Extreme cooking from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Simon, Ken’s host in Bargara, sheds some light on the skill required to cook snags – sausages – on an open fire in Australia. Extreme. Footage also includes some disparaging advice about Blackpool. Scurrilous stuff. Enjoy.
Off-roading from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken tries his hand at off-roading… in a Landcruiser. And threatens to leave Emma, his trusty steed. Only joking…
At least two hundred bucks to fix explained Nate. Technical whiz in Bargara. Introduced to him by Simon, with whom I’d been staying. Despite a brief revival in Mackay, my original netbook had finally given up the ghost. Worn out. Not just the keys. The hard drive.
Quickly totting up what I’d already spent on the earlier fix. A short lived respite as the drive began to fail explained Nate. Concluding my little computer was now beyond economic repair. Replacement a reluctant but unavoidable necessity. Nate suggested a national electrical retail chain in nearby Bundaberg.
Few hours later the owner of the latest model of Acer Aspire One netbook I’ve been using. Essentially a known quantity. Confident it will do the job. Pretty much the same size as the original. So fits snuggly in the bag. Much longer battery life. Handy. And the cheapest machine in the shop. Even before the discount I negotiated for purchasing the display model.
Hearty agreement. Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven were a bit too domestic. Never seemed to wander far from the garden shed. But the Famous Five? Lighthouses. Secret notebooks. Hidden treasure. Catacombs. That was proper adventure. Up there with Blue Peter’s John Noakes as a role model growing up in the Seventies and Eighties. Later Alistair MacLean novels. From a time when going abroad meant plotting sabotage or conducting espionage.
I was staying with Simon, old public school friend of my neighbour Jon, and his wife Janette in Bargara. Small coastal resort in central Queensland. Few days off the road. Feeling a bit self-conscious. Simon a professional photographer. Curious as to what he made of my amateur efforts. Janette a former Times journalist. Sharp mind.
Bundaberg. Birth place of Bert Hinkler. But I’m sure you knew that. Pioneering aviator apparently. Now, call me a mite cynical, but whenever I see claims of this sort – birthplace rather than home of – you do begin to wonder how dreadful the place might be. Why they so obviously fled. In this case to Blighty.
Had he pushed buttons? No, I replied. With a teasing grin. If that had been the case, I explained, then he’d know about it. I’d be standing on his head, I added. Half jokingly.
Ralf was Australian. But unmistakably German in his origins. In later years he’d studied psychology. Was I running away from something? Shouldn’t I get a motor car? Raise my self-esteem? Was I cycling around the world? Actually, yes, I replied. Smiling.
I’d initially been a little reluctant to camp in Rosedale. Small stop between Agnes Water and Bargara. Unnerved by a few vacant stares. Safe enough I’d eventually decided. Suitably secure pitch found in the rapidly fading light. Close to the settlement’s hotel.
The hotel was intriguing. Few patrons at the bar. A small take-away cafe at one end its mainstay. Succumbing to a generous portion of mini-chips for a few dollars and an equally reasonably priced soft drink from the virtually deaf barman.
Forced to retreat back into the darkness by the establishment’s surprisingly early closure. Barely eight. But soon found myself amongst some of the site’s permanent residents. Quite a few cousins. Did I want some pot, one asked. I declined. Politely of course. Explained I’d never smoked. Hoping it sounded better than a dismissive no.
Other cyclists had stopped there. One pair on a tandem had insisted on camping by the Gents toilet. Despite their assertions it was to get some light on their tent, this clearly hadn’t gone down well amongst the male residents. Compounded by the presence of something reassembling a Pagan fertility symbol. Strapped to the front of the bike.
Ordinarily I’d be a bit dismissive of such tales. Merely amusing ramblings of those high on drugs or alcohol. Or both. But in this instance I’d a pretty shrewd idea who they were talking about.
Seems I’d just missed them. Few days. Weeks perhaps. Dozen or so Kiwi cyclists. Women. Riding north. Camping overnight beside the roadhouse. Striping off their sodden kit beneath the water tank’s tap. Manager’s husband concerned for their welfare. Worried they were undernourished. Checking on them. Frequently.
Rosedale from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken describes his night in Rosedale. Small settlement. Where passing trains pass for excitement. Enjoy.
