No-so-sleepy Warwick

Just as I suspected, there was a lot more to Warwick than the sleepy country town it pretended to be.

     On the Monday Elia announced we were going for a walk.  I was expecting an amble through the dry scrub of a national park.  It was much better.  We, including young Helena took a stroll up the gentle slope of Mount Mitchell.  Five kilometres and two hours later we summited.  Aaah, what an achievement, bush walking in cool, crisp mountain air.  I wanted to keep going.  In fact I could do it every day, if only it was an occupation. 

     As we feasted on egg sandwiches and brewed coffee in the soft winter sunshine, I was puzzled by what appeared to be grazing land at the top of the next great mountain.  How would cattle get all the way up there?

     I asked Elia.  It was Spicers Peak.

     I’d seen the signs on the drive to the base of Mt Mithcell.  I wouldn’t normally have noticed, but there was something just not right about the wording that made my brain ring an editing alarm bell.    

Spicers Peak
The highest non-alpine lodge in Australia

     Shouldn’t it be the highest alpine lodge in Australia if only this was an alpine environment? Or something that it can claim to be?  The highest luxury resort in Australia?

     Why not something a bit more eye-catching? The highest non-tropical resort in Australia?  The highest non-backpacker accommodation in Australia?

     I had a giggle, but I assumed I was missing something.  Mind you, when I checked out Spicers Peak, I decided I’d Iove to visit, whatever the place isn’t.  Without the kids, of course.  I’d even leave my ducks behind.

Ciehan and TK who is about to put his finger up my nose to annoy me.

     On Tuesday I had a wee break from Warwick when Maura and I drove to Toowoomba to pick up TKido.  He'd bussed out the day before and stayed with Ciehan and Ashlea.  We had lunch together. It was really strange seeing the kids in winter clothes before they de-jacketed in the warmth of the University of Southern Queensland restaurant.

     On the Wednesday, Elia suggested a visit to the Pig and Calf.

     ‘For an ale?’ I said. ‘It’s a bit early.’

The Pig and Calf was the markets, ostensibly for livestock, but there was a pumping auction going on.  Happy buyers headed off, holding their bargains, a wine rack, CD holder and saddle.     

     A sad seller lamented into a Smartphone.

     ‘Couldn’t sell the printer, but we got $7.50 for the stereo.’

     All the while the auctioneer, a man whose face was shaded by the brim of his Akubra, let loose, a breathless stream of barely identifiable words.        

 ‘Eightdollarseightdollarsladiesandgentlemaneightdollarsdowehaveeightfiftyeightfiftyyes.

Poor dears.  They are probably smoked now.

     I went straight for the poultry, in particular the ducks.  The pubs weren’t even open, but it was the tail end of the markets and there were only three muscovies left, pressing against each other, I imagined, from fear.  Or because the cage was impossibly small.  

     I struck up a conversation with the duck seller, disclosing I had two ducks, as if I was a kindred spirit. 

     ‘What sort?’  He spoke in a monotone, much like the auctioneer.

     ‘Indian Runners.’

     ‘Hmph.  They’re all right.’

     We chatted.  His grandkids love raising the ducklings. I said I was keen to move to my father’s farm so I could have more ducks.

     ‘Really.’  He gave me a sidelong glance as if I wouldn’t know the first thing about life on a farm.

     ‘Do you mind if I take some photos to show my kids?’ I said.

     ‘Yeah, go for it.’

     As I snapped a few shots and talked to the ducks, I became aware of an unsettling conversation between the duck seller and a man behind me.

     ‘Oh, Bob,’ said the duck seller with uncharacteristic emotion, ‘that butcher in the main street of Stanthorpe’s been smoking the duck.  Delicious.  Won’t find a better smoked duck around.’

     ‘Are you talking about eating ducks?’ I said.

     ‘Love, if you’re gonna live on a farm, you’re gonna have to eat your ducks.’

     I told him I’d eat anything, but my ducks, even my legs and I thanked him politely. 

     Thursday’s outing was a real treat.  We visited an enchanted forest of Pook trees that were grown only after a magical event.       

     More in the next post about something wonderful in not-so-sleepy Warwick.