The sun had barely poked its head up when Puma kicked into life. We idled out of the van park trying not to awaken our fellow travellers. We knew however, deep down they would have been gently shaken by the pure joy of hearing a Landrover heading out. They would lie there with just a hint of a smile on their faces before drifting off again.
Winton was just stirring as we drove through the town proper before heading towards Longreach. Arriving in the big town of the west, we noticed that almost all of Australia’s 26 million COVID escapees had also landed. The place was Monday morning manic. People everywhere, caravans galore and one prize idiot.
In the crowded main street where angle parking was at a premium, boofhead in his jacked up ‘tougher than you’ Landcruiser ute towing his van, parked parallel taking up about 26 car spaces. In a happening of biblical proportions the big fella upstairs delivered. He delivered a lovely policeman who took one look and wrote a ticket. No one in the street dared to jump and holler, but we bet each one was just a little bit chuffed at the result.
We dropped into the bakery for some breakfast. We turned and went up the street for potentially a better looking breakfast. We returned to the bakery for breakfast. Our bacon and egg toasted sandwiches came complete with mashed egg. No, not scrambled egg, mashed egg. By the taste, we figured it was something between powdered egg and offal. There was no way to take it into our bodies without the immediate desire to expel it with considerable force. It ranked as the worst meal of the trip by a long reach.
On we went. In short order we trudged through Ilfracombe noting that the magnificent display of old machinery was still growing, with some weird and whacky additions since last we visited.
Barcaldine came into view, as did the Tree of Knowledge. Legend has it under the tree was a meeting that started the Labour Party. The tree is now dead, propped up by nails and glue. We’re sure there is a joke in there somewhere!
Unable this time, to smell the historically disgusting water in Blackall, we settled in for lunch at one of the many ritzy little cafes propping up in the main street. It had potential, failing to realise it in a not dissimilar fashion to the Longreach Bakery. The question of how hard it is to make a toasted sandwich, kept coming back to be answered. Still the town is on the up and up with a distinct ‘we really care about our town’ feel to it.
We pushed on to Augathella via Tambo. Not before slamming the brakes, pulling hard left and screeching to a halt so G could buy a Tambo Teddy. With the teddy sitting proudly in the back seat we pushed on.
What a difference an attitude makes. Augathella has for ever been the small town in the middle of nothing looking to go nowhere. Not now. A gamble on a bit of infrastructure for caravaners has transformed the town. Along each bank of the Warrego River they have installed water outlets for vans to hook up to. Couple that with a flash as a pin set of toilets and showers on the town side, all for a donation of no more than $5, it’s a winner.
We set up camp, went for a walk into town, met Tambo the cattle dog pup on the way and had a yarn to his owner. The lady without a name and her daughter hanging onto the family naming tradition, were good for a yarn. We gave her about 45, maybe 43 in the shade, travelling with just her daughter and her dog. The hats off part was she was driving an old Greyhound coach. Peter was in awe when he asked her what motor the beast had in it. Without hesitation she told him it was a Detroit 8V 92. They then chatted about this iconic motor. How a two-stroke diesel could be such a powerhouse, leak so much oil, yet sound so pure. It was almost the longest meeting of the Augathella Dieselheads Association in history.
With only a few hundred ks to go Tuesday morning, we rose late. We decided we did not feel like cooking breakfast so drove across the bridge into town in search. We dropped in to the information centre to pay our donation fee and had yet another yarn. The info bloke told us the council had finally given in to the town and spent a few dollars to support visitors. He told us that it was the best thing the town had ever have happen to it as businesses were booming. He agree a café was needed so people could have breakfast.
Deciding we would like some succulent ham from a real butcher, we headed that way. Outside was a sign saying Meat Ant Butcher. Peter hesitated in wonder as to whether this bloke was a highly skilled knife man who butchered meat ants or whether the business simply played on the towns’ emblem.
Inside the shop was a time warp. Two old school butchers resided silently. One served us grabbing the calico wrapped ham from the fridge. He sliced it was precision not needing a machine to make the perfect cut. Behind him by a huge S shaped hook, hung a beast. His mate carefully cut a sizable hunk of the carcass. So fresh was it that we were sure we heard it say ‘ouch’ as the razor-sharp knife sliced through.
We headed back to the car but were interrupted by a voice yelling ‘did you get some ham’. A conversation ensued that carried on longer than intended. God’s gift to four-wheel driving told us of just how good he was, what he had done and how good he was, what tyre pressure he used and how good he was. By the end we were exhausted at just how good he was.
We choofed down to Morven for some breakfast at the ever-reliable roadhouse. As usual we had a bacon and egg delicious each, washed down with tea and coffee.
We are not sure which town it was. Probably Mungallala if we recall. As we trundled through gently we noticed a huge sign signifying the western edge of the Southern Queensland bible belt. It was a simple sign pronouncing ‘Prepare to meet your God’. Not three seconds after seeing it Peter burst into laughter for as he looked back to the road he realised the sign was placed not more than 100m prior to a rail crossing! We are sure no one meant for the message to have such impact but rest assured we both looked left, right, left again and a few more lefts before driving across that crossing.
We cruised though Mitchell still wondering from last visit how the Mitchell thermal springs can exist when they mascaraed as a heated swimming pool in the middle of town. Roma came into view as did our smiles. We had made it to Peter’s mums place to be with her on her 92nd birthday. Before celebrating however, she had to go to the gym.
As we headed out of Roma in minus 4 degrees, following a couple of days relaxing and catching up on washing, we knew this was our last day of over seven weeks travel. It was a bitter sweet experience. We had loved most of it. Been challenged by some of it. Been blessed by all of it.
No trip is totally over until the last bakery has been visited. Our great friend Lynn had recommended the Blackbutt Bakery for a Bee Sting. The coffee was good, the tea OK but the bees had lost their sting today. We ate it anyway.
As we ambled up the David Low Way looking at the perfectly flat ocean lapping our stunning beaches, we could not help but think we had travelled a bloody long way to come home to the best place on earth.
As darkness fell on our last night Peter said a silent prayer to the Landrover gods. It simply said, ‘thank you for Puma not breaking down’.