It was certainly not with joy that we reacted this morning, when the shriek of the alarm awoke us at 5:45AM. Having become used to the van being already bathed in sunlight upon our awakening, it was a strange experience to wake to the dim pre-dawn light, stumbling about as our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.

Outside, as I began the required chores to have us on the road, it was cold, and the grass was slick with a thick coating of glassy dew. It was actually quite invigorating, a good thing considering the day we were about to embark on.

Leaving the park at 6:40AM, only 10 minutes behind schedule, we were soon cruising down the motorway, pedal to the metal, with a score to settle. We were on our way to show our fridge who’s boss, and I’m hoping that the fridge mechanic at the caravan repair place we’ve had recommended to us will be up to the task.

It was an uneventful trip into town, crossing the border into Queensland at right on a quarter past seven. Apart from a few breath stopping queues of bumper to bumper traffic as we negotiated our way through the early stages of peak hour and a couple of wrong turns as we searched for the right address, we arrived at the repair center at 8:30AM. We were now half an hour behind schedule.

After an hour and a half, and nearly $100.00 lighter off, we were sent on our way with a kiss your nuts and hope for the best. The gas flu has been rectified, or to be more precise, fitted, but there is no firm guarantee that is the source of the problem. Short of parking the van for 24 hours to allow the fridge to be emptied, dismounted and checked on a test bench, there is not quick way of diagnosing any further issues. We chose to take our chances and instead of staying in Brisbane, without the van, let alone a fridge, continue on our way. A quick check confirmed that there is another service agent located in Bundaberg, which is our next intended stop anyway. Whether we make it the whole way today, having now wasted an hour and a half, is yet to be seen.

Leaving the repairers, we set Shazza to take us on a course north, out of Brisbane. Knowing that Brisbane has a system of toll roads, we trusted in Shazza to proficiently navigate us around them. It was with surprise therefore, that we entered a tunnel. Just as I was about to remark to Bec that had we still been in Melbourne, we would have had to have paid for the privilege of driving beneath the earth and not getting to see anything, I saw the ominous signs indicating a toll point. There was much honking of horns as I jumped on the brakes, but to no avail, we rolled on beneath the cameras, and we were done for. There was no point in reversing back out of the tunnel now, even if it had of been a plausible option. Our photo, I was certain, was already being sent over the digital airwaves to some customer service officer, no doubt smugly smiling at yet another out of towner getting caught out and having to help expand the coffers of some doubtlessly already hefty corporate entity.

To hold the vultures at bay, Bec was already hitting the internet as we emerged from the end of the costly hole in the ground, finding out how much our error would cost us. Apparently we are now going to have to find an extra $6.00 in our already skimpy budget.

Before we left the confines of Brisbanes outer suburbs, we paused briefly when I saw a sign proclaiming a shop to contain all manner of western wear. We used the unscheduled stop as an excuse to grab an early lunch, being that by this time we had already been on the road for nearly 4 hours, and had breakfasted on nothing more than a protein shake.

Bec, deep in conversation with her work mates on a video call.

We did have plans to visit tourist attractions, that were home to anything ‘big’ such as the ‘Big Pineapple’, which we knew, was up this way. Unfortunately, by the time we looked up where it was, we were already several klicks past it, and decided that rather than back track, we would knuckle down and keep on motoring. That was until we hit Gympie and saw a car yard with a couple of huge fifth wheel type caravans in it. We decided to stop to let the dogs out and have a quick look. For the princely sum of only $140,000.00, we could have been driving away with a palatial 40 odd foot castle on wheels. I had my wallet already out, and pen in hand to sign the contract of sale, when I noticed that the fridge was strangely reminiscent of the one we have in our own van. I’m not trading our van in because I’m not impressed with the fridge, only to buy another just like it. “Sorry sir, but no sale, now we really must be off!”

No time to stop, but look, there goes an Ettamogah pub!

From Gympie, we jumped back on the well maintained highway. Well, it would want to be well maintained, as there seems to be road works every couple of kays. I don’t think there has been a day gone by yet, that we haven’t had to negotiate umpteen number of road work zones. We have decided that this is a bad season for travel, as all of the councils seem to be spending the last of this financial years budget on road maintenance. There doesn’t even appear to be any rhyme or reason behind some of the works, with little more than a couple of hundred meters between zones. We might just be coming out of one zone, clicking over triple digits on the speedo after slowing generally down to 40Km/h, only to have to engage the brake pedal for another stretch of walking pace hell.

Passing through the undulating fields full of tall green sugar cane stalks, we cruised into the tiny outpost of Childers at just before 4:00PM. If the town name strikes a chord, it may be due to the horrifying events of 23^rd June, 2000, when an arsonist set fire to the Childers Palace Backpacker Hostel, resulting in the untimely death of 15 backpackers. There is now a poignant memorial to the 15 victims, in the since renovated building. It was a stirring experience, which caused a lump in my throat and even had me removing my ever present hat in reverence to those lost.

The renovated ‘Palace Hotel’, Childers.

The plan we had discussed between Gympie and Childers was to spend a little time while in Childers, to pick out a road side camping area between there and Bundaberg, to give us somewhere to rest our weary bones for the evening before making our way into Bundaberg tomorrow. Looking at the map and seeing just how near to rum land (as in Bundaberg rum) we decided that instead of wasting time searching for a campground, we would spend the extra time driving and strive for a caravan park in Bundaberg. To spur us on, and ensure we kept going, I had Bec ring and book us into a site, and off we went.

One last leg, which just happened to be over the worst roads of the day, bouncing us roughly about the cabin of ‘The Beast’. It was just what I needed to keep me awake, while Bec was sitting across from me, deep in reverie of the earlier baby bottom smooth tarmac we had traversed.

It was almost 5:30PM by the time we drove through the ominously broken boom gate of the caravan park, and then listened tiredly and un-heedingly to the long list of rules and regulations, before we went to locate our site. Joy of joys, all of the sites here are en-suite sites, and so we have our own little bathroom oasis, mere metres from our van. At the plot, the park manager guided me professionally onto the concrete slab, having us lined up with the minimum of fuss. Our parking exploits may well have preceded us however, as he remarked that wives guiding hubbies onto sites can be a constant source of amusement, a knowing smile spreading across his face as he eyed the little radio that Bec was gripping nervously in her clenched fist.

Leaving New South Wales for Queensland, the XXXX can come out of hiding now!

Until next time, stay safe, have fun and don’t forget to write.