MY FIRST LOVE

Me and my beloved Socksie - Lambert's Beach

 

Mum and me across the road from the Lambert's Beach shop; and Graham, my brother, ready to go off to the Slade Point School

 

Me, a couple of my dolls, Patsy and Diana; and Peter, the Fox Terrier in Gympie when I was about 7 or  8 years old

My earliest recollections of my childhood extend back to an era when, if only briefly, life was uncomplicated and carefree.  The way life is supposed to be for a child. Perhaps because I was so young I was sheltered from life’s turmoils and hardships. For a short couple of years I ran free within the safety net of secure boundaries set by my mother and grandmother.  However, change was looming on the near horizon; ominous dark clouds threatened. 1948 was the year peace and harmony disintegrated and disappeared from my young life; or it was when I first noticed life wasn’t all full of light and happiness.

Our grandmother played an integral role in the lives of my older brother and me; a role that lasted throughout her lifetime.  Sadly, she left this earth in 1976; two years after her daughter, my mother passed away.  Nana was a month shy of her eighty-second birthday; my mother, Elma was only 54 years old at her passing; too young; and it was heartbreaking for our grandmother to lose her daughter, her friend; her ally.

Stoically, Nana stood by her daughter, our mother, through thick and thin. Nana was a steadying influence in our family, but as events unfolded, even she, at times, was unable to intercept the explosive upheavals that came in and out of our lives. 

Destructive, violent episodes that threatened to destroy our family’s fabric were heading relentlessly towards us with the force of a cyclone.  Actually, an evil force had already infiltrated our ranks.

As mentioned in a previous post, my mother and grandmother operated a small mixed-business at Lambert’s Beach, east of Mackay. My stepfather attended to paid outside home maintenance and mechanical jobs for the locals.  At that time the population of Slade Point, Lambert’s Beach and surrounding areas wasn’t big in number.

My older brother and I along with the adults lived in the premises attached to the shop.  The store was the only one of its nature in the area.

Unfortunately, our stepfather became a member of our family when he married our mother after she and our biological father divorced.  That was the way it was. His presence cast a sinister, dark cloud over what should have been halcyon times. 

We children, the innocents, did have fun; we ran and played freely in the outdoors. Our childish adventures were many.

Although I was very young, to me my mother’s husband personified the evil stepfather.   I felt no warmth towards him whatsoever.  I never encouraged, nor sought his attention. I had no desire to reach out to him.  He was an obscene human being; a violent man who harboured a foreboding darkness in his soul.  In reflection, I wasn’t fearful of him; not in those early days, at least. However, everything would soon change; for the worst. 

With the naive candour of a child, I did not like my stepfather; it was that simple.  His very presence made my skin crawl. Therefore, I did my utmost to stay out of his way. When I couldn’t escape his company, I tried my best to make myself invisible. I have made mention of him previously...within this tale I go into more detail about his character.

In 1948, the year depicted in this story, I was three years of age.  I would turn four in November, 1948.

Our little shop, which I have described in previous posts, was popular with the locals;  but it also was very appealing to visitors to the seaside.  Balmy, sun-filled days drew the townsfolk in droves. They flocked through the shop’s doors for cold drinks and snacks. Nana’s domestic chores included the sweeping out of sand carelessly carried into the shop on the feet of well-meaning, oblivious, happy-go-lucky customers.  However, their laughter and buoyant demeanours compensated for her never-ending task; as, no doubt, did the pennies, shillings and pounds in the till at day’s end!

The old wooden and fibro shop that became our home for almost 18 months was situated close to the beach.  The soothing symphony of the ocean gently lapping on the foreshore accompanied our daily activities; at night it became a welcome lullaby. The waters of the Coral Sea invited all from near and far, to visit; and to soak in the ambience of the seaside. 

Laughter and enthusiastic chatter filled the air each day.  Day-trippers in brightly-coloured attire gathered around tables covered by freshly-starched, red and white gingham tablecloths, beneath the pergola at the shop’s front. Their garish clothes they’d never be seen dead wearing when walking the main streets of Mackay, the nearest city, situated only a few miles away.

The seaside then, as now, has a mesmerising effect on humans. It causes them to act and dress differently to how they normally would. Some things never change!

Brilliant magenta and vibrant red blossoms covered the dense, spiky-thorned bougainvillea vines that scrambled decoratively over the roof of the pergola; long-arching branches that could cause harm to the uninitiated, brazenly entwined through weather-beaten lattice barriers. The rampant climbers protected the al fresco refreshment area; shielding the visitors who sat at the tables from the tropical sun’s harsh rays.  Massed in floral defiance, hardy, vividly-coloured Portulaca grew out of the sandy soil fringing the outdoor area.

The aroma of hot pies and of the freshly-prepared sandwiches made from still-warm bread mingled harmoniously with the salty air wafting in from the ocean. 

With my hair tied in pigtails, on tiptoes each day I stood straining my tiny body to see above the table edge while my mother prepared sandwiches for the animated patrons.  Eagerly, I watched as she cut the crusts from the bread; anticipating the crunchy titbits that bore remnants of the varied sandwich fillings.  The mouth-watering morsels were my special treat.  In those days, bread crust was vastly different to that of bread on supermarket shelves nowadays. Back then, the crust was crisp and crunchy; tanned golden and delicious!

In my childish mind I believed I was assisting my mother in her preparations. In reflection, those days could very well have been my introduction to the hospitality industry; an industry I was to spend many years in as an adult; but that was still a long way away in the future; a future about which I couldn’t even begin to dream.

My dreams were those of a small child; a child limited to her immediate future; whose thoughts ventured not far beyond the next day, or hour. I was unaware during those days of innocence, my future loomed darkly; far too anxious to arrive. Dreams, no matter how pure would be crushed and made worthless.

Day after day, I hovered around my mother in the kitchen. Somehow I managed never to get in her way, or under her feet.  She must have had the patience of Job…with me, at least.  Her rich auburn locks consciously betrayed her headstrong, impatient nature; her fiery-coloured hair an undeniable give-away.

I was a quiet, shy child; my imagination,  my constant companion. No other children lived by, so I had no playmates. My timid observations of the comings and going of the seaside visitors occupied much of my time.   
Conducting my surveillance from afar, I was always anxiously alert and fearful that someone would see me or speak to me.  If ever trapped in such an unfortunate predicament I rarely replied, other than to give a slight, barely visible nod of my head, perhaps; and if I had no choice or way of escape, I answered ever so softly before, like a frightened animal, scampering away to the safety of the kitchen; out of sight. 

Sheltered on the lee side of a slight slope at the rear of our yard, in a run-down hut lived a solitary man. To me, he seemed very old; he probably wasn’t.  If I’d been a little older myself, his ram-shackled hut would have fitted my image of Robinson Crusoe’s island abode; but I was yet too young to enjoy reading the adventures of Mr. Crusoe and his Man Friday.

From years spent beneath a scorching sun our neighbour’s skin was tanned like leather; it looked as tough.  Private and reclusive, he lived alone with an air of mystery surrounding him.   I didn’t fear our brown, wiry, long-haired neighbour.  Against character, I felt kindly towards him. 

Tentatively, with my shyness still intact, I visited the mystifying hermit every other day to deliver his bread, milk and other minor essentials.  With my arms wrapped tightly around his meagre supplies as quiet as a mouse, stealthily I crept hastily past the woody bush lemon tree laden with its crop of lumpy, yellow fruit. The fruit’s knobbly skin reminded me of the ugly ogres that roamed in fairytales.

Timorously, I’d approach the back door of the hut.  The hermit always greeted me with a smile and a quiet, gentle word; his mellifluous voice calmed the timid little girl standing shyly before him.  Demurely, my monosyllabic replies were barely audible; my visits, brief.  Wasting no time, I’d hand him his groceries before turning to scurry back home. 

My monastic friend’s name was Mr Meagher. 

Every day; come rain, hail or shine, he swam in the ocean. He would stand face down in the water for minutes at a time. In awe, I’d hold my breath waiting for him to resurface. With his weathered back curled like a comma and his lank wet hair clinging to the nape of his neck, Mr. Meagher’s deeply sun-browned posterior was the only part of his body visible above the water. His strange, yet regular daily stance reminded me of a giant brown turtle.

There were times I overheard cryptic conversations between the adults.  Speaking in muffled, lowered voices as they discussed Mr. Meagher, I understood little of what they said. The enigmatic Mr. Meagher intrigued his inquisitive neighbours; which were few and far between. I derived from the muted conversations that, in some quarters, it was thought he was perhaps an artist or, maybe a writer who sought solitude to hone his craft. Others thought he was a noble man escaping the confining boundaries of his birth. Once I heard mention of a word about which I had absolutely no understanding – “bankrupt”; conjecture also speculated that he was in hiding from the long arm of the law. A simple answer to the myriad questions surrounding mild-mannered Mr. Meagher could’ve been he was simply a seeker of privacy; preferring his own company to that of others.

I had no friends of my own age, but I was never lonely.  With the ocean nearby, many hours I spent in the cooling water. The beach was my playground.  My pastimes were building sand castles; collecting shells and driftwood while sometimes chasing the battalions of soldier crabs and inquisitive seagulls, but never with malice.  Protected by the Great Barrier Reef, the sea was generally calm, other than when whipped up by cyclonic conditions. Having learned to swim at an early age, I wasn’t a worry to my parents. I abided by the limits set; and was content to do so.

My older brother, Graham had little time for me; my being a girl was reason enough.  He’d become impatient with me, storming off in disgust. Graham was three years older than me, and had already begun school.  He had his own group of friends; a select group that excluded girls, particularly younger sisters! 

Alone in my own world I contentedly dwelt; my dolls were my best friends.  They were the only company I needed, I believed. That was until one joyous, memorable day; the day my world turned upside down in the most wonderful way.

The day I received my first pet I was overcome with excitement. It was love at first sight. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.  He was a fluffy, furry ball of life.  A beautiful grey and white young cat became my new favourite friend, surpassing all others.  I was smitten.  He was remarkable; he was gorgeous; he was mine. A huge new universe opened up before me. With his four snowy white paws, to me, he appeared to be wearing socks.  Fittingly, I christened my new love; “Socksie”.  Socksie and I bonded instantly. 

We became inseparable. We were never far apart.  He was my shadow; my confidant. Socksie never minded that I constantly petted and cuddled him. He was my regular tea party guest. I discussed daily events while he sagely watched and listened. Socksie trusted me. He knew I’d never hurt him.  How could I?  I absolutely adored him. Socksie and I had a mutual admiration society going on. Nothing and no one could tear us apart, or so I believed.

However, I couldn’t foresee the future. My world was about to be shattered; and it would never completely recover. The fine cracks would never diminish; they would remain forever as if indelibly engraved.

With Socksie in my life I didn’t care if my brother and his mates ignored me. I didn’t need them; I had Socksie. He was all I needed. Socksie also helped me stay removed from my stepfather, which pleased me. The less time spent in my stepfather's presence the better.  The love I felt for my pet was all-consuming; all engrossing.  I was so proud of him. I felt lucky to have a friend as dear and as loyal as Socksie. 

In reflection, my love for Socksie probably was the reason behind the heinous act that would soon break my heart.

My dolls were neglected.  My devotion was lavished on my cat.  I dressed Socksie in my dolls’ clothes before taking him for walks in their pram. Placidly, he would watch me; listening intently to my soothing words; purring loudly at my touch.  Socksie displayed infinite patience, indulging a little girl her fantasies.

Each night I prepared his bed in my dolls’ cot; plumping up the pillows; turning down the sheets and covers just as my mother did for me.  Crooning a lullaby, I’d tenderly place him in the cot, gently stroking him until he went to sleep.  Once he’d settled, or I believed he had, I’d go to my own bed content in the knowledge that my dear Socksie was safe, securely tucked in for the evening.   Dreams of the adventures we would share the following day filled my slumber. 

Unknown to me as soon as I fell asleep Socksie opened his green, amber-speckled eyes; stretched, and then would leap out of his cosy cot to go adventuring under the cloak of darkness.  In his infinite cat wisdom, he understood the simple desires of his little mistress; always waiting until I was fast asleep. In the mornings upon waking, I would find him snuggled up beside me on my bed. I was none the wiser of his second life.

Great changes were afoot. We were moving to another town far away.  The days turned hectic; hours were spent packing our belongings into the many large wooden tea chests with their riveted metal edges giving them strength to bear their heavy loads. Every corner and piece of floor space was taken up by the tea chests, it seemed. Packing became a full-time occupation.  What little furniture we owned was being moved and stacked to one side ready for a truck to arrive to take it away. The air was electric with excitement. The thrill of adventure was rife.  A long train journey lay ahead.   Distance meant nothing to me.  I had no comprehension of what it meant, but I understood from the frenzied activity around me that the coming days promised mystery and wonderment.  My dolls were nestled together comfortably and securely  in a large carton.  I conducted lengthy discussions with Socksie, keeping him abreast with what was happening; informing him of what I imagined lay ahead for both him and me.  He, too, was in awe of the energy around him.  Like mine, his nerves were also on high alert. A special box that would become his home during the lengthy train trip to Gympie was at hand.

The night for our departure finally arrived.   Late in the evening we bundled into a taxi to be driven to the train station in Mackay. 

Arriving at the busy station, crowds of sleepy-eyed commuters milled about; yawning, stretching; chatting quietly amongst themselves, as they, too, waited for the sound of the steam engine to arrive; keen to embark upon their journey. 

Filled with apprehension I watched my stepfather carelessly drag the box bearing Socksie from the taxi. I despaired at his rough handling. It was obvious he knew nothing about cats; and it was clear he didn’t give a damn.

Sockie’s frightened howls echoed through the bleak, chilly night. Haphazardly holding the cat box under his arm, my stepfather stormed towards the station platform with the rest of us rushing behind trying our best to keep up to his pace.

From his harrowing cries, I knew my pet was terrified. I wanted to go to him; to take him from the clutches of that man.  Frightened by the foreign noises and the strangers around me, I understood Socksie’s fear. I shared his anxiety. His gut-wrenching howls tore at my heart.  The gathering crowd; the strange odours permeating the railway station’s platform caused him panic; they caused me panic. 

In silence, I cried out to my Socksie. I wanted to cuddle him, if only for a short while; to let him know I was there by his side; to protect him.

Came the time to board the train.  Looking down the platform to where my stepfather stood with Socksie, a short distance away from my mother, grandmother, brother and me, to my absolute horror, I saw my stepfather open the box, and shoo Socksie away.  Within a split second, Socksie broke free, naturally.  In fear, he fled.  

Transfixed, frozen to the spot, I stood; my mouth open in shock. I was unable to utter a sound.   Dumbstruck, I stared. In my mind I screamed over and over and over; but no sound broke free.  A torrent of unstoppable tears streamed down my face. 

Nothing was real; I was locked in a horrifying nightmare. I stood paralysed on the station’s platform.  Powerless, I was unable to save my beloved Socksie; my dear friend. 

Finally, finding my voice, I screamed out to Socksie, but, of course, he was gone. I never saw my Socksie again.

What could I do?  I was bewildered; I was shattered; I was terrified. There was nothing anyone could do to help me rescue my Socksie.  In fearful panic, he disappeared into the darkness of night.  Wretched tears continued to stream down my face. Broken-hearted, I stared; glared at my stepfather; not understanding the reason why.  Looking back at me, across his corrupt, immoral face was a contemptuous sneer. 

From that moment on, my stepfather’s heartless action altered my dislike of him into hatred. I hated him for his ruthless cruelty; and hate is a powerful, terrible emotion for one so young. 

His brutality grew more vicious and personal over the ensuing few years. Unfortunately he was to inflict further pain and abuse on our small family unit.

On a chilly night on a platform at a railway station I experienced my first heartbreak...the loss of my first love; my beautiful, loyal Socksie.

I will never forget Socksie. 

I shall never forget, nor shall I forgive the person who stole my adored pet from me. Not long after my stepfather’s heartless act, he stole my innocence in another way. He was proof that evil existed.  It’s abhorrent that innocent helpless children are forced to witness repellent behaviour of adults; and that some become victims of these abusive predators; powerless casualties caused from bad choices made by adults.

His reign of terror had only just begun that night. We endured harrowing years when he was in our lives. He caused our family much sorrow, fear and hurt.

His physical and emotional abuse continued unabated until finally, one glorious day, the sun shone brightly upon us. I saw a smile on the sun’s face that wondrous day.  The local police, at a time when the police still had the power to do so, ran my stepfather out of town with orders he never return. 

Burdensome black clouds of violence, despair and fear that for far too long had pressed heavily upon our lives were lifted; never to return; but the damage had already been done. Undiminished, the hurt has lasted a lifetime; invisible scars remain; memories persist. 

After all these years and the many bridges crossed, my feelings towards the creature who was my stepfather for a short while, that seemed like an eternity at the time, have never changed; they never will.

IN THE MOOD

My Mother at 18 Years

Harry James & Betty Grable

The other day while twiddling around with knobs I stumbled across the last 30 minutes of the 1954 movie, “The Glenn Miller Story” on ABC-TV. Actually, they weren’t knobs - I was fiddling with my remote control; one of them.  Knobs are almost outdated these days.

I wasn’t fiddling around with nobs, either. They’re few and far between around here, too; most are hidden within the walls of Downton Abbey or the like. I’m not, and never am, in the mood for hobnobbing!

Seeing the irreplaceable, endearing Jimmy Stewart as Glenn Miller, and the engaging June Allyson with her twinkling, smiling eyes playing his adoring wife on the screen before me, I had to stop, watch and listen. 

I grew up to the music of Glenn Miller.  It was through my mother and grandmother that I was introduced to Glenn and his band. I grew to love his music as much as they did. When Mum was in the mood, as she very often was, she’d sit for ages in front of the piano, her nimble fingers tickled the ivories of our Irving upright; they were putty in her hands.  

Our old steel-framed German-made Irving piano had been a wedding present to my grandmother and grandfather; my mother’s parents, on their wedding day.  It was a gift from a spinster aunt of my grandfather, Jack (John) Hay. 

The keys of that sturdy piano held more than one lifetime of stories and melodies. With a depth of tone as smooth as golden syrup I don’t remember it ever needing tuning. 

My mother was a brilliant pianist; at times she played in local dance bands.  I took piano lessons for five years from a Miss Gidley, a local piano teacher. Even though I passed all my exams with flying colours, I never did have my mother's expertise on those black and white keys.  I doubt I could even play Chopsticks these days!

I loved listening to and watching my mother play the piano.  She’d had lessons when she was a child, but she played by ear, as well.  Her talent at the piano was a natural talent; one not learned.  

Nana, Mum’s mother and I knew our limits when sitting on the piano stool. We played similarly.  Nana and I were no where near as good as Mum when it came to piano-playing.

Throughout my childhood and teen years rarely a day went by without piano music echoing through our home.  Situated next to the piano stood a cupboard packed tightly with sheet music; some of which dated from the early 1900s. Those treasured old sheets belonged to my grandmother.

My mother had many favourite songs; and all her favourites featured each time she sat at the piano.

 “Moonlight Serenade” was a favourite, amongst many, many others.

“Elmer’s Tune” was another; probably because, in name, it was pretty close to my mother’s first name, which was “Elma”!

Almost every day we joined Glenn Miller as he and his band members travelled aboard the “Chattanooga Choo Choo” on their way to “Tuxedo Junction”.

Having rung “Pennsylvania 6-5000” to make a date with his lady, he proudly exclaimed; ‘“I’ve Got a Gal in Kalamazoo”’. “At Last” he was going to present her with a “String of Pearls”!

While Glenn was doing his thing, Benny Goodman was “Puttin’ on the Ritz”, “Stomping at the Savoy”. In the meantime, the only thing his band mates could do was “Sing! Sing! Sing!” 

Benny told them, ‘“It’s Wonderful”, but “Don’t Be That Way”. Don’t let the “Stardust” get in your eyes. It’s difficult enough  when the ‘“Smoke Gets in Your Eyes!”’

He then turned to his “Honeysuckle Rose”, and said; ‘“After You’ve Gone”, “Oh! Lady Be Good”, otherwise “I’m Coming to Virginia” via “Avalon”’! 

I lost count how many times the beguine began!  I wish I had a dollar for each time, though!

Artie Shaw often strolled in tune to "The Donkey Serenade" along "Lambeth Walk" in the hope of missing the "Traffic Jam". Regularly at night, he was seen "Dancing in the Dark" while thinking "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody"; especially "Sweet Lorraine".

Finding the "Temptation"  too strong to ignore, Artie told her; '"Any Old Time" - "I Get a Kick Out of You!" and "I Don't Want to Walk Without You"'!

The big band swing era of Miller, Goodman, Artie Shaw, Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Tommy Dorsey, Jimmy Dorsey and Harry James et al was a time filled with romance, glamour and great music.

Ellington told Basie to “Take the ‘A’ Train” while he went by “Caravan” because, he, Ellington liked to take his time, allowing him time to leisurely watch the “Autumn Leaves” change colour and fall.

Basie didn’t mind because he’d asked his “Lil’ Darlin’”, “Sweet Georgia Brown”, to spend “April in Paris” with him.  He'd planned a cruise “Up a Lazy River”. In his “Corner Pocket” he had a pair of “Shiny Stockings” to give her.

Tommy Dorsey told “Marie”; “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You”. "It's Started All Over Again"!  "Easy Does It" or “I’ll Never Smile Again”,  but  I guess “That’s How It Goes"!' 

Harry James told his second wife, Betty Grable;  ‘“It’s Been a Long, Long Time”, and “I Know You’ve Heard That Song Before”; but “You Made Me Love You”; so you have to shoulder some of the blame!” 

I class myself as being very fortunate to have grown up listening to the music of the maestros from a time long gone; an era never to be repeated, but hopefully never forgotten. 

I didn’t get to see Glenn Miller play in person, of course; but I did see The Glenn Miller Orchestra under the direction of Buddy De Franco perform at Brisbane’s Festival Hall on a Saturday afternoon in the early Seventies.

My friends and I were running a few minutes late, something I abhor; being punctual is one of my many quirks; but my legitimate excuse for that day is I was in the hands of others regarding travelling arrangements to the venue. 

The orchestra had just begun to play as we entered the main auditorium.  Tears immediately sprung to my eyes as the strains of “Moonlight Serenade” greeted us.  I will never forget that moment.

And then in 1973, on one hot, humid February night in the very same building, I was fortunate to be in the presence of Benny Goodman. Sitting on a stool on the stage, dressed in a tuxedo Goodman did what he did best, as cool as a cucumber. 

I kept waiting for Gene Krupa to appear, but of course, Krupa wasn’t travelling with Goodman at the time. 

Krupa died in October of 1973.  From when I was a small child I adored Krupa.  I adored drums…and Krupa was the master drummer. I had a glossy photograph of Gene Krupa on my bedroom wall throughout my childhood.  I’ve never lost my adulation for Krupa.

Peter Appelyard was the drummer playing in the Benny Goodman Orchestra that February night I sat in awe, listening and watching; sometimes in disbelief.  Appelyard was brilliant; but I was sure I sensed the spirit of Krupa on the stage that night!

Interval came and went.

The second half of the evening’s entertainment began with none other, of course, than….”Sing! Sing! Sing!” 

Needless to say…I was a quivering, misty-eyed mess with a smile as wide as the Great Australian Bight across my face as soon as I heard the first beat. 

It was a performance to savour.  Being in the audience; being in the presence of Goodman was so very special. 

Even though it was before my time, that night I felt I’d been transported back to the famous 1938 Carnegie Hall concert.  It was a magical experience.  There are not enough words to fully, completely describe the night….magical is probably the best I can come up with, for now.

I hope the music never dies.  I hope this generation and future generations are introduced to the brilliance of the musicians of that uniquely wonderful era. My other hope is that they learn to love the music; and appreciate its excellence.

As Red Nichols played; and Ella Fitzgerald often sang; “The Music Goes Round and Round”….

FAST AND FURIOUS…OR SLOW AND CURIOUS

Mary Street Gympie  Circa 1956

Gympie-Widgee Memorial Gates

I am not and never have been a disciple of fast food; other than toast, of course.  Toast is a fast food. It doesn’t take long to prepare. It’s the deciding what to put on toast that takes time; particularly when I can’t find the Vegemite jar. I’m very quick on the draw with a can opener at high noon.

Baked beans are fast food; taking no time at all to heat up when time is of the essence; or when I’m in “I-can’t-be-bothered” mood, which happens often. Baked beans are just as tasty served cold, making them a very quick snack or meal, depending on which way you look at it; or eat it.

Nowadays baked beans, as well as many other canned foods, are an even faster fast food with ring-tops pulling the strings.

However, baked beans are not always fast food; they can be slow food.  Sometimes it’s not simply a case of grabbing a can from the pantry. If making baked beans from scratch, they take a while; then they’re a very slow food; slow can be good!  Depending on the situation, and/or how hungry I am, I can be a fast eater of food, whether it’s fast or sluggish food.

I love a good feed of fish and chips.  I don’t class fish in crisp, golden batter, surrounded by crisp and golden potato chips as being “fast food”. Writing about fish and chips has awoken my taste buds!  I’ll have to make a quick dash into the kitchen. Our locally-owned/operated purveyors of fish and chips or burgers beat the synthetic-tasting fast foods of some broadly-advertised fast food franchises.

I’ve wonderful childhood memories of visiting Nick’s Café, alongside the Memorial Gates in Mary Street, the main street of Gympie, for a piece of battered fish and sixpence worth of chips wrapped in newspaper. Every town back in those days of the distant, but not-so-dim past had a Nick’s Café, didn’t they? 

The fun had in the search to find an elusive chip or two, along with the very crispy ones and the crunchy remnants of the batter in the folds of the paper was the thrill of the feast! Battered potato scallops cooked to perfection were often added to the order. The crisp batter snapped, crackled and popped as we bit into them; more than matching the much-lauded sounds of a bowl of breakfast Rice Bubbles.

Food pumped out by the huge conglomerates doesn’t compare with; compete with, or even come close to the taste and quality offered by individually-owned/operated take-away outlets.

Oh! Dear! I’m telling porkies when I declare I’m not an eater of fast foods.

The truth is I devour lots of fast foods - every day!  The older I get the faster my meal preparation becomes. Salads containing a broad variety of healthy, fresh ingredients that need no cooking are my daily preferences. If my main meal isn’t a mixed salad with canned salmon/tuna, often accompanied by boiled eggs, it will be a salad joined by a delicious, quickly-grilled salmon fillet.

There are times, of course, when a thick juicy steak or a piece of chicken magically lands on my plate beside the salad. When the urge nudges, succulent lamb chops are known to appear and, other times, a thick pork loin chop.  There’s nothing lethargic about the above; they’re fast foods. Of course they don’t all land on my plate at the same time!

Soup may be a slow cooker; but it becomes a fast finisher if it’s decanted into individual serves to be frozen for future ingestion. Soup is a rapid starter; but it can also be a slow starter if starting from scratch! 

Whoever invented grilled cheese sandwiches deserves a medal. The toasted cheese sanga is a godsend. 

Whilst I’m chugging along on this train of thought, I won’t overlook stir-fries; fast food at its best.

I’m rapidly running out of time and space so I’ll end this discourse and make a quick exit; but before I dash, one more thing - the best fast food of all is fresh fruit; raw nuts are also fleet-footed food.  There you have it…fast foods to beat a fast!

Boston Baked Beans: Soak 425g white navy beans in cold water overnight. Start cooking early next day; the longer the cooking, the better. Preheat oven, 150C. Drain and rinse beans; put in large casserole dish; cover with water; add 1/2 onion studded with 3 cloves, 1/2c brown sugar, packed, 3tbs molasses, 3tsp Worcestershire, 1/2c tomato sauce, 2tbs dry mustard mixed with a little water, 3tbs tomato paste, 4tbs red wine vinegar, 700g fresh pork belly, rind removed, cut into bite-sized cubes, black pepper and salt. Cover; bake about 4-6 hours until beans are tender, dark and rich in colour. Check while cooking; add a little water if necessary; taste and add more sugar, sauces, molasses etc. if needed. Remove lid for the last 30mins to reduce some of the liquid, if necessary. 

Salade a la Vigneronne (who said I couldn’t speak French?): Remove rind from 8 lean bacon rashers; cut bacon into 2cm-wide strips; cook strips over medium-heat; adding a little walnut oil, if needed, until lightly browned; add 3 chopped garlic cloves and 1c walnut halves; stir until just browned; remove from pan. Add 1/2c verjuice to pan; deglaze. Reduce heat; whisk in 1/2c walnut oil; stir until warmed; add 2c halved, seedless green (or red) grapes; warm through. Combine bacon with 200g baby spinach leaves in salad bowl; spoon over the warm grapes and dressing; serve immediately with crusty bread.  

Salmon with Mustard Sauce: Sauce can be made day ahead; whisk together 1/4c Dijon mustard, 2tbs wholegrain mustard, 3tbs honey and 2tbs prepared horseradish, drained; season. Bring to room temp; just before using, add 2tbs finely-chopped mint leaves. Heat grill to high; brush salmon fillets with oil; season; cook accordingly; place watercress/rocket and thinly-sliced red onion ring salad on plate; top with salmon; moisten fillets with sauce.

IN A STATE OF CHAOS!

Dining Area - Lyndoch Hotel Cardwell

Lyndoch Motel, Cardwell...restored after Cyclone Yasi

 

Lyndoch Motel after Cyclone Yasi's visit in February, 2011

What once was known as the "Sunrise Motel-Caravan Park & Villas"

Marine Hotel, Victoria Street, Cardwell...circa 2000

Marine Hotel, post Yasi!

The harrowing destruction of Cardwell by Cyclone Yasi on 3^rd February, 2011 defies description.  The devastating trauma and loss the small beachfront town and its people suffered at the hands of the cruel, callous cyclone was heartrending, to say the least, . 

I’ve fond memories of Cardwell. Cardwell was my mainland port of call when I managed Cape Richards Resort on Hinchinbrook Island.

Where possible I supported the town’s businesses; in return, they became vigorous advocates of the resort; and I guess, in some ways of me.  The resort benefited from many tourists directed its way by Cardwell's townfolk.

Upon my taking on the management of the resort in early 1986 I was an enigma to many on the mainland. Not only was I a newcomer to the region, but I was a female; as well as being the first female manager of the resort; and, on top of that, I was manager of the resort without the help of a male counterpart. It wasn’t a regular occurrence up in those reaches back in the mid-Eighties; maybe the status quo/attitude still remains in certain areas; I don’t know.  However, I wasn’t fazed by the curiosity and interest my appearance caused, along with, perhaps, the gossip that briefly set mainland tongues wagging.  I had a job to do; staff to lead and an island resort to run. I was too focused on those to be concerned about what strangers thought of me.

The business folk in Cardwell and nearby towns like Tully to the north, and Ingham to the south soon understood I wasn’t the freak they’d perhaps erroneously prejudged me to be; but then, some could say that they were correct in their initial assumptions.  I won’t go into this any further – I can see the possibility of opening myself up to lengthy discussions on the subject of my eccentricity; and I may come out the worse for it in the end!   So I’ll leave that alone…for now...other than to admit...I quite like being eccentric...actually, I love it!

After returning from my sales-marketing adventures there were times I had to stay overnight in Cardwell before returning to the island the next morning by boat.  On other occasions, when appropriate, I’d return to the island by sea plane, landing in the waters out from the resort. 

However, whenever I had to stay in Cardwell, I chose to stay at the Lyndoch Motel; the home of the best savoury mince in the North! My desire for savoury mince on toast became a little bit like that elusive roast lamb I’d been in search of in Tasmania.   

As I drew closer to Cardwell, I’d start salivating at the thought of the Lyndoch’s savoury mince.  Without fail, I always feasted upon it for breakfast when staying at the motel! So familiar the Lynoch folk were with my wants and desire, my placing a breakfast order became unnecessary!   

It wasn’t a flashy, fancy establishment; no five or four stars; probably not even three and a half, but it had a special ambience about it; and the owners were wonderful, friendly, obliging people.

The Lyndoch Motel hosted the annual Mud Crab Festival back then.

The fabled crab races conducted on the motel grounds drew expectant, feverish punters from far and wide. One year as part of the weekend festivities Billy J. Smith and Fiona MacDonald (television-radio identities of the time) held an “It’s a Knock-Out” competition on a vacant block of land adjacent to the motel. 

I formed a motley gang of impulsive, boisterous warriors aka my island staff to compete against the visiting team of softies from Dunk Island! 

Rearing to go, my over-zealous gladiators were in no mood to take prisoners; and none they took!  Some of the methods to which my crew resorted may not have been in the rule book, but, in between cheering them on like a rabid shrew, I turned a blind eye; and looked out to sea with the other.

The incentive for my band of warriors was the persuasive lure of the Lyndoch Motel Bar.  That was a weekend and a half, I can assure you without going into further details here!

As with the rest of Cardwell, Yasi showed no mercy on the Lyndoch. The motel succumbed to its relentless unforgiving angry winds and pelting rain. The Lyndoch became a shattered shell of memories. 

It pleases me to learn that the motel has been restored.

For a period of time in 1996/7, I managed a motel a few metres north along the highway on the opposite side to the Lyncoch. The motel I managed faced the Bruce highway.  It was part of a six-acre property on the ocean-side of the main thoroughfare that runs the length of Queensland..

The property consisted of the motel I managed; and in between it and the ocean side were caravan sites; on-site caravans; small villas and a beachfront motel and restaurant.  Back then, it was known as “The Sunrise Motel-Caravan Park”…Marine Parade, Cardwell.  It, too, suffered major damage at the frenetic will of Yasi.

The Bruce Highway is also the town’s main street. As the highway passes through the town it becomes known as “Victoria Street”.  It separates Cardwell from the beachfront and from the ocean.

Entering Cardwell from the southern end a roadside pie van tempted passing traffic. It was mandatory to break your trip for one or more of its luscious pies…coming and going! Offering the best pies up and down the coast, daily the van set up camp beneath the same shady tree on the waterfront. I was often guilty of succumbing! It was difficult to be weak-willed when it came to those delicious pies.

And what better place was there to have a cold, cold beer than to sit at the bar of the Cardwell’s one and only pub, the Marine Hotel, while looking out across the waters to the majestic Hinchinbrook Island?

A basic no-nonsense pub with a million-dollar view! You can’t beat that, but Yasi did! Yasi tore the pub to shreds.  It wasn't a case of "A Pub with No Beer", per the lyrics of Slim Dusty's old song; it was a "Town with No Pub and No Beer"!

From the mid-Eighties to the late Nineties I spent 13 years living in North Queensland; from Clifton Beach in the north to Mackay in the south; with quite a few other locales in between. 

It was distressing to see what the northern folk had to deal with after Cyclone Yasi’s unwelcome, uninvited visit.  However, they’re a resilient mob up that way. They’re a good mob, too. It would be at your own risk to discount them.  The northerners are a good-humoured lot; and they made out of tough stuff!

Queenslanders everywhere, in small towns, and in areas most of us have never heard of, were hurt badly by Cyclone Yasi. But they licked their wounds; and are gradually making progress again. 

It’s been a long, hard slog; and it’s not over yet; but never fear...it takes more than a cyclone to dampen their spirits!

Savoury Mince: Brown 750g mince; add 1 large chopped onion; fry gently; drain off any fat. Add 1 can diced tomatoes, 2tbls tomato paste, 3 chopped carrots, 2 diced celery stalks, 2 crushed garlic cloves, 2c beef stock (or 1pkt mushroom soup, 2 beef cubes and 2c water), 30ml Worcestershire sauce, a splash or two of tomato sauce and 2tsp mixed herbs. Simmer 45-50mins. Add 1c frozen peas and 2tsp gravy mix; simmer 6mins.

Greek Lamb Pie: Preheat oven 205C. Grease 8-1/2inch spring-form pan. Fry 500g minced lamb and 1 chopped onion in dry non-stick pan 5mins; add crushed garlic clove, 1 can drained tomatoes, 2tbls chopped mint, 1tsp nutmeg; season. Bring to boil; simmer; stir occasionally until almost all liquid evaporated. Wash 375g spinach; cook leaves in only the water clinging to them for 2 mins; drain well; add to meat; add 125g crumbled Feta. Brush sheets of 1 pkt phyllo with oil; overlap in layers in prepared pan; leave pastry hanging over sides; add meat; wrap pastry over top; scrunch any remaining pastry into balls; place on top; sprinkle with sesame seeds; bake 25-30mins.

Cheesy Pie: Preheat oven 190C. Combine 500g minced beef, 2/3c evaporated milk, 1/4c dry breadcrumbs, crushed garlic evenly in pan; spread 1/3c tomato sauce, 1c sliced mushrooms, 1c shredded cheddar, 2tbls parmesan and 1/4tsp oregano over mixture; bake 25mins

WRAPPING UP THE SEARCH FOR THE TASSIE TIGER; AND THE EQUALLY FRUITLESS SEARCH FOR THE TASSIE LAMB

The now-extinct Tasmanian Tiger

Wrest Point Hote-Casino

Launceston - and just up that small hill is where I received my first parking fine!

En route to Launceston

As you can see, I managed to survive the disastrous imitation roast turkey; the insipid steamed potato, limp beans, the wan, tasteless gravy and doughy bread roll I was presented with that wintry Saturday evening in Hobart.  Millions survive on much less.

Hobart is a lovely city; so not to dishearten you…I’ll take a few steps back to the day before the turkey landed…

On the Friday night before the Holiday-Travel Show opened to the public on the Saturday a special tourism industry awards’ evening was held at Hobart’s Wrest Point Casino.  It was a very formal affair and all attendees and invitees, naturally, dressed accordingly.

The various tourism/travel operators, resort managers etc., representing their companies at the travel show, of which I was one, were invited guests to the awards’ night.

Wrest Point Hotel Casino was Australia’s first casino.  Wrest Point was erected in Hobart in the hope it would awaken a languishing tourism industry in Tasmania.  A license was granted and the 17-storey hotel that included the casino was opened in 1973 with much fanfare.  Until that time no casinos existed anywhere in Australia. Wrest Point Hotel Casino drew interested tourists to Tasmania and Hobart; so it fulfilled its purpose, without a doubt. Tourism in Tasmania and its capital city boomed. Hobart’s Wrest Point Hotel Casino, Australia’s first, was the harbinger of more to come later in the mainland states.

The Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra, originally formed in 1948, performed throughout the evening. Set up on the large stage in the hotel’s main, massive function room, the symphony orchestra entertained the audience with finesse. The room’s acoustics were of the first degree; and the formal dress code of the guests suited the classical music the orchestra so expertly played.

To the right in the rear line of the orchestra members was the cymbal player.  He soon commanded and held my attention.  He reminded me of Rasputin. The likeness was uncanny; not that I’ve ever met Rasputin personally.   I soon succumbed to the spell he cast. 

To me he gave the impression he enjoyed having the controversial mystic as his doppelgänger. I’m sure many before I'd set eyes on him had pointed out his likeness to the evil monk, who, in actual fact, wasn’t a monk. 

Every time his turn came to slam the cymbals together a cheeky glint appeared in his eye; and a wicked grin spread across his bearded face.  Even from a distance, I could not but notice the sparkling glint of mischief in his eyes. It was obvious he enjoyed his job very much. His joy, alone, lit up the stage. I could tell when a clash of the cymbals was due because his face heralded the coming! 

 “Grigori Rasputin” was very entertaining to watch; a real showman.  I thought so, anyway.  His performance amused me, but it didn’t detract from the brilliance of the orchestra.

The first half of the evening, and the second half  were interspersed with the award ceremonies. Not unlike those receiving an Oscar at Hollywood’s grand event well-dressed recipients stepped up to the microphone to gratefully receive their awards.

At the completion of first half of the evening and the presentations came an interval period.  The break in proceedings allowed guests to mingle over drinks in a separate area adjoining the auditorium. In a professional manner befitting the evening suitably-attired waiters, bearing silver trays adorned with appertising hors d'oeuvres, wandered amongst the crowd. Copious glasses of champagne were offered; and accepted.

The symphony orchestra gave the alert the second half of the evening was ready to be unveiled.  Once everyone was back seated in the auditorium the lights dimmed to almost complete darkness.  Expectantly, we waited in silence.  Suddenly, a group of dancers dressed in elaborate gowns of a past era, each carrying imitation flickering candles in their hands appeared out of nowhere it seemed. They danced along the aisles towards the stage where the orchestra had burst alive with the music from “The Phantom of the Opera”.  A collective intake of breath could be sensed throughout the room.  It was a stunning, surprising introduction to the second half of the evening. From the moment the curtains rose on Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “The Phantom of the Opera” at London’s West End in October, 1986, the “Phantom” held audiences everywhere in awe; helpless in the palms of his hands…the music of the night had taken over the world. 

As soon as the introduction to the second half of the evening came to its wondrous completion, the auditorium was again illuminated. To everyone’s surprise, the orchestra seamlessly changed tack, without missing a beat.  It swung into a medley of Beatles’ songs! 

From one end of the spectrum....classical music during the first part of the night - to the Swinging Sixties in the second half. That certainly got the place a-boppin’!

A wonderful evening had been enjoyed by all; including Rasputin.  The room was alive with happiness; and the smiles beamed across the faces of the departing guests at evening’s end were testament to a perfect night. Everyone left the auditorium reluctantly, not wanting the evening to end.

A line of cabs waited outside the entrance to the hotel’s foyer. Much happy chatter filled the air; the atmosphere was electric with it.  I believe everyone realised they’d been part of a wonderful event; and one, probably, that few, if any, of us had expected; one none would forget in a hurry, if ever. We’d experienced a special, beautiful, enchanting evening.

The morning after the turkey disaster I woke, undeterred; refreshed and ready to face the new day; “determination” my middle name.  I would find that elusive roast lamb if it was the last thing I’d ever do!  And, unintentionally, I’d gathered together my little gang of lamb hunters who, by that stage, were as keen to have a roast leg of lamb dinner as I was.

Word was that Hobart sold out of checkered deerstalker hats and magnifying glasses as we each adopted our Sherlock Holmes’ persona to go in search of, not the elusive Pimpernel, but the evasive lamb.

Sunday was the final day of the tourism-travel show.  A eager, excited crowd, brimming with questions and dreams rushed through the doors upon opening; a never-ending tidal wave of both dreamers and doers continued throughout the day until closing. 

As soon as the last person left the building – and it wasn’t Elvis – a combined sigh echoed through the large expanse of the room; it was time to pack up our promotional material and our stands etc.  Like a travelling circus troupe, a new town; a new venue beckoned.  The lure was impossible to ignore.

I wasn’t flying out of Hobart until around 4 pm on the Monday.  Some others I discovered were also not leaving the city until the next day. A few of us decided we’d get together and “hit the town” later on the Sunday night.  

I may not have been successful in my search of the meal I’ve described so often so far, but after putting out a few feelers, I was told by a couple of reliable sources of a very good nightspot to frequent when in Hobart.  Hobart had, and, no doubt still has, many excellent restaurants (even if they don’t offer roast leg of lamb)! 

Those of us who planned to meet up for dinner returned to our respective hotels to shower and change after our busy day in readiness for our night on the town. 

The good word that had been passed around, and then on to me, was about a place called “Molloy’s”.  It, from all the excellent notices given, was the “in spot” to go on a Sunday night.

From memory, I think that was its name.  I’ve searched high and low to confirm my recall of its title, but I’ve come up with no answers.  However, I’m 99% certain it was called “Molloy’s”.  Obviously, from all the searches I’ve conducted, it no longer exists under that name.  Moving on…

Six revellers, including me, arrived at our designated meeting place; at the predetermined time.  Our moods were frisky; our hopes and intentions for a fun evening were high and keen. It was time to let off a bit of steam. We’d all had a few hectic weeks behind us; leaving a trail of tourism debris in our wake as we travelled from venue to venue; city to city; and some, like me, still had another few days or more ahead before we could sink into the welcoming comfort of our own beds.

As in so many other structures in Hobart the eatery we’d chosen was housed in an old stone building. Its interior had been renovated without losing the building’s original personality or integrity. The façade had had a facelift along the way, again without destroying the authenticity; and a fresh coat of paint in the not too distant past completed the inviting image before us.  Hobart’s past was intact; freshly made-up, but unimpaired.

The main dining area was split level.  Our table was on the higher level; two or three steps up from the lower level, situated in a fairly private area.  The lighting was flatteringly soft; music played unobtrusively in the background; the whole place buzzed.  It was a Sunday night and the restaurant was alive, filled with happy people.  It was difficult not to succumb to the ambience. The atmosphere was inviting.  It was as if everyone was out to have a good time; and they were succeeding in their endeavour. 

Our table didn’t need any encouragement.  In fact, it didn’t take us long to become leaders of the pack!

It was a fun group of people of which I’d found myself a member; we misbehaved mischievously, but not in a bad or offensive way; not in a way that would draw the attention of security or worse. 

We, were, after all, representing the tourism industry.  Anyone witnessing us would’ve thought what a happy, fun industry it must be; and would have immediately run out first thing Monday morning to apply for a job in said industry!  We were exemplary examples!

You do realise, of course, I have my tongue planted firmly in my cheek!  And it would be worth your while to know not one member of our party was below the age of 40 years!

We were just filled with high-spirits; no harm intended nor done.

There may not have been any roast lamb on the menu that evening, but I had a plate of the best nachos with a side serving of spicy potato wedges this side of Mexico City!  It was the most delicious nacho meal I’d had in a restaurant, before or since.  The plate bearing the nachos was almost the size of Tasmania!  It was a memorable meal.

I think my fellow party-goers and I felt as if we’d been set free. Our shackles had been unfastened and tossed into the Great Southern Ocean, never to be seen again; or for a little while, anyway. Our high spirits certainly showed it to be so.

One member of our party decided to prove his dexterity as a paper plane maker; and soon went about the business of plane construction out of the paper napkins. Howard Hughes would have been very proud of him.  Soon we all joined in and one of the errant napkin missiles landed on a fellow at a neighbouring table who was quietly dining with a male associate.  I went over to the gentleman under fire to apologise for our kindergarten behaviour. I explained to him who we were; where we were from; and why we were carrying on like a mob of kids at a four-year old’s birthday party. 

He laughed; and, without hesitation, asked if he and his mate could join our table.  How could I refuse his request after he’d been the innocent victim of our aerial raid? 

Both he and his friend were around the same ages as those in our group. They were made very welcome when they joined our table.  The fellow who’d been under attack sat next to me on my left.

Introductions were made. My surprise, and that of my fellow diners was impossible to disguise when we discovered the nice fellow sitting to my left was the owner of the establishment!  

He was the Molloy of “Molloy’s”!  I will call him “John” for good manners and gratitude sake.  Unfortunately, I can’t remember his first name

.

Putting aside our combined surprise our group quickly became involved in friendly, animated conversations with our newly-met friends.  The mood at our table was contagious, and the two newcomers soon caught the virus and joined in with our good-hearted, good-humoured fun.

 

Dinner had come to an end, and noises were being made around the table about it being time for coffees and liqueurs.  Discussion over decisions to be made was in full swing when our Mr. Molloy asked if we had after-dinner plans.  It was then he informed us that upstairs was a nightclub.  It, too, was part of his business. He explained the nightclub was a new addition, and had only started operating a few weeks before the night of our visit.  He urged us to venture upstairs; not only did he do that, but he escorted us upstairs and through the nightclub door as well, with no entrance fee charged.  He had the doorman stamp our hands to prove we were patrons in case we had to, for whatever reason, leave the premises with the intention of returning.

When we approached the bar, our host beckoned the head barman over to where we’d congregated.  Reaching into his pocket, “John” pulled out his wallet and placed $200.00 on the bar before the barman with instructions for him to let – “this group of good people drink it out”! 

With that extremely generous gesture, he thanked us for the fun he’d shared at our table; and he bade us a good night and farewell! 

We couldn’t believe what “John” had just done.  What he did was incredibly kind and most unexpected.

I’ve never forgotten his generosity, his good nature, or his astute business acumen. 

I hope his generosity was well-rewarded .  I can only speak for myself, but I, for one, out of the group I dined and partied with that Sunday night advised everyone and sundry whom I met after our evening in “Molloy’s” -  whenever they found themselves in Hobart they had to pay a visit to that wonderful eatery and bar. 

To visit Hobart, was to visit “Molloy’s”; and while enjoying the eatery’s food, drinks and atmosphere, to make sure they passed on my very best wishes to “John” Molloy. 

I’ve always hoped that at least one; at least one, did so; but I hope many, many more followed my advice and passed on my gratitude.  I will never know.

Before going to sleep later that night, I rang through to reception at the hotel in which I was staying for an early morning wake-up call.  My Monday plan was to drive from Hobart to Launceston to visit travel agents in that city, spreading the good word about Hinchinbrook Island Resort; before turning around and driving back to Hobart to catch my 4 pm flight out of Tasmania, en route to Brisbane; with brief landings at Melbourne and Sydney along the way.

I waited and waited on the line.  No one answered.  The phone rang and rang and rang.  Finally, frustrated, I got an outside line and rang the hotel!  Reception answered.  Containing my annoyance, I explained, as politely as my clenched teeth would allow, why I was calling; that my previous call from my room to reception had gone unanswered for at least 25 minutes; that if I’d continued hanging on waiting for someone to acknowledge my call, I wouldn’t need a wake-up call because I’d not have gone to sleep…because I’d been hanging onto my phone waiting for an answer!  I wasn’t rude to the person on the other end of the phone.  I could see no worthwhile point in being so. I needed sleep; and I needed a wake-up call…job done, with the least amount of hassle incurred; and no rudeness involved!

Early Monday morning I loaded the boot/trunk of my hire car with my luggage; some overflowed onto the back seat; and then I headed north to Launceston.   

Travelling through Tasmania, mist hung low over areas along the way.  Smoke wafted out of chimneys of the farmhouses. Inside my car it was warm and cosy, but seeing the smoke wafting out of chimneys of the many farmhouses dotted across the landscape as I drove by I understood there must have been quite a nip in the outside air. 

The distance between Hobart and Launceston is a little under 200kms (124 miles).  It only took a couple of hours, give or take, to reach Launceston.

Having found a parking spot in the CBD area…on the left-hand side of the street; halfway up a low, long hill, I then grabbed my suitcase and went in search of travel agencies.

Finishing my business duties in record time, upon returning to my parked vehicle I discovered a parking ticket stuck under one of the wind shield wipers!  It was the first parking ticket I’d ever received in my life!  I couldn’t believe it!

So I grabbed the ticket; tossed it into my briefcase; jumped into the car, and headed southwards back to Hobart.

I arrived at Hobart airport with time up my sleeve before my flight was due.

On that one Monday – I’d been in Hobart; Launceston; Hobart, again; Melbourne; Sydney, and finally, Brisbane.  I was to be in Brisbane for a week; booked in for the duration at the Hilton Hotel, in Queen Street, in the city centre.

And, in case you’re wondering…I did pay the parking fine awarded me in Launceston when I eventually arrived back to my island home.

The story of this adventure doesn’t finish here…however, it does for today.  A further chapter will follow another later.

Spicy Potato Wedges: Preheat oven to 200C (390F). Line base of baking dish with non-stick baking paper. Combine 1tbs ground cumin, 1tbs ground coriander, 1tbs paprika, 1/2tsp chilli powder and 1tbs garlic powder in large bowl.  Add ¼ cup light olive oil; mix well. Grab 1kg medium russet potatoes, scrubbed. Cut each potato into 6 wedges; add to bowl with spices; toss to coat well. Arrange wedges in single layer on baking tray; sprinkle generously with sea salt and cracked black pepper. Bake for 45 minutes until tender and crisp. Serve with sour cream and sweet chill sauce.

Nachos: Spread corn chips liberally over oven-proof plate. Dollop refried beans over chips; sprinkle liberally with cheese (or a blend of cheeses) and grated parmesan; bake until cheese has melted. Meanwhile make Guacamole – chopped avocados, 1 medium tomato, seeded and finely-chopped, 2tsps lime juice, about ½ cup minced red onion, two minced garlic cloves, 1tbs finely-chopped coriander/cilantro. Mash avocados; stir in rest of ingredients; season to taste. Serve Nachos topped with thick, chunky salsa, guacamole, sour cream and garnished with coriander leaves.