9 January 2014 - Caboolture Showground, Caboolture, Queensland

The days pass and a sale seems no more likely than it did a week or even a month ago although enquiries trickle in by email or telephone, mostly tyre kickers not quite ready to take the plunge. Somewhere out there is the perfect buyer with the perfect amount languishing in their bank account; it is just a matter of time and serendipity.

In the meantime I reduce my possessions; a couple of pairs of scruffy shorts or short longs dispatched to the rubbish bin, and a pair of sandals collapsed as I wandered about the shopping mall, temporarily repaired by my clever husband but still destined for that same rubbish bin before long. Ridding oneself of possessions is immensely cleansing; the trick is not to replace them, a task that requires incredible willpower.

The camp has filled to capacity or at least for those wanting the luxury of electricity. The more salubrious camps charging commercially driven tariffs are also full, and those who would never normally lower themselves to camping in showgrounds are resorting to join gypsies such as ourselves, no doubt finding them to be excellent value if one is prepared to dispense with the bouncy pillows and swimming pools, although the latter would indeed be most appreciated on some of these afternoons.

I never did find out for sure what the ruckus  was out the back; series of sharp short sounds not unlike the sound of rabbiters going about their business on moonlit nights. One fellow camper suggested to me that it was simply sound effects to frighten off the flying foxes from the nearby orchards, which sounded very plausible. Another suggested to Chris it was the local constabulary practicing with their guns, less plausible but quite possible given that cops here in Australia do carry “pieces”. 

The first discussion around pest control was supported with much detail about the fear of those same little critters getting into the berries grown hereabout; once a crop has been even visited by a recci crew of bats, the whole crop is unsalable. It is something I should ask the stall holders in the market next Sunday if I decide I fancy a punnet of locally grown berries. And then of course there is the matter of the deadly hendra virus and the horses all around, even just through the fence from our camp, although it is some time since I read of the last case, and those most at risk are handlers and vets. I will refrain from stroking any soft equine noses presented through the wire netting.

This morning we walked up to the newsagent just opposite the railway station and back, stopping to pick up some vegetables at a greengrocer along the way. Sadly this particular one is not up to the normal standard of such vendors in this state; we will in future stick to the large supermarkets while we are here. The “local” has poor quality produce, high prices and joyless service; zero out of ten. But the walk shook out the cobwebs and made me feel very righteous, about meeting exercise requirements anyway.

We drove down to Burpengary this afternoon to revisit the motorhome sales yard visited some weeks ago, in the vague hope we would find one more appealing and be able to convince the sales people to accept our landcruiser and caravan as a direct swap. Alas, there were fewer on display than last time, all were poor presented and had sales tickets beyond the reaches of any bargaining. Instead we came on home to find the washing dry despite the forecasted showers and the tennis all happening down in Sydney. Needless to say I took refuge out under the awning, enjoying the breeze and the company of the birdlife all about. I should, or at least could, add that I did willingly watch all of the charity match between Roger Federer and Jo-Wilfred Tsonga televised last night from Melbourne.