COBAR TO BLACKALL (31 MAY - 6 JUNE)

Enough of this sitting around...time to be on the road again.  Bourke awaits.

We were just a little apprehensive about our prospects in the Mitchell Caravan Park which is located in the main township.  We had previously stayed at the 'Kidman Camp', a delightful park on the banks of the Darling at North Bourke, well distant from some of the town's more challenging inhabitants, but sadly pets are not welcomed there.  Fortunately our fears proved unjustified.  Whilst the Mitchell park is pretty basic, the young Irish couple who are currently in charge were most welcoming.  Our site (which was alternately dusty and then muddy after overnight drizzle....I have now come to accept, albeit reluctantly, that green and shady parks are the exception in this part of the world) was large and flat, and as it transpired, quite secure. The roar of a road train heading east on the road which immediately abutted our site as we were setting up was somewhat disconcerting, however the advice received from a neighbour that these did not run much after 7.00 pm proved fortunately accurate.

We spent the afternoon driving out to nearby Mount Oxley (named after the explorer) from which stunning views of the area were promised, including 'soaring eagles'.  Ah, well, at least we tried.  Our impression that a single vantage point would provide a 360 degree panoramic view of the surrounding plains proved incorrect.  Whilst various areas of the somewhat challenging road to the summit did afford limited vistas, there was no vantage point from which we could see through all points of the compass (as the blurb promises). 

As for soaring eagles, it was clearly their day off in the air.  They were all too busy munching on roadkill.  Fortunately some views did make the trip worthwhile

as did the fact that we did not meet any other vehicles on the single, potholed bitumen stretch of road which had us teetering between a steep embankment on the one side and a gut wrenching (for those of us who suffer from vertigo) drop on the other.  Where eagles dare! (just to continue the theme). 

Back on the flats once more we drove out to another recommended local attraction, Mays Bend, on the western bank of the Darling some 5 kms from North Bourke.  This one did not disappoint, other than by virtue of the fact that I did not have a rigged fishing rod, a bucket of captive shrimp and a spare four or five hours.  This particular spot was the site for the filming of much of that Australian classic 'Robbery Under Arms' (who can remember Peter Finch as a young man?) and we did envy the couple who were all set up with their van, yabby pots, camp fire and esky a mere 20 metres from the water.

I have long held the view one gains much in country towns from a visit to the local pub (one way or another).  Sadly I must report that one pre-dinner stubbie was more than enough at the impressively large and well preserved Port Bourke Hotel.  The charm of sitting on the front verandah looking across the road at the beautifully maintained original Bourke timber buildings was somewhat overshadowed by the overly loud conversation of a a couple of locals at a nearby table, and the sight of another of Bourke's good citizens attempting to negotiate the perfectly ample doorway back to the bar after he had smoked his cigarette down to the filter (Liz and I decided that only drunks can do that without responding to the inevitable burnt fingers as you or I would).  As a small postscript we did see this same chap the following evening in the Bourke Bowling Club and overheard that he has been banned from all Bourke's licensed premises (to their undoubted financial detriment).

We drove to Brewarrina the following morning, some 90 kms to the east of Bourke, which boasts aboriginal rock fish traps set in the Barwon River.  These are reputedly 40,000 years old.  If true, this would make them the oldest human made structure on the planet. I have no reason to challenge either claim.

Whilst these can be viewed by any visitor, we had booked a formal tour.  Good decision.  Bradley, a member of the local tribe, was wonderfully informative.  The fact that he continues to live on the property inhabited by his grandfather, who initially build a tin shack on the site in which to hide his siblings during the 'stolen generation' roundups in the area, meant that his local knowledge provided an insight to all we were seeing which far exceeded that we would have otherwise gained.  The same can be said for his commentary in the recently restored nearby museum in which he exhibited justified pride.

Unfortunately (from a purely selfish tourist perspective) many of the trap formations were under the high water flows currently coursing down the Barwon and all the other nearby rivers and creeks.  However, enough were still exposed downstream from the council made weir (don't get Bradley started on that.....he is not enamoured of the local cotton farmers for whom the weir was built and which has quite effectively overshadowed the whole aura of the site) to gain a good understanding of the way in which they functioned. 

 I had imagined that they trapped fish travelling downstream.  Silly white fella! 

As can hopefully be seen from this shot, the traps were designed to disrupt the upstream movement of the fish.  As the upper end of each of the rock pockets prevented the fish from any further movement in that direction, the locals would simply wade into the trap area and lift them out.  Ingenious and effective.  The photo below, which was taken many years ago, shows the traps as they were before the weir with a couple of the locals taking advantage of their bounty.

As mentioned previously, Bradley was a delightful fellow who shared our dismay that one of the first sights to greet our 10.00 am arrival in 'Bre' was that of a congregation of 20 to 30 locals on the footpath in front of the hotel awaiting its opening.  He confirmed to us that Brewarrina, in common with Walgett to the east and Wilcannia to the south-west continue share a reputation which is sadly deserved. 

Despite its reputation, and apparently, its past, this is not so of Bourke, in which real integration seems to have been well established.  Liz and I both felt quite comfortable in the town as we did at the Bowling Club that evening where we enjoyed a wonderful (you guessed it...we were in NSW after all) Chinese meal (MSG free) in company with a very mixed group of locals.

Our departure the next morning for Cunnamulla was completed under very gloomy skies.  Fortunately I have become adept at packing wet outside matting without too much mess in both the process and vehicle storage.

The weather did lift for the uneventful 250 kms journey north across Mitchell grass plains to the NSW border and on into Queensland.   We had stayed previously at what was then the only park in Cunnamulla, and despite the fact we had booked this one again, we did initially drive out along the Warrego River to the site of a new park on its banks, lured by the promise of large sites, good facilities and wonderful riparian serenity.  The reality.....red mud, more red mud and more red mud.  Our circuit of this (promising in a few years once properly established) park saw the front of the van covered in crap and Liz and I rejoicing in our wisdom, particularly when we discovered the following day that the entire place had been closed due to the conditions.  Mind you, our site at the main town park was not what one would describe as parched!

Time for another 'Pete knows everyone' story.  We had only just settled in when another rig drew in beside us.  I had a vague thought that I had seen the chap before.  Without boring you with all the details, he not only sailed out of the CYC on a boat which used to moor next that that on which I crewed for many years, he is the cousin of a former police colleague of mine and, to top it off, we have a couple of mutual friends.  Enough said.  I am only grateful I'm not on the run from the authorities!

We spent two days in Cunnamulla, not so much out of local interest (we have stayed there previously...one can effectively take in most of the town in an afternoon...an observation not a criticism) but more to avoid forecast significant rain and winds on the nose.  I have learnt that this plays havoc with our fuel consumption.  It is obvious that real efforts are being made to encourage folk to do more than the normal overnight stop, and indeed the town itself is pretty, if not a little quaint.  One sight that did attract our attention was the contrast between the old and the new at the post office which we have hopefully captured below.

As it was, the promised downpour did not occur and the new park owners were quick to light the camp fire for happy hour on both evenings.  We took the opportunity to put our feet up before making our way further north to Charleville.  This delay was fortunate.  We later discovered that had we maintained our original schedule, we would have been stuck between Tambo and Blackall (together with a reported 250 caravans and road trains) whilst the flooded Barcoo River receded across a ford on the highway.  The irony of all this lies in the fact that the ford itself is a temporary measure installed to by-pass the bridge over the river which was damaged in the floods earlier this year.

They really have had some rain up here.

Our destination in Charleville on this trip was the 'Evening Star', a caravan park established on a working cattle station some 10 kms north-west of the town (we had previously stayed at the lovely 'Bailey Bar'), where 'furry friends' are welcomed and a campfire happy hour, bar, entertainment, hugh, non-dusty drive through sites and the clearest night sky in Australia are all promised.  Occasionally things do go right!

We had a lovely site

and were blessed with a completely cloudless sky on our first evening.  This was just as well....the following day was rubbish with a return to cold winds, cloud and drizzle.

The happy hour was fun, the cans from the bar were cheap and the company entertaining.  In addition to the significant fire pit

the park provides wood barbecues of the most interesting construction which I was told were as efficient as they were quaint.

I have to confess to lingering a shade too long for my own good that evening. Given that the wonderful, clear, starry sky across which we watched satellites pass, was complemented by a partial eclipse of the moon, I felt compelled to make the most of it all.  Liz, who had retired to the van before me, was, I thought, unfairly sceptical of my reasoning when I finally appeared on the doorstep.  Her only comment about the moon was that I had been barking at it!

Domestic bliss was restored the following morning which dawned cold and wet.  We decided a housekeeping day was in order.  We had shopped in Charleville on our way through so it was out with the slow cooker. Pete the 'galley boy' and Liz the 'washer girl' did achieve much, including a gallop around the local bush walking track during a lull in the weather.

Clean clothes, two stews for the freezer, and pizzas ready for that evening's tea were the very satisfactory outcome.  As you would expect, my happy hour dalliance around the fire this afternoon was a much more restrained affair.  Apart from the deterrence of light drizzle and the thought of the driving to be done next day, the prospect of a severely tugged ear lobe was sufficient to keep your correspondent well and truly on the straight and narrow.  We did linger long enough to strike up a friendship with a Tasmanian couple with whom we planned to meet in Longreach in a few days time.

Everyone who travels knows that there are good days, bad days, and bastard days.  As I am sure you have now guessed, this was to be our first bastard day.  Despite peeled eyes as we made our way north, some 20 kms out of Charleville........disaster!  At least that's how it felt at the time.  A more objective assessment (which we have now managed) would probably classify it as an annoying set back.

Liz and I are both convinced that emus were created to make every other living species of bird look intelligent.  The wretched thing that launched itself at us was a testament to the stupidity of these damn creatures.  We had seen masses of them in the previous few days and were being ultra-cautions but this rotter stymied our efforts from very close range out of thick scrub almost at the road's edge.  Neither of us saw it until its head appeared in view over the top of the left-hand dashboard. If Liz's window had been down she could have given it a kiss as it passed by.  The damn thing was so clearly intent on suicide I was looking to see if it bore the Rising Sun markings of the kamikaze pilots of WW2.

Fortunately I managed (with real difficulty) to resist the instinctive urge to swerve, a manoeuvre often fatal when towing a big rig, and it remains a matter of complete mystery to us both that we did not loose our large, extended left hand mirror.  In fact for a few naive moments I thought we had survived unscathed...until l checked the rear vision mirror.  There I saw the rear awning arm, which is normally securely locked into a bracket at the bottom of the side of the van, waiving forlornly in the breeze.  An inspection (as soon as we could safely pull off) revealed a nice set of emu feathers still attached to the shattered bracket (only plastic...thankfully..if it had been metal as it is on many vans, we may well have lost a chunk of the side) but little other obvious damage.  God bless gaffer tape.  Its nickname of '100 mile an hour' tape is well deserved.  A roll later and I had managed to secure the arm back into place where thankfully it remained until we took it off in Longreach.

With the repairs completed, and heart rates restored to normal, we continued on to Blackall, our overnight destination, passing by Augathella and Tambo en route.  Tambo's reputation of being as quaint as it is old (Qld's oldest outback town) is well deserved.  We were disappointed we did not have the time to tarry.

We had chosen the Blackall Caravan Park on the basis of the advertised entertainment, a damper making demonstration and a camp oven roast dinner all provided by the proprietors (for a fee of course...but a modest one).  Similar to the Bailey Bar in Charleville, this park is one in which sites are less than obvious, all those arriving are directed personally onto a patch, and the late comers may well find themselves unable to move the following day until someone else does.  The epitome of organised apparent chaos.  Fortunately we had pre-booked a drive through and were able to leave as planned.

Muddy grass was again the order of the day here, and the facilities block had to be seen to be believed, but all that notwithstanding, we had a wonderful 12 hours in Blackall.  The town itself is very pretty.  The ubiquitous (for this part of the world) wide streets, neat houses nestled in lovely leafy and colourful gardens, the unique local water supply and picturesque memorial park all served to provide us with plenty of interest on our 'walk off the drive'.

This walk was really necessary after the dreadful road over which we had driven once we were north of Augathella.  We both considered the Warrego Highway (between Roma and Toowoomba) to have been the worst on which we had travelled, but this one was right up there.  In many places we were restricted to no more than 65 kph.  But enough of that...it's all part of the adventure.

I mentioned the water supply.  It is artesian...and very different.  The site of the original bore is well displayed, complete with the old fashioned hammer drill rig and traction engine.

A nearby operational bore site spews hot water into an open channel.  I was later unimpressed (during my shower the following morning) to discover that the sulphurous smell which was evident at this site permeates the town supply.  Interestingly, it is supplied hot to the domestic outlets.  All very odd.  If you peer hard you may be able to spot the steam surrounding the outlet in the photo below (or not!)

I am not sure if it was the fact that we had had a very trying day and were more than ready to be fed and entertained, or merely that what was provided was just first class.....we had the most marvellous evening.  

A pleasant happy hour spent with folk we had previously met at Evening Star was followed by the promised country singer, Graham Rodger.   Given that the relevant posters all carry the theme "If you like Slim Dusty you will love Graham Rodger", coupled with the fact that I am not a real Dusty fan, I awaited his offering with quiet caution.  At the end of the next hour I was delighted to shake his hand with the sincere comment that his performance had been one of the most enjoyable we had witnessed.  A great voice (not the usual country whine and twang), evocative lyrics, (most of which he had written himself), interspersed with genuinely interesting and funny yarns, made for a stunning presentation.  One song, based on the death of a conscript in Vietnam, had all but the most hardened in tears.  I must confess to being one of them.

Apologies for the fuzzy shot..do note the dog...she had just pulled all the song sheets off Graham's stand....now at his feet.  Was shortly thereafter taken off to her room in disgrace!

With the mood lightened in his final few songs, we were more than ready for the camp oven roast beef and veggies and the following damper, all of which we had seen being prepared earlier that afternoon.

Expectations more than met!  Given that only six of us had booked for dinner (as opposed to the 32 of the previous night) our plates were piled high.  Liz had arranged for vegetables only as a result of which I managed a significant serve of the most tender roast beef.  The damper and golden syrup which followed more than filled whatever small gaps remained. Early retirement was an inevitable consequence followed by the sleep of the righteous!

A final postscript re Blackall.  She really in an animal magnet!  Don't miss the Driazabone.

 Longreach beckons.  Our story will continue from there.