Road to Nowhere

Posted on August 25, 2019 by Bev Marshall

From time to time we discuss whether or not we are in the middle of nowhere or out back of beyond. Officially we are in the outback, though I’m not quite sure where we cross from being in whatever the opposite to outback is, and being in the outback. A long philosophical argument could ensue, but we prefer just to be where we are.

**We backtrack 100kms to Cloncurry to rejoin the Matilda Way after our sojourn in Mt Isa**

Since we joined the Matilda Way at Barcaldine, the towns are few and far between, but that doesn’t stop the locals from creating significant tourist attractions – and not just large fibreglass fruit and vegetables: they know they’ll be no more than a petrol stop if there’s nothing to pique interest and draw dollars from our wallets.

Longreach, just over 100kms north west from Barcaldine, gives itself the title “Heart of the Outback” and boasts a population of about 3,000. The multi million dollar Hall of Fame and Outback Heritage Centre opened in 1988 and is a riveting look at the history and changes in the outback – from Aboriginal life 40,000 years ago, through exploration, settlement and the agriculture and mining that accompanied it, through to the present day. Divided into various sections there are artefacts as well as videos of people telling their family histories, and stories of outback life.

Photo credit from Stockman’s Hall of Fame website

A section on the flying Doctor Service has recordings of conversations between people on remote stations and doctors giving advice over the radio. If you live remotely you equip yourself with a standard medical chest which has literally hundreds of items ranging from bandages to antibiotics to syringes and drugs – the doctor takes a history then sends you off to the chest and tells you which appropriately numbered item to administer. If the doctor thinks it necessary, the plane is sent to collect the patient.

The Qantas Founder’s Museum details the establishment of the airline by Hudson Fysh – that really is his name – and Paul McGuiness. It’s 1919 and the two returned WW1 pilots are driving overland – no roads, or only bullock tracks – 2,000 kilometres from Longreach to Darwin. In a Model T Ford. They’re on a mission, surveying landing sites for the upcoming UK to Australia air race. The trip was so tough at points they were towed by bullock teams, but they made it. In the process, not surprisingly, came up with the idea of an air service.

There’s a great doco from 2009, in which a group of masochists recreate the Fysh and McGuiness trip in a Model T – but with a film crew and full support in 4WDs, a luxury not enjoyed by our intrepid early explorers. It’s said the Model T is hard to drive, with a review in Car and Driver stating “The odd position of the throttle, brake, and shifter make driving a Model T an archaic and dangerous experience. It’s like trying to do the Charleston while loading a musket after a big night at the speak-easy.”

There are a number of aircraft parked up in display. You can tour a 747 (see the Lavatory Service Hatch, marvel at the Collision Avoidance System). If the mood takes you, for an extra $65 you can walk out on the wing.

**Scott with the Catalina Flying Boat at the Qantas Founders Museum**

Before leaving town we go to the Longreach School of Distance Education for a tour. There are 12 studios and they reach 150 kids from kindy to year 6, over a distance twice the size of NSW and Victoria combined. We watch teachers interact with their classes using smart boards and computers.

Classes are capped at 12 and everyone can see everyone else on small windows at the bottom of the screen – also means the teacher can keep tabs on what the the kids are doing, so no sneaking off to play outside. While the standard Queensland curriculum is taught, they only have one contact hour each day, and theoretically the rest of the day is supervised by a parent of governess – unlikely to be Mary Poppins.

Another 180 kms on we reach Winton, population 1,600 and not going to be outdone with the subtitle, “Dinosaur Capital of Australia”. An attraction called the Australian Age of Dinosaurs apparently has footprints from a dinosaur stampede – further enquiry reveals the dinosaurs were the size of chickens. This information does nothing to attract us as we are not 8 year old boys; the closest we get is a dinosaur foot rubbish bin in town.

But wait, there’s more – Winton is the home of Waltzing Matilda. One evening we go to the historic North Gregory hotel to hear bush poet Gregory North (a coincidence? he says so) tell the story of Waltzing Matilda. First performed at said hotel in 1895, Waltzing apparently comes from a poor translation or transliteration, of the German weg machen meaning make way or similar: a matilda is a swag, so basically waltzing matilda is on the road with a swag. The next day I check out the, again multi million dollar, Waltzing Matilda Centre. I learn nothing more than Gregory told us the night before, but the architecture and fittings of the building tell me there’s a lot of regional development money sloshing around Australia.

**I chat to a jolly swagman about the origins of Waltzing Matilda**

Have you ever wondered where the movie Crocodile Dundee was filmed? Nor have I. However, I now know it’s 240 kms further on from Winton at McKinlay, population about 10. The original Walkabout Creek Hotel has been relabelled Crocodile Dundee’s Walkabout Creek Hotel, in case you confuse it with any other Walkabout Creek Hotel. The hunter-gatherer tells me the heap of rust parked outside the pub is the ute Dundee drove.

With no reason to linger longer than it takes to drink a beer, we carry on another 110 km to Cloncurry, population 2,700, subtitled “Birthplace of the Royal Flying Doctor Service”. John Flynn, the founder of the Service, established it here in 1928. In Darwin last year we spent quite a bit of time in the Flying Doctor Museum so give Cloncurry’s a miss.

At Cloncurry the north-south Matilda Way meets the east-west Flinders Way. We divert west to the Mt Isa rodeo but return a few days later and continue north towards the Gulf of Carpentaria. The h-g has it in mind to catch a barramundi so there will be fishing. Stand by.

Mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

Posted on August 15, 2019 by Bev Marshall

And this may be why – the dismount is never elegant, but a flight takes it to a new level.

The population of Mt Isa almost doubles from 22,000 to around 40,000 for Rodeo week, peaking over the three days of the rodeo, the biggest in the Southern Hemisphere. Although the last time I went to a rodeo would be 35 or 40 years ago (my next oldest brother used to compete in his youth) I have a more than basic knowledge of rodeo events and terminology. I’m stunned I recall what terms such as *mark out, pigging string and hazing mean. Perhaps dementia is not as imminent as I fear.

**ten chutes makes for ongoing action, and big screens so miss nothing**

To ensure an ongoing level of interest and excitement – as if watching people risk life and limb riding bucking bulls or horses or wrestling long horned steers to the ground could fail to excite – the program runs with changes of event every 10 -15 contestants: there’s barrel racing then saddle bronc ride, then bull ride, then calf roping and so on. For the bucking events 10 chutes means the action is constant: no waiting around for cowboys to gear up or stock to be loaded. Video cameras mounted over the chutes project to two big screens so you can see the detail of the preparations.

**leap from your horse onto a speeding steer**

**The three wise men, known as** **protection athletes, are not clowns; their job is to distract the bull from a fallen rider who is in no position to protect himself.**

Bull riding is the most dangerous – do I even have to say that? yet attracts a huge number of contestants. This year there is a new event, Over 45s bull Riding. That there are only five contestants either means bull riders don’t live long, or they gain some sense at some point. Riding an 800kg beast that absolutely does not want you on his back seems akin to spending half an hour in a rotating concrete mixer. Mind you, there wouldn’t be $30,000 up for grabs in the concrete mixer. The bulls are armed with a decent set of horns and buckets of snot: competitors need balls at least as big as the bull’s. Protective vests made of high impact foam are mandatory, and it’s good to see many elect to wear helmets, but I suspect no-one at the local hospital was allowed leave this weekend.

The junior (under 18) barrel race has young people at every stage of riding development. The young woman who wins this event does it in a faster time than the winner of the Open event. A few very little kids aren’t sure where they are going, and nor are the horses. Mum comes out and helps one, and another is a little unicorn painted pony ridden by a 4 year old girl, wearing a tutu, who was led around the barrels by her brother, age about 6 and wearing angel wings.

The whole rodeo and associated events are incredibly well run. The food trucks and bars are cashless, so on entry we get a wristband with a chip inserted, then at the Rodeo Bank load up the chip. Speaking of chips, the food options are limited to those guaranteed to result in a slow but steady hardening of the arteries, if not immediate cardiac arrest. There is a market where cowboy and outback related items such as jeans, shirts, belts, buckles, camping gear are sold. And a fun fair with the usual sideshows, rides and ripoffs.

Finals Day and the events finish at 3.00 so they can set up for the big concert, featuring Brad Cox, Busby Marou and the “name” star, Johnny Farnham.

Johnny Farnham, at 70, is generally perceived to be Australia’s most well known recording artist. His fame came in 1968 with the hideous novelty song Sadie, the Cleaning Lady, which unfortunately someone calls for, and which he sings. The guy still has a great voice, but his stage manner and between song cynical banter leaves me with the impression he’d rather be in his hotel room with a bottle of whiskey and a prostitute, boring her with stories of when he was a big star.

We are in the part of the country where work and life take no prisoners, and it they did they’d be lucky to get bread and water. Surrounded by stations and mines, the reality is Mt Isa is a mining town producing copper and zinc-lead-silver. About a third of the population are employed in mine related work. The smelter and its chimneys dominate the town across the the river. I just love the smell of sulphur dioxide in the morning.

Stay safe kids.

*Mark out – what saddle bronc and bareback riders have to do – as they exit the chute their spurs must be in front of the horse’s shoulders. Pigging string – the small rope used to tie a calf’s legs in calf roping. Hazing – a cowboy rides on the opposite side of a steer in steer wrestling, keeping it in line for the steer wrestler

Station to Station

Posted on August 5, 2019 by Bev Marshall

Do we all know a farm in Australia is called a station? Running either cattle or sheep they tend to be extensive as the land is so harsh you need multiple hectares per animal to keep them alive. The biggest cattle station – though sheep stations run bigger – in Australia is Anna Creek at 24,000 sq kilometres (9,400 sq miles). For the sake of comparison, Wales (not Whales, Donald, you numpty) is 20,779 sq Kms ( 8,023 sq miles). For the most part, large stations are pastoral leases where the land is owned by the Government and leased to graziers – they’re the ones slowly going bankrupt as a result of drought. Or flood.

Many station owners diversify by developing station tours, camping sites, and/or a variety of genuine outback experiences – some more genuinely outback than others. In any event, it is a privilege to gain access and some insight into the life of station owners, even if they’d likely prefer to not have to open their lives to strangers.

Near Barcaldine, a town with 1,500 people and no less than five pubs, we book a tour on nearby Dunraven Station. The night before something strange happens: it rains. This doesn’t happen often around here so all the locals are looking happy. We are at a pub quiz in town (we came third equal, thanks for asking) and the rain is thundering on the roof. I get a message from Roberta at Dunraven saying it is raining heavily there and if the track isn’t dry enough in the morning we may have to cancel, or at least delay until later in the day. Morning dawns in its usual bright blue sky and sunny way, and the call comes from Roberta. She’s thrilled they had 25 mm of rain, but the track is still very wet.

We drive out to Dunraven at the appointed time and Peter meets us at the gate. The tour follows the cluster fence and it’s easy to see why the tour may have had to be cancelled – the ground is very soft and boggy in places.

The cluster fences, which you can read all about here, are an initiative to fence out dingoes and wild dogs. Over the years the numbers of sheep had declined by 75% as a result of both long term drought and attacks by wild dogs. As a result of reduced stock numbers, between 2011 and 2015 the population of western Queensland declined by 12.5% as people left the land unable to make a living. While they couldn’t control the drought they could work on reducing stock losses to wild dogs. Cluster fencing has meant the proportion of lambs surviving has increased anywhere between 30-80%. Any dogs found within the fences are trapped and shot. They hang the carcasses to show people they are taking the effort to eliminate the feral animals – or maybe as a warning to others.

Peter, when he is not amusing himself by asking us to say sixty-six so he can laugh at our accents, is full of information about the station which has been in his wife Roberta’s family for 110 years. He also informs us they are graziers, not farmers; farmers till the earth he tells us, making it sound like a slightly unsavoury act that could lead to 5 -10 in maximum security.

To us it beggars belief that the land can sustain life, it is so bare, but Peter points out various scrubby looking tufts and plants that contain nutrients for the sheep. At one point we travel over a very sandy section, the equivalent of beach sand, before running onto what was once, millions of years ago, ocean floor: they find shells and fossils when they are digging out dams.

At 64,000 acres Dunraven is pretty big, certainly by our standards. Peter says they typically run one sheep to three acres but because of the drought they’re down to 3,000 sheep rather than the 30,000 odd they would like to have if conditions were more friendly. Hardy doesn’t begin to describe these people.

**bringing sheep to the Dunraven yards at sunset**

In contrast, a couple of weeks ago we stayed with Scott’s cousins on their station outside Gin Gin – get a map. David’s directions run for paragraphs. He mentions the detour at the closed bridge – there is no bridge – then carry on down the dirt road for about 8 kms. After the third cattle stop go down a concrete causeway across a creek and then climb up the other side. At the top of the rise there’s a broad dirt road to your right, turn here and drive another couple of km and find our driveway.

**the cousins’ homestead from the top of the drive**

David and Liz have been living here for 25 years – they have about 5,000 acres and by Australian standards that is a hobby. There’s a long drop toilet with a great view, and an outside shower, with hot water through an on demand gas system. The kitchen is in/on the back deck of an old truck, but the tap (cold only) is a couple of metres away. The place is peppered with kettles so there’s hot water for dishes, cups of tea, hand washing etc. The electricity comes via multiple snaking extensions all leading from one main power pole. All of this is testament to the investment and hard work that has gone into the farm and not into luxurious living, although bit by bit they are building a house. Those aspiring to the current zeitgeist of minimalism and tiny homes could learn a lot from these guys.

**the cousins and Fluro the dog ready to go out on the station**

We are keen to see the property, and pile into their very well used 4WD ute to deliver molasses to the cows. We drove a very long way over very rough ground, needing low ratio much of the time. Bear in mind, here paddocks are hundreds if not thousands of acres, lumpy, rolling, steep, gullied, covered in bush, lantana – a particularly vicious tree shrub – scrub and everything except delicious grass to feed the stock. The last rain was a couple of centimetres in March, and no-one expects anything more until October – if it comes. To say it’s a tough life is laughably inadequate.

Deep gullies where flooding in previous years has carved steep banks make it very exciting. People would pay good money for this experience if it were a tourist attraction, however I suspect health and safety regulations would make it a non starter. We find stock at a dam well into the acreage: the cattle hear the ute and respond to David’s and Liz’s calls and more arrive for their treat. Given how dry the land is, they look in very good condition. They are known by name and lineage and are much loved and cared for by their owners.

The cattle are bred for the conditions and are well named as Droughtmaster, a cross between Brahmin and Short Horn.

I am sure we will experience more station life over our upcoming travels, but we’ve loved spending time with the cousins on their “small” property, and also seeing something of an entirely different size and scale. In both cases we are full of admiration for everyone’s perseverance, energy and passion. But we’d have to say, it’s too hard a life for us.

Tropic of Capricorn

Posted on July 31, 2019 by Bev Marshall

We are driving west along the Capricorn Highway, across the Queensland Central Highlands on our way to Mt Isa for the rodeo. Highway is an aspirational term, as one lane in each direction really only constitutes a basic road, especially when it seems to narrow alarmingly when a huge truck is coming towards you. I don’t blink till I see the whites of their eyes. Yes, I am towing the caravan – no applause please.

Our first stop is an overnight at a blip on the map – Duaringa. You understand how small a blip when the Post Office cum General Store is also where you pay bills, do banking, buy books and lottery tickets, and it is closed between 10.30am and 2.30pm. The one horse has left town. We park out the back of the Duaringa Hotel, which allows caravans and campers to park up for free. It seems rude not to eat at the pub, so we do. As anticipated, the menu indicates the deep fryer gets no rest. I go off piste and opt for the lamb shank and enjoy really good mash and veg. Yay for country cooking.

The train tracks pass near the pub and we spend more time than is strictly necessary watching the trains – they head inland empty, and back out to Gladstone Port laden with coal. We are agog at the magnitude and the implications for the amount of coal they carry: there are about 20 trains a day each with 102 wagons. Gladstone is a massive port handing about 120 million tonnes of export goods a year, 80% of which is coal.

**empty carriages disappearing into the distance**

The towns we pass through are the remnants of larger settlements created as service centres for work crews laying the Central Western Railway line. The towns would swell up to thousands with plenty of pubs to go round, then as the rail head moved on, so did the town. These days most have a service station (servo in Australian) with a bit of a grocery store attached, a pub, and maybe a roadhouse or motel.

I love it when we get to Dingo. Of course we stop to get a photo of the life sized bronze. Sadly it’s too early for lunch or the obvious choice at the roadhouse would be the Dingo Trap Burger, which comes with lashings of chilli sauce to give it some bite. At least it’s not called the Lindy burger.

Blackwater – ironically not the mercenaries – announces itself as the Coal Capital of Australia, and after watching the trains and visiting the International Coal Centre we are in no position to argue. For $5 entry fee, (coal companies aren’t making enough already) we go into the coal mining museum and find out more about how coal is formed, mined and used. My favourite story is the old guy reminiscing about working down the pits (before open cast) in the 1940s. They all used to work naked except for their boots, because their clothes caused chafing with the build up of sweat and coal dust. Second fun fact: I did not know that the CO2 in soda water is a byproduct of the manufacture of coke. And I don’t mean coca cola. The area we are standing on is part of the Bowen Basin which has 25,000 million tonnes of coal reserves, so I do not see Australia running our of soda water any time soon.

The Sapphire gemfields are somewhat confusingly located around a town called Emerald. Encompassing 900 square kms, they date back to 1875 when a Railway Surveyor found the first gem. Enthusiasts still trample the dusty acres fossicking away, but it doesn’t appeal to us. We hear that tourists turn up for a fossick and never leave, so it must be as addictive as methamphetamine.

The gem we find is the world’s biggest sunflower painting. I’m not making this up. Apparently all part of a concept by Cameron Cross to have seven sunflower sculptures in seven countries representing Van Gogh’s seven different sunflower paintings. Emerald got lucky as it is a major sunflower growing area.

We are on a mission so it’s another one nighter, this time by an old railway station in the charmingly named Bogantungan, which is a disused railway station and nothing more. Yet it is famous for all the wrong reasons: in 1960 a rail disaster killed seven and injured 43 when the bridge collapsed after the creek flooded in torrential rain. It happened at 2.30am so the driver didn’t see the bridge was out. When we look at the creek now, it is a harmless dry bed.

**few trains pass this way now, and the old station is a museum**

You may fear, dear reader, that we are becoming train spotters. I assure you this is not the case: no anoraks were worn in the writing of this blog.

There’s something about Mary

Posted on July 26, 2019 by Bev Marshall

You’ve got to love a town that builds a tourism industry around a children’s nanny. The town of Maryborough runs on Mary Poppins and her creator, Pamela Travers, who was born here in 1899.

Travers started life as Helen Lyndon Goff – cursory research indicates Pamela Lyndon Travers was a stage name. The town markets itself as a Town full of Stories and trades heavily on Travers being born here, even if she moved away as a young woman and never returned. Her father was a bank manager and the bank building in which Travers was born, upstairs I imagine, not behind the counter, is now a Story Bank, doubling as a Travers/Poppins museum. We successfully fight the overwhelming urge to enter. Instead we head for the Mary Poppins statue.

We also cross the street multiple times to get a decent photo of the Mary Poppins traffic lights. Sadly, the Mary Poppins Festival was two weeks ago so we missed the opportunity to participate in the Nanny Races and the Chimney Sweep Challenge, which is possibly just as well as I’m fairly sure Scott doesn’t know all the words to Chim Chiminee, and his Dick Van Dyke impression is far from award winning.

Of course there are murals featuring our hero who, given the amount of attention she receives, you’d think had split the atom. But to be fair to Maryborough they celebrate heroes and the history of the town in multiple tourist friendly ways. I juggle the Maryborough Mural Trail Map with its 36 stunning wall murals and installations; the Maryborough Story Trail Map – 41 sculptures, artefacts, installations, and Story points; the Maryborough Military Trail Map; and the Maryborough Walk Tour Discovery Trail – well, you get the picture. Safe to say there’s overlap but it all comes together to tell the rich history of a town settled by immigrants in the mid 1800s and which opened as a Port and Bond Store in 1847.

**Hilda Ogden would love all the murials**

I love it: it’s colourful, beautifully maintained, reveres its history by keeping it front and centre, and it’s on a river so there’s water and boats so Scott’s happy.

Mercifully the river wasn’t named after Mary Poppins. Originally known as the Wide Bay River, in 1847 Governor Fitzroy, in that inimitable style of British bureaucrats, renamed it in honour of his wife Mary. Never mind it had been called the Moocooboola by the local Kabi people for centuries.

**The Mary River today – we are ensconced in the Wharf RV park to the right of the jetty**

Our favourite museum – the only one we go to – is Brennan and Geraghty’s Store which, after 101 years in business closed in 1972 leaving the stock, accounts, ledgers, equipment and records in situ. Mr Geraghty lived next door and if someone knocked on the door he’d sell them what they wanted if he had it, but basically the old stock stayed. And stayed. And stayed. Looking at the shelves, if it hadn’t sold by 1972 it wasn’t going to sell. I kept expecting Arkwright to pop up behind the counter.

At least one other famous person was born in Maryborough and that was the poor sod who was the first ANZAC ashore at Gallipoli, Duncan Chapman. He gets a bronze life size statue at the catchily named Walk With the ANZACS Gallipoli to Armistice Memorial. The memorial itself is striking, with towering rusting steel columns representing the cliffs of Gallipoli. As you walk along the audio starts and you hear the thump of marching boots accompanying the personal stories of soldiers.

**Poor old Duncan Chapman trudging off to Gallipoli**

When we arrive to check in at the park, the owner is away. When he comes back he tells me he’s been burying his mother’s Clydesdale. You don’t hear that every day. Apparently the horse died of cancer of the penis which his mother has been treating for a year. I don’t ask what the treatment entailed.

We’re ba-ack

Posted on July 18, 2019 by Bev Marshall

It’s a joy to be back on the road again. We leave wet, windy weather at home in Wellington, NZ and arrive to sunny warm days on the Gold Coast in Australia. Locals tell us we are lucky we missed the storms they too had last week so it seems our timing is perfect. The car, which we left in storage near the airport, starts first time and we head south to pick up the caravan which we had left at the dealer for its 1,000km service.

We spend a couple of days on our old favourite site at Tallebudgera, reminding ourselves about the caravan and making the mandatory trips to Bunnings the hardware store.

It’s 185km drive north to the southern end of Sunshine Coast and we check in at Dicky Beach – so named after the SS Dicky, a 226 iron steamboat that ran aground here in 1893. Little known fact: Dicky Beach is the only recreational beach in the world named after a shipwreck.

We are becoming a well oiled machine at setting up: stabilise the caravan, put chocks in the wheels and detach the van from the car. Level the caravan by lowering and adjusting the stabiliser legs (one on each corner) as necessary to prevent drinks sliding off the table. Turn on the gas, plug in the 15v power cable, attach the water hose, and attach the sullage hose (which takes grey water away).

We put the annex up as we are here for a week. So then it’s pull out the awning ensuring it comes out to the right level so the anti-flap (self-explanatory) bars are easy to attach and so the annex walls can be fed down the channel that holds them in place. Thanks to advice from Dave (remember Dave and Michelle?) when we first attached the annex I have labelled all the bags and we remember how to get it all in place so it happens without any major cockups or arguments.

The weather is consistently warm at around 20-22C during the day but I find the 21C water temperature rather brisk, so swimming is at a minimum. Bike riding and beach walking make up for it, and the hunter-gatherer, ever the optimist, goes fishing.

Having researched koala cuddling opportunities in the neighbourhood we find there are two. We settle on Wildlife HQ Zoo which is, happily, right by the Big Pineapple. Australians love big fibreglass flora and fauna – we’ve already racked up the big Prawn in Ballina, and the Big Banana in Coff’s. It may have been the Big Pineapple that tipped our choice of venue, but it’s more likely we were averse to paying double to go to the Steve Irwin retail extravaganza that is Australia Zoo, when the main aim was koala not tigers or giraffes or keychains.

Wildlife HQ has a lovely bush setting and is quite small. There are a few “exotics” such as three or four different tamarin monkeys, red panda, marmoset, lemur and capybara, but no large animals – unless you call kangaroos large. There are lots of meerkats and koalas which are the cutest things. I have a close encounter with Keda, who is 12 years old and very cuddly. She has sharp claws, a very soft coat, and a hard bum, used for wedging herself into the tree to sleep – for an average of 18 hours a day. The other six hours are for eating. Way to go koalas.

On Wednesday we head up to Eumundi for the famous mid week market, hoping for fresh fruit and vegetables, homemade chutneys and interesting people. Yeah Nah. We park about a kilometre away as the entire population of Queensland has descended on the place. The market area is bigger than the town itself and contains vast amounts of useless (read macrame dream catchers), useful, tasty and/or tasteless crap, miles of womenswear, yards of menswear, hats for all the family, and a fortuneteller, palm reader, medium or psychic so you can get in touch with someone who knows better than to consult these charlatans. If that’s not enough, there’s gallons of snake oil available to cure your sleeplessness, stomach disorder, eczema, arthritis, back pain, and neck pain, but not enough to cure my scepticism as to their efficacy.

North to Maryborough from here – they have a statue of Mary Poppins.

But wait, there’s more….

Posted on May 17, 2019 by Bev Marshall

After five weeks on the road we’ve completed our inaugural caravan trip and are back in New Zealand for two months – a wedding, and various pre-arranged diving, fishing and boating trips to be attended to. We’ve left the caravan at the dealer for storage, and the Landcruiser in a lock up near Brisbane airport.

So what have we learned to carry us into the next phase when we return in July and head to less travelled parts for six months or so.

I can cook scones on the barbecue
You can drive a couple of hundred kilometres and go from incessant rain to five year drought
Caravan parks are the equivalent of the gladiatorial arena, but in this case Caesar is sitting in a deck chair with a beer
People who have been caravanning longer than you – in our case that’s pretty much everyone – have lots of helpful tips
Beware things that want to kill you – actually, we already knew this

Drop bears are killer koalas – or so we’re told. Further in-depth research (google) reveals they are a hoax. Though let’s face it, with so many other deadly creatures it isn’t much of a stretch to believe in carnivorous bears that drop from trees and devour tourists. I’ve made a mental note to adopt the generally accepted protection of spreading Vegemite behind my ears whenever we are walking in the bush.

We think that after five weeks we’ve covered a lot of ground and we have – over 1,300 kilometres towing the caravan, and more driving about unencumbered. How humbling is it then, when we look at the map and see just how far we’ve travelled. You have to laugh.

And here’s the 3,000 km bit we did by car last year – see my previous blog agoodsetofknives.blogspot.com for more on that trip.

So there’s a whole lot of gaps to fill in, starting 9th July 2019 and going for several months. The plan is to head up the Queensland coast then cut inland to connect to the Stuart Highway which runs from Darwin (which I wrote about last year) in the Northern Territory, to Port Augusta in South Australia. We will drive south and experience a town called Alice, and the wonder of Uluru (Ayers Rock). Then, who knows?

And we all know weird stuff happens in the Outback of Australia, so anything is possible.

Gonna jump down turn around

Posted on May 6, 2019 by Bev Marshall

and I’ll just bet you finished that line with “pick a bale of cotton”. I’ll be disappointed if you didn’t, because I was singing it, in my head at least, all day when we took the Cotton Farm tour in Goondiwindi.

We are now on the border, literally, of Queensland and New South Wales and this is big farm country – grains such as wheat, sorghum, barley and chick peas, and cotton. This is the type of place where the toilets at the caravan park are labelled Blokes and Sheilas, or The Old Fella and The Missus. You overhear conversations in the pub about whether there were many dead kangaroos on the road into town. A major town attraction is a statue of Gunsynd, a horse that ran third in the Melbourne Cup in 1972, (to be fair it did win 29 of 52 starts). The toilets here are labeled Fillies and Colts in case you are wondering.

Goondiwindi is a lovely town with an urban population of around 5,500, bulked up by about that number again when the districts are included. You feel you wouldn’t mind paying your rates (city taxes) as the facilities are so good: lots of green spaces, parks, sports centres and playing fields. We’re told that through dry periods they keep the town watered and green, to lift the spirits of the farmers when they come from their brown, drought ridden farms. Water is a tightly held, monitored and metered resource here, as we find when we tour the cotton farm.

**The cotton flower is white for a day then turns pink before forming the boll, which you can see at the top right of the plant**

As we drive towards Goondiwindi the roadside looks like giant bags of cotton wool have exploded. This isn’t too far from the truth as the cotton gets blown about during harvest, which is just finishing. Our tour takes us to one of the 1200 farms that grow cotton in Australia. Cotton planting is rotated with crops, and how many acres are planted, or if it is planted at all, depends on available water. Every drop that is taken from groundwater sources and rivers is allocated and metered. A system of gravity fed channels irrigate the crops and a tail drain collects any run off, which is returned to the dam. It’s a very tough life: in a good year you may get 11 or more 227kg bales to the hectare, but the last good years were 2012 and 2013. This year the crop will be about 7 bales/hectare with the break even price of $400 a bale. This year the price is $640.

**Harvested cotton to the left and bales waiting to be picked up and trucked to the gin**

What more do you need to know? How’s this – gin is an abbreviation of cotton engine. Ginning separates the seeds from the fluffy stuff. Cotton seeds can be used as stock feed, and if the oil is extracted it’s flavourless and low in cholesterol. We don’t get to see the gin working – health and safety – but Faye, our tour guide has a mini gin to show us the process.

As with every tour you’ve ever been on, the exit is through the giftshop – in this case, Goondiwindi Cotton, a shop created by a cotton family to diversify by adding a garment manufacturing operation. Questions reveal not all the cotton is local, some imported from California which just seems odd, though all the manufacturing is still local.

**And here’s what you can get from a bale, though really, who needs 4,300 pairs of socks?**

Now where’s the rain?

Posted on April 29, 2019 by Bev Marshall

On Easter Sunday we bid farewell to the Jacaranda City, its bendy bridge and showery weather, to make the steady climb to cross the Gibraltar Range at 1170 metres elevation. The view isn’t much as we are in the clouds until we descend to the Northern Tablelands on the western side. At one point I check the fuel consumption and the Toyota is gobbling 40 litres/100 kms as it drags the caravan up the steep sections. And diesel is about $AUS1.50 a litre.

We have our first ‘unsupported’ night in an overnight camp. We pull off the highway to a large rest area beside a stream, surrounded by paddocks. There are a few horses, some cattle and a few kangaroos. We hear dogs barking in the distance. No power or water so we are self-sufficient. The gas runs the fridge when we’re not hooked up to power, and the stove top and barbecue are gas anyway. A couple more caravans turn up during the evening and there’s the usual chat about where you’re headed and where you’ve come from. As usual, Scott gains a few more tips about the caravan. Everything works as it should so we’re confident to free camp again.

**the hunter-gatherer gathering wine at our overnight spot**

We head for the small town of Inverell then south west to Copeton Dam. The Dam is in 1,400 hectares of State Park and we arrive on Easter Monday as most people are leaving. It’s hard to explain the extent of the waterway which, when full, is 4,600 hectares: three times the size of Sydney Harbour. Unlike Sydney Harbour, it needs rain and they haven’t had much for the past few years so the dam is nowhere near capacity.

Having set up camp we head off in the car to explore some of the Park’s 1400 hectares. We find a boat ramp that runs several hundred metres, but the water level is so low it doesn’t come near the ramp. We are a long way further down the track before I look at the nav screen and see we are in the blue bit – by rights we should be under water – or driving an amphibious vehicle.

**the high water line is clearly visible and a long way above the water**

Our camping spot is in the midst of several caravans peopled by an extended family who have been coming here every Easter for 20 years. Most of the older guys – well, they’re our age – were involved in building the dam in the 70s. They tell us it’s been at least five years since the dam was last full, and at that point it laps the road in front of our campsite.

**Though the good old Edmonds Cook Book recommends an oven, it can be done – scones successfully cooked on the barbecue –**

Our new acquaintances also tell us to be careful when we go walking in the bush as ticks can fall from the trees. Having freaked us out telling us how the tiny bloodsuckers burrow into your flesh, Lynn casually says “but you’d have to be unlucky to get bitten”. I feel itchy just thinking about it and have visions of Scott and I examining each other like monkeys after every nature encounter.

A couple of hours later we join the family at the fire pit for drinks, and what do we find? Lynn attending to Peter who has a tick buried in his belly. Yep, really unlucky. They were collecting kindling from under the trees when Peter felt a bite on his belly. While Peter pinches his flesh to stop the tick burrowing deeper, Lynn dabs on Tea Tree oil, which apparently smothers the tick. It is then extracted with tweezers along with the advice “be careful not to break off the head”. Break off the head? The bloody thing is the size of half an ant.

At least now we’ve seen one and know what to do: I buy Tea Tree Oil in anticipation. However I must look like a Lady Grantham clutching her pearls whenever we are under trees, as I hold tight the neck of my shirt .

**apparently these jumping jacks are full of ticks as well**

A Highland Fling and a Bendy Bridge

Posted on April 24, 2019 by Bev Marshall

A rainy Easter is no fun for anyone: not for holidaymakers, kids on school vacation, and not for tourist operators who suffer when the last big Summer weekend of the season is a washout – literally. That’s the fate of many northern New South Wales coastal towns this year.

We’d planned to avoid the big coastal towns over Easter anyway, and count ourselves lucky when a showery Grafton clears up on Easter Saturday and provides a beautiful day for the Highland Gathering down the road at Maclean.

Maclean must surely be the only town the world where all the power poles are painted tartan. Aside from decorative poles, there’s little else to distinguish Maclean from other small towns on the shores of the magnificent Clarence River.

But the Highland Gathering draws a decent crowd to the Showgrounds. You know you’re at a country event when the slightly nauseating aroma of stewed onions and barbecued sausages assails you. Where’s the haggis and mashed swede?

The competition between what seems like many, many pipe bands (actually 20) isn’t as tortuous as I fear. They each have five minutes and play classics such as Me Clotch is Awee! Geese In The Bog, and Last Tango in Harris. It’s fair to say we don’t find anything to sing along to.

The highland dancing is fun to watch for a while, especially when the littlies come out and show some footwork that is perhaps, not specified in the standards.

Yet best of all, there’s the highland Sports Events. Ahh, the sports. Putting the Stone, which is shot-put by any other name, and the Farmer’s Walk – this involves being timed over a set distance carrying a couple of logs. Presumably in older times this was a couple of sheep or puny Englishmen.

For us the much anticipated Caber Toss was a treat – I had to look up the origins, for what possible use could this be? Loggers used the technique to ford streams, so being able to toss the log straight, so it falls at the 12 o’clock position is key. Otherwise the log falls in the stream and all is lost.

Men and women compete in all events, but one – for men the Hammer throw and for women the Haggis Hurl. Which I think you’ll agree sounds more like what happens after a hard night out. It is a real haggis, strongly wrapped, but I’m told one year it exploded.

Maclean is about 35 kms east of Grafton, and Grafton has one of the few fixed crossings over the vast Clarence River. Aside from the Murray, the Clarence is the largest river in Australia south of the Tropic of Capricorn. We decide to take the northern side of the river and cross by cable ferry closer to Maclean, just for the hell of it.

It beggars belief that the only bridge for miles is what the locals call “the bendy bridge”, and snicker into their hands when they hear you are towing a caravan. The bendy bridge is heritage listed was built in 1932, before articulated trucks, caravans and other long vehicles. It is a standard two car width and has sharp angled approaches – the bendy bits – at either end. It is built above the original rail bridge and the approaches come from roads parallel to the rail lines. It makes for interesting driving. When locals see a big vehicle coming towards them on a bend they stop and give plenty of room. When tourists see a big vehicle coming around the corner on their side of the road their eyes widen in terror.

**It’s hard to capture how terrifying this is when a huge truck is coming towards you**

Aside from the bendy bridge, Grafton is famous for two things: the first town in northern NSW, founded in 1851 and the Jacaranda Festival, held in October/November every year since 1935. It must be beautiful to be here when the hundreds of jacaranda trees lining the very wide streets are full of their purple blooms.

In the meantime, it’s mostly purple prose as you drive across the bendy bridge.

And where there’s a river there’s fish. And where’s there’s fishing there’s Scott.

Scott and Bev are not caravanning

continuing our travels, but not by caravanning