Lost in space, and the world's best burger.

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't really want to go back to.

So against my better judgement, I asked my iPhone for help.

It told me Roma was just 1,136 km, or 13 hours drive away.

Houston, we have a problem.  That's because when I started, Roma was only 880 km down the road.

Again, being an idiot, I took the iPhone's advice, and turned left down the Muttaburra Road, which should be renamed '242 km of unsealed terror'.

One hour, and just 37 km later, I completely lost control of the hire car.  You see, the road had been completely trashed by road trains, and despite driving straight ahead, I got caught on a patch of wayward gravel and nearly rolled the thing.

Did I mention I was driving a Toyota Corolla?  A white one.  Probably just like your nan's.  Ideal for zipping down to Woolworths; not great for dodging road trains and outback farmers.

So I hoisted the white flag.  I never do that.

But it was 42 degrees outside, and I didn't really want to spend the rest of the day standing outside the wreck of a hire car, watching tornadoes whip the tumbleweeds around.

At 5.20 pm, I arrived back where the day began; at the Charters Towers caravan park.  I didn't mention the getting lost bit, I just said I was back to collect the can of beer and jar of ginger marmalade I'd left in the fridge.

There is good news, though.

By sheer chance, we dropped into the FJ Holden Cafe in Hughenden, hoping to find something other than microwaved pies, or bain marie chips.

In the middle of nowhere (try 2,000 km from Sydney, 1,200 km from Brisbane, and far too close to Mt Isa), the FJ Holden Cafe is an unexpected pilgrimage to all things Holden, and Elvis.

Amid the memorabilia, you'll find the mummified remains of Peter Brock, and in a special cabinet, a vial containing 20 ml of Elvis' tears, collected before he got fat.

After paying appropriate respects to 05, we ordered the FJ burger.

Pic courtesy of lonelypalate.net.  The wayfaring journo travelled Australia, and rated the FJ Burger the best in the country

Here's what you get for your $10.50:  A toasted sourdough bun, a nicely seasoned piece of scotch fillet, a juicy beef burger, a ring of fried pineapple (yay!), beetroot (of course), grilled bacon, cheese, lettuce and tomato,   There was other stuff as well, but that fell down the back of the drivers' seat. Sorry Europcar.

This burger is seriously good.  In fact, the owners should franchise the place, although they'd have to clone Brockie's corpse.  Hipsters in Melbourne and Sydney would go nuts over this.

I'll go as far as saying it was almost worth the 800 km drive.