Over in the restaurant, a serious brekkie takes place. 10 bucks it is, and it's one of the best on the trip. Hash browns are to die for. Hash browns? Rösti? Who knows? The lady running the breakfast bar shows us a book of stunning photographs published by a local photographer, Steve Nowakowski; by some coincidence, they also have his postcards for sale. Wonder how that happened? Anyway, I'm always happy to buy postcards, so I wander off with a handful.
We head in to Ingham to pick up petrol, then inland to the Lumholtz National Park. The minor road, through open forest studded with miniature termite mounds, fairly soon gives way to gravel track. In all, it's about 40 k up to the Wallaman Falls; the surface is good enough, but some of the curves make it a bit uncomfortable for the poor souls in the Tarago's back seats, as it exhibits its tendency to wallow round corners. Once we start climbing, the road is through pretty dark and brooding rain- or cloud-forest, with the occasional open view across to, er, the next patch of rainforest. It's all rather magnificent. Pete spends much of the journey videoing the rainforest as it's going by. Fond though I am of the stuff, he seems able to muster enthusiasm of a different order of magnitude for it. It was a bright morning down towards the coast; the further we get up into the mountains, the more the mist and drizzle closes in.
Signs warn us of cassowaries at regular intervals. The signs, at regular intervals, that is, not the cassowaries - in fact we never see the bloody birds at all. Frightened off by the signs, I'll be bound. Just as we're thinking we can't take another wallowing bend in this poxy car, we get to the Falls.
Cripes, the falls!
Wallaman Falls tumble 870 feet down into a steep mountain gorge surrounded with cloud forest; it's as spectacular a view as you'd wish for, and that's that. Getting there is worth every twist and bend in the road, every time the Tarago bellies round a sharp corner, and the back seat passengers wail. Those more adventurous than us (actually, those with more time on their hands, as we're due to be somewhere else very shortly) would find the view more spectacular yet, in climbing the steep path down to the foot of the falls; provided they survive the trip back up the steep path, that is. We're content to see them from the various viewing platforms and gaps in the trees, and marvel.
Too soon, we're heading down again, back to Ingham, and north on the Bruce again. Someone at the Lucinda Point Motel mentioned the tea shop on the way to Cardwell; just as we're beginning to think of a restorative cup of Rosie Lea, the signs for the Casual Cassowary Tea House show, and we're bombing up the incredibly steep side road towards it. And what a view. Shame it's a bit of a murky day, but even so, the Casual Cassowary's view across the narrow strait to Hinchinbrook Island is fantastic.As, indeed, is the range of tea; memory's gone fuzzy, but I think 35 different varieties, or thereabouts, with fresh-baked scones, jam, clotted cream, and mango smoothies, for the cleansing of the palate. Or something like that. I go for Sungma. It's a second flush Darjeeling, gorgeous without milk or sugar, with hints of citrus and currant in its bouquet. Back in dear old Blighty, I'm delighted to be able to get Sungma from a speciality tea shop in Lincoln. The couple who run the Casual Cassowary have made a small paradise; they even have a "tame" cassowary that comes and visits - although it may as well be a griffin or a basilisk to us, since we never see the bugger. Beginning to suspect Hoop Snakes and Drop Bears are not the only mythical beasts around.
Waddling out of the CC, stuffed to the gills with scones and clotted cream, I decide I never want to eat again.
Just beyond El Arish, and passing on the way the rather pathos-laden 'Beware of Cassowaries' sign, we head coastwards towards South Mission Beach, since Claire The Navigator's reading of the Lonely Planet guide suggests that's where we're more likely to find accommodation to suit us. Turns out a bit askew today; we try 3 or 4 different camping/caravan parks, and they're all full. But someone suggests "Helen" might have got a bungalow free, and sure enough, she does. It's about 35 bucks a head, but it's spotlessly clean, and almost sleeps 6 - I get a mattress on the floor. But I'm rufty-tufty enough by now to cope with that - particularly after sleeping in a metal box last night.Helen recommends the all-you-can-eat restaurant at the top of the road, if we're in a hurry to eat, so later on, we wander up there. Abrupt about-turn. Christ, that's rank. Saturday night, it's packed right out, and it's Chav Hell, with pokies. Pausing briefly at the bottle shop, for the constitution, we head off to Mission Beach itself. The row of restaurants there looks pretty good, if a little on the expensive side, but they're mostly full. Saturday night, huh. The Italian - think it's called Piccolo Paradiso - welcomes us though; a little oasis of calm, and excellent food.
Back at the house, it's hot and humid, sitting outside with a bottle, but it's pleasantly cool inside.
