Heritage Village from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken makes a brief stop at a reconstructed heritage village…
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Village folk
May 13th, 2011Mount Larcom
May 13th, 2011Mount Larcom from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken describes his night’s stop at Mount Larcom. At the end of a swift day’s riding out of Rockingham. Unrelenting headwinds giving way to a cooling breeze. A gentle, steady downhill gradient much of the way.
Tropical times
May 13th, 2011Rockingham. Last town before finally parting company with the tropics. Tropic of Capricorn a few miles to the south. Close now on one third of my way along Australia’s east coast. But still a long way to go to Melbourne.
The tropics had been a challenge, doubly so in the wet season. Exhausting humidity. Cyclone Yasi. Flooded roads. Plethora of unfamiliar fauna. Crocodiles. Suicidal wallabies. I’d joked it was a laugh a minute. But secretly I was pleased. Mastered the environment. Sad to leave.
In truth, there’d been a marked improvement in the weather over the last few hundred miles. South of Mackay the rainfall had tapered off. You still got wet. But not as often. Stifling humidity replaced by headwinds coming up from the south. Continuing to cool. Pleasant. Australian autumn. Bit like an English summer.
Splash of mediocrity
May 12th, 2011Splash of mediocrity from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken describes his stop at a less than inspiring van park in Rockingham, central Queensland. Never a good sign when the facilities, and the entrance gate, require a key or combination. And value for money usually inversely proportional to the number of "Do not" signs. Of which there were quite a few.
Face for radio
May 12th, 2011
Face for radio from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken encounters a green tree frog. Quite harmless. One or two in Queensland apparently.
Camping at the Caves
May 12th, 2011Camping at the Caves from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken describes his pitch at Capricorn Caves, a little north of Rockingham, central Queensland.
Staying away
May 11th, 2011
Guessed they weren’t German. Most firm on this point. Swiss. Curiosity aroused. Did they still all have nuclear fallout shelters? Kept large arsenals of weapons in their homes? Ate Toblerone?
But instead enquired only after their language. All of them. Was it true that, depending on where you lived, you spoke a different language? Was there a single, unifying official one?
There were four languages, Simon and Tania explained. Swiss-German, French, Italian, and another dialect – something I didn’t quite understand. But too embarrassed to probe further. Most spoke just one. Choice depended on where you lived. You could see why the Germans stayed away.
Question of scale
May 11th, 2011
Don’t exactly expect maps in tourist brochures to be to scale. Just a small modicum of accuracy. Proportionate. But the one I’d picked up for a van park north of Rockhampton? Positively logarithmic. Showed a pub. Local school. Just off the highway. The site pretty well adjacent. Actually a couple of miles further on. Steep climbs. Arriving at dusk. But worth the effort. Peaceful. Pitch amongst the trees. Just two fellow campers. Couple of wallabies. Numerous green tree frogs.
Whacking the wallaby
May 11th, 2011Nothing to do with monkeys. Rather a simple tale of close encounters with wallabies. Bounding haplessly out into the road. Quite unaware of your presence. Your silent approach. Their impending doom. And potentially serious damage to Emma, my trusty steed.
There are usually a few clues to raise your awareness of what lies ahead. Along the lines of the old joke – "We must be getting near the next town. Hitting more people". Increased road kill. With even a modicum of headwind you can usually smell it at a hundred paces.
Ordinarily I might wretch. But I find myself hardened to these sorts of things now. Suppose that’s Chinese communal pit toilets for you.
Dull bits
May 10th, 2011Don’t want to sound ungrateful. But the road south from Mackay to Rockhampton is pretty dull. Actually no. Very dull. Monotonous. Scrubland. Open savannah. And quite a bit of it. Almost three hundred and fifty kilometres in all. About the length of Wales. Roughly the distance you’d cover cycling from Anglesey to Cardiff. But far more sparsely populated. Long sections without a soul.
Beyond the small town of Sarina, twenty or so miles south of Mackay, just the odd watering hole. Carmila. Clairview. Delightful stop at St Lawrence. Marlborough. The Caves. Suddenly aware that potable – drinkable – water doesn’t flow out of all taps. Hardly the Outback mind.
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