After a lengthy stay, with just about everything we have been carrying with us spread throughout the annex area, the pre-departure pull down was a two day job.
But with the verandahs stowed and the shade cloth folded away and in its locker, I was well on the home straight by the time Liz popped out to snap progress.
As always, leaving Kurrimine Beach is something of a wrench, but needs must and after very fond farewells to our park friends old and new (Glenda, Ian and Brad in particular) it was back to the Bruce Highway where our noses were turned south for the last time in what will probably be two years.
The relatively small, but very enterprising town of Home Hill, some ten kilometres south of its much larger neighbour Ayr, was the planned end point of today's moderately log haul (for us that is) of just shy of 350 kms. This section of the highway which took us through Cardwell, Ingham and Townsville has been the subject of many travel photos in both directions.
I'll not bore you with repeats but take an editorial leap in travel time and distance to bring us to the northern end of the main street of Home Hill and the right turn
which took us the short distance to the road which lies one street back from the highway and parallels the railway line through town.
I mentioned at the outset that the good folk of Home Hill are nothing if not enterprising. They have been hell bent on turning the annual tsunami of grey nomads to their commercial advantage, and they do it very well as you will see.
If the provision of free camping were an Olympic event Home Hill would stand proudly on the winners' dais every time. The road on which we propped is the most popular spot. Unfortunately the most sought after sites were well and truly occupied, and with good reason. Shade and lawn are real drawcards, and with the ability to camp here for 48 hours, many do just that. Dropping anchor in this part of town is very much first in best dressed and a success hinges a great deal on luck.
We had to opt for the opposite end of the street, and to ensure that our departure could not be stymied by 'very cosy' neighbours front and back, we took up a spot right at the end of the designated parking area. Although we had only dry grass underfoot (with the greatest collection of wretched little bindii prickles we have ever come across!) with a loose bit of shade cloth set up to to deal with the worst of the afternoon sun, we were more than comfortable.
And we were not alone!! By mid afternoon this stretch of roadway had become a continuous line of vans......
parked head to tail along what we estimated to be well over 600 metres.
With these vans, those parked up in another free camp area, and the Home Hill Caravan Park all taken into account, we estimated that the total here for the night would have to have been close to 100.
Folk do not congregate here for no reason. The local authorities do all they can to encourage a stopover by providing excellent public facilities including
a wonderful covered BBQ area
and public toilets with (free) hot showers right next door.
Of course none of this comes without some rules, but we found these to be entirely reasonable, and, from our observations, generally well obeyed (which is a first!)
A monument at the front of this complex pays tribute to the efforts of those who first settled in this area,
and pictorially acknowledges the value to the community of the mighty Burdikin River,
which I have to say did not look quite like the photo when we crossed it some hours earlier.
Even the gender signs on these heads
are works of art.
We did take the time for a quick ramble down Home Hill's main street, one along which we have previously driven many times whilst travelling to and from FNQ.
As I have mentioned previously, overseas backpackers flock to Home Hill during the picking season and from all the advertising on the walls of the Commercial Hotel, one of three pubs along this strip,
including this meals deal, the prices were obviously designed to attract those with limited cash to spend, which would include many caravaners who pause here for at least one, if not two, nights. I was somewhat amused to read that the coffee and cake is no cheaper than a full meal!
And if you can't get the punters in to eat, let's hope they are looking for entertainment, the standard of which seemed to vary considerably.
One can but imagine the scenes at the bar during the conduct of this unique event! 2015 was obviously a quiet year and the sign writer had expressed his or her disdain with the inclusion of the word 'sooks' after the 'N/A'. What was the town coming to that year we ask?
For those with a yearn for something a shade more up market, Friday 25 August would be the night to be here. We had the pleasure of listening to this young lass in Winton just shy of a year ago. She is very good (and we both like pasta). We were both sorry that we were here 10 days too early.
The Crown Hotel offered similar enticements, including a pool competition with more than worth while prizes and Sunday roasts for $14.
The proprietors of the Malpas Hotel, which we had passed on our way into town, seemed to have distanced themselves from the crass commercialism of their competitors. Their only effort to attract custom came in the form of a chalk board announcing 'Barra and chips' for $15. If the plate presented by mine host at the Malpas was half way as good as that Liz enjoyed earlier this year at Koumala, this would have been our pick.
For those with resupply needs more substantial than a cheap meal, Home Hill is still the spot. The large premises of the 'Friendly Grocer'
and the obviously much more recent building which houses one of the many Cornets IGA's we have found dotted throughout the QLD countryside, provide a competitive choice for those venturing forth with a larder list to be filled.
Let me conclude this whistle stop tour of Home Hill with two main street buildings which could not have been more different. The owners of this predominately weatherboard building obviously decided that a much more grand street presentation was in order. A stone facade should do the job. A former bank, perchance?
Opposite this little architectural oddity stood a building of significant elegance and charm, throughout. I was unable to discover the history of this fine looking edifice in the short time
we had available here but I did note a sign which indicated it was currently being used to house various local business ventures. Not a bad spot for the office!
Well, so much for our overnight stay at Home Hill. Apart from the rotten little prickles which littered the grassed area at our doorstep (and had to be extracted from the soles of thongs and shoes with tweezers lest they deposited themselves on the van carpet with disastrous results when padding about in bare feet) we were more than happy with our choice.
Our position at the head of the parked caravan queue allowed us to make our way out of town good and early. Today's journey of some 180 kms was to bring a real change of surroundings for the Mobile Marshies. As the title of this missive indicates, we were about to leave cane country for the coal mines of Collinsville and the wider Bowen Basin.
Again let me fast forward the section of the trip south along the Bruce Highway until we were about 10 kms this side of Bowen township where we turned right off the highway onto the secondary road which would take us west up into the hills and mountains of the Great Dividing Range.
As we travelled west through the plains between the ocean the the mountains, we were staggered to see the extent to which this area is under tomatoes.
We had previously seen large plantations in and around Bowen, and along the Bruce Highway north of the town, but until now had been completely unaware of the existence of these plantings which cover vast tracts of land under the forbidding bulk of the distant mountains.
These trellised plants were heavy with almost ripe fruit (as this rather blurred shot shows) and we could not help but marvel at the speed with which these had developed given that most of this area had been devastated by the rains and winds of Cyclone Debbie but a few months before.
All this changed completely as we entered the undulating country at the base of the ranges where trees and grazing land replaced the tomatoes and other vegetable crops.
The roadside trees soon became taller and taller
and the hills more pronounced.
Every so often the road took us through a relatively open grassed stretch, but even here the backdrop of looming mountains was ever present.
Nearing the end of the 80 kilometres from the highway to Collinsville, the countryside became distinctly more rocky and hilly.
For much of the final run into town one of the many coal train railway lines which snake their way to the ports of the coast, became our roadside companion (as well as a real slowcoach of a mobile home....gnash, gnash.....maintaining revs is important in this country)
To my relief we were able to overtake this vehicular tortoise before we began the final serious climb
into Collinsville where the town welcome sign
and another proclaiming one of its unique characteristics, are sited unusually distant from the town itself.
But we were soon on the last approach. We could see the light coloured roofs of houses in the near distance
and were soon making our way at a sedate 50 kph through the Collinsville 'burbs' along the approach to the town centre.
A small triangular park which houses a statue of a pit pony (more of this later) heralded the need for a left turn,
and after negotiating one last roundabout
the Collinsville Caravan Park was in our sights.
As usual we hove to at the park office and paid our dues before making our way into the park itself.
This park has much in common with one we stayed at in Injune (north of Roma) several years ago....where a miners' camp and a travellers' park are combined. These can sometimes be a touch problematic, but consistent with what we had found in Injune, this park is a cracker.
Fortunately we were aware of the set up before we arrived, and were not in the slightest put out when the route to our site took us past the dongas and assorted parked vehicles of the miners who called this place home
before we moved on past the heads to the section of the park which caters for us mere nomads.
Here, any vague notions that the set up of this park may mean that those of us who were merely contributing to its coffers on a day by day basis might come off second best in terms of accommodation, were immediately dispelled as we drove through onto our patch.
Here we soon set up alongside a very good, even, long slab surrounded by pristine lawn with site separating palms providing a nice touch. And to top it all off, the park was not crowded, the sun was out and we recognised that we had discovered a little gem.
The amenities block in use was just a touch primitive, but as the charming park manager explained on our arrival, Cyclone Debbie had paid a most unwelcome visit to this area (we had actually read about this) and the alternative, much more modern, ablution block had paid the price. But as we always comment, if the shower provides a strong hot stream and the place is not crawling with bugs, we are content.
A quick wander around the park confirmed that it is indeed a miners' camp. Dongas abound, but they are all contained in one specific section, well away from the transients' area.
The park facilities include this large mess hall which caters for the needs of those working in the nearby mines.
I did wander into check this out on the afternoon of our arrival and was more than impressed. I was told by the manager that the mess was open between 3 and 8, morning and afternoon. I soon clarified that indeed the doors do open at 0300 each morning, close at 0800 hours and again admit the hungry hordes for another five hours as of 1500 hours each afternoon.
An understanding of the shifts these miners soon made sense of what at first appeared to be very odd hours of business. On the day shift, many begin work between 0500 and 0600 hours whilst those on the night shift clock on at similar times twelve hours later. No such thing as an eight hour day in this business. And once this is understood the mess hall hours make perfect sense.
As for the food, it looked excellent. Out of respect for the privacy of those dining when I snooped about, I did not click away with my camera, but I can tell you that the hot buffet included two pasta and sauce dishes, crumbed steak (no, I'm not going to explain this Queensland oddity to you again!!), fish, sausages and a variety of hot vegetables which would have passed muster at any hotel dining room worth its salt.
For those with a taste for a cold collation the range was equally impressive. The selection and presentation of the cold meats on offer would have put many supermarket deli sections to shame. The salads were similarly inviting, both in terms of their quality and the range, including a cheese selection and hard boiled eggs.
As I salivated, I was amused to watch a number of big burly blokes, still clad in their high vis working gear (minus dirty boots) delicately filling their lunch time plastic containers with a range of cold meats and salads which would have brought a tear of joy to the eye of Rosemary Stanton and all the other dedicated dietitians of the world who have been pressing the value of good eating on us all for years. I'm not saying for one minute that the portions were small, far from it, but they were certainly healthy (I doffed my hat to one chap who managed to delicately surround the top of his already bulging container with six half boiled eggs, all evenly spaced and tamped down with the touch of a chef). Some sights just cry out for the descriptor 'incongruous' and this was certainly one of them!
And now for the punch line. All such as we who were mere 'visitors' to this park were cordially invited to front up to the mess for an 'all you can eat' gorge at the buffet, morning or afternoon.....and the cost...$15! Liz and I felt as though we were back at the Kurrimine Beach motel. I was dead keen, but my charming travelling companion is not known for her appetite, and I have a distinctly developed dislike of eating alone. I still dream about what would have been on offer for breakfast!
Several signs around town talk of Collinsville as being the place 'you will come back to'. I suspect the dining hall of the caravan park has not seen the last of me yet!
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