Calvert River to Georgetown - Incident Free !!

After a good night's sleep by the Calvert River, unmolested by either crocs or my next door neighbour, I emerged to face the dawn only to find said neighbour squatting outside my tent smoking a cigarette, opening his first beer of the day and muttering to himself. It's bad enough talking to himself but when he started answering? - a bit spooky! I packed up quickly.

None spotted

Calvert River crossing

Passing the sign telling me to watch out for crocs and crossing the river, I headed for the Queensland border about 70k away with my next stop being for fuel at the curiously named Hells Gate Roadhouse with its “international airport”. Hearing my Scottish accent the woman behind the counter gave me her Scottish accent story (I was the only customer so there was no hurry) She had worked at a hospital with a nurse who had a broad West Coast / Highland accent who had difficulty making herself understood to the locals. The more misunderstood she was, the broader her accent became until at last she lapsed into a “foreign language” - Gaels everywhere!

Hells Gate Roadhouse

Hells Gate International Airport - the plane was parked over the road

The road was long, bleak and empty with often the only signs of life being crows and birds of prey feasting on road kill, of which there was a lot – usually kangaroos and wallabies with the odd wild pig and occasional cow thrown in for good measure.

Bleak, dry country

Road Kill - glad it wasn't me that hit this one

 

Arriving in Burketown at 1.40pm I decided to head to the pub for lunch only to be told that they stopped serving at 2pm and I'd missed it. Luckily, and just before I started to remonstrate with the staff, I realised that I had crossed time zones – I was now out of Northern Territory time and into Queensland time – which was half an hour ahead. There was a sign up in the bar restricting sales of beer to a maximum of two cases of beer per person per day and there was a queue of Aboriginals with hands full of money picking up their maximum and heading off goodness knows where in beaten 4WDs. I had to go over the road to a cafe for something to eat.

I had planned to stay in Burketown but decided to push on to Normanton some 220k further east. The road was still empty, with girls on motorbikes and nudists conspicuous by their absence – however I did come across a young floozy sitting suggestively under a tree looking for a lift – unfortunately I was going in the wrong direction, so young Mary had to wait for another more accommodating traveller.

Unfortunately I was going the wrong way to give her a lift!

 

I like Normanton and I set up camp in the same caravan park in the centre of the town that Sandra and I stayed in four years previously. It was pretty packed with caravans and camper trailers but, as with most campsites we have been to, tents were few and far between and I was able to get a secluded pitch in an out of the way corner. One of the reasons I like this site is that it is only a stones throw from my spiritual home in Normanton – the Purple Pub. So called because – it is painted purple!

The aptly named "Purple Pub"

Saturday night was Karaoke night and I went along to listen to the local talent – of which there were only two. One was a very small Aboriginal man wearing an enormous hat, the other was a large white woman in a floral dress which may have once been a curtain. The audience of three, including myself, were hard put to generate much of an atmosphere. Mind you Sunday night was marginally worse as I was the only customer. It was strange standing on the verandah overlooking the main street having a drink in total silence. At one point a truck drew up outside and, as the driver made his way to the pub we had a brief conversation. I would say I understood about ten percent of what he said to me and, as far as communication in the other direction was concerned, I might as well have been speaking Gaelic. As he disappeared into the pub I think he said he was going in for a “couple of roadies”. He emerged a few minutes later carrying a plastic bag, presumably containing his “roadies” - which I took to be a few beers to drink on the road – but I may have been mistaken.

In between my trips to the Purple Pub I did the rounds of Normanton taking a photo of “Krys of the Savannah” a replica, standing in the main street, of the largest crocodile ever recorded. Shot a few miles away on the Norman River, Krys was over 8 metres long (28 feet and 8 inches) and weighed in at an impressive 2 tons (allegedly!?) I also popped up to the seaside fishing town of Karumba some 70k to the north and and had a very pleasant half day just wandering about.

"Krys of the Savannah" - scale reproduction of largest croc ever shot

The Norman River - where Krys was bagged

Then it was back on the road following the Savannah Way heading for Cairns, stopping briefly at the historic mining town of Croydon with its Heritage Precinct and its self guided town walk. It also has an excellent visitor centre. The countryside was very dry with few of the creeks having any water. What was obviously in wetter times a large body of water, the Gilbert River, was a vast expanse of sand looking like Morecambe Bay when the tide is out. This was followed by an extraordinary sight – a factory chimney standing all by itself in the bush – obviously the site of something, but what?

A "selfie" at the view point overlooking Croydon

The lonely Cumberland Chimney

The mighty Gilbert River flowing empty

Then eventually on to my stopping place for the night – the attractive and well kept little town of Georgetown, where I set up house in The Goldfields Caravan Park which was being managed by a young American couple. A quick trip round the town revealed an interesting little snippet – the local Masonic Lodge was attractively built of grey corrugated iron and was named after a famous Scot – the Sir William Wallace Lodge. Just what the story was I haven't a clue.

The "Sir William Wallace" Masonic Lodge in Georgetown

 

Not bothering to cook I decided to eat out and was directed to the curiously named Wenaru Hotel – so called as for years there hadn't been a pub there and the locals were always asking “When are you going to build a pub” - and when they did, that's what they called it. At least that's what the woman in the tourist office told me. After my steak, mashed potatoes, pumpkin, peas, beans, broccoli and carrots served with chips, gravy and a schooner of XXXX (I'm glad I opted for the small portion!) I staggered off to my tent which I have taken to putting up without the flysheet – unfortunately it rained last night!