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:: Wednesday, 17 November 2004 ::

218389 on the clock and we are in Kingaroy. Turn right at the giant Peanut Silos (if you cannot see them do not be concerned – you can smell them – and it is strangely comforting) and right again at the top of the hill. What a view over the town. If you imbibe just enough home brewed rye whisky, scotch whisky and rum coffee liqueur, why it almost looks just a little like looking out over LA. But enough of that. What of the road?

- the drive from Brisbane is, to put it simply, fantabulous. It is easy to get outta town and even easier to follow The Deeagular Highway (actually D’Aguilar, but you know how skippies are with the fancy wog words), which is a good bit of road, mostly two lane blacktop, very neat, very tidy and threading in a windy fashion through some lovely rolling hills countryside. Saw a sign for Burpengarry. Nuff said really, eh.

- Stopped for the can in Woodforde, at one heck of a tumble down pub, prolly the only pub. Had a quiet lemonade, sadly not country proper lemonade (note to self: must find some of that cos it is always sooo good) while checking directions to Kingaroy. In the Ladies Lounge stood a couple pokie machines and three youths were occupied chitterchatting, two watching while one played. I heard the sound of a paltry 5 coins dropping, which made me sad, but the reaction was furious and festive. ‘Whey HEY, Ya crack’d it’ clapped the two watchers, who immediately hit their mate up for more beers.

- There was an authentic tractor incident where a big green monster of a thing saw me hurtling along toward it and, fearless and idiotic (at least so I thought), trundled ever so slowly out to turn right, into my path. Much break hitting and heartracing and mental cursing was performed by me for a sec but Tractorman knew what he was doing and instead of turning to take up my lane, he kinda just kept on goin’ straight into the bushy brush by the side of the road, leaving me plenty room to pass. His cabin was lost in a mess of low branches and leaves. God love him for attacking innocent nature instead of putting me in peril. Ahhh, calmness was restored in an instant and the ever hovering horn finger let out an appreciate toot toot to Tractorman.

- I was far from the sea. I was in Moore which is far from the sea. I ate a Crab Sandwich in Moore which was cold and delicious. All fresh crabby goodness caught between two slabs of thin white plastic bread, buttered, natch. When you see a crab sandwich advertised from the side of the road in the blistering heat in a place far away from the sea, well, you just gotta stop….and get outta the car. The joint is famous for its crab sandwiches – it is real; and fresh delivered daily or some such.

- O, I meant to blog this but it slipped my mind so I want to get it down now. When I got in the car in Sydney, the radio was playing the English football scores, that monotonous call, that always, in my youth anyways, seemed to end with Dum-de-dum 1 Everton Nil. It was the sound of drives to and from the farm when I was growing up. It means driving. A good omen and that I was very grateful for.

- Nanango has wood sculptures of people in its streets. Art, in other words, which is always startling. And I forget where I was but there was this huge rusted thing by the roadside that looked either like the cufflink from some sort of gargantuan 50 mile high person, or maybe the hull of a ship or something. Huuuge. I got no idea what it was.

- In Kingaroy, where the highschool formal is tonight or tomorrow night and me and my buddy are so going to perv on the country kiddies in their finery, there is a place that just ain’t right. But in a good way. Harry Labudda’s rock garden is a regular house covered in rocks, and not just pebbly niceness but big ol’ arm gouging rocks, painted different hues. The place looks insane in the membrane and includes rusted old wheels (and by old I mean old) and bottles and more rocks.

- Now, the towns to Kingaroy are all fairly regularly spaced and I got an update in why – cos of the Cobb and Co stages, which are all about 14 miles long, just long enough to wear out one set of horses before needing to take on a fresh set for the rest of the journey. Niiice. And talk of Cobb and Co last night on the verandah led to the revelation, for me at least, that Cobb was Freeman Cobb of California. Hmmmm. Did that explain Gus Mercurio, a Yank, being in that 70’s teevee show with the great music, ‘Rush’? Whatever. Splains plenty about why most of Oz has no problem with a US alliance, if the roots go back that far over something as critical as travel. Anyhoo, talk of Cobb and Co led to recitals of Banjo Paterson and talk about Buick Le Sabres. Nice meandering conversation.

- Today, actual walking in the out of doors, away from the car. Not sure how I feel about this, but I will give it a try. Maybe some winery visits for some of that Peanut Liquer....mbbb, blurt. Then genuine wood fired BBQ dinner and more rest. Perfecto. More from Kingaroy tomorrow.

:: WB 3:04 pm [link+] ::

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