The Gulf

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After the rigours of the Cape we completely spoiled ourselves on our anniversary by checking in to our original honeymoon spot at Crater Lakes Rainforest Cottages in the Cairns Highlands. A more idyllic place you’ll struggle to find and it never fails to get me extra brownie points as Debbie has totally fallen in love with the place to the extent that she’s sworn to buy it if it ever comes on the market.

Its the kind of spot where the most taxing thing you’ll do all day is pour yourselves a double spa bath, pop open a bottle of champagne, and enjoy some bubbles in the bubbles. Afterwards you’ll lounge on the sofa in front of the open fire, after which, well, you might just fancy another spa bath if you’ve brought some more bubbly, which you have, as otherwise those brownie points would vanish as fast as they’d so miraculously appeared.

On our departure I had to whisk Debbie away quick-smartish after the owner let slip the place might be up for sale in November, for fear it might be the shortest year-long holiday in history. I’m pretty confident that come November our pile of pennies will prove hopelessly inadequate in any case, and that my eternal spring of brownie points will finally have run dry.

Next stop was back to Cairns for a few days rest and re-supply. This turned out to be considerably less splendid than it sounds, as I spent 3 days solid on my annual accounts and Debbie managed to poison herself (though fortunately nobody else) with one of her trademark stir-fries. Many Thanks to Paul and Charlene for putting us up in their gorgeous new home.

Back on the road again, and it was time to head west across the Top End. The first stage was to cross the Gulf. More accurately, of course, we were crossing the Gulf Savannah, the wedge of land separating the Gulf of Carpentaria from the Coral Sea, but this being Outback Queensland it’s way too hot to be bothered with words of more than two syllables and both are referred to simply as the Gulf.
There’s not much in the Gulf except savannah, so conversations around here tend to be pretty short. There’s more than in the Cape, admittedly, but since in the Cape there’s nothing that’s not too hard. What little there is consists mostly of the remnants of the mini gold-rush of a century ago which opened up the area and then fizzled out as quickly as it had begun, leaving in its wake a series of civic buildings way out in the middle of, as they so charmingly call it here, Whoop Whoop. And let me tell you, Whoop Whoop, despite its party connotations, is not exactly a happening place.

Since the gold ran out a hundred-odd years ago there have only been two things to do in the Gulf: Fish’n and Grog. That’s plenty enough to fill a whole day round here though, and in the interests of efficiency, the locals often manage to do both at once, even on the hottest days. One or two of them also claim to run cattle stations the size of small to middling European nations, but in truth the cattle are pretty much left to themselves for the most part while everyone heads out fish’n on the grog. It’s enough to drag in a trickle of punters from far and wide to catch the legendary Barramundi, rated by most as the tastiest sports fish of them all.

Fish’n is mostly partaken in small aluminium dinghies, called tinnies, while drinking grog from cans, also conveniently referred to as, erm, tinnies! Typical bar room banter come Fridee nite is along the lines of

“Goin cross the Gulf Sundee to the Gulf, spot of fish’n. Out in the tinny with a few tinnies. Back Satdee.”

Authentic delivery is in the form of a continuous monotone drawl, each word melting into the next without the slightest hint of a gap, and the whole sentence taking well over a minute.

Quick as a flash five minutes later comes the witty response. “Sweet. Bringus backa Barra.”

By then it’s bedtime. Quite enough yakkin’ for one night.

Stretches between ‘towns’ are long, straight and flat, but at least you’re on bitumen, and the principle excitement is the challenge of not falling asleep at the wheel, doubly so as everyone here really does drink and drive, one hand for the wheel, the other out the window keeping the beer cool. Every so often it all gets too much and you have to stop for a rest.

At the pub.

There is nowhere else.

Our particular choice of stop was at Croydon, roughly the halfway point. Croydon is rather generously described by Lonely Planet as ‘the Vegas of the Gulf’. Yeeessss, well let’s just say that's stretching things a bit. The most likely puzzle CSI would have to solve here is the mysterious case of ‘Who Stole the Town?’ Entertainment at the bar consists of watching an endless stream of confused tourists drive laps around the small triangle of buildings wondering if this really is it, and whether to take the gamble of stopping at The Club Hotel.

On one such lap great excitement was stirred in the watching ‘crowd’ when the passing car let out a huge backfire and promptly dropped its fanbelt all over the road. Surprisingly the occupants drove serenely on, seemingly unaware that anything untoward had happened. Even more astonishingly the fanbelt continued to writhe and wriggle before making its way across the road in the form of a large, black, and not entirely happy snake. Half the crowd jumped to its feet and raced across for a closer look, while the other half sat back and supped its drink from a safe distance, hoping her stupid husband wouldn’t get too close and get himself bitten by the damn thing. At least I presume that’s what she was hoping.

On closer inspection the ‘backfire’ had in reality been more of a pop, the poor snake literally bursting its sides under the tyres. Most impressively this didn’t seem to bother it too much, though it was admittedly slightly less feisty by the time it reached the intersection for a rest. A wound like that’s just a scratch to a Taipan, it would appear. I’d like to think it just chilled there for a while, waiting for a mate with a puncture repair kit, before heading on its merry way, but fear it was more likely later a tasty snack for the crows. On the upside I probably wouldn’t have managed to get quite so close to a specimen in full health and lived to tell the tale. The whimsical look on Debbie’s face on my return reassured me that she too had hoped the snake might have lived just a little longer.

By tea-time we’d made it clean across the Gulf to the hamlet of Karumba. Prior to being made world famous by Bart Simpson, Karumba was notable for being the only place on the Gulf with a third thing to do: watch sunset. From the pub or from the tinny, the choice is yours. We chose the pub, the imaginatively named Sunset Tavern, located at Sunset Point, and enjoyed it so much we stayed the next night as well. Karumba might not have been quite Crater Lakes, but we were well aware it would be the best we’d get for quite some time.

From here we turned south to the fourth thing to do in the Gulf, and quite possibly the best kept secret in the world, in the form of Lawn Hill National Park. Not too many people have heard of Lawn Hill, and fewer have been there. This may be to do with it being a long way from anywhere, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped Ayer’s Rock, with which I’m guessing you’re more familiar, and which boasts its own airport capable of handling full size jets. Lawn Hill has a little strip too, but you wouldn’t land anything but the smallest Cessna there. I’m kinda hoping it stays that way. To do my bit I’ve inserted a special hypnotic code into the text ensuring this time tomorrow, you won’t remember a thing about it.

Lawn Hill has been billed by the few who’ve been as Australia’s Jurassic Park. There aren’t actually any T.Rex’s or velociraptors as far as I'm aware, at least not on a Tuesday. Just picture the ultimate oasis in the desert and you’ve pretty much got it. An improbably small patch of perfect palm-filled lushness enclosed by a thousand kilometres of red arid dust in which the hardiest of shrubs just about scrape a living.

You can canoe along the gorge, float serenely down the river in huge rubber rings, hike up the mini-slopes or just chill and allow yourself to be gob smacked for an hour or three. We did a little bit of all four.

By now, though, I sense you are starting to feel very, very sleepy. Your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier, and you really need to take a break. It’s time to stop sitting at the computer and go for a nice lie down, have a nightcap maybe, and fall into a deep relaxing sleep, dream about that beautiful place in Australia, you know the one. Big red rock, nice big airport, very easy to reach. Forget about everything else for now and just think of that rock, and you never know, one day, if you’re really very lucky, you might just get there.

Nighty Night then.

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Photos

Through the Keyhole
Sunset, Karumba

Pop Goes the Weasel
Oh no, sorry, it's a Taipan!

Lawn Hill Gorge
Deb takes a dip by the waterfalls

Karumba Sunset
Enjoying our refreshments at the Sunset Tavern

Lawn Hill Lookout
Deb surveys the surrounding plains