So, we’d had a fairly rough night’s sleep courtesy of all the 21st parties, but we were comforted with the knowledge that there must be some teeth-achingly bad hangovers out there. The weather was average to begin with and then turned to fairly solid rain on the bus trip from Cairns to Cardwell. Hardly the most promising start. We watched the rain fall, and half-watched, revisited, that old movie Ghost on the bus’s DVD player. Patrick Swayze really can’t act, and neither can Demi Moore, but Whoopi was gold, again.
The good news was that the weather cleared as we approached Cardwell and after a wander and a rewarding food encounter with an unexpected pie vendor we found ourselves on the boat heading to Hinchinbrook. Woo hoo.
We were dropped off deep in the mangroves and there followed a boardwalk and a backpack repack before we were standing on this beautiful, totally unpopulated beach.
What I don’t think any of us truly realised was just how mountainous the island was. We had talked about doing a side trip to the top of Mt Bowen – a mere 1,100 metres in height. That doesn’t sound nearly as high on paper, but looking up at the mountains that were high enough to have acquired their own bank of clouds, that we couldn’t even see the top of, we very carefully shelved the plans and decided that they looked much more awesome from a distance. And they were.
Our first day was a relatively short walk to Nina Bay, via a detour up Nina Peak (a modest 300 m high). The view from here was sweeping – eastward across the beaches and out to sea, westward, back across the mangroves.
It was all downhill cruising from there and soon we were standing on the beach at Nina Bay. We had it to ourselves all night.
The tide was out and the beach was large and flat. You could see that the tide would come in a huge distance and could easily catch you unawares. No wonder all the walking advice mentioned making sure the tides were right.
We set up camp and then went wandering. We had been told to keep an eye out for saltwater crocs. Curiously, this was one piece of advice we had no problems following. I suspect there wasn’t a salty within cooee the entire trip but if there was, boy were we ready for it. There was a brief moment when Peter and I definitely saw one, but it turned out to be a submerged log cunningly designed to look like a croc.
The good news was that the weather cleared as we approached Cardwell and after a wander and a rewarding food encounter with an unexpected pie vendor we found ourselves on the boat heading to Hinchinbrook. Woo hoo.
We were dropped off deep in the mangroves and there followed a boardwalk and a backpack repack before we were standing on this beautiful, totally unpopulated beach.
What I don’t think any of us truly realised was just how mountainous the island was. We had talked about doing a side trip to the top of Mt Bowen – a mere 1,100 metres in height. That doesn’t sound nearly as high on paper, but looking up at the mountains that were high enough to have acquired their own bank of clouds, that we couldn’t even see the top of, we very carefully shelved the plans and decided that they looked much more awesome from a distance. And they were.
Our first day was a relatively short walk to Nina Bay, via a detour up Nina Peak (a modest 300 m high). The view from here was sweeping – eastward across the beaches and out to sea, westward, back across the mangroves.
It was all downhill cruising from there and soon we were standing on the beach at Nina Bay. We had it to ourselves all night.
The tide was out and the beach was large and flat. You could see that the tide would come in a huge distance and could easily catch you unawares. No wonder all the walking advice mentioned making sure the tides were right.
We set up camp and then went wandering. We had been told to keep an eye out for saltwater crocs. Curiously, this was one piece of advice we had no problems following. I suspect there wasn’t a salty within cooee the entire trip but if there was, boy were we ready for it. There was a brief moment when Peter and I definitely saw one, but it turned out to be a submerged log cunningly designed to look like a croc.
That night we consumed some of our cask red wine and decided that there must be some kind of game that lent itself to involving coconuts, which were thick on the ground. After a failed attempted at ten-pin bowling we settled on coconut bocce (or boule if you’re French).
The competition in this newly formed sport was both fierce and chaotic, made none the easier thanks to the fact that the coconuts came in all shapes and did whatever they wanted to once bowled. They also had a habit of burying themselves in the sand with a sickening thud if given elevation. From the pack Peter emerged as a true coconut bocce king – a skill that would, no-doubt, be sadly unrecognised by the rest of the world. If only it was an Olympic sport.
Heading bedwards we agreed that coconut bocce would be a feature of the rest of the trip. Sadly coconuts would not be, and Peter’s newfound talent would wither on the vine.
SORE FOOTNOTE: No matter how satisfying the red wine is do not give into the temptation to play coconut soccer.
The competition in this newly formed sport was both fierce and chaotic, made none the easier thanks to the fact that the coconuts came in all shapes and did whatever they wanted to once bowled. They also had a habit of burying themselves in the sand with a sickening thud if given elevation. From the pack Peter emerged as a true coconut bocce king – a skill that would, no-doubt, be sadly unrecognised by the rest of the world. If only it was an Olympic sport.
Heading bedwards we agreed that coconut bocce would be a feature of the rest of the trip. Sadly coconuts would not be, and Peter’s newfound talent would wither on the vine.
SORE FOOTNOTE: No matter how satisfying the red wine is do not give into the temptation to play coconut soccer.
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