Cooktown > Helenvale > Cooktown
But not a case of early to rise the next morning.
Fitful dozing over a ten hour period doesn't quite deliver totally restful repose, and I woke up a couple of times to the pitter patter of sprinkling rain, and a couple of instances where drizzle was transformed into something between a shower and a downpour. Not for long, or at least not for long while consciousness prevailed, but long enough to raise serious questions about the day's activities.
I was up around six-thirty tapping out the travelogue, and an hour later, after a bit of speculation about the plans for the rest of the day, was quietly headed back to the cot for a bit more relaxed repose.
Drifting in and out of a pleasant doze the rainfall seemed to be continuing in fits and starts, and Madam's decision to have a shower around nine seemed to coincide with an end to the external precipitation, so once she was finished I took my turn in the rain room, an act that seemingly persuaded the drizzle to return in sympathy.
By ten I was set up with a cup of coffee, musing on the possibilities for the day if The Lion's Den was ruled out when the light improved, the drizzle lifted and, at 10:06 as I type this there's a patch of blue sky and wispy white (rather than grey or black) clouds over to my left.
It was around ten-thirty, having decided to avail ourselves of local knowledge and Internet access before we made a firm decision about what to do. The weather seemed to be hanging off, but by the time we'd parked at the Botanic Gardens it was back, not exactly a downpour, though there was a heavier scud while we were in there, more a gentle reminder that the clouds above held their share of condensation and were quite happy to distribute some of their allocation.
We'd been looking at The Lion's Den (4 km off the highway, the first two being well made though slippery dirt, bitumen for the last two) and Quarantine Bay (all bitumen) though the weather was probably going to rule out extensive photographic rambling, which was more or less the way things panned out.
There were patches of drizzle on the way out, and roadwork on the bridge over Mungundy Creek just before you reach the Den, and the road definitely looked slippery, but just before twelve we pulled up, had a bit of a wander through the historic structure and ordered lunch. There was a vacant table at the front and that seemed as good a spot as any, so we settled in and waited for the tucker to arrive.
Scanning those around us it seemed we had two distinct classes of clientele. Things might be different away from a Friday lunchtime (over the Queens Birthday long weekend, when there seemed to be a mini blues festival in the offing) but the crowd appeared to be a mix of travelling retirees and local residents displaying various degrees of feral hippie attitude. Interestingly, like the Quinkan Hotel at Laura and the pub at Lakeland Downs the bar staff appeared to be of the European backpacker persuasion, though the young dude who delivered the meals appeared to have an Australian accent.
Under different weather conditions we could have spent quite a while there, wandering down towards The Beach (a concept Madam found intriguing, given the fact that we were well away from the actual coastline) and traversing the environs in search of interesting subjects awaiting a photographic capture, but once I'd demolished the pizza (meat lovers, the only variety on offer that didn't appear to include pineapple) and Madam's fish burger there wasn't much to do other than take another circuit of the interior and head back out to the car.
Quarantine Bay, highly spoken of by a certain Bowen builder, turned out to be a handy place for launching the boat if you happen to be travelling with one, and under different circumstances would probably be an enjoyable beach ramble with the not quite rainforest covered hills coming down to meet the water on either side of the beach itself but we took a quick squiz, jumped back into the car and thought about diverting to Keating's Lagoon, which appears to be better suited to a drier day.
From which the astute reader can probably gather we ended back at base, where I started reading Ion Idress' Back o' Cairns while the precipitation proceeded in fits and starts and Madam gave the eyes a bit of a rest.
Having recharged the batteries she was up for some form of away from base activity, so we wandered back into town, with a view to taking a walk and seeing whether the photographer could find anything that was worth capturing.
As it turned out, she didn't, largely because the band of cloud that had been delivering the latest series of scuds had moved on over the river and was now strategically located just under the Sun. Once the solar object had slid behind that cloud there wasn't much in the way of colour, so we found a handy seat, meditated on the view and waited until the replete from recent feeds feeling started to move towards something resembling hunger pangs and headed off to The Italian.
As far as Madam was concerned dinner was an option rather than a necessity, and there was no way Hughesy was up for anything resembling a full meal, so the best option seemed to be a risotto del mare, which turned out to be just the trick. Looking at the heaping helping in the styrofoam contained I had a sneaking suspicion there'd be issues with internal capacity, but by the time Madam decided to move inside the contents had been reduced to a few grains of rice that proved difficult to muster into something that would resemble a spoonful.
On the strength of the three nights we've been here a casual visitor staying a week or so wouldn't need to move beyond The Italian and the Bowls Club to find a satisfying variety of evening meals. By the time we're back,of course, The Italian will probably have changed hands (it's on the market with the real estate agent providing prospective buyers they can Learn To Make Pizza Just Like The Wog Boys) and the kitchen staff at the Bowls Club will probably have moved on, but I suspect those are the first two options we'll be checking out.