the range to Boynedale Bush Camp meant hauling up and over what would be a very wet and slippery dirt rack. Just warmed up we encountered a short stint of unexpected roadworks that meant we hauled over a very wet and slippery dirt track causing our vans to go from pristine all English albino to West Indian brown in less than 23 seconds.
On we went.
Biloela was Biloela. We fuelled, ate truly terrible bakery food, failed to find a new resettable fuse, so headed off. The road towards Calliope before the turnoff to Boynedale was like the Oscars of roadworks. They had roadworks that were outstanding in their set up, roadworks that simply took too long in their acceptance speeches, roadworks that tried to be, but were just not funny and even ones where we felt like slapping someone. The right turn off the highway did not come soon enough.
Boynedale Bush Camp sits beside what will now be known as Boynedale Dam. It’s a camp beside a large body of water pretty much in the middle of nowhere. Upon arrival we quickly determined lots of other people had found the middle of nowhere just as we had. Fortunately we found a spot on the edge of nowhere to overlook the swamp fand listen to the symphony of frogs. Not a bd way to settle in for an afternoon.
We nibbled, chatted, snoozed and explored the many subjects you do when four people sit down in the middle of nowhere. Not long after dark we noticed a convoy of vehicles come into the campground. Led by a Suzuki Jimny, the convoy presented in order. Jimny, camper van, Jimny, camper van. We quickly determined they were travelling together and that each Jimny required an accompanying camper to sleep in. They stopped, looked and then moved on.
Within a quick 30 seconds another convoy arrived. Identical to the first. Jimny, Camper, Jimny, Camper. We all, but Sue in particular, figured out it was a Jimny club on an outing and that they had, with a bit of imagination, at least 20 of them in convoy all coming to stay with us this night. As tears welled, and bellies laughed deep laughs, we realised that the first four had just done a flying lap on the campground and arrived back to camp beside us. We had but two Jimny’s and two campers in our midst. Still, it was a bloody quick lap of the campground!
We stayed up late this night, not seeing sleep until at least 8pm.
Day Five, Six and a bit: Boynedale Bush Camp.
The next couple of days were spent relaxing. The odd yarn with the odd person broke up the daylight hours as did a bit of a walk to nowhere in particular.
We noted the big trees with the bean pods all looked dead, probably poisoned as they looked pestish at best. A glance up into the nearby living tree revealed an owl desperately trying to have a nap during the hottest part of the day. Again we used all of our flying thing knowledge to decide that this was in fact a cousin of the ducks at Ban Ban Springs. As such we jotted it down as the Brown Owl.
Campfires were a welcome offset to very cool afternoons and slightly warmer nights. Fog was an ever-present friend in the mornings till quite late, with perfect temperature days following. Other than that Boynedale Bush Camp was about a 5 out of 10 on the will I ever visit again scale.
Onwards from Boynedale
On day whateveritwas we packed up pretty early and scooted ever southish towards the city of Ubobo. To say the drive through the valley was stunning, amazing, beautiful, not bad at all, was the understatement of whatever day it was. What a cracker. Off the scale of the will I ever visit again scale.
Ubobo a distant memory, we came to Builyan (pronounced ‘bull yan’, spoken quickly). What a special spot this was. With nothing to write home about other than an old railway siding, a school, a hall and a coffee shop come gift shop, this little hamlet stole hour hearts.
The owner of the coffee shop was a 30ish lady who had started the shop seven years ago. It has gone so well she is now selling as it is getting too busy for her. Hats off, she took a big risk it has paid off handsomely. She was able to tell us the town had set up free camping areas near the rail sheds with hot showers just across the road at the hall. Additionally they had just finished the rail trail from Many Peaks to welcome mountain bikers and hikers to town. This place was pumping.
Before leaving we took a few pics and spotted the rare Builyan Wire Bird. So lovely were these almost extinct creatures G bought two as they would no doubt look lovely sitting on the mantelpiece in our new house sometime in the future.
We climbed out of Builyan up the range with the unknown name. Panther and to dig deep on this one. It was long and steep complete with an advisory sign that it was not suitable for caravans. Too late! The stunning beauty of the valley continued to make us smile. We were truly blessed today.
Soon enough we came to Many Peaks. Again we marvelled at the quaint splendour of the place as the multiple creek crossings added to the adventure and sense of calm only the bush can bring. We boxed on, stopping for photos and to ogle at the countryside as we headed towards Kalpowar.
About a half days walk from the town we turned left onto Kalpowar Road and sought out the Kalpowar State Forest camping area. Set off the main road this was an outstanding camping spot. We didn’t stay but noted we were coming back. Maybe with our friends Denise and Richard when they get their new van. We reckoned they’d love it.
Kalpowar Road from the camp to the Bruce Highway about 60 odd ks away, was a step up again. I hate the saying, but OMG!! We climbed ranges, crossed creeks, plunged into valleys and uttered more ‘holy shit that’s awesomes’ than ever before. It was gorgeous in every sense. With every mile Panther and G-String gained an ever increasing coat of dirt and mud. By the highway they looked like a couple of bushrangers emerging to see the big city for the first time.
Gin Gin was as good as Gin Gin gets. Although we did have the very best chicken burger we have ever eaten between Bundaberg and Miriam Vale. It was outstanding. We dropped into Bundaberg to stay with rellies for a couple of days in rainy weather before our week away ended.
All in all a cracker little break that whet the appetite for many more.
With our dear friends Sue and Trevor taking delivery of their shiny new Majestic van, we had the perfect excuse for a quick overnight getaway. We were off to Swinging Bridge campground at Cooyar again.
For perfect clarification, ‘Swinging Bridge’ is not a group of oldies trying to recapture their youth swapping partners under a bridge. It is a legitimate campground near a bridge that just so happens to swing from side to side as you walk across it. Are we clear?
Sue and Trevor, accompanied by Henry ‘the travelling dog’, headed up Friday afternoon in a shakedown trip that included but one instance of a semi driver running them off the road in a death wish overtaking manoeuvre. Alive but shaken, they settled in with a fire constructed from gifted wood. The previous owners now on the road again.
Early Sunday morning we hit the road for a quick flit to the van in storage at Landsborough. A snappy hook up, food in the fridge and a check of electrics had us on the road headed for a weekend of swinging (see above for explanation).
As much as we miss our Defender ‘Puma’, there is no doubt ‘Panther’, in all her black glory, is a far superior towing vehicle. She literally flung G-sting around like it was made of a new age elasticised, feather weight fibre. We roared towards Kilcoy, save the non-roaring bits where roadworks stretched for miles and we maxed out at 60km/h.
This Sunday we noted there was an horrendous amount of traffic on the D’Aguilar Highway headed west. So much so that as we hit the outskirts of Moore we felt the dire need to have yet another medium box of the world’s best chips from Tilley’s café. They didn’t disappoint.
Tilley’s was abuzz. There was us and at least three other people there. A highlight was a lady with her Dash Hound saying gidday to everyone. Well, the dog was. The lady not so much. A group of old cars caught our eye. There was a Valiant Hemi 245 ute, a restored LJ Torana and a couple of Fords. Each from an era when grease on your hands was a rite of passage and air conditioning was for the rich and famous. The bunch told us they were from Blackbutt and ventured down to Moore every weekend. Understandable with Blackbutt being widely known for its extensive list of things to do on a Sunday morning.
126 shared chips later, we hit the road again with Panther flying up the Blackbutt range, G-string cling desperately to her behind, and onto the town that shares its name. Yarraman came and went before we found ourselves following another van into Cooyar and the campground.
First to greet us was Henry with his tail wagging at exactly twice the frequency of his little bum. We had not seen the little fella for a while and the excitement was mutual. Trevor and Sue followed with not quite so much vigour, yet greeting our friends was indeed a treat.
The rest of the morning and afternoon was spent snacking, getting a fire going and catching up on the latest world news (gossip). Central to most conversation, followed by a personalised tour, was the inevitable inspection of Sue’s new van. And what a spanking van it is. Shiny, with all the new vehicle smells, it was definitively a great acquisition.
Late afternoon a ute pulled up. We naturally thought we were about to get a warning about our fire or some other minor infringement of the swinging rules. Not to be. It was Peter the local school bus driver, rubbish collector, power station electrician and who knows what else. Local Pete stayed for a good half an hour and gave us the Cooyar insider knowledge of who was who in the zoo, what the elephants had been doing this week and the how badly one particular baboon had behaved recently. Pete was a great bloke and a worthy bank of wisdom.
With dinner forgotten, only because I can’t remember what it was, we settled into a freezing night. We were cosy in the van as were Sue, Trevor and Henry in theirs. The morning revealed a good drizzling of frost across most of the landscape giving a magical vista as steam rose off the creek and paddocks nearby.
Henry headed over to have morning slurp from his water bowl but pulled up short when he realised the top 10 or so millimetres was frozen solid. Sue was able to extract a plate sized ice slab from the top, before Henry was yet again free to drink his fill.
With work beckoning Tuesday, G and Pete packed up just after lunch on Monday and headed home. Nothing eventful altered our plans other than a visit to the Blackbutt Bakery for a magnificent pie and vanilla slice. So magnificent, we ordered a couple of roadies for dinner that night.
Yes it was short. Just an overnighter. Yet this swinging visit was just what we needed. We’ll be back again.
Up early, sneaking around trying not to wake neighbours, we packed in preparation to head home. Try as we might, the science of metal on metal spun rapidly whilst winding caravan legs up, does not support silence. It was about time the neighbours got out of bed anyway.
Packed, sorted and motivated, we headed out of the van park with Warwick for breakfast on our minds. A quick Google made our bellies ache and empty ache. Nothing in Warwick, save a couple of servos, opened until at least 7.30am. If there is one thing worse than a good café not open, it’s waiting for a good café to open. We decided our time would be best spent motoring on to Gatton.
We turned at about Clifton after Allora towards Heifer Creek. The driving environment was perfect. Just on the cool side of comfortable. Panther rolled along; G-String clung on gamely. The tarmac squeezed in, became steep, then twisted tightly for a good half an hour. We recalled being stopped here at one of those pesky unattended red lights a few years ago. We prayed today we did not enjoy the same experience.
Parking in Gatton was a breeze. Just across the road from the Google recommend café of the now forgotten name. Peter walked in to have a menu gaze and was greeted by a smiling woman half his age desperately trying to get his attention. Fleetingly, despite being within touching distance of 60, he realised he still had what it took, and this poor darling was simply reacting to her natural instincts. Reality was she was a former work colleague from Mackay who genuinely wanted to say hello after all these years. A quick chat, a menu recommendation and breakfast was on its way.
Following a couple of plates of bacon and eggs, helped on their way by bitter coffee and fairly average tea bag tea, we headed for Kilcoy.
The Kilcoy showgrounds was the perfect spot to dump our dumplings and replace the now spotless toilet cassette back in the van. Next stop was the untried caravan and truck wash. Google took us the scenic route as is sometimes her wish. The wash was as good as a wash gets, with $20 lasting for a full wash of the van and the car with still more to go. We’ll try our luck with $10 next time as it did not look like shutting down anytime within this solar cycle.
Clean and smelling like roses we headed towards Landsborough to put the van in a new storage place. Red Hot storage is exactly what its name implies. We met Phil the owner. He guided us to the super convenient undercover van storage and had us on our way in no time. This was a god send as the existing storage required a reversing manoeuvre that Peter was dreading. Up a narrow lane way then kick at 45 degrees between two other vans with less than six inches either side to play with. Red Hot is our new favourite. And it’s far closer to home and cheaper.
Panther flew home now she was not wearing a G-String. It was as if she was sailing with extra wind in her skirt. Once home, reality hit. Unpacking, washing, preparing cricket gear and answering e-mails. Still it was a fantastic week away that will be followed by many more.
Another alarmless day greeted us as cool but cloudless. We drove the two kilometres into town, across the bridge and around the corner. Our planned morning walk was brisk to say the least. When the sun shone without wind, it was tantalisingly lovely. In the shade it was desperately cold. We dodged the shadows as best we could. G sank shoe deep in mud.
After forty or so minutes enjoying the beautiful creekside walk where we stood in wonder at white galahs hanging upside down twisting small branches to breaking point, we headed south for exactly nine minutes to meet a friend of G’s.
We chatted, laughed and passed the time eating arguably the best scones we have ever eaten at Jamworks. After an hour or so we decided this was a must see if visiting Stanthorpe. We visited next a couple of wineries including Tobin Wines where we learnt a fair amount about making good wine. We followed this with a quick drop-in to Symphony Hill to keep the economy alive. Wined up, we headed into town for lunch at the place that made the very best pies we had eaten for a very long time.
The day done, we crawled back to G-String. We packed up ready for an early start tomorrow and chatted to the people next to us.
As our fleeting visit winds down we pretty much agreed we would be back to Stanthorpe to experience all it has to offer.
Pleasantly surprised with the lack of cold in the town known for its fridge like climate, we woke at an alarm free hour and slowly got ready for the day.
A short drive of about 20 minutes had us firstly visiting the Storm King Dam for a look and a few ooohs and ahhs. Particularly we ahhed at transformation of this place. Having only ever seen it on TV when it was bone dry with water being trucked into town to sustain it, it was now full. Bird life had returned, deep green grass grew everywhere. The area was alive.
We cruised on for a bit, missed the turnoff to Girraween National Park, then came back. Given Girraween is hidden way out in the bush, it seems a good dollop of people seem to find it. The place was packed. We grabbed the last available car park, read the track signs, remained totally confused and set off. Today we would see the Pyramids.
Hats off to National Parks, their tracks are first class although not easy to follow. We trudged along at a brisk pace, side-tracking to the Arch, taking a few pics and kept going. More than a few rock steps greeted us as we began climbing. G noted that the steps were set just far enough apart that you used the same leg to step up each time. She was right, requiring a goose step every now and then to readjust save walking home like a lame duck.
Steps gave way to track, gave way to ‘holy big rock Batman’. At an obvious bail out spot complete with bench seat we looked up. In anyone’s language the rock in front of us was massive. Massive, totally dominant and bloody steep. Without a handrail or safety feature in sight, Peter set off following but a sporadically dotted white line towards the top. G sat contemplating what she would do with Peter’s fortune should he not make it back.
Peter trudged foot after foot ever up hill. He popped out above the chasmy thing to march across the face of a rock with only a 150m drop to rocks below for company. After about 20 minutes he emerged on top of the Pyramid to be greeted by stunning views. Stunning views and a balancing rock.
This balancing rock was no ordinary one. It was huge and balance on not more than one metre square of its base. People pushed it, lay under it, hugged it and basically played with it like it was their own. Peter could not help but think, that all of the massive rock falls in these areas happened at some time on one day in history. Do these people ever stop to think that for this balancing rock, today may be the day?
After sympathising with the bloke who was trying to console his wife because her legs were jelly with only half the journey done, Peter set off back down. The views were magnificent, the knees were on fire. By the time he got back to G, she had made friends with a growing group of people who agreed her elevation was enough for them.
Heading back to the car we did the somethingorother loop, passing around, over and through a beautiful creek with freezing cold water. We had a yarn to anyone who came out way and listened carefully to the accents each had. Peter got it horribly wrong though when he asked a Scottish gent if his accent was English. Whoops.
By now our stomachs were singing a might song with base rumbles setting the beat. Lady Google directed us to Jersey Girls. This tin shed is a quirky little place with horrible service just off the Warwick road from Stanthorpe. Its name however is a cracker as it is a cheese making enterprise. The reference to Jersey and girls is that of Jersey cows. A great play on words and a brilliant business name. We ate some nice cheese. G wined. Peter had a salty caramel hot chocolate with marsh mellows and cream. Poor service forgiven!
With not quite enough sugar swishing around in our bodies we jumped the highway to munch on home-made apple crumble and ice-cream at Suttons juice factory. It’s amazing what crossing a road does. The service was outstanding and friendly. The crumple equally so.
We waddled to the car. Moved out seats back a notch to fit and headed back to G-String. The afternoon pleasantly wore on with snoozes being in order.
As dusk set, we noticed the temperature start to dive. It must have had scuba gear on because it continued to dive and dive. Tonight would be cold. At least by sunshine coast standards. It could even get down to 20 degrees.
Despite the odd grain carrying B-Triple road train threatening to slide into bed between us, the night in the middle of the bush was peaceful and without drama worthy of A Current Affair.
Morning wasn’t welcomed with much zest leading to us finally heading towards Monte Cristo about 9.30am. As alluring as the name sounds ‘the Cristo’ turned out to be naught but the intersection of two major roads. Still we can now boost our stocks at a BBQ by nonchalantly mentioning the day we travelled to Monte. (That’s what us locals call it).
Goondiwindi was as Goondiwindi is. Frankly a really decent, vibrant large country town that welcomes visitors. G, as always, boosted the western economy by visiting at least seven shops for stuff we desperately needed and could not do without.
After coffee and better than decent scones we headed towards Texas. After heading towards Texas we did a u-turn in NSW and headed back towards Texas. First however we dropped into a weird metallic art set up on the side of the road just east of Gundi. Obviously some people have an over-abundance of skill and an equal measure of time to produce these structures. The results are quizzical and entertaining at the same time.
At stop at Yelarbon to photograph the painted silos followed. These are magic. We wondered a very long wonder as to how the artist mega-sized a small picture to its current dominant size. There is obviously some vision involved there. And a ship load of paint.
Inglewood was next, producing the worst pie of the trip. Soft, soggy and doughy it barely left the brown paper packet before it back flipped into the nearest bin. The rest of the town was spectacular. The entire town was freshly mown. Not a piece of rubbish to be seen and toilets that were not the makings of nightmares.
Texas. Yes not only have we been to Monte Cristo, but we have also been to Texas. Seasoned international travellers no doubt. Unlike the USA equivalent, this Texas was small, tidy and a place we will definitely spend more time in on another trip.
The road from Texas to Stanthorpe was a cracker. It climbed, twisted, turned, folded back, dropped into causeways and was plain fun to drive. Panther dug deep; really deep on some of the long hills. Steep and unrelenting they stretched the elastic between the black beast and G-String. Peter thought long and hard about how wonderful this road would be on a motorbike ridden with vigour. Vigour until the multiple signs warning of people being killed from animal strikes hit home. Fifteen in five years apparently. Three per year……..calculating the odds.
We ambled into Stanthorpe about threeish or a bit after and dutifully slowed for the school kids to cross the road to meet their lovely parents who dutifully parked in the No Standing Zones to pick up the little darlings. Our van park at the top of town advertised they were a 20 minute walk to town. After driving the long way out to it we were not sure which town they were referring too, but it wasn’t Stanthorpe.
We settled in. Peter met the Dashhound in desperate need of a date with Jenny Craig stationed within patting distance behind our van. The dog was just lovely. The owner a step to the weird side of just lovely. All was good in the granite belt world.
An hour or so later we went for a walk in the opposite direction to town happening upon a dead end near the show grounds, another dead end near the new housing estate and a hundred or so of the little school kids trying to kick a soccer ball. One such future star had the whole delayed reaction thing going on in the goal mouth. The ball would fly past and without fail the goalie would give no reaction at all until the ball hit the back of the net. At that exact point she would launch her substantial girth horizontally in an attempt to save a certain goal. You pay good money for entertainment like that at the Ekka!
G is still recovering from Peter cooking pork chops for dinner. Not that the chops were off or anything. Just the fact that Peter cooked. Tomorrow looks like a trip to Girraween National Park is on the cards unless Stanthorpe turns on the now very late cold snap.
Panther sat waiting a patient wait outside the new apartment. In real terms, totally unprepared for what lay ahead, she had been barley washed, quickly checked over, then thrown into towing duties. The recent house move had put car things on the backburner. Easter was upon us. Easter in the country at Roma was beckoning. G-String was hooked up and a willing partner for the journey ahead.
As far as adventure goes, Panther is a little underdone compared to Puma she had replaced last year. There is no adventure rattles, no adventure break downs, no yelling at passengers just to have a yarn. Everything just works in a most un-adventuresome style.
Accordingly Kilcoy flew past. Blackbutt popped up almost unexpectedly where the bacon and egg delicious went down a treat. Left at Yarraman and a few sentences later Dalby came into and went out of sight. We noted all roads appeared to be leading to Roma. Trailers with motocross bikes, trailers with mud dragsters, trailers with misbehaving kids strapped to the rear and after Chinchilla, three tools from the cutlery drawer.
Launching from the depths of the spoon drawer was Henrietta in her Hyundai, followed by her second son to her fifth partner in his soft top Perentie Landover, followed by a ring-in wannabe relative. All were driving at just over 80 km/h in the 110 zone. All within a redneck’s axe handle length of each other. Impossible to tolerate, impossible to overtake, our trip came to a crawl. Somewhere between backofnowhere and Roma Heights we wound Panther up and overtook in style. G gave each driver the ‘G’ stare as we motored by.
Roma was bursting at the seams. Cars everywhere, people flooding the streets and mums lunch. What’s not to like.
Saturday was the famed street parade. A fantastic affair. Good old time country entertainment viewed from the confines of the breakfast bar at whatever hotel it was. Police motorbikes, drag cars, school kids on floats, dancers, but unfortunately no goat races thanks to uneducated fools claiming animal cruelty or global warming or the dying Barrier Reef or some other rubbish excuse. Whatever, there is now at least twenty otherwise fully capable goats in Roma claiming unemployment benefits.
Family took up Saturday afternoon, as did Peter finding a couple of old cricket bats he remembered fondly. He packed them away in Panther ready for refurbishment in order his burgeoning over 50s cricket career continue to flourish.
Easter Sunday started with a visit to the now semi-famous Moreland’s nursery and café about 20ks north of Roma. Being a favourite of Peter’s mum, the food was fantastic, the plants as good as plants can get and the setting outstanding. Greeting us at the entrance was a group of ceramic dog statues. Two were obviously not with pulse, but the other being a black and tan mutt, had us guessing. Guessing to such an extent G was convinced this one, if it didn’t have a pulse, was the subject of some talented taxidermist. Convinced that it would willingly pee on the first tree it saw, if only it could walk!. Taken by its reality, G went so far as to warn the moving farm dogs that they should be wary, for one wrong move would have them stuffed…..literally. We enjoyed the rustic feel of the place and put it in the must visit any time we are back in Roma book.
Heading Somewhere:
An early morning training session for Peter at his sisters studio set up Monday nicely. Leaving Roma at about 9.30am we had no real plans other than to get to Texas or Inglewood or Stanthorpe either today or maybe tomorrow.
Panther purred along the highway between Roma and Surat, G-String in tow. Nothing had really changed since last time we had come this way a lot of years ago. Until……Woolshed Creek not far from Surat was almost a banker. The water was high and running fast. Trees submerged, water spread across paddocks and not a cloud in the sky. We were not sure where the water had come from, but it was a typical western Queensland dry flood. Water dumped hundreds of kilometres upstream making its way across the land giving new life and abundance.
Not to be outdone, the Balonne River at Surat produced more of the same, only bigger. The bridge on the outskirts of town provided the perfect vantage point. And the midges attacked!
This was obviously a planned attack. First the lookout pounced to make sure our flesh was the eating kind. Then in a flash his mates came in battalions from all angles. There was no retaliation possible. Running was the only strategy. Tactical retreat we will call it. Either way, we ran back to the relative security of Panther before dropping into town for a coffee.
The coffee was great, the yarn with the locals from Roma was equally so. We were assured the Cobb and Co Changing Station, now a gallery, was worth a visit yet forgot to visit until we were half an hour out of town.
We motored on mostly southish, before lunching under a tree at Meandarra and visiting this beautifully kept little town. We chose not to go to Bungunya, instead favouring a heading towards Westmar where we fuelled and had ice cream. Westmar ice-cream is worth the trip.
With the afternoon now wearing on and no hope of Texas, Inglewood or Stanthorpe popping up before midnight, we chose to find a gravel siding wherever we could. Ultimately we selected a solid gravel pit at Lundavra on the way to Billa Billa. With no traffic, our afternoon was one of solitude and relaxation. Just what we needed.
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.
