Hundreds of Kilometres of Bugger All

Pardon my French, but I am not exactly sure how else to describe the stretch of Queensland after Townsville, almost until Brisbane. Pleasant bugger all, it has to be said, the trees are a little greener - although some still carry scorched scars from bush fires gone by - and the rolling hills in the distance, the sense of the sea in the air (the Bruce Highway runs a few kilometres inland, too far to see ocean but close enough to know its there) the occasional glimpse of a kangaroo, I really can't complain about any of it. I have read much of Australia described (by Bill Bryson in Down Under) as an ideal small town America that hasn't existed since the 1950s, and that is definitely evident in the small towns of Central Queensland. There is an innocence, an open friendly simplicity to life that is rarely found elsewhere. The old men passing the time of day by the roadside, who, when I pulled over to ask for directions back to the highway (despite the many inarguably wonderful things about the Land Down Under, clearly labelling streets and intersections 'aint one of them) thought carefully, discussed it amongst themselves for a few minutes then gave me a choice of no less than three options, depending on how quickly I wanted to reach the road and whether I wanted to see some pretty sights along the way; the young kids playing unsupervised in a field; the thoughtful and friendly conversations I overheard when I stopped for a cup of tea in a small coffee shop. Tea - that's another thing. In common with Canada, there are facets to Australian life far more British than Britain ever bothers to be these days: almost every cup of tea I was served came in a small teapot, a delicate china cup and sugar bowl and usually made with real tea leaves, as opposed to the tea bag dunked in a mug I would expect in London.

However, I am making it sound as though the road is highly populated, with charming company all along the way. Those three instances of human contact I just mentioned were the only signs of life I encountered for sometimes hours at a time. To be fair, though, from Townsville as far as another small town by the name of McKay (pronounced by the locals in the correct, Scottish way of McKai) it was rare to go more than maybe 40 minutes or an hour without at least a petrol station or fruit and vegetable stall. So when I pulled into McKay just as the sun was going down (due to its proximity to the equator, it is usual to be pitch dark in Queensland by not long after 6pm), had a pleasant dinner, a brief walk around the downtown area, and decided that there was nothing much to entice me to stay the night, I had little reason not to plan on pushing on for another couple of hours then finding a nice little motel in which to rest my weary head for the night. Equally it didn't - and I fully admit that this was short sighted of me - occur to me that with over half a tank of petrol it might have been prudent to fill up before pushing on. It is probably somewhat predictable then, that three hours later - three hours in which the solitary break in pitch darkness around me was my own headlights - the car was spluttering on the dredges of petrol fumes and a light that read "you've got to be kidding, I am dying here" had lit up on the dash board. And I hadn't passed one sign for petrol in hours - never mind the welcoming motel with fluffy pillows and hearty breakfast of my fantasy. It was me, and hundreds of kilometres of bugger all. Afraid that the engine would cut out altogether, I pulled off the highway and thankfully stumbled across a campsite. Despite it only being around 9pm, the campsite was clearly closed for business - the office was locked, and the many caravans and tents scattered around were dark. I even fancied, as I sat alone in my desperate car, that I could hear families snoring softly, cosy in their sleeping bags. There was nothing else for it: there was no way I would find a petrol station - never mind an open one - at this time, so I clambered over to the backseat, liberally sprinkled the contents of my suitcase over myself and snuggled down to snooze fitfully, dreaming of outback murderers, hungry crocodiles and snakes that can open locked car doors.

A few hours later, I woke, gritty eyed and sore, to be greeted with a hazy, magical dawn. The blindingly pure sun was just peeking over the horizon and shining through the trees; shining so startlingly brightly as it scorched off the morning mist and glinted on the dew that the countryside was draped in a reflective, ethereal quality. Almost as though nature was making up for my crappy night, when I glanced out of the rear view window, I was treated, in a natural spotlight, to the sight of two wild kangaroos, maybe two feet from the boot, nibbling on grass. Okay Australia, you're forgiven.