Whew, another
Christmas done for the year and we all survived! Better still, we caught up on
Skype or telephone with the most special people in our lives; our children and
my parents in New Zealand and Chris’s sister in England. We ate and drank, but
not to excess, although there is still much to be finished off during the next
week.
We sat around
all morning as the temperatures climbed up to 35 degrees or more. Chris had
been looking forward to cooking himself boiled eggs on toast for breakfast, but
then thought this time-precise exercise might be interrupted by a call; instead
he opted for his normal cornflakes. His decision was well made, because Olly
called us while I had a mouthful of rock melon and muesli, to wish us a Happy
Christmas. The kids were strapped into their car seats and so were a captive audience
to the Skype call, and in case you are thinking that this sounds very dangerous
and illegal to boot, they were quite stationery. Kit was easier caught up with
by telephone, already out breakfasting with his in-laws, and my parents,
likewise doing so, with one of my sisters and her brood. We lunched on bacon
butties before setting out for a walk, having given up on catching up with
Larissa until later in the day.
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| Tunnels houses along the way |
Yesterday was
an introduction to the southern end of the Lowood to Coominya section of the
BVRT; we wandered up through the deserted township with the smell of melting
tar in our nostrils then set off quite alone up the wide grassy track, past the
back of Lowood suburbia greeted by barking dogs. I regretted that I had not
brought my walking pole, however when I picked up a branch for the return pass,
the canine brutes had wilted in the heat and all was silent. We walked perhaps
three kilometres up and the same back, past hobby blocks with token herds of
cattle and the mandatory horse or three, plastic tunnel houses , their use not
in evidence, reservoirs full of lilac flowering hyacinths. Along the pathway
small sweet pea plants had sprouted with a show of delicate burgundy flowers.
Christmas greetings were exchanged across the spaces between the shady
farmhouse terraces and the rail trail; no doubt those enjoying a quiet drink
with family wondered why a couple of middle aged walkers were out at this time
of the day. We were back at camp within an hour and a half, showered and ready
ourselves to put our feet up and crack open the cold bottles waiting in the
fridge.
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| A bovine audience |
Dinner was
experimental, something Chris considers an absolute no-no when entertaining or
for special occasions, however we had had a dummy run with the red-claw Neil
and Pauline had given us when we met up on the Sunshine Coast. Chris had cooked
them up and served them with a jar of ready-made Honey Mustard Sauce, of the
Chicken Tonight variety, served on rice with a side salad. This had proved to
be a great success, so he thought that scallops and surimi could be served in
the same manner. It wasn’t, although it didn’t really matter much; the wine,
the salad, the ice-cream and the rest of the Christmas goodies made sure we
still enjoyed our Christmas dinner. So good in fact that we were unable even to
last the re-run of the New Zealand movie “Boy”;
the day had proved too much for us!
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| An eye patch |
Boxing Day is
the real rest day of the Christmas holiday unless you are subjecting yourself to
the queues and crowds at the MCG for the fourth match of the Ashes series. After
such an early night, we were up soon after the birds this morning and out on
the road heading for an access point to the BVRT before 8 am. Unfortunately the
map we had did not show that the road we sought was closed, so we had to back
track and find ourselves another.
Today, again
on the Lowood – Coominya section, we passed through real farm land, some
surprisingly, dairy farms complete with rotary milking sheds and silage eating
cows, some sporting eye patches, and all with their quota of horses. Paddocks
spanned the trail much of the way and so with all the cow and horse poo about,
we were subjected to summer flies en masse. Today I upped the fashion stakes,
adding my fly veil to the umbrella ensemble, which made me a much nicer person;
I do not suffer face hitch-hikers well.
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| Lockyer Creek; the defunct rail bridge |
We reached
the old rail bridge across the Lockyer Creek, that which wiped out much of Grantham three
years ago, checked out the crossing access which was labelled “advanced”, an exaggeration
but good warning if you are extremely disabled. The river is crossed at current
levels on stepping blocks but after rain would indeed be impassable. This is
nine kilometres from Lowood, four from Coominya; these last will have to be
done another day from that end.
It was still
mid-morning when we returned to camp, but the temperatures were soaring; it was
37 degrees in the caravan even with the fans going. We showered and changed at
once, Chris settled in front of the cricket on the television and I set off up
the street to the laundry. The town was not much busier than yesterday although
there were queues at the service station. I sat in the airless shed which acts
as the laundry for half an hour, enjoying women’s magazines and trying to catch
the occasional breeze through the barn doors. By the time I arrived back at the
caravan with my two heavy bags of wet washing I was ready for another shower
and another change of clothes.
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| or stepping stones |
This afternoon
we relented and sealed up the caravan before turning on the air conditioner, so
it is now chugging away successfully having lowered the temperature to a
pleasant 27 degrees. Showers and storms are forecasted for the area, although
there is no visible evidence. The blue silhouette of the ranges beneath the
patchy sky, viewed from the caravan window, look as they have for the past few
days. One report suggests it is 41 degrees out there; I think I will stay inside
for the rest of the day.
Our week in
Lowood is coming to an end and we will move back to Ipswich tomorrow. I am
looking forward to catching three of the newly released movies although I will
miss the rural aspect of our camp here.
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