We had plenty of time up our sleeves this morning, between rising and the conventional time of departure, so wandered down to the Chinese Takeaway store to see if their one Australian was still unsold. We were not disappointed and it saved us walking the longer distance down into the city. Chris likes his daily paper and was concerned that there may be none at our destination; of course I am not averse to speed reading the days current affairs, the Letters to the Editor and the Sudoko.
Returning to the grounds, I suggested we take a quick turn of the perimeter, given that we had yet to explore our home of the last week and more. We had been subjected to the strangest of sounds over the past week, akin to an erratic leaf-blower. This morning we identified the source and spent some time watching the action. The Ipswich Greyhound Racing Club and facilities are all part of the show-grounds and every morning before the intense heat of the day, the dogs train. This morning we watched as the “hare”, probably a collection of smelly rabbit pelt strips, hanging from a contraption on a rail, complete with siren style audio (I had no idea that running hares made such a noise) whipped around the course while these poor dogs, one after another scampered after it at high speed. We were too distant to see what reward, if any, the dog received when he arrived at the end of his run. One does hear rather hideous things about the way these canines are treated and discarded when they don’t come up to scratch. Alternatively, you also hear that a retired greyhound makes an excellent pet; they are probably just so grateful for a bit of love and kindness.
Anyway, aside from all the blather, the scene kept us captivated for some time before we continued on around the property, spread over a round hill with views all about.
We followed a couple of other parties out and headed across the city to the Warrego Highway, aka Darren Lockyer Way, then headed westward, travelling only about twenty kilometres before arriving here at this quaint little rural settlement. As we pulled into the show-grounds here, we noted that the two parties from Ipswich, a large bus rig and accompanying sedan and another rig similar to ours, had arrived minutes before us. We all had the same idea and it struck me that there were probably a few dozen of us all moving about an area of no greater than twenty square kilometres, carefully not outstaying our welcome and all seeking low-cost accommodation. Here the tariff is $15 a night; Ipswich charges $20. Their facilities are far short of those you would find at a commercial caravan park; no laundry, or pool, or kitchen, but they serve us well.
The show-grounds here are right in the edge of the small residential area surrounded in farmland; a very pretty spot. The trotting track is apparently considered one of the best facilities in South East Queensland; today it is the playground for a man on his tractor mower.
Marburg has a little more than five hundred inhabitants and is located sixty kilometres west of Brisbane. Like so many places in Australia, or even the world, its heydays have passed although its proximity to the Brisbane - Toowoomba highway does draw tourists to pause for a comfort stop, a poke around the two antique shops or a beer at the pub.
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| Our trackside camp at Marburg |
German settlers arrived in the region around the 1860s, and by 1900 Marburg had a courthouse, police barracks, a post office, two hotels, five churches, a State school, a School of Arts, several stores, a blacksmith, a butter factory, a sugar factory and a rum distillery, all built on the dairying, timber and sugar cane industries. At that time nearly 80% of the population were of German extraction.
After lunch when Chris was settled in front of the fourth day of the cricket test, I popped back down to the village and checked out the general store and post office. The locals are so very warm and friendly; we might have to stay longer than our planned couple of days; I was assured we would be most welcome.
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