LONGREACH (7 - 13 JUNE)

Longreach at last.  For reasons which will become clear as you read on, this is one place in Australia I have yearned to visit and here we are at last!

Our trip from Blackall took us through Barcaldine, the town in which the Australian Labor party had its genesis as a result of the extended, and in some cases, bloody, shearers' strike in the late 1800's.  As I later read in the Stockmans Hall of Fame, the devastating drought of that time resulted in a drastic reduction of demand for the services of the shearers.  The pastoralists took full advantage of the situation.  Men would travel for miles (and by now we could really appreciate the challenges this presented in itself) from shed to shed only to find that there was no work for them.  Those who were lucky enough to join a team then worked 14 hour days for about a tenth of the pay they were receiving a few years previously. Understandably, a real schism between station owners and the shearing teams was the upshot.  In some instances this resulted in personal violence and property damage.  One example of this occurred at Dagworth Station, near Winton, where the shearing shed was torched.  One of the suspected arsonists was later found dead at a nearby waterhole.

This incident gave rise to another very significant part of the Australian way of life but in a totally different way. Banjo Patterson later visited Dagworth with his 'lady' friend who was, in turn, a close friend of the station owner's daughter.  In the course of this visit AB was taken to the same waterhole, where, it is said, a stripped sheepskin was found.  Melding all these events with appropriate poetic licence gave rise to 'Waltzing Matilda'.  The township of Winton now makes much of this as we discovered later.

We would have liked to have spent some time in Barcaldine, but a schedule is a schedule.

The approach into Longreach is dominated by the more than imposing tail of the Qantas 747 which sits majestically (usually....except when its nose wheel has sunk two metres into the collapsed cement pad on which it normally rests...as I have said before, it has been wet up here) at the Qantas Founders' Museum.

For reasons which I'll explain later, this sight was a real thrill for me.  The Qantas Museum and the Stockmans Hall of Fame were conveniently both within walking distance of the caravan park in which we dropped anchor for a week and we did spent a deal of time in both.

Whilst my aversion to dust and its effects remains a constant, I am learning to cope.  This is just as well now that we have left the mud of towns to the south behind us.  Dry and dusty is the new order of the day. 

Most sites at Longreach are well covered with gravel, and ours was no exception. 

It is the roadways which create the problems, particularly when they are traversed by those who think 'walking pace' is 20 kph.

I have taken the occasional opportunity to express my displeasure about the antics of these park 'Fangios' (who is that you ask..research time) with mixed, but usually successful, results.

The Longreach 'Discovery' Park is huge.  It provides over 300 sites, the 'Woolshed' restaurant and bar (which we did favour with our custom on night one), two spas (of highly doubtful clarity and cleanliness), a pool, a large office and store and several amenities blocks.  Whilst it was never full during our stay, I estimate that there were many nights when we were sharing the place with at least 150 other vans.

In fact it was in Longreach that we realised we were part of what can only be described as a 'tsunami' of caravans heading north.  In addition to those with us, another smaller town park accommodated 50 or so, whilst the nearby 'Long Waterhole' free campsite was constantly home to at least 80 -100 vans on any one night as the two shots below show.

We estimated that, including those in transit, the Longreach area was host to at least 300 caravans during any 24 hour period. Impressive!  We also soon learnt that Longreach is a 'choke' point on the trek northwards, beyond which many alternative destinations see the spread of travellers along various routes.  It struck me that there was an interesting similarity between the flow and spread of the travelling hoards and the behaviour of the many rivers and channels of the area which seasonally burst the confines of their defined banks and inundate the countryside.

Once settled, the pressing task of sourcing a new awning arm bracket presented itself.  After unsuccessfully scouring the Internet, I resorted to ringing the chap from whom we had bought the van to find that I should have done this in the first instance.  A visa debit of a mere $39.00 and the required part was on its way express post.  Because of the impending Monday public holiday, we knew that it would not arrive until Tuesday at the earliest, so we extended our booking to a week and made our plans to 'do Longreach'.

Friday was spent engaged in the (by now) very necessary domestic chores of washing, cleaning and shopping.  Our sojourn along Eagle Street, the main business precinct of Longreach, was interrupted when we ran into folk we had met in Charleville who were indulging in a coffee at the 'Eagle Nest', a bar on grill of some repute.  This meeting was one of what was becoming a bit of a constant as we all 'hedgehopped' north, but the venue was fortuitous in that the owner of the establishment, one John Hawkes (don't you just love the play on words here) was a man we were tasked to look up.  His mother is a patient at the physiotherapy practise at which Liz had been working for the past nine months.  Need I say more?

The following day was devoted primarily to my literary obligations (trust me folks, these blogs take time) and a bit of general sightseeing......a necessary lay day which did include a visit from another couple we had also met in Charleville, who had just arrived in Longreach and with whom we made arrangements for happy hour the next day.  This particular afternoon included a visit to our end of the park by the resident brolgas whose imperious manner and harsh calls for food were impressive but proved fruitless at the Marshies' site.

Later that afternoon we were on the bus to take us to the nearby Thompson River for a sunset cruise to be followed by a campfire dinner and bush poetry.  I had been somewhat ambivalent about this but am now glad Liz was insistent.  One the basis of previous recommendations we chose the 'paddle wheel' cruise rather than one offered on a modern vessel and it transpired that the advice received was salutary.  A most entertaining evening.

I was somewhat initially taken back by the apparent size (or lack of it) of the good vessel on which we were to ply the Thompson, but despite my lack of faith in the tour host's ability to count, we all found a seat and

  

 spent the next hour or so enjoying (BYO) drinks, (life can be tough on the road)

  

 the sunset over the Thompson

and the very pleasant company of Lyn and Stephen Eleftheriou, yet another couple we had met at Charleville, and with whom we later spent time at Winton and Cloncurry before we headed off in different directions.

The subsequent campfire supper of 'drovers' stew', damper and sweets was very much to my liking, as was the pre-ordered vegetarian plate prepared for Liz, but the night belonged to the bush poet, Scotty.

Unfortunately this shot does not show Scotty's preeminent feature, his bare feet.  His lack of footwear is apparently legendary in Longreach.  I was cynical enough to suspect this may have been but a party trick but that thought was tipped into a cocked hat when we came across him two days later as we were walking to the Stockmans Hall of Fame.  Trudging down the road towards us was Scotty, you guessed it, sans footwear.  I couldn't help but wonder if he was on a training run!

Irrespective of his dress habits, his diminutive stature and rather gnome like features, Scotty was a gem.  His choices of poems were delightful and his laconic delivery was the epitome of what one would expect from a 'bushie'.  He ranged across all subjects, from the standard 'Man from Snowy River' to a poem (name forgotten) about a bloke trying (very unsuccessfully) to back a trailer.  Needless to say, that resonated soundly with the vast majority of his audience. 

Sunday....the Qantas Founders' Museum.  How I had been anticipating this visit, not only from the perspective of aviation history, but also because of the fact that three of my very longstanding friends have had a direct association with, and input into, one of the prime exhibits, the Boeing 707.

Qantas Captains Warwick Tainton, Bob Small and Dick Hodder, with whom I have been friends since 1974, (long story) are all recognised on various displays for their involvement in the discovery in England, subsequent restoration and eventual return to Australia of the first 707 to bear the Qantas livery and see service with the airline.  It was almost eerie to see their names so prominently displayed in such an iconic (think the word fits here) institution.

I'll not bore you with the details of the exhibits which I fully understand have appeal to only a limited section of the community (including Liz who dutifully tagged along, but did find some real interest in the exhibits relating to the provision of medical services to the outback many years ago) other than to comment that the Museum is a real testament to the vision and hard work of those responsible for its inception and development.  'Wok' Tainton, as a former, longstanding Chairman of the Board of the Museum, can  justifiably retain much pride and pleasure from his involvement.  It was all I could do from time to time to refrain from telling all and sundry nearby that 'that bloke is my mate'.

Let me leave QFM with a shot which demonstrates just how things have changed in the airline industry.  Here we have Liz disembarking  the pride of the Qantas fleet modelling the very latest in 'hostie' uniforms.

I find museum visiting very tiring, particularly when the quality, variety and standard of presentation of the exhibits demands full concentration in an effort to absorb as much as possible.  QFM was no exception.  We were both exhausted by the time we trudged back to camp. In fact, as I write, I am reminded of the ubiquitous ending of all primary school 'compositions'...invariably titled 'A Day At The Beach'..when all and sundry invariably returned home 'tired but happy'.

Forgive me, dear readers, but I must now digress from yarns of adventure and wonder to yet more 'Pete knows everyone' tales (all true).

I think I had forgotten to mention previously that our stay at Evening Star in Charleville resulted in a meeting with a chap, who campfire chat revealed was the brother of an NRM colleague of mine in Port Lincoln (with whom I had shared a drink as recently as 23 March)...but that pales into insignificance in terms of our next encounter.

Following our visit to QFM, Liz and I joined Sue and Noel Peck (yes, Charleville again) for happy hour (they had recently arrived in Longreach).  For some reason which now escapes me, Liz had to return to our van (I suspect we had run out of the requisite happy hour supplies), the site alongside of which had been vacant when we left.  She returned agog with a gasped out, "You are just not going to believe this".  Indeed I almost didn't.  Our recently arrived neighbour was none other that a bloke with whom I had played hockey for over 20 years.  I had not seen Terry White and his wife Chris since they had been guests at Oleander Street a year ago (almost to the day) when Liz and I hosted a team reunion.

(it is always good to have full backs on the team who are seriously big buggers!)  I suspect any attempt I make to suggest that I repaired to my cot that evening cold sober and unhappy would be met with universal derision from you all, good readers. (you would be right)  As a small postscript, we ran into them again in Winton, where wisely our spouses took charge and the revelry was muted.

We took a 'brain break' the following day (mine remained somewhat foggy well into it), did some shopping and availed ourselves of the excellent facilities of the Longreach 25 metre indoor pool before hosting the Eleftherious for happy hour.  Unfortunately I had recovered both mentally and physically by this stage, a state I set about reversing with similar gusto to the previous evening.  Mission accomplished.....once I had served the hot bacon savouries...thank goodness I had had the foresight to have cooked our dinner requirements (an excellent honey lemon chicken) earlier that day.  Ah, the wonder of the microwave.

Tuesday found us at the Stockmans Hall of Fame, an impressive building housing equally impressive displays and exhibits.

 

As with the QFM, any attempt to describe all we saw and did during this, and a subsequent visit the next day (both establishments very cleverly allow a return visit for the one admission price....it is impossible to to take everything in properly in one) cannot be reasonably accomplished in a blog format (so I'll not try).  Suffice it to say, we both left Longreach very much the wiser in respect of the cattle industry, those who pioneered it and those who continue to work in it.  I must add that this knowledge is very much flavoured with admiration.

In the course of this visit we did take in the show put on in a small enclosure to one side of the main building, where we were royally entertained by a stockman whose talents included impressive bareback horse control, the presentation of animal tricks (particularly by Alice the camel) and a staggering recitation of CJ Dennis' poem about a legendary bullocky whilst simultaneously fitting yokes to a team of six bullocks which had been previously herded into the yard by the three resident cattle dogs.  He then proceeded to have the bullock team drag a large log up onto a dray with a chain attached to the yoke harness. 

  

Given the confines of the yard, absolute control of the team was critical (they are not small beasts)

and his was consummate.  Indeed his skill was such I forgave him the for the plethora of corny jokes and somewhat banal audience interaction (is this really popular or do folk laugh to be polite) with which he had interspersed his displays of animal management.  Money well spent (despite my usual initial ambivalence...thanks Lizzie).

Our return was greeted with news of the arrival of the replacement bracket, which, to my relief was not only the precise part needed, but could be fitted without trouble by mechanically challenged persons such as your scribe.  My only retained concern at this point related to the operation of the lever which allows the awning to be extended and retracted.  This is achieved in the same way as a holland blind is raised and lowered, but as you might imagine, given the size of the awning on a van such as ours, the forces required to wind it in are considerable.  In fact, Matthew, the chap from whom we bought the van and who sent us the new part, had been excitedly cautionary in relation to the potential danger of a malfunction of this device.  Of course, this warning did not improve my mood or my sense of 'what the hell will I do if I can't get it back up?'  I will confess to a somewhat sleepless Tuesday night  (despite Liz's advice to only worry about it if it happens.....works really well if you do not have the ultimate responsibility!)

Wednesday dawned...our last day in Longreach.  Our return visit to the Hall of Fame was followed by another trip to the pool where I tried unsuccessfully not to overdo things (a decent pool in the bush is such a rare thing).  Pack up time...the moment of truth.  I had by this time decided that if the awning would not retract, I would have to cut it away from the fitting by which it is attached along the top of the van, roll it up and then detach it completely from the van itself.  This may sound somewhat extreme, but I challenge you to think of the last time you saw a van being towed with its awning extended (yes, Hens and Troy, I remember!...apologies to all but those two dear friends who are privy to that long story).

As I am sure you have gathered by now, given the absence of verbal wailing and the use of sack cloth and ashes, the operation was successfully achieved, not, however, without the tender administration of several love taps with my trusty rubber mallet.  Amazingly, since then, the damn thing has never operated more smoothly so all plans to have to make our way immediately to Mount Isa, to the establishment of the only awning repairer within 500 kms, had been averted.  How well I slept on our last night in Longreach.

Let me leave you with a few shots which, in our opinions, really capture Longreach, this cattle town which offers so much more.

And, finally, for all you feline readers who are gasping for news of Max, the ship's cat, let me put your furs (sorry, fears..forgive me..I've been at this too long) to rest.  He has taken to life on the road with gusto.  He is passing his time howling from his cage (between blessed naps) whilst travelling (we have nicknamed him 'Ultra Tune' in memory of that ad where they fixed 'that annoying noise in the back'), patrolling the site,

or just 'catching up' after a hard night's work guarding the inside of the van from one end to the other, leaping on and off the bed, paying numerous visits to his snack bowl and spending many hour staring out of the window to ensure his is in a prime position to repel boarders.

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.

PETERBOROUGH TO COBAR (24-30 MAY)

After the dust of the previous day, Peterborough reverted to early winter form overnight.  Our departure was undertaken in cold drizzle.  With the wind having backed to the south-west (up our stern) and not a skerrick of dust to be seen, we were strangely happy campers!  The overnight and morning chill did prompt a change of plans.  The concept of free camping at Little Topar (no heating) did not appeal at all.  A phone call from Liz as we headed north-east saw us booked in to the main park in the Hill for the night.

The drive across the plains of the lower north-eastern pastoral districts was uneventful.  The various hamlets dotted along the railway line with names that evoke the romance of both the rail and grazing history of the area such as Oodla Wirra, Mannahill, Olary and of course, the renown border town of Cockburn (where once the state border passed through its centre, allowing drinkers to leave SA at the close of one hotel at 6.00pm and walk across the state divide to the other in NSW which stayed open until 10.00pm...certain oddments do appeal to me) passed by smoothly as the Cruiser ticked over at a touch under 2000 rpm (love those tail winds) on what is a very good stretch of highway.

The decision to overnight in Broken Hill proved worthy.  An iced windscreen and clouds of steaming breath at 7.00 the following morning highlighted the value of our internal heating arrangements (despite the fact we have reverse cycle airconditioning, we find the little blower heater we carry is perfectly efficient and much quieter).  We did stop at Little Topar to refuel en route to Cobar where we discovered an establishment characterised by a certain rustic Aussie outback charm and decor.  The largest sign behind the counter (and it was large) made it clear that any indulging in "bad language" would promptly find themselves on the service station apron for the duration.  My enquiry with the proprietor as to the capacity to overnight on the sealed surrounds was met with,"Mate as long as you bloody like, whenever you like".  I took that for a yes.  I have a rather entertaining image of the potential conviviality of the Little Topar roadhouse on a good night, something we plan to experience in the future.

Ah, the Cobar caravan park!  That worthy oasis of wide cement slabs, lawned site verges and large trees.  What simple things can please the weary caravanner.  After the six hour trip from Broken Hill we dropped anchor without too much trouble.  Indeed this was the first occasion on which I had directed Liz into a site with the use of our UHF two way radio.  Excluding the fact that one point I had forgotten to hit the press to talk button whilst suggesting in rather urgent and strident terms that she might care to stop before hitting a kerb (my directions...not her bad driving he adds hastily) all went swimmingly.  I should add that I though Liz was being a bit harsh when she was at pains to point out this mere temporary aberration to our friends the Lawtons (yes the same) who took up the site next to ours the following afternoon.  We decided to spend some time here, unlike most who merely overnight (as we did last trip).  As I remaked to Liz, sitting in the Cobar caravan park is like sitting on a beach, only in this case the daily tidal ebb and flow is of caravans not the sea.

Saturday was spent sleeping in, shopping, washing and scrubbing the van both inside and out.  Not a jot of dust remained.  Happy hour with the Lawts was followed by dinner at the nearby Bowling and Golf Club where, typical of the bowls clubs of the eastern states, the cuisine is Chinese, and, in this case, excellent. 

Mentally and physically refreshed, we spent a fascinating next morning at the Great Cobar Heritage Centre, a striking building, which was the former administrative centre for what was the largest copper mine in Cobar (now mined out).  Whilst we were both aware of the mining heritage of the area, we had no idea of the extent.  Of course, inherent in the mining methods of the turn of the past two centuries, were significant dangers.  Looking at a photo of a group of miners descending into the pit suspended on loops of a large rope to which they clung with one hand whilst holding their mine candle in the other, left little to the imagination.  Indeed a memorial park to those who have perished over the years forms a feature of the eastern departure highway of the town.

The discovery of copper is a tale in itself.  Three 'tank sinkers', moving through the area from Qld looking for work in the late 1800's, found odd blue-green coloured stones at a water hole at which they camped.  In what could only be described as a most fortuitous turn of fate, they showed them to the wife of the publican of a nearly bush hotel.  This lass of Cornish origin had worked with copper in the Old Dart prior to emigration and was quick to let our likely lads know what they had found.  Needless to say they toddled off post haste to stake their claim and went on to become the founders of the richest copper deposit in Australia for many years.

The slag heap of this now defunct mine is still at the eastern edge of Cobar.  It is now being reclaimed, crushed and used for local road paving. The tiny scraps of residual gold in these tailings have given rise to the demonstrably credible local claim that the roads of Cobar are literally paved with gold!

Many more ore deposits, including silver, lead, zinc and gold followed.  Mining remains a vital local industry together with cattle and sheep production.  Indeed, 'HighVis' is the garb of prominence in the main street at almost any time.  The open cut mine pictured is only 2 kms from the town centre.  The hole is large.....as we watched, a large grader emerged from the 'small' entrance seen at the bottom of the photo to make its way along the roadway to the top. (Sorry, not a good photo....be grateful for small mercies!)

Much has been done in Cobar to create a place of convivial living despite its high summer temperatures and low rainfall.  Prominent amongst these has been the construction of a wonderful lake. 

Liz and I traversed this and the local golf course on Monday.  Notwithstanding our 'heritage' walk around the town after our museum visit the previous day, this was genuine exercise at last.  The path is dotted with informative and well placed signs which identify and describe the local flora as well as some identifying the sites of two shanty towns which rose and fell with the fate of the main mine.  A highlight, however, was the local rugby ground.  Never let it be said that the good folk of Cobar lack drive or creativity when it comes to the matter of mascots.  Would it come to any surprise to discover that the rugby team bears the name of the 'Cobar Camels'??  How many teams can boast a real living mascot we ask? 

The irresistible draw of bright and warm sunshine saw us both indulge in a real 'veg-out' day Tuesday.  Liz is in a state of some shock in that I actually sat in a chair without doing much for almost half an hour.  A practise run removing the Cruiser's spare wheel and finally firing up the generator did appease my conscience. Completing this blog is doing the same today.  We are planning a pre-dinner walk into town for a drink at the Great Western Hotel as the exercise for the day.  This rather grand (or at least it was in its heyday) establishment boasts the longest wrought iron balcony balustrade in the country but the attraction for us is to determine if the two young ex-NSW police who had just taken the place over when were last here two years ago are still in situ, and, more to the point, making a go of it.

The weather is not too promising over the next few days, but nevertheless it is time to move on.  Bourke is the next destination on the agenda where we plan to spend time visiting Mount Oxley  (great views over the plains) and the town of Brewarrina, some 100 kms to the east, which is the location of aboriginal rock fish traps believed to be 40,000 years old which makes them reputedly the oldest human construction on the planet.  Forecast heavy rain and northerly winds have us planning to spend Saturday and Sunday in Cunnamulla (an interesting town but of limited local attractions) before we move on northwards to Charleville.  Here, rather than revisiting the town in which we spent some time last trip, we have booked in to a cattle station some 10 kms to the north-west, the 'Evening Star' where we hope to enjoy their advertised large, grassy sites, camp fires and brilliant night skies.  What are the odds on clouds and drizzle??  Hopefully the forecast for the relevant days is correct and we shall indeed be sitting under a clear sky.

Finally, a word about the ship's cat on whom we had originally placed great reliance as a guard animal and defender of the van.  Need more be said?  Even the open eyes was a mere token effort for the camera.

 PS  I have just noticed that the 'post time' lags the actual date by a day....fear not good readers...rectification is the next challange (as well as improving the photos...cannot be too hasty)

CLARE TO PETERBOROUGH (19 - 23 MAY)

Well, the Clare Gourmet Weekend has come and gone and I am pleased to report that the Marshies (or at least one of them...no guessing who) have remained relatively unscathed!

We began the weekend on Friday evening by accepting an invitation to dinner with Trish and Kerry Lampard.  Kerry and I crewed together on 'Poppy' in the recent Adelaide to Lincoln yacht race.  Further to that, Kerry is the President of the SAS Association in Adelaide and is also a member of the Combined Ex-Service Mess, with which I am actively involved.  What is all this nonsense about six points of separation?  After pre-dinner drinks watching the antics of 'Whipper' and 'Snipper', the two resident alpacas, we sat down to a delightful meal and some excellent wine.  A great way to start the weekend.

Our approach to the festivities of Saturday was uncharacteristically restrained. In fact with the exception of a sortie into the market held in the main street of Clare on the Saturday morning (where we caught up with a former Police mate of mine who is now growing olives in the valley)  we did very little during the day in anticipation of the fine time to be had at the 'Long Table' event being held at Taylors Wines that evening.  We were not disappointed.

Liz and I are very good friends with Neil Jericho, the general Manger of Taylors, and his good wife Kay, and we were delighted to not only catch up with them and others, but were very pleased that this inaugural event for Taylors was such an outstanding success.  Various courses of Italian cuisine prepared by the owners of a new Burra restaurant (a native Italian of significant culinary skill and his Australian wife) were presented together with a selection of some of Taylors finest drops.  The food was first class, the wines excellent and the company jolly......indeed a night to remember and hopefully emulate next year.  As a small aside in the vein of (according to Liz) 'Pete knows someone everywhere we go in Australia' one of Neil's staff who was on duty during the evening is the daughter of the Orroroo based NRM colleague of mine with whom we had had a drink some two weeks ago. 

After a somewhat late start (for us at least) we toddled of to Stonebridge late Sunday morning.  It remains my contention that the 1 km walk from the caravan park accounted for the fact that numerous glasses of thirst slaking bubbles were the necessary order of the the next few hours before we wandered back to fulfil our previously promised duty to light the fire in the main park BBQ area.  Moths to the flame!  I am sure that within the next two hours 90 % of the population of the entire park had gathered.  It soon became clear that the festivities of the past two days had left some in various states of disarray and your corespondent has to admit to having joined them after an hour or so of chat around the fire.  Fortunately the wifely tug on the earlobe was enough to persuade me that a return to our van and some food was a very sound idea...and indeed it was.

Another return trip to Adelaide the following morning resulted in yet more transferred from the van into storage before we returned to Clare  to dismantle the annex, pack away our kit and make ready for the real start of the adventure. 

An early morning temperature of 0.4 degrees proved the wisdom of the decision to hitch up the previous evening and we were away by just before nine en route to Peterborough.  As I have previously mentioned, the park there is owned by a chap with whom I served on the board of the Childhood Cancer Association so it was no surprise to know someone in the park.  What did really throw both of us, however, was the fact that as we were setting up the door of the van on the next site opened from which emerged a couple we have known through UN ties and SAPOL for years and whom we had visited at their regular winter haunt in Main Beach, Southport, on our last trip.  What an extraordinary thing!  Unfortunately they had commitments here with relatives and left this morning, but not before we arranged to meet in Cobar on Saturday next.

We had a cursory look around Peterborough that afternoon, booked into the Steamtown night show for tonight, did the required shopping and returned for happy hour..  We awoke this morning to a somewhat disturbing forecast which has sadly proven accurate.  As I go to press, we are hunkered down in the van in winds of 40-55 knots which have been driving clouds of swirling dust over the entire town including the caravan park for the past five hours or so.  Fortunately we managed a good walk before things turned nasty and despite my severe aversion to dust I have been sparing a thought for all those farmers we saw seeding yesterday as we travelled thought the mid-north.  I can only hope that they have retained some of their topsoil by the time the promised rains arrive.

The conditions did produce one really poignant moment for us.  We visited nearby Terowie mid-morning (the scene of the railway station "I shall return" address by MacArthur during WWII).  As we drove into the main street, the Australian version of the American 'tumbleweed', so associated with western movies centred in bleak, desolate, dusty western towns of the 1800's, was swirling and cascading in great cavalcades along the otherwise totally deserted main street as if to emphasise the fact that at least 95% of the buildings which lined it were empty and derelict.  It was no surprise to later read on one of the very well presented plaques at the old railway station that the demise of the railway activities in Terowie, with the advent of the standard gauge line, had caused despair to descend on the town. It is certainly now a mere shell of its former self when all the rail freight being brought up from Adelaide on the broad gauge line had to be transferred manually to the narrow gauge rolling stock which traversed the line further north.  I was also struck by the irony of the fact that this apparent utter transport policy stupidity (broad gauge so far and then narrow gauge) had been driven entirely by funding constraints.  Sounded strikingly like the one way southern expressway in Adelaide!

Hopefully the wind will have abated somewhat by this evening when we venture forth the to local railway museum.  I remain hopeful that the Bureau has accurately predicted the milder weather conditions for our planned departure for Little Topar tomorrow.  Where you ask?  Our first venture into the world of free camping at a small roadhouse stop some 80kms east of Broken Hill on the Barrier Highway is our next stop followed by two nights in Cobar and thence north along the Mitchell Highway to Bourke, Cunnamulla and Charleville which we plan to reach by 30 May.

Sorry, still no photos...working on it!