Around Australia by Schooner

When I first drove into Sofala nearly a decade ago, it seemed like your typical Aussie country town. A few old blokes sitting on sagging couches watching the world go by, and a pub with the comforting odour of stale beer and urine, with dead flies by the window.  There was a shop selling toasted ham and cheese sandwiches (white bread and plastic cheese of course), and a scattering of stallholders packing up after the monthly market. In other words, despite a streetscape that would do a Clint Eastwood western proud, Sofala didn't stand out over hundreds of other small towns that I've downed a schooner in. Sofala, the main drag Here's Russell Drysdale's take on the same streetscape.  It's a bleak, unforgiving vision. Russell Drysdale, Sofala Drysdale visited Sofala for the first time in 1947 on a road trip with fellow artist Donald Friend.  The town had a bigger impact on Drysdale than it did on me.  It was to become a focal point for some of his b

On long road trips, it's important to have a travelling companion. Not so much to share the driving; more to avoid being labelled as that creepy bloke driving around the outback by himself in a Land Cruiser. Over the years, I've dragged along a series of female companions on my longer trips, with varying degrees of success. One of them concocted some story about a family emergency, and insisted I drive 450km out of the way, and drop her at Sydney Airport.  That was in  September, and I'm still waiting to hear from her.  September 2009, I should add. Others have different ways of coping with my personality.  Like drinking heavily early in the day (Heather, call me.  I've lost your number). Pic taken somewhere west of Arewethereyet Bay.  I'm not sure why it's smiling. This trip though, I had a male passenger.  Paddy, my son actually, a 20-year-old veteran of my strange habits and mood swings.  So you'd think he'd just roll his eyes, and thin

Every weekend, thousands of patriots pull on their singlets, and head out to reclaim Australia. Draped in the flag, and and chanting fuck knows what, they're out to stop the Islamic invasion. According to them, the sand niggers who call themselves Muslims (Reclaim Australia's words, not mine) are nothing more than pedophiles and suicide bombers. Strangely, most of the anger comes from people living in white suburbia.  Places where the only Muslims are are likely to be the local doctor, or kebab shop owner.  That's hardly an invasion.  An invasion is where you arrive uninvited, and commit genocide, but I'll get onto that. Ms Hanson, these people idolise you.  People can analyse the behaviour of angry white people all they like, whether they're from Bendigo or Alabama, the fact is this; they have growing political clout. And many other political leaders agree with all the anti-Islam rhetoric. pic courtesy of Oyna Magazine Where am I going with this?

I'm a robust sort of individual.  Not much troubles me. But there are certainly some things that make feel a little bit sick inside. Calls from unlisted telephone numbers.  Turf wars between mommy bloggers.  Anybody called Russ. And, of course, tourism experiences describing themselves as 'authentic'. That last one gives me images of gift shops stuffed full of imported trinkets, and museums staffed by sad-faced pensioners wearing period costume.  Not to mention ghost tours, run by sad-faced pensioners wearing period costume. The signs had begun about three hours south of Cairns - 'Visit Charters Towers, Australia's Most Authentic Country Town'.  So I'd been feeling a bit queasy ever since Mission Beach. But this never-ending drive was meant to be the search for the Real Australia.  Surely, I'd find something in Charters Towers? Charters Towers, circa 1904.  Not much has changed, except the road is now sealed.  And we didn't see any ho

We were about halfway between Alice Springs and Townsville when the temperature hit 42 degrees. The sky was masked by a storm of red dust.  Fences were clogged by tumbleweeds.  The road was rapidly becoming impassable, thanks to a never-ending cavalcade of tornados and road trains. Difficult conditions, yes.  But we weren't about to give up. We'd left the luxury of coastal resorts far behind, and were back in the outback, where men outnumber women five to one.  In short, we'd returned to the Real Australia. Our mission?  To find, and hopefully capture, a dinosaur. I'm not shitting you here. I read all about it in a brochure. 'Australia's Dinosaur Trail' links the outback towns of Winton, Hughenden and Richmond, according to the brochure. In just 800 kilometres, you can cover most of Australia's best-known dinosaur territory. Okay, I was a bit cynical.  You see, Winton, Hughenden and Richmond aren't  particularly interesting places

Queensland's not like it was in the good old days. That's right, I want you to stay with me for a while as I get all nostalgic. The glorious shark-infested waters of Mission Beach.  Yes, there are stingers too. Nearly 30 years ago I tried to hitchhike around Australia. All I had was time, a few dollars, and the sort of worldly experience you get from going to a private school in Sandy Bay. In other words, I probably wasn't equipped for this sort of adventure, back when backpacker (and driver murders) were standard news items. So after sticking my thumb out on the Bruce Highway, looking helpless and hopeless for two days, I threw in the towel. I trudged slowly back to Southport on the Gold Coast, and bought a car. It was a 1972 HQ Holden wagon (later fondly renamed the Wagon Queen Family Truckster), complete with rust holes and a three-speed manual transmission, but lacking niceties like a radio or air conditioning. A $30 mattress with a few dodgy stains

I got lost today. Those who know me will understand. Usually, it's just a matter of checking a map, apologising to whomever I've dragged along for the ride, and getting back on track. But today was getting lost on a heroic scale. I blame the chick in the Caltex servo. When I asked for directions to Roma, she clicked, grunted, barely looked up from her 'That's Life' magazine, and told me to take the Hughenden Road. Being an idiot, I did. It was hot, and getting hotter; perfect conditions for a breakfast beer. So  half an hour into the drive, I pulled into the carpark of the grandly named Balfe's Creek Hotel Motel. A sign on the door said 'closed'.  For those who miss it, there was another one, saying 'we are not open'. Then a third, in caps lock: 'WE HAVE NO BEER'. So it was back to the road. Around 3 hours later, I started to wonder about Plan A.  We were getting uncomfortably close to Mt Isa, where I didn'

Ever thought about taking the squids on a long road trip? Here's my advice:  Forget it. They won't enjoy it, and there's a chance their constant bickering and squabbling will ruin what could have been a great holiday. These signs appear regularly on the Bruce Highway between Mackay and Townsville.  Because there's no sign of a McDonalds, the obvious answer is 'no' Instead, send them to the grandparents. The olds will love seeing the little ones, and after four or six weeks, the kids will begin to understand what you mean when you carry on about your difficult childhood. I'll admit I've dragged my youngest child along with me this time, but he's 19, and spends most of his waking hours scrolling through Tindr or Grindr or whatever mating app young people use these days. When he starts whining, I just give him $10 phone credit and a Red Bull, and he's fine for another 12 hours. So does it get monotonous on the really long drives?

Do you remember the Gold Coast of the 1960s? No, I don't either, but the place has a reputation. A time when you could throw the boards on the Kombi, and head off to a paradise of waves, weed and wenches. Truth be told, the white shoe brigade already had a foot wedged in the door by 1970, and crappy high rise flats were starting to pop up everywhere. These days, the Gold Coast has all the charm of a Kardashian sex tape.  If you're looking for the genuine Queensland beach idyll, then you'll need to head north. The Sunshine Coast is an obvious alternative, however much of it is starting to look like a mini-Gold Coast, just more expensive. More on that in another blog post, but today, I want to talk about Hervey Bay. There's no surf in Hervey Bay - it's sheltered by Fraser Island, so don't expect any waves bigger than six inches. That's not why people come here. Actually, that's something I've long wondered ... why do people come h

Paul Hogan's done some wicked, wicked things in his time. Like leading thousands of Australians to an early grave by flogging durries. Like hiding overseas, rather than settle a shitfight with the Australian Tax Office, who were trying to ping him for $150 million. And of course, the Paul Hogan show.  Not to mention the abominable Crocodile Dundee III. Leaving aside those atrocities, I'm prepared to cut Hoges a bit of slack, because if it wasn't for him, Kakadu would probably be a giant uranium mine. You see, when he made the original Crocodile Dundee, access to Kakadu wasn't much more than a dirt road leading to the mine.  Nobody went there.  Hoges changed all that. If you haven't seen Crocodile Dundee, you should.  It's far from perfect (for example, the pub, thanks to a bit of production trickery isn't in Kakadu at all, it's thousands of kilometres away in Queensland). But the scenery and indigenous heritage is the real deal.

The cockroach lurking in the urinal was the size of a small dog. The plywood walls in the hallway were smashed in, clearly the result of a Saturday night rumble. There was even a Ladies' Lounge, and I hadn't seen one of them since a short-lived stint behind the bar at the Claremont Hotel in 1986. In other words, we'd found the perfect outback pub. The Lyceum Hotel, Longreach circa 1920 Decades ago, the grandly-named Lyceum must have been a shining light for the region. Now, like Longreach itself, the sparkle has faded. But the beer was cold (a schooner of Carlton Draught - $5.00) and the service as friendly as you might expect given I rocked up after four days without a shower. There was just on thing missing; a row of singlet-clad drinkers perched on barstools. "Where is everyone," I asked. "Left," was the answer. Apparently, the last drought was a reach too far for most of the local cockies.  Longreach was once one of the wealt

Any travel writer needs to give practical, sensible advice from time to time.  Living on the road isn't all smashed avo on organic sourdough toast, you know.  Sometimes, we need to get our hands dirty with diesel. So today, I'm giving your the inside edge on hire cars, and how not to get screwed over.  Even if you're a complete cheapskate like me, and scamming free vehicles for weeks on end. The original plan was to circumnavigate Australia in a tightarse quest for The Ultimate Holiday Experience. Around 700 km west of Emerald, Queensland.  Where I dumped my tiresome travelling companion. Based on feedback, that's not going to cut the mustard.  I mean, people travel right around the country all the time, visiting tourism hotspots like Westfield Parramatta, the MCG and Ikea.  Instagram doesn't lie. So why not focus on the real Australia?  Places like Coonabarabran, Stinking Gully (often known by the more polite moniker of Ferny Gully) and Marble Bar?  Th

I'll admit it, I'm a food snob. That doesn't mean I'm a precious, gluten-free, organic food obsessive. It just means I like my food like I prefer my women - not too salty, and ideally, not stuffed full of chemicals. With our plans to catch a medium-sized crocodile to feed us for the entire trip harpooned (the snappers are everywhere, so why are they a protected species?) it was time for Plan B. Which meant foraging for food in the outback. We named this one 'Mr Happy'.  In a case of misleading nomenclature, we found him in the West Alligator River Truth be told, I had come prepared with some of our own supplies.  In the Toyota Tank was a 40 litre fridge, which even after swallowing a case of Carlton Draught left plenty of room for food. So I stocked up on healthy snacks and fresh fruit.  Sadly, my co-traveller (when not bleating about the heat) hogged the lot before we'd even reached the outskirts of Katherine. Which left us reliant on th

Fifteen years ago, I went head to head with a shark.  Sort of. I mean I came close to one. I was diving for abalone in Fortescue Bay in Tasmania's South East. It was a smallish shark, five or six feet perhaps. I don't care.  I was shit scared.  I floundered back to the boat ramp, threw my gear in the Pajero, and put my diving equipment on eBay. I hadn't been back in the water since.  Until Monday. This time, it wasn't sharks I had to keep an eye out for.  It was crocodiles - both kinds (saltwater and freshwater). Did I care?  No. That's because this was the nicest place to get wet I've ever been lucky enough to stumble across. Litchfield National Park was our first stopover on the Darwin to Brisbane jaunt.  It wasn't on the original itinerary, however thanks to input from the local brains trust, we made a detour. Kakadu gets all the kudos (and visitors), leaving Litchfield largely for the locals (nice alliteration -ed.). Florence Fall

In 2008, Mt Isa's mayor picked up some free publicity for putting out a call for ugly chicks to move to his town. Snaggletoothed harridans, he suggested, would be welcome on his patch, as blokes outnumbered the girls five to one, and the hard-drinking miners had the beer goggles on most of the time anyway. After visiting the mining town for the first time, I can tell you this:  the blokes aren't going to be winning any glamour awards anytime soon.  If you're a single female looking for a man, don't come here. In fact, Mt Isa is, in the most gentle terms I can use in a family blog, a shithole. If mineral resources hadn't been found there nearly a century ago, it would probably still be a blot on the map, sometimes passed by travellers on their way to the Red Centre. Instead, it's now a city of more than 25,000. It takes about 18 hours to drive to Mt Isa from Brisbane, or, if coming from the other direction, close to 25 hours from Darwin. That's

Here it is:  the best way known to join the army of oldies clogging up our highways. 1.  Go shopping.  Find the largest motorhome or caravan you think you could drive and/or back into a tight parking space, then go for the next size up. 2.  Tell all your friends you're off to 'do Australia', then head straight for Hervey Bay.  Stay there for at least six months. 3.  When you're on the road, stay below 60 km/h, even if the limit is 130 km/h.  It's safer that way. Better still, travel in convoy with at least six other Grey Nomads (from now on, I'm calling them Gonads to save typing). Tip:  for extra authenticity, consider changing your names to Brian and Pam. Actually, most Gonads are lovely people.  I count a number of Gonads amongst my closest friends. Then there are people like Brian from Shepparton, who I met last year at a remote campsite.  The Gonads had circled their Winnebago wagons blocking access to the river, so we retaliated by nicking all

According Paul Keating, the best way to see Darwin is from 35,000 feet on the way to Paris. I've had a man crush on Keating ever since he called John Howard a slithering maggot, so I thought I'd see if he was right. From what I'd heard, Darwin was full of yobbos and shirtless, shouting drunks.  Not to mention child-eating crocodiles. A bit like Lonely Planet's take on Launceston, except Launceston makes do with monkeys in place of the crocodiles (more on that later). As my Virgin flight (suggested advertising slogan: 'Better than Jetstar') circled the city, I had to concede Keating might be on the money. The ocean, a muddy yellow/green, looked unappealing.  The dirt was red. The trees; stunted and twisted. Not to mention I'd heard Darwin Harbour is full of sharks, crocodiles, stingers, jellyfish, and probably unexploded armaments from the Second World War. To ease in to the local experience, the Darwin Hotel (schooner of Carlton Draught: $6.70)