FROM THE BANKS OF ONE RIVER TO ANOTHER - GILGANDRA TO CONDOBOLIN (2 SEPTEMBER 2107)

From the banks of the Castlereagh to the Lachlan.....Gilgandra to Condobolin, a moderate run of some 260 kilometres into the heart of New South Wales. 

As usual we were up and at it early, but as we pulled into the huge truck stop just north of the town for some much needed fuel, it was clear we were not alone on the highway.

I am sure I have previously noted as we have driven through here that this has to be one of the busiest refuelling spots for heavy vehicles we have come across in all our travels. This morning was no exception.

There were trucks of every description rafted up all over the place, and believe it or not we have seen it even busier!

Fortunately most of those guiding these transport titans were well tucked up inside the roadhouse, slurping coffee or hoeing into a large and well deserved breakfast. 

This meant we had no problems at the bowser and were soon on our way charging south in the pale sunlight of a very chilly morning as our external temperature reading clearly showed. We were still really struggling with the cold but resigned to the fact that we had better get used to it....there was much more to come.

So with our internal climate control pumping most welcome warm air into the Cruiser's cabin we headed back past our park to the first of the highway junctions for the day. Here it was a left hand turn for the Mobile Marshies as we set off down the Newell Highway in the general direction of Dubbo.

The southern outskirts of Gilgandra were soon in our mirrors as we continued along the Newell for but a short distance.

Rather than travel down the familiar route through Dubbo, Peake Hill and Parkes before turning west to Condobolin, we had decided to take a secondary road which would give us the opportunity to visit Narromine, a new town on our travelling horizon.

So, a mere 27 kms south out of Gilgandra found us turning our head to the south-west off the Newell at the Eumungerie junction,

where a surprisingly good road led us through open grazing paddocks

some of which were decidedly greener than others.

The low, dry, brown grasses of the open plains were occasionally broken by a flash of landscape yellow.......the tell tale colour of a ripening canola crop, 

but a closer look at these showed them to be stunted and struggling, evidence of a poor winter rainfall which we were to see for the remainder of the day and indeed throughout Central New South Wales.

All that we were seeing confirmed the tale told us by a woman in Gilgandra, a farmer's wife who also worked in one of the town stores. When I was commenting about the season and the parlous state of the crops, she told us that they had just given up any thought of reaping their crops this year and had turned out their cattle onto them to get some return for their efforts.....yet another example of the ongoing lottery of life on the land!

Fifty five kilometres from the turn-off brought us to the approaches into Narromine,

a town famous for a cricketer as much as anything else. Of course you knew.....this is the home town (he was actually born in Dubbo, but grew up here) of 'The Pidgeon', the Australian medium-fast bowler Glenn McGrath, that lanky bowling metronome whose nagging line and length drove opposition batsmen to an early demise at the crease more often than not. He also caught one of the most spectacular outfield catches we have ever seen right under out noses at the Adelaide Oval some years ago. We like Glenn!

And, as we drove into Narromine, past the stone fruit packing factory,

through its garden intersections 

and along its blossom lined main street

to our next turning point, we decided that we very much liked what we had seen of his home town too. Another spot for the 'return and tarry list'.

The gardens of Narromine central soon gave way to the grain silos which lined the road we were to take to for the next 90 kms to the town of Tullamore.

This stretch was decidedly more 'country secondary' where long expanses of roadside bush

suddenly gave way to lush pastures














open grazing paddocks














and yet more stunted fields of canola. There was no doubt we were indeed in the heart of NSW agricultural enterprise.

And then Tullamore was upon us, or we were upon Tullamore, which ever way you wish to look at it.

Apart from its name, the town welcome sign displayed an unmistakable Irish connection. 

As we slowed to traverse the one and only main street of this small town,

took a passing look at the quite large local pub

and the modest town shopping centre

before heaving to for a rest break beside the town park, I was wondering about the more than obvious Irish bit.

The answer was not immediately apparent, but a later visit to my old friend 'Google'  provided the solution, and I quote:

"The area now known as Tullamore was first called Bullock Creek in 1870 and then Gobondery in 1895. George Tully, who came from Tullamore in Ireland, built a hotel and called it Tullies Exchange Hotel and pressed the point that the town be named Tullamore. He succeeded and the town has been called Tullamore ever since."

So there you have it, another of those little mysteries of the Australian bush solved. As we understand it the locals have continued to embrace this quirk of history with gusto and a fine Irish music festival is held annually over the Easter holiday period.

I had to chuckle when reading the promotional blurb on the town's excellent website which noted that "the annual Tullamore Irish Music Festival celebrates the entire range of all things Irish - that is, the Irish, the near-Irish, the stereotypically Irish and the not-really Irish." Now you just can't ask for more than that!  I suspect a Tullamore Easter would be a real hoot....another list item!

But an Irish Easter is a long way off. Not so the tiny ex-mining town of Fifield, where the old country pub is one of only a handful of remaining buildings









and the road out of town was as tired as its surrounds. 












And here we had another change of country with stands of yellow wattle providing a bright contrast to the background scrub.












As we entered another stretch of rolling hills.











on the final leg into Condobolin, the surrounding countryside was again blanketed with green cereal crops, but like all else we had seen today, none of it was flourishing.










And then, joy oh joy, roadworks, well no bitumen at least. Fortunately this dusty challenge did not extend for too far











and we soon came to our last highway junction for the day, the entrance onto the Henry Parkes Way and the last few kilometres 









into Condobolin where the very impressive town sign leaves visitors in no doubt that this is a rural area.







Condobolin, on the banks of the Lachlan River is known as the town in the absolute centre of New South Wales, or as close to it as one can reasonably get. And having arrived, we were off to find our park which we had read was right on the banks of the river. Indeed it was, and what a party place this turned out to be, but more of that and the town in my next.