 The country was flat yesterday and still is today:     Trees!!!  Longreach: The QANTAS Founders Museum:      Across the road: Australian Stockman's Hall of Fame   |
Winton to Barcaldine
The day dawned chilly at first, but would soon become sunny and hot. We
learnt later that August 2009 would turn out to be the hottest August in
Queensland on record. I had not slept well after the rich and fatty meal of
the night before and was very tired – not a good start. I fell into
conversation with a woman fellow-traveller about my age from Adelaide. She
commented on the arduous nature of campervanning which she and her husband
have been doing for years. ‘It used to be easy,’ she said, ‘but my
arthritis is slowing me down these days.’ Her comments hit home as I
realised the truth of them. Despite the wonderful experiences and
discoveries, the life of the very active camper is not something I could
envisage for myself in the future, though slower, shorter more relaxed
adventures may be inviting.
As we pulled out of the Winton caravan park, though I had appreciated the
Australian reality of the dust, the heat, the very casual roast beef dinner
and even the country and western singing sending us to sleep, I was happy to
be on the road once more.
We needed some cash. We looked around the small town, unable to find an ATM
and I drove the 180 kms over long, straight road and more flat grassed flood
plains until we reached Longreach. There had been little traffic apart from
caravans and campervans [Winter is the tourist season in Queensland], a
truck or two and a horse float which I followed for most of the journey. As
we skimmed along the road at high speed, we noticed an interesting illusion
which Bruce tried to photograph. Telegraph poles marched relentlessly
beside us on most of our journey. Today, as we were covering long distances
on roads which occasionally rose into small hills before disappearing over
the other side of the hill, the wires stretched between the poles created
the effect of the Harbour Bridge arch, but each time as we drew nearer, the
‘bridge’ would become simply the stretched wires again.
At Longreach, we stopped to get cash and drove first to the Qantas Founders museum,
unmistakeably signalled by the presence of a huge 747 parked in front of the
buildings. A group of tourists were listening to their guide and preparing
to enter the plane to inspect it. Bruce and I looked at each other and
wordlessly decided we didn’t need to do that. Drinks in the Qantas café
were welcome on this very hot day. We wandered around looking at posters on
the walls and I bought yet another souvenir badge before pressing on to the
Stockman’s Hall of Fame.
This tourist attraction is housed in a huge, modern and very attractive
building with high curved roof sections reminding me vaguely of the Sydney
Opera House. There were few trees and virtually no gardens. Dust and heat
provided the appropriate atmosphere. Tourists were everywhere. Sunday is
probably the peak day for visitors. Inside, I explored the gift shop as
mementos for friends and relations were much in my mind. There was a huge
range of stockmen’s hats, jackets, boots and other paraphernalia but all
were good quality and very expensive. Nothing else appealed to me.
Somewhat dispirited and still very tired, the thought of exploring the Hall
of Fame, particularly when I learnt how expensive that was going to be, and
knowing I had little interest in the subject anyway prompted me to suggest
to Bruce that we keep going. He agreed, though I could see he was struggling
with indecision also wanting to see the exhibition, but very tired himself.
The intense pressure we’d been under for the past three weeks was catching
up with us.
Bruce took the wheel and before too long we pulled into the pleasant caravan
park in attractive Barcaldine. Both of us were already tired and Bruce was
out-of-sorts as well, unusual for him. I noticed with relief we were close
to the amenities block, though screened by pleasant gardens of golden cane
palms. As we had ‘neighbours’, a youngish German couple, parked very close
to us on our exit door side and as they were sitting lunching outside their
van, we set up our table on the other side of our van for both privacy and
shade. I cooked lunch and we ate in morose silence. Bruce had been trying to
make his new Telstra gadget work but still without success, was cranky and
freely admitted his fatigue. I was nonplussed by his uncharacteristic poor
spirits, cleaned up the lunch and encouraged him to rest while I took my
book outside to read in solitude.
There was to be the opportunity for a gathering with other campers to enjoy
damper and scones and more country music and entertainment at 4.00 p.m. I
encouraged Bruce to go, saying I would join him later. Unhappy about going
on his own, he nevertheless set off and I took the opportunity to tidy up
the van and freshen myself up before joining the group almost an hour later.
The people were listening to a man speaking of the life in Barcaldine. He
was clearly conservative in his political views, a country man from way back
and now past his youthful days, a tour guide doing his best to attract
customers in the best possible way and very overweight. Nevertheless, he did
have some interesting factual information. We learnt, if we did not already
understand it, that the whole of outback Queensland depends on the Great
Artesian Basin, vast quantities of water accumulated deep below ground
level. He discussed the use of water bores, how water had been wasted in
the past and how modern techniques were improving on this by capping bores
and piping water to where it was needed. He told us Barcaldine was once
even more beautiful than it now is as it sits on sandstone which absorbs and
holds rainwater, thus allowing for trees and gardens to thrive. But recent
modern construction had begun to break up the sandstone with sad results. On
and on he went, interspersing his talk with stockman’s poetry and subtle
invitations to come with him on his bus tours. I noticed Bruce quietly
leaving as the man’s talk came to a close, but I had also seen other
entertainers arriving and beginning to set up. I stayed to listen to their
singing for another short period, but again deciding country and western was
not my favourite music, returned to the van.
We were both in better humour now and enjoyed a light snack together,
although Bruce, ever fascinated by his electronic equipment, was sending a
few emails. Then he tried to play one of our recorded TV/DVD discs and it
wouldn’t work. I crossed my fingers, hoping that would not send him back
into a morose mood and, as it was getting dark, suggested a walk as we’d had
little exercise for a while. The air was warm and the traffic on the
Landsdowne Highway beside the park not too heavy. We set off. Bruce
pointed to a wallaby, disturbed by our approach, hopping suddenly away
across the road. There were no street lights, but plenty of light from
houses and motels that we passed, though we had our torch with us just in
case. On and on we walked, finally reaching the town’s main street. It was
very still and quiet, not surprising for a country town on a Sunday night.
We thought it time to turn back, but as we turned into the next side-street
my foot hit a low projecting step not visible in the dim street light and
sent me flying again. Fortunately, I ‘bounced’ just as on the previous
fall, not even scratching myself, but now I was truly concerned. Bruce
calmed me, handing me the torch. We were, after all, walking in a strange
place in almost completely dark conditions and I do wear multifocals which
can affect visual acuity in certain circumstances. I let the matter drop,
deciding privately to ensure I looked where I was putting my feet more
carefully.