Bees, brolgas and beer

Turn left at the Bowra postbox to our camp

We stop at Bowra where daytime bird watching and evening bird counts are on the agenda, but this time our grey falcon has flown elsewhere.

Bowra is now owned by the Australian Wildlife Conservancy who, with the help of volunteers, keep this unique and protected property open for birdwatchers. It is a patchwork of ecosystems encouraging great diversity in bird habitats, and one of these was our water viewing spot under the red gums beside Gumhole's Creek.

We camped near the old shearing shed still kitted out in its original shearing gear with wooden floors rich with wool oil that most home owners would die for. Some thoughtful volunteer has built a temporary shower amidst the industrial relics using wood studs tacked with tarpaulins for walls and gallons of hot steamy water on tap at the end of a dusty day. The road is narrow, the land flat, the sky huge, as we head west in the morning.

We call in for some date wine at the Eulo Date farm and admire the shop decor, a long line of old cowbells and lanterns. Outside, there is a shed, built partly of kerosene tins, its interior lined with ancient 'stuff' to attract the passersby. Not to mention the artesian mud baths, Aussie-style, available in colourful open air tubs in outdoor surroundings for those who have an hour or two to luxuriate. A spa with date wine, what more could one want.

They also sell the local and unique Yapunyah flavoured honey. This honey is gathered by bees who have been happily sipping at the blossoms of the rare Eucalyptus ochrophloia which grow on the banks of the Warrego and Paroo rivers, just out of town. Beekeepers from all over Australia regularly bring their bees here in flower season, and the honey is collected by spinning the liquid from the combs using a centrifuge, letting the wax settle on top overnight, then tapping the liquid gold from the bottom of the vat into containers for sale.

We cannot always find picnic spots for morning tea or lunch so then shade becomes our priority and as soon as that is found out come the collapsible chairs, tables and picnic packs filled with goodies. And we eat as we recount the number of emus, dingos or brolgas that we have all spied so far enroute.

Thargomindah was the start of the flies, this trip. Someone, somewhere, told us that the incessant flies we were to battle with for well over a week from hereonin were around because there had been rain. The rain grew the blossoms. The blossoms attracted the flies. It didn't take us long to figure that there must have a lot of rain.

Though a couple of our convoy had yet to find their fly nets as we snapped them, looking like locals, on the slatted bench outside the supermarket.

The land is becoming flatter, and while we rarely see evidence of them, somewhere, tucked away in these flat plains there are cattle, for this is beef country. Squatters, of the eighteen hundreds, who missed out on the more fertile parts of Australia had no hesitation taking up selections in these parts when parcels of land were there for the taking: the Dowlings, the Leahys, the Duracks, and the Costellos have all left their mark on longitudes west of here.

A lovely traditional mud brick house we came across in Thargomindah was once owned by the early Leahys. It was later purchased by Sidney Kidman.

The road to Nockatunga is better than most roads anywhere in Queensland. Three cars could fit, at speed, on the bitumen. This is new. This is a direct result of the mining going on in these parts. Like the cattle, the mining is tucked well away. Only now and again can you see the occasional derrick or mining rig. But the influence here is vast and the amazing road surface right to the South Australian border is testament to that. Underneath Australia's gravel lies enormous wealth.

We have been lucky with our evening campsites, which, to date, have all been by water. Tonight is no exception. This free and glorious waterhole is on the Wilson river just opposite the historic Noccundra pub. Some of us throw in our yabby pots hoping for an entree, while others write up the events of the day while they are still fresh.

As the sun sinks low we head across to the Noccundra pub. Long ago this was part of the Nockatunga station. The talk, then, would have been sheep and weather and wool prices. Nowadays, the locals who prop up the bar are miners who speak of mines and markets and money. Their airstrip is out to one side. Since 1882, the pub has been the only building in town, but it is going nowhere.

They tell us that there are three thousand miners in this dry dusty mineral basin right now. A lot of liquid is needed to quench that big a thirst.

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