SLING ME A SINGAPORE FLING! CHAPTER ONE.

Ulysses Butterfly

Grumman Mallard

De Havilland Beaver

Missionary Bay, Hinchinbrook Island

Changi Airport, Singapore

When communicating with a fellow blogger the other day memories of a year I spent in Singapore one week in late 1986 came to mind loud and clear. Not that it takes much to rekindle my many fond, fun memories of my wonderful visit to Singapore!  Every time I hear of someone heading to there, I find myself back sitting on a stool at “The Writers’ Bar” in Raffles Hotel. A few years ago I wrote about this brief episode in my life; but that’s not going to stop me doing so again. This time I’ll give a more detailed account.

The “Reef Venture” arrived at the resort's jetty 9.00 am bearing a load of provisions along with a few new guests eager to start their island escape. As was my usual practice each time guests arrived, I sat with them for a short while out on the deck surrounding the pool. Sipping on hot or cold beverages of their choice while spontaneously being lulled into a sense of guiltless lethargy by the relaxing sound of the ocean gently lapping the shore of Orchid Beach, I explained the island’s many pleasures that inclueded the various walks and daily boat trips on offer.  As if on cue a large, exquisite Ulysses butterfly oblivious to the wonder it caused amongst the newcomers idly meandered through the tropical growth drinking the nectar. Once I’d completed the “greet and meet” a staff member escorted the holidaymakers to their respective cabins. Upon entering my office the phone started ringing.

As clear as a bell I remember it being shortly after 10 am on a Wednesday morning, Hinchinbrook Island time - which, by the way, in reality, was (and still is) the same as mainland Queensland time.  Although, on the other hand, island time was “island time” and completely different to mainland time…but that’s a whole other story and explanation!

The caller was my boss, the owner of the resort. He was, and still is, the Managing Director of his own company; a civil engineering-construction company with its head office located in Toowong, a suburb of Brisbane. The construction company has projects throughout this country, not solely confined to Queensland.  The news he had for me almost knocked me for a “sixer”; or put another way..."out of the ball park"

The construction company leased its work vehicles from Toyota; about 30 in total, which was quite a lot for a relatively small firm in comparison to some other much larger construction companies.  Toyota had run a competition of sorts, and "our" Brisbane-based civil engineering company won a trip for two of its employees (of the construction company, not the island resort. The two businesses were separate entities, entire unto themselves).

The prize was a week’s accommodation in Singapore, staying at the luxurious Hyatt Hotel on Orchard Avenue. Breakfast every day from the hotel’s elaborate hot and cold buffet, and one dinner for two in the Hyatt’s first class a la carte restaurant were included in the prize, as well as the return flights, of course. 

The original recipient of the prize, a Ray Arnold, and his wife (I didn’t know who they were…Ray Arnold worked in the civil engineering sector) pulled out at the last minute because of unforeseen family obligations.  The prize had to be taken up within the next week, or it would be forfeited. 

Marj, the ex-wife of the owner of both the resort and the construction company was a good friend of mine of long-standing.  She retained shares in the civil engineering company; and the company still bore her name, as well, even though the marriage had fallen to pieces. Rather than forfeit the prize, her ex-husband, my boss, offered it to Marj and me, with the condition we had to catch a flight to Singapore the following Wednesday. That meant I had to be in Brisbane on the Tuesday.  I had less than a week to get my end of everything, work-wise on the island, into order. Immediately, I went into full-speed-ahead mode!

Unlike my sales-marketing trips to various travel/tourism expos and seminars/conferences, my trip to Singapore was more leisure-based, than work-related; which was just as well because I did no “work” when there.  That word was absent from my mind, to be truthful!

Excitement ran rife for the next few days, not only within me, but throughout my staff, as well.  I wasn’t sure if they were happy for me, or excited knowing I’d be off the island for a week, out of their hair; perhaps, it was a blend of the two!

Even when I was younger, unlike many of my peers, I bore no burning desire to travel overseas.  However, my lack of the travel-bug gene didn’t mean I lacked knowledge about other countries; nor did it mean I had no interest in foreign and not so foreign lands; their cultures or their people. I’ve always been an avid reader of whatever I can lay my hands on, be it fiction, non-fiction, historical, geographical; the list was and still is endless.

When it began or how it began, I really don’t know, but for years I’d promised myself if I ever did happen to venture to Singapore – never thinking that I ever would – Raffles Hotel would sit at the absolute pinnacle of my list of places to visit. 

Raffles was probably the main reason each time I visited Cairns, I stayed at the Tradewinds-Outrigger Hotel.  With its white plantation shutters, marble-tiled floors, lush, green potted palms and tropical plants throughout, The Outrigger Hotel, to me, exuded the tropical romanticism of Singapore’s legendary Raffles Hotel. For years I’d retained the fanciful image I'd conjured in my mind; and the promise I’d made to myself; a promise no one else was aware of; it was my secret desire.

Tuesday arrived quickly.  I’d barely had time to catch my breath it seemed. Many loose ends had to be tied and in order before I left for my unexpected, unplanned adventure. I had faith in my staff, but there were still many things that needed attending to before I boarded on the Air Whitsunday’s seaplane, the Grumman Mallard en route to Townsville airport to catch a connection flight to Brisbane.  The Grumman Mallard was an amphibian aircraft.  Air Whitsunday operated out of Airlie Beach, the mainland centre for the various Whitsunday islands that are dotted over and about the Great Barrier Reef.  Airlie Beach is approximately 465kms (289 miles) as the seagulls, terns or seaplanes fly.

Depending on the number of holidaymakers travelling to Hinchinbrook and/or Orpheus Islands, Air Whitsunday sometimes flew the De Havilland Beaver to the islands. The Beaver was smaller than the Mallard. It was fun to fly in; but there was some extra special about the old Grumman Mallard.  I loved flying in that plane.

Upon the arrival of the Grumman around 12.30 pm on the Tuesday, a couple of my staff members and I leapt aboard the AIMS’ punt (Australian Institute of Marine Science). I was gallantly ferried out to the seaplane.

AIMS regularly conducted research on and around the island.  The mangrove forests that line the western side of Hinchinbrook Island fringing the Hinchinbrook Channel, along with the dense mangroves that grow extensively along the creeks that run from the island’s interior.  The waters emanating from Mt. Bowen, Queensland’s third highest mountain flow into Missionary Bay. The area is claimed, by many of the experts in such matters, to be the most diverse in Australia.  Many have likened the area to the Amazon Delta.  AIMS asked me for permission to leave their punt tied up to the island jetty. In return, AIMS gave us permission to use the punt for sea plane pick-ups and drop-offs when it wasn’t being used by them.

So there I was - off on the first leg of my trip. Townsville airport would be my first port of call; and then, I'd jump aboard a flight to Brisbane. I was on my way.  All I could think of was Raffles 

Late in the afternoon, Marj was waiting for me at Brisbane airport. We spent the night before our flight the following day at her riverside home in Chelmer, a Brisbane suburb. There we enjoyed a few wines over dinner, combined with a lot of talking and much laughter.  Marj had physically seen more of the world than I had.  A few years before our planned joint trip, she and her family traversed Russia from its far east coast across to Moscow on board the Trans-Siberian Rail ; and then, continued on through Europe before returning home to Australia. There was a trip to the United States somewhere along the line, too, from memory.

I told Marj of my plan to be at Raffles Hotel every afternoon on the dot of 4 pm; and that on my very first visit I intended to wear white. I had no particular reason for my desire to wear white, but, somehow, in my romantic imagination, it seemed fitting.

During a trip to Melbourne a couple of months prior to my Singapore sojourn I’d bought a very expensive, Italian-designed and made white cotton shirt-maker dress from newly-opened Diorama. An ex-guest of the resort had an interest in the venture and he had personally invited me to visit the new shopping outlet; a complex filled with many individual high fashion salons. At the time, Diorama was a risky, adventurous, ahead-of-its-time venture. A group of like-minded aficianados of fashion brought their dreams into fruition, and under one roof in a building in Collins Street, Melbourne they created a wonderland of unique, exclusive fashion salons. Diorama’s glamorous salons, some of which allowed entrance “by invitation only”, showcased the best well-known and respected overseas designers, along with the crème de la crème of Australian designers.

Having accepted the invitation to be personally escorted through Diorama’s myriad salons, I fell under its captivating spell immediately, and weakly I succumbed. The only excuse I can offer for the flaw in my character is - I’m a woman. Place me amongst a cluster of alluring salons filled with beautiful clothes, all “one-offs”, shoes and seductive perfumes what do you expect a girl to do?  What increased the temptation  at the time was the fact that my bank balance was far more healthier than what it is today!

I fell in love with the dress the moment I laid my eyes on it.  Trying it on was the mistake I made. From that moment on, I was defenseless. I was putty in its threads.  It was a stunning dress; simple, but stunning. It was meant to be mine; damn the price tag!

I’d only worn it once before the Singapore trip, and I felt like a million dollars the night I'd first worn the dress; as well I should because it cost almost a million dollars; a slight exaggeration, of course.

It was my dream to walk into Raffle’s Writers’ Bar dressed in my “million dollar” white vestment; or investment! 

So with my game plan firmly in place, I continued explaining it to Marj my intentions, telling her if we ever became separated while out and about in Singapore, or if there were times she wanted to go her way, alone, to see and do whatever she wanted to do without my company, from 4 pm each day she would know where to find me. I’d be sitting in “The Writers’ Bar” at Raffles Hotel.

I think we were both as excited as each other; but unlike me, one who always packs her suitcase well ahead of time, to my amazement, Marj hadn’t even begun to pack hers. Last minute packing is not my style. It never has been. If going on a trip, even if only for a couple of days, I’m always packed and ready well in advance. I think what intrigued me most about Marj’s lack of urgency was she always took so long to get ready for a simple night out or similar. Here we were going overseas for a week and she had nothing ready at all! At some ridiculous hour in the morning she dragged out her ironing board! 

She used to dilly-dally about so much when we’d be getting ready to go anywhere…and “anywhere” might sometimes mean just going to the beach, it would drive me insane.  I'd be tearing my hair out in sheer frustration. It shouldn't take anyone so long to get ready! I’ve never understood why it takes some people forever to ready themselves.  Get on with the job, I say…stop fiddling about!  So when she hadn’t even thrown a single pair of panties into her suitcase, my eyebrows were raised to the ceiling and beyond!  I had to walk away, out of her bedroom. I could feel my temperature rising!

I told her if she wasn’t ready the next day when the taxi transporting us to the airport arrived, I’d leave without her. Taking control of the situation, or at least one small part of it, I booked the cab to arrive well in advance of our flight’s departure time. Again she accused me of being silly and of panicking. She poo-hooed and ridiculed me for doing so; but I didn’t weaken in my resolve.  I’d rather wait at the airport in leisure than be held up in traffic having an anxiety attack. 

As the following day unfolded, it was just as well I was so insistent because when we reached the airport the bag handlers and booking-in clerks had gone on a last minute strike; and there was only a skeletal staff working!  One single outlet was open to accommodate check-in travellers. The queue leading to the one and only bay was endless.  It was pandemonium.

We had just reached the end of the line and were in the middle of checking in when our flight was called.  We had to run like hell to board the plane before its doors closed. We were the last to board.  Out of breath, we found our seats.  Marj and I exchanged looks.  I didn’t have to say anything; but I knew she knew that if I hadn’t persisted in being at the airport early, way before our scheduled departure time, we would never have caught our flight; but we did. I was a good friend - I refrained from saying - "I told you so!"

Finally, we were in the air en route to Singapore.  As each moment flew by, my Raffles’ dream grew closer into becoming a reality.  I could hardly wait.

We landed at Changi Airport at night. There we were greeted by a very bossy female tour guide. I was certain she was a female reincarnation of Hitler!  Up until that point, we'd not realised we were part of a tour group.  I've never been a "group" person; and neither was Marj.  It was a situation that had to be rectified promptly.

I'd arrived in Singapore with a name like "Lee George"...one that can be either female or male; and "Lee", in particular, was a very popular, common name in Singapore. On top of that, Marj and I were flying under the names of  Ray Arnold and his wife!  

I sensed there could possibly be some confusion ahead.

HOT-DIGGITY DOG!

Town Hall Clock, Gympie

Front Entrance to Gympie's Central State Primary School

Without fail he’d be at our double garden gates every afternoon waiting for my brother and me to arrive home from school. He didn’t wear a watch; he didn’t own one.  Seated in his usual spot he couldn’t see the Town Hall clock just across the way; but he was never late.  He would have been able to hear the Town Hall clock strike every hour and half hour, of course, but, to my knowledge, he couldn’t count.  I guess he just instinctively knew the time of the day; no matter what the day was. He could differentiate between week days and weekends; although I don’t know how he worked that out, either. It must have been instinctive.

At opposing ends of the fence fronting the street upon which we lived were two sets of gates.  Well, we didn’t actually live on the street – you know what I mean! A narrower garden gate swung between two posts, one of which held the letterbox at the end of the concrete garden path; or perhaps, at the beginning of the path, depending on which way we were headed – coming or going!  The double gates at the opposite end of our front yard were separated from the single gate by a garden ablaze with a pale pink-blossomed climbing rose bush, and a garden abundant with zestful zinnias, generously-hued gerberas and composed chrysanthemums.

The double-gated entrance was wide enough for a car to drive through, but it was never used for that purpose. We didn’t own a car.

When going to or coming from school the double gates were the ones we passed through. At that end of the yard they were the logical choice.

Gympie’s Central State Primary School was situated just up the road a few yards and around the corner in the next street from where we lived.  Close enough for us to walk home for “big lunch”; or run home!

It didn’t take him long to learn our habits.  He was a clever fellow. That’s why daily, excepting Saturdays and Sundays, he set up his sentry post at the double gates; he was no dummy.
 
On Saturday afternoons we always went to the matinees at the Olympia Theatre; and upon our return from the picture theatre he’d be there waiting at the smaller gate; not the double gates.  When going to the Saturday matinees, the smaller garden gate was the one we always used because that was nearest to the direction we were headed.

Every afternoon when we rounded the corner as we headed for home from school, we’d spot him.  I’m sure he always saw us before we saw him because he’d have already jumped up from his seated position; his body quivering with excitement and his tail wagging frantically from side to side.  His senses were more alert than ours; and each afternoon he found it difficult to contain himself, but somehow he managed…just! 
 
He knew he wasn’t allowed out on the street. Impatiently he waited; heart pounding; tail wagging, body quivering, ears wired for sound; an excited smile across his tan and white face; a smile that would convert any Sad Sack into a Happy Jack. After a welcome that made us feel we’d been away for a month, not a few hours, he’d jump with joy; and the race would begin!  Up the back stairs my brother and I galloped; Graham ahead of me; both of us clearing two steps at a time.

However, smugly, our excited, impatient friend always won the race!   And, I always came last!

Peter was his name.  He was a tan and white smooth-haired Fox Terrier.
 
Peter was the first dog we ever had. In truth, he really was my brother’s pet; I had my ginger cat, appropriately called “Ginger”; but I had enough love to share around. My love for Peter wasn’t diminished.   
He was a fine, cocky little fellow who loved to chase a ball, a stick or shuttlecock about the yard.  Peter was a frisky, inquisitive dog who enthusiastically joined in all our games. He may have been little in size, but he was gigantic in character.
  
And then, one afternoon he didn’t greet us at the gates. Our hearts were broken.  There was little our mother and grandmother could do or say to console us; though try they did. We had to learn to work our way through our grief in our own personal, individual way.

Pets play such a special, crucial part in a child’s life and development. Animals teach children so many of life’s lessons; necessary lessons about love; kindness; respect loyalty; joy, and of course, sorrow. All the emotions that help mould us into being decent human beings.

Oh! Dear! Sorry! And here am I about to give you some hot dog recipes to woof down!

Grilled Bacon-Wrapped Stuffed Hot Dogs: Heat grill to med-high. Combine 1tsp each tomato sauce and Dijon mustard. Separately mix 1c drained, roughly-chopped sauerkraut with 2tbs chopped onion. Slice 4 large knockwurst/bratwurst/kielbasa sausages down the centre, lengthwise, creating deep pocket; don’t cut right through; coat insides with mustard mix. Place strip of cheddar cheese in each pocket; top with sauerkraut; encase cheese at ends so none is exposed. Tightly wrap a bacon rasher around each stuffed hot dog so stuffing stays in; secure with toothpick at each end.  Oil grill; place dogs on grill, stuffing side down. Grill on all sides until bacon is cooked.  Toast 4 hot dog buns; remove toothpicks from hot dogs; place in buns.

Sticky Hot Dog Jackets: Rub 4 baking potatoes, each about 225g, with a little olive oil; sprinkle generously with salt flakes and black pepper. Wrap each in double- thickness foil; cook on bbq 1hr, turning often; or bake unwrapped in 200C oven, 1hr.  Glaze: Combine 2tsp maple syrup or honey, 1tbs balsamic, 2tsp wholegrain mustard and 1tsp tomato puree. Brush over 8 pork sausages; cook on bbq, basting until cooked and sticky. Combine 8tbs mayo, 2tsp wholegrain mustard and 3tbs finely-chopped chives or shallots. Split the spuds down the middle; not all the way through; add mayo and sausages (like a hot dog). 

Hot Dog Rolls: Lightly grease tray; line. Cut 2 sheets thawed puff pastry into 12 pieces; sprinkle with finely-chopped onion, 1tsp chicken stock powder and 1/2tsp chilli powder or black pepper. Using 12 wieners; wrap each in pastry; seal with beaten egg; and brush tops; sprinkle sesame seeds on top of roll; bake in preheated 200C oven, 18-20mins or until golden. 

FAREWELL, MY LOVELY!

Sun Plaza Motel, Mackay

Gunabul, Restaurant-Function House, Gympie

Gunabul from another angle

Wedding ceremony at arbour in the gardens of Gunabul

3-par 18-hole golf course...Gunabul

My late brother Graham & Bernice - and "The Rattler"

Little Lady Echo

Perhaps Raymond Chandler wasn’t saying goodbye to a femme fatale when he wrote his novel, “Farewell, My Lovely”, but, instead, he was bidding adieu to Cape Farewell, the southernmost tip of Greenland, which he thought was lovely; just a thought.

Chandler may have been the first cab off the rank when he penned the words in 1940, but I’m nicking them; a loan, only a loan. He can have them back when I’m finished. I’m using poetic license that I don’t have in my possession right now. I know it’s here somewhere, but I can’t put my hands on it at the moment.

Also, at the risk of overstepping copyright restrictions, as well, it was a matter of “Farewell, My Lovely” for me the last Saturday; a moving farewell to a very dear friend of long-standing; a bittersweet parting enacted out at my driveway. 

I hate good-byes. I’m the one you see bawling her eyes out at airports; and you’d never want to be with me when I watch “The Notebook”!  I’m even worse when I read the book!

Forlornly I stood, around 11 am Saturday morning, fighting back my tears; tears that threatened to overflow in liquid abundance; enough to flood the valleys below. Sobs threatened to wrack my body as they struggled to break free.

My constant companion for the past 20 years; she who willingly went along with me to areas far and wide throughout this state; transporting me to some places I’d never been before or since, gave not a backward glance as she was taken away strapped on the tray at the rear of a truck; beyond my reach; out of my life forever.

 I’m sure she was afraid to look back, knowing if she did she’d fall apart seeing me standing there, alone, long of face. It might have been wishful thinking; a figment of my imagination or the reflection of the noon day sun, but I was certain her rear right tail light flickered at me as she disappeared down the road. Her final salute; her way of saying: “So long, my friend! I’ve enjoyed the ride, too!” 

Yes! I’m talking about Bessie, my doppelganger Ford Festiva. I purchased brand-spanking new Bessie from Bowen’s Ford dealership on the 9^th November, 1993; two days before my birthday; my birthday gift to me. Over the years, like a pigeon-pair we covered a lot of territory, but the time had come for us to part ways. 

Together we weathered many storms.  We shared many happy fun times under the sun. 

Not once did she complain about my tuneless singing or mutterings. 

Bessie and I also shared sad times. She was my constant companion and means of transport when my late brother was in the P.A. Hospital prior to his passing.  Almost every day she ferried me from Gympie to Brisbane and back again in the six weeks leading up to his death. Never once did she let me down. Never once did she complain.

My brother, Graham had undergone major surgery for throat cancer at the Townsville Hospital in late January, 1998.   He’d spent over 6 hours on the operating table.

On New Year’s Day, 1998 I took up the position as manager of the Sun Plaza Motel, Nebo Road, Mackay. Taking on that job was one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made in my life. Looking back on it, I still ask myself the question “Why?” - I could write a volume about my short tenure at the motel. Perhaps one day I will; the story of that nightmare will have to wait for now. 

Mackay is south of Townsville; a two-hour road trip between the two cities. The only free  time I had from my motel duties were a few hours on Sundays; the hours between when I’d finished preparing and serving room service breakfasts on Sunday mornings and 4 pm in the afternoons. Those precious few hours were “my” time. 

From when Graham entered hospital in Townsville I spent my free hours on Sundays visiting him.  As soon as I’d finished preparing the last motel breakfast, I’d jump into my car and hurtle northwards to Townsville, my foot on the pedal, to spend a couple of hours with Graham before having to turn around and head south again around 2 pm to be back at the motel at 4 pm. 

I despaired at having to bid my brother farewell. I dreaded the return trip to Mackay. It wasn’t the trip or the city I dreaded, but what awaited me there - the motel.

Those few hours on Sundays were the only time I had to spend with Graham. I never burdened him with my problems; they were mine.  They were minor details compared to what he was dealing with.  It was a stressful time because I wanted to be near to him; I desperately wanted to be able to sit with him every day; but I couldn’t. 

At the motel I was working 24/7. Not only did I prepare the room service breakfasts every morning, I attended to the daily office duties, as well; along with overseeing the housekeeping staff and all that that entailed. At night I tended the restaurant bar and waited on the tables; while all the while bearing a smile on my face and exuding a pleasant attitude towards the dinner guests.  And if that wasn’t enough, I was on call throughout the rest of the night if late-comers wishing to book a room rang the night-bell.  Often I was woken in the wee small hours. 

The motel was situated on Nebo Road, which is the main thoroughfare through Mackay.  The Bruce Highway, Queensland’s main coastal highway, becomes Nebo Road when it reaches the southern outskirts of the city. 

Managing the motel kept me very busy, with little time of my own. The job kept Bessie busy, too, because she was my only means of transport when it came to running motel errands, such as banking, shopping etc. It was a full-on job. 

To make matters worse the owner of the motel at that time who had a sugar cane farm at Marian, a cane-growing area about 30 minutes west of Mackay, was a horrible person.  He was an arrogant, paranoid, ignorant, thoughtless creature, with the manners of a pig.  Actually, I insult pigs. Pigs have better manners!

When it came time for Graham to receive chemotherapy I insisted that he move south to Tamborine Mountain (where I live now, as a matter of fact).

He would receive his chemo treatment at the Princess Alexandra Hospital in Brisbane, a little over an hour’s drive away from Eagle Heights, an area on the northern end of this ridge.  At the time, his daughter and her future husband lived at Eagle Heights.  I believed it would be better for Graham to have close family around him because he would need the emotional and physical support that was impossible for me to give because of my work situation.

Eventually, when Graham was released from Townsville Hospital he flew south to take up residence at his daughter’s home for the duration of his treatment.

Stuck in Mackay, I was at my wits end.  I knew I couldn’t remain there.  It was time for me to move back south to be closer to my brother; to be there for him if and when he needed me during his most difficult time.

I didn’t want to move back to the city.  I’d left Brisbane in March, 1979.  After 19 years away from city life, with some of those years spent on islands, I had no desire to return to the hustle and bustle of city living. 

I rang a girlfriend of mine in Gympie.  We’d known each other since our primary school days; and as teenagers we spent our weekends surfing the waves at Noosa Heads and other beaches on the Sunshine Coast. We’ve been friends forever, it seems.

Both of our brothers had been lifesavers together in the Noosa Heads Surf Lifesaving Club in the early Sixties. Joy, my friend, and I remained good friends throughout the years, no matter how far I roamed.  She's spent her whole life in Gympie.  She wasn't a gypsy like I was. That we’d not seen each other in a long time made no difference; distances and absence matter not at all in good, strong friendships; our friendship remains to this day.

Bringing Joy up to date with what was going on in Graham’s life and my own, I told her I intended returning to Gympie as soon as possible; that I needed to be closer to where he was rather than be stuck up in the middle of nowhere feeling totally useless.  

Having been raised and schooled in Gympie; the town in which I'd also spent the first five years of my working life, I knew the area well. I still had good friends of longstanding there.

Gympie is only 168kms (105 miles) driving distance north of the city of Brisbane. Moving from Mackay to Gympie was the most logical decision for me to make, in my mind.  Joy leapt at the opportunity to be of assistance.  Within three weeks, I was on my way.  She’d found a house for me to rent, having painted my prospective landlords a rosy picture of me (as it turned out, they were related to another good friend of mine of longstanding). Joy also recommended my services to the owners of a restaurant-function house at the South Side of Gympie, which turned out to be “Gunabul Restaurant-Function House” as pictured above.  I rang the owners immediately; and on the healthy references Joy had given, I was hired as their chef/cook, sight unseen.

Every piece of the jigsaw puzzle was falling into its rightful place.

The 38 acres (15.3 hectares) property upon which Gunabul sits also boasts a 3-par, 18-hole golf course. In past years before the golf course was constructed, cattle grazed on the lush river pastures. The property runs down to the banks of the Mary River.  The home was originally built around 1885 for a local solicitor, Francis Power and his family.  Some of the features of the original home still exist in the present incarnation. Its high ceilings and a marble fireplace are examples, as are the original windows that are still in good working order.  In its early days the home was called “Kitiwah”.  The old home, now restaurant, is in immaculate condition. It has been known as “Gunabul” for only the past couple of decades or so.

I felt overwhelming feelings of elation as I pulled out of the driveway of Sun Plaza Motel and turned left into Nebo Road at 7 pm Saturday 25^th April, 1998…Anzac Day.   Without a backward glance, I directed “Bessie”, my little Ford Festiva’s nose southwards; and off we went. Gympie drew closer with each turn of her tyres. 

In a strange way I felt like I was going home, even though I’d left Gympie 33 years previously in late July 1965.

Pushkin, my beloved ginger cat was comfortably settled into his cat box on the rear seat. He’d already travelled far and wide with me. He’d become used to my roaming over the years.  Pushkin had lived on Newry Island with me; he wasn’t unfamiliar with adventures. He wasn’t at all concerned about the latest undertaking. He knew he was in safe hands. 

After a couple of brief stops en route I arrived in Gympie, 803kms (499 miles) down the track a bit from Mackay around 4.30 am Sunday, 26^th April.  I found a cosy spot overlooking the river to wait for the sun to make its appearance. I let Pushkin out of his cat box to roam free throughout the car to stretch his legs.  I didn’t want to arrive at Joy’s home too early. She reprimanded me when I did pull into their yard at 6.15 am because they’d been up before the birds expecting me to arrive at any minute.

A few hours later, having indulged in lengthy conversations and gallons of coffee; we had a lot of catching up to do; although feeling a little jet lagged after a sleepless night on the road, I paid a visit to Gunabul around 11 am to introduce myself to my new bosses.

I commenced working at Gunabul on Tuesday, 28^th April.  I stayed with Joy and her husband in their home for a couple of days after my return to Gympie; and then I moved into my new abode.

The weekend of the 30^th April included a public holiday on Monday, 4^th May. It was the Labour Day long weekend. 
 

At the start of the long weekend somehow Graham found the strength, and/or determination to drive from Tamborine Mountain to Gympie to spend a couple of days with me; a trip that takes about three hours to conquer; sometimes more, depending on traffic conditions.

My Saturday – day and night - was taken up working as I had a wedding to cater for at the restaurant, but the rest of my time was free. Graham and I shared special, precious hours together just relaxing and chatting.  He was not well. He was very weary, it was clear to see; Blind Freddy could have seen his frailty; but his spirits were high and his intent, positive; far more positive than my own thoughts; thoughts I kept private within myself.

Graham showed strength of purpose during that weekend in May, 1998.  A good friend of his from when he was a young man working for the railway in Gympie took him out for the day on the Saturday of his visit. Bernice, his friend of many years (and mine, too), fulfilled a dream of Graham’s, one that he’d held for quite a while. 

Graham left Gympie to live in Mackay in the mid-Sixties.  Ever since he was a kid, for whatever reasons the lure of working on the cane fields had grabbed hold of him; and that’s what he did when he was about 22-23 years of age.  He married a Mackay girl and they had three children.  He remained living in Mackay until 1997.

When The Mary Valley Heritage Railway began conducting steam train trips/tours from Gympie through the lush Mary Valley, Graham’s interest was alerted.  Often he told me of his keenness to “Ride the Rattler”. The old steam engine departed from the historic Gympie Railway Station; the place where he first started working.  Many times as young fellow he rode the trains out through the Mary Valley.  The fully-restored, heritage steam train, “The Rattler” pulls restored wooden carriages filled with interested, excited tourists. The 40km journey traverses curves, gradients, bridges and lush countryside through the tiny country villages of Dagun, Amamoor, Kandanga and Imbil dotted along the way throughout the Mary Valley; and then returns to Gympie.

Graham returned from his day out, exhausted, but elated.  He had had a wonderful day.  I am, and will be forever grateful to Bernice for her generosity of spirit and friendship - for giving him that day.

Hugging me as we said our farewells before he departed on his return trip to Tamborine Mountain in the early hours of Monday morning; he preferred to drive in the night/early morning, Graham said to me:

 “As soon as I beat this thing, I think I’ll move back here to Gympie, too. Could I stay with you for a little while until I find something of my own?  I might even find a little place down at Tin Can Bay and do lots of fishing and crabbing.”

Naturally, I agreed with him that it sounded like a wonderful idea.

However, even if I was able to lie to him without remorse at doing so, I couldn’t lie to myself.  I knew his dream would not become reality.  

Within, I’d already acknowledged what was staring me in the face – the truth; a truth I couldn’t run away from no matter how much I wished it to be otherwise.

The next day; the Tuesday - Graham was admitted to the Princess Alexandra Hospital in Brisbane. He never came out of hospital again.

After a couple of weeks he fell into a coma; and there he remained comatose. During my visits I talked to him in the faint hope that somehow; somewhere; in someway he could hear me; His time on earth was drawing to an end. I wanted to be at his side as often as I could.

On reflection, I don’t know how I fitted in those hours driving to and from the hospital as well as cooking in the restaurant, but I did; I had to; of that there were no questions; no doubts.  If any road blocks had been erected in my path, I would have given up work.  My time with my brother was far more important to me than cooking for strangers.  I’d always find another job…but I’d never find another Graham. 

And with me all the way down the Bruce Highway; into the city; battling the city traffic and back out again was Bessie, my little Ford Festiva.  She never missed a beat; not once during all those miles we covered did she complain.

Another long weekend was on the doorstep in celebration of the Queen’s birthday.  Monday 8^th June was the public holiday.  The restaurant would be closed on the Sunday and Monday.  We didn’t have a wedding booked for the weekend, which was odd because hardly a weekend went by that there wasn’t a wedding to cater for; and/or a function of some description.  Perhaps because it was the last long weekend of the year, people decided to grab the opportunity to travel to the coast or elsewhere, but whatever the reason the lack of bookings and the promise of a fairly quiet weekend ahead in the restaurant played right into my hands.

On the Thursday before the long weekend I prepared all that was necessary to cover the requirements for hot and cold buffets on the Friday and Saturday evenings, leaving detailed instructions for my kitchen-hand and my boss (the wife of the duo who owned Gunabul) who used to also be my off-sider in the kitchen to follow.

However, prior to Thursday, on the Wednesday afternoon, I drove to Brisbane to spend a couple of hours at Graham’s bedside. Driving back to Gympie later that evening, I was cruising along on a four-lane section of the highway just inland of Cooroy, a small country town a little north-west of Noosa Heads when I came upon a loaded prime mover just ahead of me.  It was the last, long straight stretch of highway for a while; so I decided I should take the opportunity to pass the truck. I could see no lights of oncoming traffic heading south towards me so I accelerated and swung out into the right lane to pass the huge truck and its long load.  
The prime mover seemed to go on forever. Forging my way forth, I made progress, albeit it gradual. Suddenly out of the blue the highway started to narrow from four lanes back into two lanes.  To my right was a slightly raised island separating the north and southbound lanes. I was in trouble!  Up ahead, I could see the bright headlights of another prime mover rapidly descending upon me southwards!   I was running out of room to move. There was no space for negotiation.

My heart pounded. It felt like it was going to burst out of my chest; but I knew I had to keep my wits about me and just survive - somehow.  With a grip of steel, I held onto the steering wheel, as I planted my foot to the floor.

 “Come on, Bessie!  We can do this!  We have to do this!” I said through gritted teeth.

There were no other options; no other choices.  Somehow, but I’m unsure how, we did make it.  I’m not a very religious person, but I felt at that precise moment it was Graham’s spirit that lifted Bessie and I up into safety, while telling me it was not my time; it was his.  Those few seconds in time were eerie; unexplainable.

Bessie and I cleared the island without any damage to either my little trustworthy vehicle or to me.  It felt as if we’d floated through the air; it was as if my car had grown wings.  It was the strangest of experiences. My nerves were shattered, though; but I decided to pigeon-hole them until I’d reached the safety of my home; my own four walls.

So there I was on the southbound lane, heading north with, no doubt, a stunned prime mover driver, cursing vehemently, behind me at my rear left heading north; and an equally stunned, cursing (or maybe speechless) truck driver heading south on the same lane that I found myself on. Still holding the breath I’d inhaled when I first noticed the dire situation in which I’d found myself, I swung smoothly back into the left lane, just ahead of the north-bound prime mover, keeping my foot heavy on the accelerator, not losing momentum or speed until I knew I was clear of all impediments. 

I’m sure I didn’t exhale until I parked the car in my home garage; entered my house; poured myself a stiff Scotch and collapsed on the sofa with Pushkin at my side. That was when the realisation, not only of my close shave on the highway, but, also of everything else that was going on around me set in. It hit like a bomb.  I started to sob uncontrollably.

Still in a state of shock on the Thursday, the day after my nerve-wracking return trip from Brisbane, I knew I was in no fit mental and emotional state to hit the highway again so soon.  I needed a day to regroup; to gather myself together.  Within, I was a jangled mess; outside no one would have known any difference. No one needed to know the depth of my emotions.  

I buried myself in the restaurant’s kitchen; threw all my energy into preparing the dishes which were needed to cover the weekend buffets.  It was clear to me that I couldn’t remain in Gympie on the weekend.  I knew I had to be in Brisbane on the Friday.  I couldn’t spend two complete days away from my brother’s side.

In my heart and mind I knew Graham’s days were numbered. I believed he wouldn’t last the weekend. His time on earth was rapidly drawing to an end. My instincts were strong. 

Filling Bessie’s fuel tank in readiness for another trip to Brisbane, I patted her on the rump and promised we wouldn’t find ourselves in a similar situation to the one we’d confronted and had miraculously come through on Wednesday evening. She’d never let me down, and I knew she wouldn’t again.  I wasn't going to let her down, either!

Friday morning I left Gympie shortly before the crack of dawn. Drama lay ahead later in the day, but what transpired was my fault not Bessie’s. Having settled her into the car park opposite the hospital around 6.45 am, I bade her farewell. My intention was to spend the day in the hospital room at my brother’s bedside. 

Clasped in my hand was “Take Me Home”, John Denver’s autobiography.  I’d already read the book a year or so previously, but I felt it fitting that I read it again on that day. Sitting at Graham’s bedside I wanted to lose myself in the story and in the memories of the music and lyrics of a unique singer-songwriter.  It was something I felt I had to do. It was a means of comfort, I guess. Graham had told me for years and years that he didn’t want any hymns played after he died.  He made me promise sincerely I would play “Annie’s Song” at his funeral.

Graham idolised Denver. I think he had every CD, LP and cassette of Denver’s in his possession. I, too, was a fan of Denver. I still am; probably even more so these days.

In 1994 Graham and I were in the audience at the Townville Entertainment Centre watching Denver perform.  It’s a night I will never forget; and one I’ll always cherish.  We even managed to meet and talk with Denver; a wonderful night to remember - in so many ways. I was living and working in Townsville at the time.  Graham drove up from Mackay to stay with me for a couple of days so we could go to Denver’s concert together.  It was one of the best times we’d ever shared. So reading John Denver’s autobiography, sitting alone at my dying brother’s bed seemed to me to be an appropriate thing to do. I felt Graham knew I was there beside him. If that wasn’t so, I chose to believe it, anyway.  He would have been at peace knowing I was there with him…with Denver, as well!

Later in the afternoon I returned to the car park around 4 pm. As it was the start of a long weekend, I wanted to beat the peak hour traffic; be ahead of those intending to holiday on the coast for the three-day weekend.  I wasn’t driving back to Gympie, but down to the Gold Coast to spend the night, and perhaps a couple of nights, at my ex-husband’s home, at his invitation, because I intended spending Saturday at the hospital; and doing the same on the Sunday; and similar on the Monday, if necessary.  Graham’s time was running out. As I’ve written above, I believed with my heart and soul that he only had a couple of days left. I needed to be close at hand.

I tried to start my car, but poor little Bessie’s battery was as flat as a tack!  I had left the car lights on all day! I’d left home in the dark; and by the time I’d reached the hospital car park, the sun was up, shining its bright morning illumination.  My car lights were the further most things from my mind at time of my arrival! 

However, luck was smiling on me that afternoon.  A police car pulled in a few cars up from where I’d parked.  Noticing my dilemma, the two wonderful young cops raced off to their police station, and shortly thereafter returned with jumper leads to assist two ladies in distress – Bessie and me!  Within moments, we were on the road again; not a country road taking us home, but down to the coast a few paces ahead of peak hour traffic. 

Graham passed away around noon on Saturday, 6^th of June, 1998, shortly before Bessie delivered me to the hospital.  The following Wednesday, Bessie helped me transport my brother’s ashes back to Gympie. I placed the urn containing Graham's ashes on the passenger seat, safely secured by the seat belt.  A John Denver cassette with "Annie's Song" in its song list played softly in the background.  Denver and I were taking my brother home.

Hardly ever in her 20 years up until this past year or so, did Bessie miss a beat. On Thursday last, exhausted, she said: "No more...."

Bessie may have hardly ever missed a beat, but I certainly will miss Bessie..."Farewell, My Lovely - you will always hold a special place in my heart!"

As of Friday last, 4th October, 2013 I've my new little white car - a Toyota Echo....little Lady Echo - "Lady" to her best friends...not "Little Sir Echo".

Thank you, Bess - you were the best!

TRAVELS WITH LEE….NOT CHARLEY’S AUNT!

Hilton Hotel, Brisbane

Brisbane

Brisbane's Hilton Hotel from another angle

Jimmy Sharman Boxing Troupe

 

Cardwell's Jetty

A couple of my island "kids" on board the "Reef Venture" with the skipper, Bob and his brother; and the girls again on the beach

Ramsay Bay, Hinchinbrook Island

Having flown out of Hobart airport without success in my all-consuming search for my elusive roast leg of lamb dinner, finally I was headed northbound once again; but it would be another 8 days or more before I’d reach my island home and my island “kids” again.

Somewhere along the line I’d begun an unconscious habit.  More often than not I referred to my staff as “the kids” or “my kids”.  Overall, I had good staff.  Naturally, like everywhere else, I had a couple of “bad apples”, but they were soon told to move on; and thereafter any upsetting of the “apple-cart” ceased.

It became second nature to me to refer to my staff as “the kids”.  Jokingly, my staff at times even called me “Mum”.  I’ve written a previous post a couple of years ago about Mother’s Day on the island. It was a lot of harmless fun; and as I’ve never had children of my own, it was the first and only Mother’s Day I’ve celebrated.  It was unforgettable.

Our life on the island was completely different to life on the mainland.  We were a small community; a community who cared about each other. At most, excluding guests, our number reached 15, but the majority of the time, there was only12. All of my staff, except my head maintenance man, Ted and Burnie, one of his off-siders, lived in the self-contained staff quarters; some chose to share a room; others lived singularly. Ted and Burnie shared a two-bedroom cabin.  I had my own little abode away well away from the restaurant and my staff. There were moments of discord, of course; and if things got a little out of control, I would call a “round-table meeting”, and very soon all problems would disappear.  We were in our own little world on the island. 

A guest asked me once, straight of face, if, in fact, they were all my children!  She was serious and very curious to know. At the moment of asking there was not a humorous bone in her body or face!  I gently set her on the straight and narrow path. What concerned me most was Ted, my head maintenance man, a trusted and extremely loyal member of my staff was a year or two older than me!  I’ve heard of “starting young”, but that was ridiculous!

Having wrapped up my futile, fruitless search for the Tasmanian Tiger and the Tassie Lamb – please don’t misunderstand me, I had a fun time while also attending to other important Tasmanian pleasures and, of course, business - I filled the hours of Monday, 6^th July 1987 travelling between Hobart and Launceston, collecting a parking ticket for my efforts; and then back to Hobart once again; from there, on the same day, I managed to fit in fleeting visits to the tarmacs of Melbourne and Sydney while still encased in the giant silver bird. Finally, my day culminated in Brisbane around 8 pm on Monday night. 

Looking like an uncoordinated pack horse while struggling with my luggage I attracted the attention of an obliging, most pleasant airport employee; probably because he’d never before seen such as sight as I! 

Along with my two suitcases bearing my personal items that included the many purchases I’d made during my times spent in Sydney and Melbourne en route to Hobart, I had a truckload of promotional material, such as posters, banners, brochures and videos. Explaining my reason for taking up his time my new-found friend allowed me to store the majority of my extraneous marketing material in an allocated area behind the baggage carousel; not only that, he assisted me in doing so. Storing the excess baggage, and taking with me only what I needed while in Brisbane was a better option than having to lug all of it into the city with me, and then back out to the airport again when I was ready to depart Brisbane for north Queensland a week later.

As it was, when I approached the waiting cabs out front of the airport terminal I sensed a combined shudder emanating from all the taxi drivers when they spotted me heading towards them with my two suitcases and three or more cartons.  Some even slunk down in their seats in the hope I wouldn’t notice them; but that could have been my imagination at play! 

It had been a long day, but not an unpleasant one. I’d travelled approximately 3000 kilometres (1864 miles) in 13 hours or so.

 

By the time I arrived in the inner city and found myself standing in front of the Hilton Hotel’s reception desk checking in I was relieved to finally have my feet back firmly on the ground. More precisely, after I’d ridden the lift (elevator) to the heights where my room was situated upon entering my room I immediately discarded my shoes and revelled in the feeling of the plush carpet beneath my bare feet; simultaneously I exhaled a sigh of contentment.  I was back in Queensland.  I was familiar with Brisbane. After all, I had spent 14 years living and working in the city.

My hotel room was on one of the upper floors of the 25 storey hotel; from memory, I was on the 24^th floor or thereabouts.

Brisbane’s Hilton Hotel was practically brand new when I took up residence. It had been constructed in 1986, the year before my arrival.  The hotel had a multi-million dollar refurbishment last year, 2012.

My first night in Brisbane after arriving back from Tasmania was spent quietly with a light room service meal and a couple of Scotches on the rocks; finished off with a reasonably early night as a chaser.

On my agenda for the ensuing couple of days was a list of city and inner city travel agencies I intended visiting to spread the good word about Hinchinbrook Island Resort.

At the end of the week from the Friday through to the Sunday, the Brisbane Holiday-Travel Expo was being held; where, once more, I’d be in attendance spruiking like the legendary boxing troupe impresario Jimmy Sharman in front of his boxing tent at Australia’s annual shows; beckoning and coaxing all and sundry to gather around so they could learn about the beauties of the island; and the indisputable reasons why they should seriously think about holidaying at my tropical resort.

Between 11 and 11.30 am on my third day in Brisbane, after being out since early morning doing the rounds fulfilling a hectic schedule that consisted of me doing a lot of talking, I returned to the hotel to restock my briefcase; followed by a light lunch before racing off again to whatever duties awaited me in the afternoon.  I needed something to wet my whistle so I entered what was in those days known as the “Sportsman’s Bar”, I think, from memory.  It was a vast room with a very high ceiling and bare, polished wood flooring.  A rectangular or square bar took pride of place at the room’s centre.  The only other person than me in the bar was the sole barman.  He was busily polishing glasses and setting up the bar in readiness for future patrons to descend upon him. 

I walked across the room in my high heels, but soon I found myself walking on my toes in an effort to cushion the strident sound of my heels clacking across the timber floor boards.  Perching myself upon a bar stool, I ordered a Bloody Mary while exchanging brief pleasantries with the obliging bartender.  Having expertly prepared my drink he placed it before me and immediately went about his chores, leaving me to my own devices and thoughts, which suited me.  Then as now, I enjoy my own space and solitude…my “quiet” moments to put thoughts in order and pigeon-hole others.

However, unintentionally, I unexpectedly broke the silence.  The fresh, crisp piece of celery that garnished my Bloody Mary was too tempting for me to ignore.  Taking a bite, the crunch was so loud it echoed, reverberating throughout the empty bar like a thunderclap! It bounced off the walls, floor and ceiling!  It was so loud it drew the busy bartender’s attention to me!  I burst out laughing and I apologised for disturbing the peace.  He returned my mirth in kind, so I didn’t feel too embarrassed.  The noise the little bit of celery, with my assistance, caused would have woken up a sleeping grandfather!

With each passing day I became more settled into the Hilton.  I felt as if I was one of the “family”.  As I came and went each day, and often, a few times a day, the friendly staff on the reception desk, and elsewhere greeted me pleasantly above and beyond their normal day-to-day expected smiles to the hotel’s guests.  My presence and face were familiar to them. It was a nice feeling.  I enjoyed our greetings; our brief chats and smiles.

I’d already admitted defeat, if only to myself, and I’d given up my search for a roast lamb dinner. 

The Holiday-Travel Show commenced, drawing thousands of interested visitors through its doors.

On the Thursday night before the expo opened I went to dinner with some of my fellow expo participants to a restaurant I used to work in part-time at night years before when Brisbane was my home city.  It seemed like an eternity ago…and it probably was in one aspect because my life had changed drastically since those days…the days when the restaurant was known as “The Pelican Tavern”. It was situated in St. Paul’s Terrace, Fortitude Valley.  I have written about the “Tavern” in previous posts.

Mr. Kyriol Wypow, “The Pelican Tavern’s” builder/owner/chef had passed away a number of years previously; and the night in 1987 when I visited the premises, the tavern was no longer; it had morphed into a Mongolian restaurant.  To me, it was such a vast change in outfit…and ambience.  Even though I had a pleasant evening, I much preferred my time spent at the tavern when it was uniquely, “The Pelican Tavern”.

On the Saturday night, I’d again been invited out to dine. At the closing of the Expo’s doors I raced back to my hotel room to shower and change. I wandered out from the bathroom after applying fresh make-up, not taking much notice of what was around me.  I was putting on a pair of earrings when I glanced towards the window; and remember, I’m about 23 or 24 storeys up high in the Hilton. 

I did double-take! Actually, I think I took a triple and a quadruple take, if not more.  I lost count or lost my concentration to count.  I couldn’t believe my eyes; and I’d not yet even had one drink!  I did, however, begin to question my sanity!

Out on the ledge of the narrow balcony that ran along the outer side of the fixed window of my hotel room was a Siamese cat! As calm as you like, or as it liked, the cat strolled gracefully along the edge; not teetering; not looking down.  I dared not move.  If, in fact, it wasn’t an apparition; a figment of my imagination, I didn’t want to surprise it causing the animal to descend below to the nether regions.  That wasn’t a pretty thought!  I stood frozen to the spot, not game to move; I just stared at the cat! I probably did blink a few times, to try to clear my vision. And then, the cat was gone. He had moved onto the next balcony’s railing; probably causing my neighbour to have a fainting spell, also.  I thought I heard a thump!

I was to meet my dinner partner in the hotel’s foyer.  Having completed my dressing, I caught the lift down to the reception area. 

Recognising the girls behind the reception desk, I walked across to them to tell them about the cat, all the time fearing they were going to think I’d lost my mind; but, what hell, I decided to toss all my inhibitions to the wind, and take my chances!

 “I just saw the strangest thing!  I know you’re going to think I’m crazy.  I think I’m crazy; but I just saw a cat…a cat walked past my window…and I’m up on the 24^th (sic) floor!  And, no!  I haven’t been drinking; but I’m about to start!”

They burst out laughing.

One of the girls took control of the situation: “Oh! Was it a Siamese?” 

I’d lost my vocal powers so I just nodded dumbly. 

Displaying no surprise or shock, she informed me; “He does that all the time. Don’t worry – he’s never fallen.”

My mouth fell open. If any flies had been flying around I would have caught them all!

“What do you mean?  This is a normal occurrence?” I spluttered.

“Yes!  He belongs to the hotel manager.  They live on the floor above your room; and he’s their cat. He roams all over the hotel…on the outside from floor to floor - railing to railing!”

“Oh! Okay!” I responded, shaking my head.  “That’s a relief!  I’ve not gone crazy after all, but I’m still going to have a few drinks!”

I joined the girls in their laughter; and I went on my way. 

I had an interesting story to tell over dinner that night!

Finally the day came for me to board a flight out of Brisbane on its way to Townsville, my second last stop-over before returning to Hinchinbrook. The only stop-over after Townsville was an overnighter at Cardwell.  

The island was drawer closer; or I was to it.

The distance between Brisbane and Townsville is 1,3578kms (844 miles); and the distance between Townsville and Cardwell is 165kms or 103 miles. 

My excitement levels were rising to heights as high as my Hilton Hotel room the closer I got to home…and my “kids”…and my guests; and, last, but by no means least, my beloved ginger cat, “Ruska”.  I knew he would have been missing me, like I’d been missing him.  He and I went together like ham and cheese; Abbott & Costello, or Martin & Lewis!

I caught a Greyhound bus to Cardwell, where I stayed overnight at The Lyndoch Motel…the motel I described in a previous post a couple of weeks ago.

Early on the morning shortly before I was to jump on board the “Reef Venture”, the powered catamaran contracted to the island to transport guests and provisions across the waters, I paid a visit to Cardwell’s butcher. 

The local butcher supplied the island’s meat demands. He supplied all the restaurant’s needs, and those of my staff. The butcher greeted me warmly as I bounded through his door, demanding, laughingly, two of the largest, sweetest legs of lamb he had in stock. 

I was going home…and I was going to feed my “kids”…and me…roast lamb for dinner that night…with all the obligatory roasted vegetables, and all the other equally obligatory accompaniments, including, of course, mint sauce – lashing of mint sauce!

As we passed Missionary Bay en route to Cape Richards where the resort and my home awaited the island jetty came into view.   My heart was almost jumping out of my chest as the “Reef Venture” and I drew closer and closer.  I could see members of my staff waiting at the jetty’s end. 

The first thing I said when I leapt of the boat was; ‘“Mother’s” home!  And we’re having roast lamb for dinner!” 

An exuberant cheer burst out and echoed across the water as my “kids” gathered around me.

There’s no place like home; no matter where home is!