“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
If someone had said that to us at certain stages of the trip we’d have made sure they never found the body. Some may wonder why our story begins before we even set foot on Hinchinbrook Island, but the truth is that the journey before the journey had its special moments.
Everything thing did go smoothly until we got to the hotel in Cairns. At this point it’s time to introduce the central characters in the adventure. The trip organiser was Dave, and flying up with him from Sydney were his brother, Peter, his close mate, Paul, and me, his brother-in-law. The fifth and final member of the crew, Mike, another mate of Dave and Paul, had arrived on an earlier flight. I’d never met actually met Mike, though Bernadette assured me I’d love him (a phrase that is always likely to attract some tasteless scrutiny on an all-boys walking weekend).
It was only when Dave rang Mike to see where he was that we encountered our first hiccup. Mike was still in Sydney! He’d got the wrong weekend and was currently at his son’s birthday. But would he find some way to join up with us later? Only time would tell.
After we’d recovered from our disbelief we decided to find a camping shop as there were some supplies we still needed. The desk staff at the hotel advised us that the best shop was about 20 minutes’ walk away, though there were a couple of shops that might have what we needed closer at hand. We opted for the top recommendation. We chose poorly.
20 minutes later, walking some fairly ordinary backstreets, we stood opposite a shop that had clearly closed down. We stopped a couple of locals and asked them about Ray’s Outdoors. They told us that Ray’s had closed and a BCF had opened up about 2 kilometres further up the road. There followed some colourful observations on the local knowledge of hotel staff and we turned around and retraced our steps.
To add to that we finally found what we were looking for, at inflated prices, in a shop literally just around the corner. Oh, did we just chuckle about that.
Things did take a distinct upturn from there. We enjoyed a pleasant beer and then chose a wonderful Greek Restaurant. It was just coincidence that the restaurant was being promoted by an attractive Swedish lady. I mean blokes simply aren’t that shallow. We really did like the look of the menu. Honest.
The meal was fantastic and the waitresses were charming. Even the older restaurant manageress made us feel special and told the staff to look after the boys. We all allowed the delusion of our youthfulness to persist, whilst neatly ignoring the fact that the kindest thing you could say about our ages was that they made very impressive test batting averages. And the food really was top shelf. Honest.
There was, of course, a final twist to the night. It turns out that, being a Saturday night, the Hotel we were staying in was one of the places to have a party. And more than just one. Five 21st parties to be precise, and a hen’s party for good measure. Boy did we chuckle about the noise they made – all night long.
The night held one more amusement. I decided I’d like some more milk so I went down to the front counter to ask for it. They didn’t have any, but the good news was that they had milk up at the third floor. It was only as the lift doors opened on the third floor that I realised that this was the floor where the five 21st parties and the hen’s party were going on. Standing at the counter of the bar in my tracksuit pants and a daggy t-shirt, surrounded by intoxicated bright young things and then walking away with a tea pot of milk probably wasn’t one of my finest alpha-male moments.
What would the next day hold?
And finally, a quote from that wonderful author, Terry Pratchett, on travel:
'And I don’t hold with all this giving things funny names so people don’t know what they’re eating,’ said Granny, determined to explore the drawbacks of international cookery to the full. ‘I like stuff that tells you plain what it is, like ... well ... Bubble and Squeak, or ... or...’
‘Spotted Dick,’ said Nanny absently. (WA)
If someone had said that to us at certain stages of the trip we’d have made sure they never found the body. Some may wonder why our story begins before we even set foot on Hinchinbrook Island, but the truth is that the journey before the journey had its special moments.
Everything thing did go smoothly until we got to the hotel in Cairns. At this point it’s time to introduce the central characters in the adventure. The trip organiser was Dave, and flying up with him from Sydney were his brother, Peter, his close mate, Paul, and me, his brother-in-law. The fifth and final member of the crew, Mike, another mate of Dave and Paul, had arrived on an earlier flight. I’d never met actually met Mike, though Bernadette assured me I’d love him (a phrase that is always likely to attract some tasteless scrutiny on an all-boys walking weekend).
It was only when Dave rang Mike to see where he was that we encountered our first hiccup. Mike was still in Sydney! He’d got the wrong weekend and was currently at his son’s birthday. But would he find some way to join up with us later? Only time would tell.
After we’d recovered from our disbelief we decided to find a camping shop as there were some supplies we still needed. The desk staff at the hotel advised us that the best shop was about 20 minutes’ walk away, though there were a couple of shops that might have what we needed closer at hand. We opted for the top recommendation. We chose poorly.
20 minutes later, walking some fairly ordinary backstreets, we stood opposite a shop that had clearly closed down. We stopped a couple of locals and asked them about Ray’s Outdoors. They told us that Ray’s had closed and a BCF had opened up about 2 kilometres further up the road. There followed some colourful observations on the local knowledge of hotel staff and we turned around and retraced our steps.
To add to that we finally found what we were looking for, at inflated prices, in a shop literally just around the corner. Oh, did we just chuckle about that.
Things did take a distinct upturn from there. We enjoyed a pleasant beer and then chose a wonderful Greek Restaurant. It was just coincidence that the restaurant was being promoted by an attractive Swedish lady. I mean blokes simply aren’t that shallow. We really did like the look of the menu. Honest.
The meal was fantastic and the waitresses were charming. Even the older restaurant manageress made us feel special and told the staff to look after the boys. We all allowed the delusion of our youthfulness to persist, whilst neatly ignoring the fact that the kindest thing you could say about our ages was that they made very impressive test batting averages. And the food really was top shelf. Honest.
There was, of course, a final twist to the night. It turns out that, being a Saturday night, the Hotel we were staying in was one of the places to have a party. And more than just one. Five 21st parties to be precise, and a hen’s party for good measure. Boy did we chuckle about the noise they made – all night long.
The night held one more amusement. I decided I’d like some more milk so I went down to the front counter to ask for it. They didn’t have any, but the good news was that they had milk up at the third floor. It was only as the lift doors opened on the third floor that I realised that this was the floor where the five 21st parties and the hen’s party were going on. Standing at the counter of the bar in my tracksuit pants and a daggy t-shirt, surrounded by intoxicated bright young things and then walking away with a tea pot of milk probably wasn’t one of my finest alpha-male moments.
What would the next day hold?
And finally, a quote from that wonderful author, Terry Pratchett, on travel:
'And I don’t hold with all this giving things funny names so people don’t know what they’re eating,’ said Granny, determined to explore the drawbacks of international cookery to the full. ‘I like stuff that tells you plain what it is, like ... well ... Bubble and Squeak, or ... or...’
‘Spotted Dick,’ said Nanny absently. (WA)
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