For some time the debate has raged throughout the entire caravanning world, and it continues unabated...... 'to free camp or to use caravan parks'. Articles and letters to the editor in many caravan magazines express views which can be diametrically opposed, although most who take the time to write are well entrenched on the 'freeby' side.
Our position is quite simple.....by and large we only free camp when the location is one which makes this option very attractive from the point of view of amenity and scenery. Galena Bridge and Gladstone Hill (WA), Mendooran (NSW) and Calliope River (QLD) are four such examples. Occasionally, our self imposed 'ideal distance' limitations will find us using a free camp for sheer convenience. Such was the case when we pulled in off the Bruce Highway at Yaamba last year. But for us it is the exception rather than the rule.
Those who free camp as a matter of course tend to fall into two distinct categories. There are those who do so to save money for other things and invariably spend this in the towns in or near which they are camped, and then there are those who cannot afford to be travelling at all if they have to pay for a stay in a caravan park. Interestingly, from all we have learnt, both directly and indirectly, this latter group do very little to boost local economies.....we have precious little time for them, and they do foment a great deal of dissent and conflict.
In Mitchell we struck a good example of this, but before I explain the problem, let's first take a look at the large free camp not too far from the town itself. The Maranoa River is blocked by a weir a short distance upstream of the main road bridge. The original intention was to use the backed up waters for irrigation, but this did not eventuate as planned. The local authorities have established a free camp site in this area to encourage visitors to tarry in Mitchell, and we headed out to have a look at what was on offer.
Our route took us out past the Mitchell Race Course where once again the roadside verges were awash with wildflowers,
as were several of the nearby paddocks which were a veritable carpet of colour...... Mother Nature's gift for the problems she had been causing!
A bend in the good bitumen access road saw us on the approach to the free camp area.
As we made our way further along
we could not believe just how many vans, campers and mobile homes had made this their resting place. Many had taken up spots right alongside the river,
whilst other more prudent souls sought the firmer base of this large cement pad on which to rest their wheels. Given the weather, and the fact that the saturated earth of this area turns to mud with the slightest additional drop from above, the cement (no idea why it is here) seemed the better option by far.
These few shots do not really do pictorial justice to the the number of vans here.....we counted over thirty.
This site has a 48 hour limit, but we saw many vans which had obviously been here far beyond that (long grass growing up around the edges of an annex is one dead give-away). And here's the rub, from a local perspective at least, as we learnt from the managers of the park in which we were staying.
It is owned by the local Shire Council. The couple now running the place paid $500,000 for a ten year lease. Those using the free camp obviously do not do anything to contribute to their income. They feel understandably miffed by the fact that the Council, which also controls the land and facilities at the Neil Turn Weir site, does nothing to enforce the 48 hour limit and remains unmoved by the obvious conflict of interest which it has created.
Admittedly, this is a case of 'buyer beware', but we had no difficulty sympathising with the plight of the park managers. This is a classic example of the problem which is emerging right around the country. In fact, as we were making our way out of Western Australia last year, the provision of many new free camp sites within no more than ten kilometres of many small towns in which a good caravan park was already established (without any consultation) was the subject of increasing ire. This whole story has a long way to run!
The weir itself is an interesting structure. Its five tiers stretch from bank to bank across the Maranoa which was hurling itself over the this impediment to its progress as we watched. Regular raised sections on each step channel the rushing water through the resulting gaps.
This creates a noise which echoes throughout the camp site and leaves no doubt as to the power of large, rapidly flowing volumes of H2O. The mass of debris caught in the centre of the weir was testament to the fact that the recent levels had been far higher than they had for some time. The banks had been scoured of loose material for many kilometres upstream.
What a totally different picture is presented when the river and the weather are benign (thanks to 'berkeleylodge' for this comparison)
Anyway, enough of this camp site and the debate it and others like it create. It was time to return to the town itself and spend an hour or so of our last afternoon visiting the various pubs we had only previously viewed from the outside. Lyn, one of our newly found mates from Tambo, joined us on our venture,
which began with the pub nearest the park, The Courthouse Hotel.
What an odd setup this turned out to be. The most relevant words on this sign posted above the door at the front of the pub were 'hours may vary'. We had shown up at a tad after 1630 hours only to find that the entrances were firmly locked and there was not sign of life. As I was poking about, an oriental looking fellow stuck his head out through one of the doors. "Is the bar open?", I asked more in hope than expectation. I had it right.....this so called pub is now run more as a restaurant.
Apparently the bloke to whom I spoke is the chef, and by all accounts he is good at his trade, but that was no help to three thirsty visitors seeking a cold beer or a crisp sav blanc.
We moved on, noting as we did that this second sign on the pub wall (which we presumed was originally tongue in cheek advertising) was now sadly prophetic, well the 'bad service' bit at least!
Will the welcome mat be out at the three remaining Mitchell hotels, all of which are to be found on the northern side of Cambridge Street. We decided to restart our quest at the far end of the street and work our way back, and as we gathered at the front door of the imposing looking Western Hotel, we began to despair......'Closed For Renovations'.....for the past four years we later discovered!
What does a bloke have to do to get a drink in Mitchell? Two down out of four, and still no luck. At last. The Hotel Richards was open for business,
complete with the 'pub dog' at the door. This is one cunning canine. He lies 'doggo' (irresistible) until approached, when his tail would thump on the footpath and his head would be raised in an appealing invitation for a pat...he received plenty!
The front bar of The Richards, where we were joined by Lyn's husband Marc, was different, to say the least.
Apart from the interesting (and quite good) mural on the wall, the back-packer bar staff, one German and the other Spanish, had never heard of stout (I was after a portagaff...stout and lemonade to the uninitiated..a great winter drink) and had great difficulty coming to grips with Liz's order of a glass of sav blanc.
After wandering through the garishly colourful dining room
past the stairway to the guest bedrooms
and out through the dark cavern of the pool room, I finally came across 'mine hostess' who was stocking fridges in teh bottle department. "Sorry, darl....we do usually have some Coopers Stout on hand, but the truck didn't come in this week." At least she had heard of stout!
The rear beer garden held little aesthetic appeal so, after managing to have our orders filled (I settled for a beer) we decided that one was enough at The Richards.
I'm sad to report we fared little better at the last on our list....the Hotel Mitchell, another imposing building which at least promises much from the outside.
Here the front bar is a hotch-potch of sporting memorabilia, photos of locally caught (big) fish, notices and other bits and pieces.
The dining room seemed somewhat more comfortably furnished than it competitor
but a quick look outside demonstrated that here in Mitchell there is clearly no imperative to establish a welcoming outdoor beer garden.
We swallowed our disappointment that neither of the remaining two viable pubs in Mitchell were what we had really hoped for in an outback establishment, did the same to one drink each, and repaired back to camp. Ah, well, at least it was a cheap afternoon!
With an early start on our agenda, we bade our new found friends of the past few days farewell, as we did Mitchell. We had made the most of our enforced extra day here, but the road through Surat was now open again. Our route to St George was clear, and we were keen to make sure we got through before any more rain fell.
This site has a 48 hour limit, but we saw many vans which had obviously been here far beyond that (long grass growing up around the edges of an annex is one dead give-away). And here's the rub, from a local perspective at least, as we learnt from the managers of the park in which we were staying.
It is owned by the local Shire Council. The couple now running the place paid $500,000 for a ten year lease. Those using the free camp obviously do not do anything to contribute to their income. They feel understandably miffed by the fact that the Council, which also controls the land and facilities at the Neil Turn Weir site, does nothing to enforce the 48 hour limit and remains unmoved by the obvious conflict of interest which it has created.
Admittedly, this is a case of 'buyer beware', but we had no difficulty sympathising with the plight of the park managers. This is a classic example of the problem which is emerging right around the country. In fact, as we were making our way out of Western Australia last year, the provision of many new free camp sites within no more than ten kilometres of many small towns in which a good caravan park was already established (without any consultation) was the subject of increasing ire. This whole story has a long way to run!
The weir itself is an interesting structure. Its five tiers stretch from bank to bank across the Maranoa which was hurling itself over the this impediment to its progress as we watched. Regular raised sections on each step channel the rushing water through the resulting gaps.
This creates a noise which echoes throughout the camp site and leaves no doubt as to the power of large, rapidly flowing volumes of H2O. The mass of debris caught in the centre of the weir was testament to the fact that the recent levels had been far higher than they had for some time. The banks had been scoured of loose material for many kilometres upstream.
What a totally different picture is presented when the river and the weather are benign (thanks to 'berkeleylodge' for this comparison)
Anyway, enough of this camp site and the debate it and others like it create. It was time to return to the town itself and spend an hour or so of our last afternoon visiting the various pubs we had only previously viewed from the outside. Lyn, one of our newly found mates from Tambo, joined us on our venture,
which began with the pub nearest the park, The Courthouse Hotel.
What an odd setup this turned out to be. The most relevant words on this sign posted above the door at the front of the pub were 'hours may vary'. We had shown up at a tad after 1630 hours only to find that the entrances were firmly locked and there was not sign of life. As I was poking about, an oriental looking fellow stuck his head out through one of the doors. "Is the bar open?", I asked more in hope than expectation. I had it right.....this so called pub is now run more as a restaurant.
Apparently the bloke to whom I spoke is the chef, and by all accounts he is good at his trade, but that was no help to three thirsty visitors seeking a cold beer or a crisp sav blanc.
We moved on, noting as we did that this second sign on the pub wall (which we presumed was originally tongue in cheek advertising) was now sadly prophetic, well the 'bad service' bit at least!
Will the welcome mat be out at the three remaining Mitchell hotels, all of which are to be found on the northern side of Cambridge Street. We decided to restart our quest at the far end of the street and work our way back, and as we gathered at the front door of the imposing looking Western Hotel, we began to despair......'Closed For Renovations'.....for the past four years we later discovered!
What does a bloke have to do to get a drink in Mitchell? Two down out of four, and still no luck. At last. The Hotel Richards was open for business,
complete with the 'pub dog' at the door. This is one cunning canine. He lies 'doggo' (irresistible) until approached, when his tail would thump on the footpath and his head would be raised in an appealing invitation for a pat...he received plenty!
The front bar of The Richards, where we were joined by Lyn's husband Marc, was different, to say the least.
Apart from the interesting (and quite good) mural on the wall, the back-packer bar staff, one German and the other Spanish, had never heard of stout (I was after a portagaff...stout and lemonade to the uninitiated..a great winter drink) and had great difficulty coming to grips with Liz's order of a glass of sav blanc.
After wandering through the garishly colourful dining room
past the stairway to the guest bedrooms
and out through the dark cavern of the pool room, I finally came across 'mine hostess' who was stocking fridges in teh bottle department. "Sorry, darl....we do usually have some Coopers Stout on hand, but the truck didn't come in this week." At least she had heard of stout!
The rear beer garden held little aesthetic appeal so, after managing to have our orders filled (I settled for a beer) we decided that one was enough at The Richards.
I'm sad to report we fared little better at the last on our list....the Hotel Mitchell, another imposing building which at least promises much from the outside.
Here the front bar is a hotch-potch of sporting memorabilia, photos of locally caught (big) fish, notices and other bits and pieces.
The dining room seemed somewhat more comfortably furnished than it competitor
but a quick look outside demonstrated that here in Mitchell there is clearly no imperative to establish a welcoming outdoor beer garden.
We swallowed our disappointment that neither of the remaining two viable pubs in Mitchell were what we had really hoped for in an outback establishment, did the same to one drink each, and repaired back to camp. Ah, well, at least it was a cheap afternoon!
With an early start on our agenda, we bade our new found friends of the past few days farewell, as we did Mitchell. We had made the most of our enforced extra day here, but the road through Surat was now open again. Our route to St George was clear, and we were keen to make sure we got through before any more rain fell.
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