Day 1: Bowen > Gladstone
While we're more or less road trip veterans, there's still the odd trauma that can throw a spanner in the works, and most of them involve the failure to turn off electrical devices or the omission of some important item of luggage.
Still, having encountered most of the likely suspects already, and with the benefit of the Holiday Planner spreadsheet in Numbers, we know which electrical items to check obsessively, with particular reference to the stove and ensuring everything that can safely be unplugged, i.e. just about everything except the bar fridge, the big fridge and the wine fridge (is there an emerging theme there, or what?) has been unplugged and I can be reasonably sure that I've got everything that's on the spreadsheet.
I suggested Madam might care to avail herself of the packing list on the spreadsheet, a suggestion declined because she'd prefer to work from a written list, but around seven on Saturday morning, with breakfast out of the way I started ferrying items out to the car, dodging four furry felines suffering the delusion there was some possibility of being fed.
There was, of course, no possibility of frenzied feeding since the opened containers of cat food had been consigned to their rightful owner, who's happy to place the feeding station at our place because it's a more cat friendly environment.
There may be those inclined to scoff at that suggestion, but I'd point out cats belonging to three sets of neighbours, coming from both the northern and western sides of the Little House of Concrete have decided our pseudo jungle is a more desirable location than their official domicile.
The four of them, Mother Alison, who goes through life in a state of total unimpressedness, and the three kittens alternated between polite anticipation and scurrying avoidance of large humans carrying assorted items and could, should I feel so inclined, be blamed for a couple of items we failed to accomplish as intended.
Having completed the journey between Bowen and points south so often, there's rarely anything that happens in transit that attracts the attention unless something has gone wrong, and despite our best endeavours invariably something has been overlooked.
The first was brought to my attention by Madam, who asked whether I'd turned off the modem, which I hadn't because I'd been told that someone had already turned off and unplugged everything in the kitchen and the living room. The modem, printer and bar fridge all run off the same power point in the kitchen, so that's my excuse, the judge's decision is final and no correspondence will be entered into.
The second was Madam's failure to set the trip recorder on the odometer to zero, an oversight she noted as we passed Ooralea race course, which is two hundred kilometres into the trip, so while we can calculate things by adding two hundred to the reading it won't be exact but it'll have to do.
Southern trips usually involve turning off the main highway just south of Kuttabul and doglegging through the Pioneer Valley by way of Marian and Pleystowe, rejoining the highway at Mackay's City Gates, which are right beside the race track, which mightn't save too much distance but avoids Mackay's traffic lights and notorious traffic snarls.
It also avoids service stations and refreshment opportunities, so once back on the highway the next consideration is where to refuel, and where to stop or refreshments.
There aren't many possibilities, and the preferred option is always to refuel at Carmila and then head further south to Flaggy Rock for a hot dog and a home made ice cream.
The last couple of times we've headed south the place has been closed, reportedly due to illness in the proprietor's family, but Bart reported stopping there for an ice cream last September, and there had been another reference along the same lines over the last six months, so we were reasonably hopeful.
Actually, we were more than hopeful because the only other option we knew of between Carmila and Marlborough, a good hour and a bit down the road, was the roadhouse at Kalarka, which wasn't too bad the first time we tried it, but a subsequent visit suggested a change of ownership and a slip in standards.
Or maybe it was a bad day. They do happen.
In any case, the food at Flaggy Rock had been the preferred option, and seating under the arbor at the front of the premises there makes for optimal taking a break conditions.
The alternative would have been to turn off the highway at Clairview, something we haven't done to date and were disinclined to try this time, given uncertainty about what we'd find.
Those considerations became academic as we noted the presence of large colourful banners with messages like Flaggy Rock, Open 7 days, and, most significantly, Home made ice cream. Not that we're major ice cream freaks, but the signs suggested that things might well be the way they used to be once we'd arrived.
And they were. It's not the place to stop if you're a member of the grab it, gobble and go show, so we ordered, found a table under the arbour, waited, had Madam go out the car and get the camera, take some photos, come back, wait...
When the two Rock Hot Dogs arrived, I decided to be kind to the kid obviously picking up weekend/holiday pocket money and refrain from remarking that I'd been waiting for this.
That remark would probably have produced something approximating an apology which could then attract the rejoinder of yeah, for about two years!
Back in the car, Madam was expressing concern about the drowsiness that often follows a satisfying feed, when she was jolted into full annoyance mode by the realisation that she'd left her favourite photography-friendly jacket behind.
She's got other ones for keeping warm, but this is the one that has extra pockets for other lenses and other items of import.
Apart from that the run through Marlborough ran smoothly, and another hour took us into Rockhampton, which showed remarkably few signs of damage from last summer's devastating floods.
At least, that was the case from the highway, travelling at the in the city speed limit. I'm sure that had we stopped, parked, and taken a stroll along the river bank we would have seen all sorts of manifestations of Oh, it got that high, did it?
But we didn't, so we didn't.
Another hour took us to the turnoff at Mount Larcom, where the Maps app on the iPad suggested we still had directions that would get us to the evening's accommodation, which was handy. If you’re going to try the app as a substitute for a GPS device in the car you really need to buy a SIM card, which I was going to do anyway, but it's nice to have proof the expenditure is justified.
The fact that the iPad has it's own GPS chip had me musing back on the novel I'd just read where a CIA assassin had one inserted in his shoulder so the Agency knew where he was at all times, which seemed to be stretching things a bit when I read it, but here I was with proof of the possibility nestled in my lap.
As far as we're concerned an overnight stay in Gladstone involves a visit to Swain's Fish and Chips, where two serves of sweetlip and chips were evidence to support the proposition that this was the best fish and chips in central Queensland. If that isn't the case, I'd like to be pointed to the place that's better!
Wash the fish and chips down with a bottle of Brook Eden Riesling and we were ready for bed, blissfully unaware of seismic activity six and a half hours' drive away.