Sunday, 13 May 2012
Day One: Bowen - Townsville
Given a short leg and a golfer who wasn't likely to be back at base much before five (or so we thought, but reality, as it turned out was different to expectation) there wasn't much point in heading off much before two-thirty, and with the need to fuel up on the way out it turned out to be just after three when the laden vehicle backed out into Brisbane Street. Fifteen minutes later we were back, having forgotten the torch, which was probably going to be an important item somewhere along the line.
Grabbing the torch was straightforward, but the thing didn't work when I tried it, Madam thought we had a spare battery in the store room and reality, again, proved the opposite to expectation. As a result it was just on three-thirty when we found ourselves passing within sight of the Warbo Roost on the way out of town.
Five return trips to Townsville since late February meant we knew to expect road works, but there was only a brief delay just north of Bowen and the trip proved totally uneventful until a failure to remind the driver which set of lights to turn at had us heading along Abbot Street rather than the extension of Bowen Road. A left turn through Fairfield Waters got us back to where we were supposed to be, but necessitated a u-turn at the Endeavour Park Mervyn Crossman Drive roundabout.
It was just after six when we pulled up in front of The Golfer's Motel, to find a rather agitato host who was reportedly concerned about our failure to arrive. The golfing proceedings had apparently finished around four, and he'd hastened home rather than sampling an ale or three at the nineteenth.
The presence of Mad Mick and his Highly Vocal Better Half on the premises might have had something to do with the agitato, since the HVBH has been known to comment adversely on anything within eyesight, and they'd been on the premises for two hours.
Our arrival gave her something else to discuss other than The Golfer's personal habits, taste in home decor, and assorted other matters.
Wide ranging discussions gave us a few pointers for the Tablelands leg of the trip and reminded me that an old school cricket acquaintance used to be the principal at Laura.
The Golfer, as may have been mentioned before, is a better than average cook, and a rather toothsome roast lamb dish was washed down with a couple of bottles of decent red, and out came something in the qualitatswein line to finish off before we toddled off towards the cot.
Hughesy didn't take much rocking.
