 Carnarvon Range to the west as we head south:  Crossing the Great Dividing Range again:  Roma:   St George:    |
Carnarvon Gorge to St George
Preparing to leave early, we farewelled our pleasant A-frame caravan
neighbours who wished us well, noting that we were doing well on our first
trip and marvelling at how old we are. The latter remark was a shock as I
had not realised they were in their mid-50’s and had thought we looked about
the same age, but I suppose our grey hair and ‘comfortable’ figures give us
away!
Bruce took the wheel for the challenging, rough drive out of Carnarvon
Gorge. I noticed dust flying out behind us and reflected on how it became
sticky mud immediately you added water to it. Not heavy mud as in Sydney,
but light, surface mud that sticks to everything that touches it. Bruce had
noticed other campers had separate sandals for inside-the-van use, thus
avoiding the endless floor sweeping we had been doing.
Once we reached the bitumen, I took the wheel again, driving to Injune where
we stopped for refreshments. Truck drivers were sitting on the café verandah
watching us and the sight of an older woman stepping down from the driver’s
seat clearly surprised and amused them. One smiled and lifted his drink in
salute, making friendly conversation. I was privately delighted! After our
break, Bruce drove to Roma for lunch.
We’d been to Roma many years earlier. Bruce knows it well from decades ago
when he worked in the area. All three of his children were born there. Roma is a thriving regional centre and home to
many huge bottle trees, used to great effect as street trees providing shade
and softness in the harsh, hot environment. Lunching in a shopping mall
café, we took time to notice once again the prevalence of very obese people,
some in the café, some just walking past. Our nation-wide obesity problem
was becoming very obvious.
I took the wheel to Surat, stopping there for fuel. The afternoon was hot
and overcast as we drove through this gas production area with few trees in
its broad, flat acres. On and on we went, finally reaching St George in the
late afternoon. The St George caravan park was much smaller than others we’d
stayed at. Vehicles were parked cheek by jowl, providing little privacy from
neighbours and for a moment, I was mildly dismayed. But as I headed to the
amenities block, I was impressed with the concrete path provided and touched
by the friendly smiles of the mostly older people sitting in the late
afternoon sun relaxing and chatting to each other. It turned out that the
caravan park is also a retirement village of sorts where these elderly folk
live in quiet, modest serenity, gathering for evening socialising each day.
We had enough energy left for a much needed walk which turned out to be
quite delightful. Nibbling on chocolate-coated ice creams, we strolled
through pleasant tree-lined streets past lovely old style homes to the
promenade along the Balonne River which runs through the town. There are
high embankments along the river side, indicating this is another
flood-prone town and there are also huge old river gums adding a touch of
softness and beauty to the attractive scene.
To our mild surprise, we were approached by three tall, blonde teenage
school girls still wearing what I took to be their sports uniform as it
consisted of maroon sweaters and matching shorts with long white socks, but
it was their normal winter uniform. I wondered what they wore in summer . .
.
‘What makes you want to see St George?’ the tallest one asked, smiling and
curious. ‘We’re doing a school project and we have to find out why people
come here.’
Bruce was obviously intrigued by the interest they showed. ‘Go for it,
Darl!’ I encouraged him, hastily wiping the remnants of chocolate from my
mouth.
‘We’re just resting between Carnarvon Gorge and Lightning Ridge,’ he said,
falling silent again. I seized the initiative and asked them about
themselves. I wondered about their summer uniform. ‘We wear short skirts and
socks in summer because it gets so hot,’ one replied. I struggled to
discern the difference. ‘You mean, those shorts are for cold weather?’ I
said, doubtfully. Conversation soon petered out and Bruce and I continued
our stroll along the clean streets where Senator Barnaby Joyce has a huge
new building housing his office, where the Police building is very
apparent and where there is a brand new courthouse. I wondered if the neat,
clean town was the response to such an obvious presence of all three aspects
of the Westminster system of government. No room for law-breakers here!