T+51 Bundaberg , Bargara and Mon Repos
I've been a jogger since my early 20's. A long time ago. I run and run but sadly have never been able to hide. Jogging, though masochistic and knee destroying, is a great and cheap way to get to know a new place. So on arrival late afternoon in Bundaberg where most people would be heading for the distillery tour and a rum and coke, I go for a run through the town centre and along the river.
It was very quiet, almost eerily so. Hardly anybody on the streets or in the shops, not even the Bundy polar bear. Nobody seemed to smile as you acknowledge them with a quick hi when jogging along. Unusual, as a sweaty and clearly out of condition elderly runner like me is usually rewarded with a pitying smile and a howyadoin. And then belatedly it occurred to me - the virus and the measures are taking hold.
Like everybody we're immersed in the news and TV, but being on the road it hasn't quite registered as to the immensity and speed of what's happpening. Bundaberg is the first big town that we've been to for ages and it's a reality check for us. We'd intended to use Bundy as a base for a trip to Lady Musgrave Island and hopefully see some hatching turtles. But we don't feel comfortable and spend the evening discussing plans. As there's no serious restrictions on travel yet we decide to continue but hi-tail it out of Bundy early the next morning to Bargara, a small village on the coast about 20ks away which we'd heard good things about.
Bargara turns out to be a little gem. One of those places which has an immediate good feel about it. We stay at a caravan park which is on the beach and virtually deserted. The locals are clearly worried but friendly and welcoming. There's a great bike ride along the coast and winds through the mangroves to Mon Repos, which is turtle-central.
Mon Repos is a wildlife documentary come to life. Green and Loggerhead turtles lay their eggs here. The hatchlings make their dash along the beach and if against all odds they survive, roam the worlds oceans for 30 years and like a returning British expat in search of their old bar-stool, return to the exact same spot to lay their own eggs. Quite remarkable.
When we called to book a tour we were told they were full and that this coming evening was their last of the season due to the virus. However, a measured amount of grovelling and pleading and we're in.
You're told to turn up at 7pm at the Mon Repos centre where you're given a colour coded label and sheperded in to what looks like a small-town airport terminal. The colour designates the sequence of the viewing party you're allocated to which depends on when you booked. Last in - last out.
So 3 hours later and having watched the admittedly excellent turtle documentary ad-infinitum and somehow resisted the attractions of the cuddly turtle souvenir shop, our group is called and we're led out along a pitch black beach about 1km to where the rangers have spotted a nest of eggs about to hatch.
About 20 minutes later we see tiny movements in the sand and one by one the little fellas emerge, each about the size of a 50c coin. They are as determined as any Brexiteer as they slowly flap their way the 30 or so metres to the ocean. Our batch are of course luckier than most as our presence keeps away the multitude of lurking predators and they all succeed. Sadly, their chances of survival to adulthood are one in a thousand, but I like to think that if I come back to the same spot on March 15th 2050 when I'm 92, I'll recognise the big Mum laying her own eggs.
The next day we cycle from Bargara along a dramatic and extremely windswept coastal trail 20kms or so to the marina at Port Bundaberg where the trips to Lady Musgrave depart and you can get a memorable apple crumble. Unfortunately, the weather is too rough for the day trips to run so no Lady Musgrave for us.
Day by day we're now deliberating our next move. Our next destination are the twin towns of 1770 and Agnes Water where we have pre-booked a caravan park for a week. We check they are still open for business which they are and head off, albeit with growing trepidation.
We had a memorable time at Bagara and Mon Repos and we were sad to leave. They are hereby awarded ⚽⚽⚽⚽ plus another ½ for the outstanding apple crumble.
I've been a jogger since my early 20's. A long time ago. I run and run but sadly have never been able to hide. Jogging, though masochistic and knee destroying, is a great and cheap way to get to know a new place. So on arrival late afternoon in Bundaberg where most people would be heading for the distillery tour and a rum and coke, I go for a run through the town centre and along the river.
It was very quiet, almost eerily so. Hardly anybody on the streets or in the shops, not even the Bundy polar bear. Nobody seemed to smile as you acknowledge them with a quick hi when jogging along. Unusual, as a sweaty and clearly out of condition elderly runner like me is usually rewarded with a pitying smile and a howyadoin. And then belatedly it occurred to me - the virus and the measures are taking hold.
Like everybody we're immersed in the news and TV, but being on the road it hasn't quite registered as to the immensity and speed of what's happpening. Bundaberg is the first big town that we've been to for ages and it's a reality check for us. We'd intended to use Bundy as a base for a trip to Lady Musgrave Island and hopefully see some hatching turtles. But we don't feel comfortable and spend the evening discussing plans. As there's no serious restrictions on travel yet we decide to continue but hi-tail it out of Bundy early the next morning to Bargara, a small village on the coast about 20ks away which we'd heard good things about.
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Bargara turns out to be a little gem. One of those places which has an immediate good feel about it. We stay at a caravan park which is on the beach and virtually deserted. The locals are clearly worried but friendly and welcoming. There's a great bike ride along the coast and winds through the mangroves to Mon Repos, which is turtle-central.
Mon Repos is a wildlife documentary come to life. Green and Loggerhead turtles lay their eggs here. The hatchlings make their dash along the beach and if against all odds they survive, roam the worlds oceans for 30 years and like a returning British expat in search of their old bar-stool, return to the exact same spot to lay their own eggs. Quite remarkable.
When we called to book a tour we were told they were full and that this coming evening was their last of the season due to the virus. However, a measured amount of grovelling and pleading and we're in.
You're told to turn up at 7pm at the Mon Repos centre where you're given a colour coded label and sheperded in to what looks like a small-town airport terminal. The colour designates the sequence of the viewing party you're allocated to which depends on when you booked. Last in - last out.
About 20 minutes later we see tiny movements in the sand and one by one the little fellas emerge, each about the size of a 50c coin. They are as determined as any Brexiteer as they slowly flap their way the 30 or so metres to the ocean. Our batch are of course luckier than most as our presence keeps away the multitude of lurking predators and they all succeed. Sadly, their chances of survival to adulthood are one in a thousand, but I like to think that if I come back to the same spot on March 15th 2050 when I'm 92, I'll recognise the big Mum laying her own eggs.
Day by day we're now deliberating our next move. Our next destination are the twin towns of 1770 and Agnes Water where we have pre-booked a caravan park for a week. We check they are still open for business which they are and head off, albeit with growing trepidation.
We had a memorable time at Bagara and Mon Repos and we were sad to leave. They are hereby awarded ⚽⚽⚽⚽ plus another ½ for the outstanding apple crumble.
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