South of Proserpine thirty miles of sporadic sugar cane. The odd homestead. But otherwise nothing save frequent uphill drags. Sapping headwind. Steady drizzle. And roadworks.
Waiting at a stop sign for my turn to pass, I chatted for a while with the traffic controller. Noticed she was wearing a fleece. Still warm. T-shirt and shorts ample. But it was beginning to cool a little as I’d continued south. Heavy rains felt sharper. Icier touch.
Bloomsbury. Few houses. Rusting truck. And a small servo. Coffee and a crumbed snag. Watching two young women spend almost an hour sweep and mop a floor barely twice the size of my lounge. Smiled as I left. Returning into the gloom outside.
