I must be getting old! That's when the memory starts to play annoying tricks, is it not? How could I have forgotten to include the tale of our contretemps in the Emerald caravan park before moving on?
I have to say at this point it is the first time in all our travels we have had a real stoush with a fellow camper. On the morning of our second day in Emerald, Liz and Max were happily taking the morning sun on the slab when they were invaded by a yappy little Jack Russell, which was hurling himself around the park intent on annoying anything and anyone it could, dragging his lead with him, a lead which was missing a critical ingredient at its free end...an owner.
As you can imagine, Max had a minor conniption, did his best to puff up to three times his size (I do have to say he has a most impressive tail when in this state...he would put a squirrel to shame), and made an equally impressive fighting withdrawal to the safety of the van. Shortly thereafter, as Liz was restraining the bloody dog, its owner, who was sited two from us, puffed onto the scene. I have to concede I was not privy to the ensuing conversation, but I suspect Liz was somewhat more accommodating in her discussions than I would have been. For a start, this park is one which demands a $50 refundable pet bond...the last thing I wanted was to be involved in a scrap about that through absolutely no fault of ours.
As I am sure you have now guessed, this was not the end of the matter. Come mid afternoon and Max was happily sleeping off his late lunch (if it could be called that....he grazes constantly) as I was sitting at the table doing photos.....when all hell broke loose. The damn dog was back, but this time he was totally unencumbered and the little bugger was on a real mission. He skidded to halt at our screen door and let fly, teeth bared and hackles up. Now for a cat which will allow itself to be intimidated by Minor birds and Willy Wagtails one would think that the Black Panther would have scurried off to the darkest corner of the van in the face of this assault.
Not so, bless him. In an almost instantaneous reaction he flew off his bed on the seat opposite me and landed on the floor at the door, an absolute picture of feline fury. I remain convinced he skidded to a halt on his bared claws which had been extended as he launched. The spiting, hissing and snarling which followed left me breathless.....how could such a sound come from this sooky little chap...his lungs must be like the Tardis..massively bigger on the inside! And not a backward step. How the soft fly screen survived a shredding from both sides remains a testament to the speed of my own reaction once I had realised what was happening.
The wretched Jacky did concede defeat as I stormed out of the van (quietly of course) and scuttled off to the sanctuary of its own site, with Marshie in hot and indignant pursuit. And from there it just got worse. When I confronted its owner and, as gently and logically as my mood allowed, explained what had occurred and pointed out that it is a cardinal sin in parks to allow dogs to roam free, his response was to whine that the dog had managed to escape from the vehicle in which they had just returned from a shopping trip before he could control it. I viewed this as a marginally acceptable explanation, and stood waiting for the expected apology...and that's when things went downhill at a rapid rate.
His next utterance was in the order of, "Well it really doesn't matter...I have been talking to your wife and she tells me that the cat would win the fight." Given that my heart rate was still something over 150, I suspect you may be able to guess the rest. Not only had we avoided the trouble and expense of potentially replacing the door screen, and even assuming there had been a one on one, from which Max, on previous experience, would have emerged victorious, there is no doubt he would have then scarpered off in post victory panic to God know where. It just didn't bear thinking about, and there I was confronted by this ignorant, pompous idiot, who instead of doing the right thing, was attempting to justify his irresponsibility.
I probably need not add anything further other than to say we came to a rapid and positive understanding about what would happen if there were a repetition. I returned chez Marshies with the complete certainty I had made myself amply clear. In fact, I was still so angry about this numpty's attitude I took the unprecedented step as we departed the following day of lodging a complaint with the office staff, notwithstanding Liz's concerns that we may run into him again. It's a big country...little chance, was my rejoinder.
Yes, there is a postscript...you are just that one step ahead aren't you! After settling into our site at Charters Towers two days later, whose rig should we spot...and a short time later Dopey and dog paraded past our site. Liz was circumspect enough to pretend she hadn't seen him, and, interestingly enough, we saw nothing more of him or his bloody hound for the remainder of our stay. We are pretty recognisable...the kayak is very blue. I adopted an instant position of self-righteousness!
But back to Clermont and our journey northwards. In our brief sojourn we found that Clermont, which exists primarily to support the local coal mining industry, was a pretty and welcoming spot. A delightful town lagoon, of no mean size, meanders beside a park and walking trail at one edge of the small town. A disproportionally large police complex bore testament to the need to maintain order when 'the miners come to town on a Friday night'.
My suspicions that mining had recently been significantly revived in the area, which had been initially raised when we saw the number of recently installed cabins in the caravan park (this we have learnt is a dead giveaway)
were given more impetuous when we discovered a very new hotel/motel nearby. This is a very small town, remember.
During our pre-dinner drinks at the 'old pub' (the treasurer had decreed we could afford a night out!), our yarn with the barmaid about the most impressive range of spirits and liqueurs we have ever seen in a country pub, led to confirmation that the 'weekend Clermont' could be somewhat more lively than the town we were seeing and that coal mining was again being undertaken locally in a big way.
The huge heaps of discarded overburden we saw on the road out of Clermont the following day did not, therefore, surprise us in terms of their existence. Their mass, however, most assuredly did. (and again, this photo does not do real justice to the expanse of this heap)
as did the length of a covered coal conveyor belt we noticed as we drove along another section of the highway.
At a rough estimate, this belt lay alongside the road for at least five kilometres before veering off in the direction of mine workings we could see in the far distance.
We really did enjoy our short stay in Clermont, but before we finally break off contact, another quick local yarn. As we had walked past the new hotel to have a drink or two at the old, I noted the dinner menu sign which invited patrons to enjoy the special....corned beef and white sauce....and this, my one night out for the week....there is a God!
And so, an hour or so later, having duly ordered, engaged in a lively chat with the soon-to-be hotel chef, who thoroughly approved of our wine selection and who also undertook to correct the spelling on the menu (a meal not for the 'feint hearted' is but one example we noted), our 'you meal is ready electronic buzzer' attempted to buzz and squirm its way off our table and we made our way to the counter.
And here things became a little surreal for one brought up on the concept that corned beef and white sauce should present as a predominately red and white combination accompanied by mash, cabbage and carrots.
The very friendly serving lass handed me a plate on which I saw three circular slabs which had a decidedly 'battered' look over which there was indeed a white coloured sauce...and chips.
"I'm sorry, love, I ordered the corned beef."
"That is the corned beef."
"Where?"
"There on your plate, sir."
"But it looks as if it is cooked in batter."
"That's how we always do it. Haven't you had it like that before?"
Undaunted, I wandered back to our table, scraped off all the batter to reveal the beautifully moist rounds of silverside beneath, discarded the (annoyingly excellent) chips, repaired to the superbly presented veggie buffet where cabbage and more appropriate spuds were on offer, and, as the English say, 'made an excellent supper'.
Only in Queensland, eh?
So with another travel gem under our belts we hooked up bright and early the next morning and again headed north along the Gregory Development Road, destination Charters Towers. I had not been looking forward to this leg of the trip. The forecast of rain, heavy at times, and strengthening northerly winds, would, I knew, take a toll of both my concentration and our fuel. Well, we did get the wind, and I did nurse the rig along to conserve as much fuel as we could (I have now learnt how to use the gearing much more effectively in these conditions), but fortunately the rain did not materialise at all.
The coal mining country soon gave way to broad grazing lands on the 170 km stretch to the interesting outpost of Belyando Crossing, the only service stop in the entire 360 kms between Clermont and Charters Towers.
So with another travel gem under our belts we hooked up bright and early the next morning and again headed north along the Gregory Development Road, destination Charters Towers. I had not been looking forward to this leg of the trip. The forecast of rain, heavy at times, and strengthening northerly winds, would, I knew, take a toll of both my concentration and our fuel. Well, we did get the wind, and I did nurse the rig along to conserve as much fuel as we could (I have now learnt how to use the gearing much more effectively in these conditions), but fortunately the rain did not materialise at all.
The coal mining country soon gave way to broad grazing lands on the 170 km stretch to the interesting outpost of Belyando Crossing, the only service stop in the entire 360 kms between Clermont and Charters Towers.
It was more than time for break when we pulled in to this outpost in the bush.
And we had plenty of company. Whilst we did not go into the small, but obviously popular roadhouse, I suspect the food must be of the first order. It seemed that every truckie on the road pulled in here, usually a very good sign, or alternatively the cynic might suggest that out here beggars can't be choosers!
We thought a rest stop should also include Max, who has been of improving travelling temperament as our journey has progressed, and he did indeed welcome the respite from the confines of his cage.
On to the long haul to CT. My next rest stop at a lay-by on top of a rise gives some idea of the type of country through which we were now making our way.
Here we again caught up with the Vogts who had made their way north via different stop-overs and whose van can be seen at the right of this shot.
It must be said that until we were on the approaches to CT, progress had become somewhat mundane, until, that is, we passed a large sign warning of cattle on the road. Minutes passed. Where were they? No sign. Then, irrefutable road surface evidence of a recent passing, in more than once sense of the word! And there they were, all 880 head of them (we didn't actually count them, we had a brief conversation with one of the drovers) plodding their stoic way along the 'long paddock'.
Seven drovers on horseback, two of whom could have been barely older than their early teens, one on a trail bike, and a support horse float driver made up the droving team. Despite their constant efforts to keep these wandering bovines to one side of the carriageway, the sheer mass of animals meant that we crawled through them at walking pace, as did those sharing the road with us.
And, as with cattle, no matter how much control is applied, there is always one!
We could have reached out and touched many of the cattle as we inched through their ranks. I was a bit concerned that anything spooking them might have some serious consequences on the side of the van, but we made it though unscathed.
With this fascinating touch of country Australia behind us, Charters Towers soon loomed large in our windscreen, and I for one, was more than happy to see it.
We made relatively sort work of mooring at the Dalrymple Caravan Park, one we had not tried previously in CT, but which left us more than favourably impressed with the sites, the lawns and gardens and the friendly staff. (you are going to owe me one, Neil!)
The music from the nearby camp kitchen at happy hour time was irresistibly inviting, as were a few drinks after a hard day. We enjoyed several hours with two older (don't even think it!) couples who invited themselves to our table and proved to be entertaining and knowledgeable company. Our quest to rid ourselves of a couple of well travelled bottles which were becoming an irritation to herself proved less than advantageous to the eventual well being of your correspondent, who now admits to having had a marvellous evening but a very slow following day. Having spent time in CT last year, I felt no urgency to be on the sightseeing trail, which candour demands I confess was just as well, because I wasn't!
An afternoon rally, a haircut, a walk around a beautiful nearby park, which was drowning in rain on our previous visit, an early night, a rejuvenating sleep and an early morning departure, found us on the longest leg of our trip north, the 400 or so kms to Innisfail.
As I have mentioned before, I do not intend to cover old ground in this blog, and our route into Townsville and on up the Bruce Highway mirrored what we had done last year. So with no further ado, fast forward to our camp at the August Moon Caravan Park, Innisfail, where the most obliging Gretta directed us to an enormous, heavily grassed, drive-though site set amidst the impressive South African Rain trees for which this park is known. How we would have liked to have seen it before cyclone Larry destroyed over 60% of what had been there.
As I have mentioned before, I do not intend to cover old ground in this blog, and our route into Townsville and on up the Bruce Highway mirrored what we had done last year. So with no further ado, fast forward to our camp at the August Moon Caravan Park, Innisfail, where the most obliging Gretta directed us to an enormous, heavily grassed, drive-though site set amidst the impressive South African Rain trees for which this park is known. How we would have liked to have seen it before cyclone Larry destroyed over 60% of what had been there.
Here we again caught up with the Vogts who had made their way north via different stop-overs and whose van can be seen at the right of this shot.
A comparison of recent travelling notes was, of course, mandatory, as is always the case in these circumstances, and as you would expect this cannot be reasonably achieved without the appropriate lubrication.
It took only a quick look around this park to recognise that once again we were back in cane country. As is common in this part of the world, the cane fields are grown right up to the boundaries of domestic properties, as can be seen here where the cabins on the northern perimeter of the park immediately abut the cane. Given that cane burning was conducted prior to hand cutting in the days of yore to rid it of snakes and rats, I'm not too sure these cabins would be my idea of a safe domicile.
And just to demonstrate that life on the road can bring out the romantic in even the hardest of us, the rising full moon shining through the rain trees was too much to resist. Again, on occasions like these, I become sorely tempted to learn real photographic skills.
The only drawback in this otherwise lovely park was the fact that it is on 'the Bruce', and more significantly, in the 80 km section on the approaches to Innisfail. If one were in any doubt that the Bruce carries a deal of heavy traffic 24 hours per day, a night at the August Moon will soon dispel that notion. Once again, the need for compromise in a life on the road became a reality.
A heavy overnight dew saw us slogging about in very wet grass as we pulled down to leave the next morning. I was particularly glad that we had been able to remain hitched. And so we were off to the Atherton Tableland and Lake Tinaroo where my fisherman's dreams were to be answered ('in you dreams' was more the fact of the matter as we later discovered!).
As we drove through the familiar streets of Innisfail, I was again reminded of just how much we like this quaint, art deco town. As well as cane, this is banana country, an industry devastated by Larry. Who will forget prices of $12-14 a kilo in Adelaide? It was wonderful to see all the plantations thick with large healthy plants, in a surround, which, because we are here a couple of months earlier than last year, is so magnificently green. (even in the tropics things do dry out in late winter, appropriately known as 'the dry')
My upbeat mood was soon tempered as we hauled out of Innisfail onto the Palmerston Highway and upwards, ever upwards. If we had any doubt that Atherton does lie on a high tableland, this was quickly dispelled as we slogged up many very steep sections of the highway in 2nd gear, for what on occasions, seemed interminable periods before the relief of the crest was reached. Not that the equally precipitous descents were much easier. A total weight of nearly 7 tonnes can quickly develop a mind of its own if given its head downhill. God bless diesel engine braking compression and to hell with the impatient car drivers behind us, one of whom did express his frustration with a ludicrous overtaking manoeuvre on a double line. Idiot! But it was a Saturday...boys and their toys!
A couple of hours of serious concentration, and there we were...Atherton. And a few kilometres beyond, through the quaint little townships of Tolga (great pub...later story) and Kairi (great eggs..another story), with only the odd clipped discussion between driver and navigator, we had arrived at the Discovery Park at Lake Tinaroo.
At this point, dear readers, I intend to crave you indulgence. We have now been here for four days during which the wretchedly crappy wet and windy weather (reality again!) has allowed me to catch up on our adventures to date. Whilst we have done one trip around the Lake (it is massive), and completed our initial recce of Atherton (shopping etc), things have been too bleak for photos, and, frankly, I need a bit of a blogging break. Apart from that, John and I have some serious fishing to attempt, and the need to launch the Hurricane is becoming ever pressing (wind speeds below 'fresh' would be good....no immediate prospect). I hope to resume at the keyboard in a week or so, and therefore, as the French so aptly put it, this is not farewell but merely "adieu".
It took only a quick look around this park to recognise that once again we were back in cane country. As is common in this part of the world, the cane fields are grown right up to the boundaries of domestic properties, as can be seen here where the cabins on the northern perimeter of the park immediately abut the cane. Given that cane burning was conducted prior to hand cutting in the days of yore to rid it of snakes and rats, I'm not too sure these cabins would be my idea of a safe domicile.
And just to demonstrate that life on the road can bring out the romantic in even the hardest of us, the rising full moon shining through the rain trees was too much to resist. Again, on occasions like these, I become sorely tempted to learn real photographic skills.
The only drawback in this otherwise lovely park was the fact that it is on 'the Bruce', and more significantly, in the 80 km section on the approaches to Innisfail. If one were in any doubt that the Bruce carries a deal of heavy traffic 24 hours per day, a night at the August Moon will soon dispel that notion. Once again, the need for compromise in a life on the road became a reality.
A heavy overnight dew saw us slogging about in very wet grass as we pulled down to leave the next morning. I was particularly glad that we had been able to remain hitched. And so we were off to the Atherton Tableland and Lake Tinaroo where my fisherman's dreams were to be answered ('in you dreams' was more the fact of the matter as we later discovered!).
As we drove through the familiar streets of Innisfail, I was again reminded of just how much we like this quaint, art deco town. As well as cane, this is banana country, an industry devastated by Larry. Who will forget prices of $12-14 a kilo in Adelaide? It was wonderful to see all the plantations thick with large healthy plants, in a surround, which, because we are here a couple of months earlier than last year, is so magnificently green. (even in the tropics things do dry out in late winter, appropriately known as 'the dry')
My upbeat mood was soon tempered as we hauled out of Innisfail onto the Palmerston Highway and upwards, ever upwards. If we had any doubt that Atherton does lie on a high tableland, this was quickly dispelled as we slogged up many very steep sections of the highway in 2nd gear, for what on occasions, seemed interminable periods before the relief of the crest was reached. Not that the equally precipitous descents were much easier. A total weight of nearly 7 tonnes can quickly develop a mind of its own if given its head downhill. God bless diesel engine braking compression and to hell with the impatient car drivers behind us, one of whom did express his frustration with a ludicrous overtaking manoeuvre on a double line. Idiot! But it was a Saturday...boys and their toys!
A couple of hours of serious concentration, and there we were...Atherton. And a few kilometres beyond, through the quaint little townships of Tolga (great pub...later story) and Kairi (great eggs..another story), with only the odd clipped discussion between driver and navigator, we had arrived at the Discovery Park at Lake Tinaroo.
At this point, dear readers, I intend to crave you indulgence. We have now been here for four days during which the wretchedly crappy wet and windy weather (reality again!) has allowed me to catch up on our adventures to date. Whilst we have done one trip around the Lake (it is massive), and completed our initial recce of Atherton (shopping etc), things have been too bleak for photos, and, frankly, I need a bit of a blogging break. Apart from that, John and I have some serious fishing to attempt, and the need to launch the Hurricane is becoming ever pressing (wind speeds below 'fresh' would be good....no immediate prospect). I hope to resume at the keyboard in a week or so, and therefore, as the French so aptly put it, this is not farewell but merely "adieu".
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