Only one more sleep until Christmas! Something that is totally irrelevant to us sitting in Lowood, however there are millions upon millions of folk, not all of them under-fives given the advertisements all about, who will be counting down, days to hours. But at the risk of starting to sound like the Grinch, I shall desist right here.
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| Views over Lowood |
Although neither of us admitted to the other, yesterday morning we were both too tired from walking in the heat of the day before; instead we busied ourselves with laundry, pinning down the caretaker to pay for the balance of our allowed week and attending to telephone calls and email correspondence with a chap who is showing definite interest in our caravan.
The afternoon was similarly spent, driving out briefly to the lookout at the reservoir above Lowood. From here we enjoyed views down the valley to Fernvale and up towards Esk, all confirmation of what a lovely area this is.
Reading further information about the Rail Trail, I learned that two towns called “Stinking Gully” and “Harrisborough” once made up the area now known as Fernvale. In the 1860s the area was the centre of cotton farming in the Brisbane Valley but floods soon made the industry obsolete. The spot became a regular camping place, and in 1875 it became known as Fernvale; so much more attractive than “Stinking Gully”!.
During the course of the afternoon one of our neighbours came over to chat with Chris while he was cleaning part of the caravan exterior and tried to sell him a book. We learned that we have an author in our midst, a poet no less, the ex-truckie Dave Delaney, winner of the 2011 Open Poetry Award run by the Reef Writers & Port Douglas Gazette. Perhaps we will be treated to some of his talent over the Christmas period? Who knows how the days ahead will pan out?
This morning we were a little better organised as far as getting out on the road to Fernvale to undertake yet another part of the BVRT (Brisbane Valley Rail Trail). The section to Wanora is only eight kilometres, but even at this slightly earlier hour, too long for enjoyable walking. We preferred this section, or at least the four kilometres and back that we completed, more than the section from Fernvale to Lowood; this is more a cleared grass track along the original embankment, and more attractive to walkers than cyclists which suited us very well. Today there was no one else on the trail, although horses had come through fairly recently as was evident by their calling cards. On the Lowood to Fernvale section we had encountered four cyclists on our first day and no one on the second. It would seem that Australians are far too sensible to be out on rail trails at this time of the year, which leaves them to Mad Dogs and Englishmen, as the saying goes, or rather, Aussie-Poms and Kiwis.
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| Alongside the remnants of an old railway bridge |
Today we walked past more lily filled “tanks”, found ourselves caught up in the sticky silk of spider webs, were bombarded by the din of crickets or cicadas who seem to live in colonies, all competing in noise output with those further along the track. We saw dozens of lovely flowering weeds including lantana, the dreaded woolly nightshade and a small pungent ground plant that took me right back to my after-school carer’s garden, fifty five years ago; funny how smells trigger memories. We walked down through three shallow gullies, previously bridged for the rail, only the concrete piers left; in wet weather the trail must surely become impassable. Dotted about the rural landscape were dozens of boulder shaped ant hills and flitting about our path were masses of brown and gold traveller butterflies, perhaps sustained by the many swan-plants, heavy with the swollen bristle covered seed pods. Filtered shade made my umbrella a little superfluous, but I persevered anyway, dressed to kill, or to be ridiculed. I am already quite sunburned enough.
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| Walking the trail |
The trail follows the main Brisbane Valley Highway for a few kilometres, then sweeps away towards the old and now non-existent Fairney View station; there we decided that an hour’s walking was far enough and turned back.
Arriving back in Fernvale, we found it as busy, if not busier, than it had been on Sunday, with all the last minute shoppers clearing the shelves in the supermarket and liquor outlets. We joined them and spent more on luxury foods that normally do not find their way to our simple caravan. Chris is determined that even in the absence of family, we will indeed enjoy the gastronomic delights of The Big Day. This causes me great dismay as I seem to have been battling with my weight ever since leaving Tasmania; we have done so little exercise in recent times despite our dabbling with the Rail Trail which fills these recent postings. I have no wish to become like so many of the bonny bulging women in this country, those well matched with their husbands and partners who look about five months pregnant, despite their masculinity. However in defence of these well-fed Aussies, New Zealand has its fair share of fatties too!
In fact I read today in The Australian that the average Queenslander male would need to walk from Brisbane to Rockhampton to burn off the excess food consumed this Christmas. I felt quite vindicated by that; our over-indulgence will not add up to anything like this. However on checking further, I found that the Diabetes Council was referring to a two week period when the average Queenslander male attends about six Christmas functions. So actually there was no comparison at all, and I returned to my guilt ridden thoughts.
We were back in time for lunch, after which Chris gave the rig a thorough wash, we bought ice-cream, yet another treat to add to the fridge, than retreated to the shade of the caravan awning to rest after all our day’s adventure, in readiness for the feasting that is planned for tomorrow.
I am currently reading a fascinating book compiled by John Laws, titled It Doesn’t End Here, which is a collection of vignettes about people who have left their mark on Australian history. Many are tales I have learned during our travels, such as the First Jihad, the story of the two Muslims who attacked a train load of picnickers between Broken Hill and Silverton, and New Australia, the disillusioned Australians who headed off to Paraguay to start a new country back in 1893, aboard the Royal Tar (now where did I learn about that?) This is a book I will want to take back to New Zealand with me but alas there are already too many that fit that category; they may well have to be left for others to enjoy as I have.
On television the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition and various Christian Church leaders are offering their Christmas messages, on email we have, this afternoon, received an audio song-message from 12 year old India along with many silent wordy ones, all most appreciated.
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