A town covered in grey. Granite paved streets without a soul on them. We walked in the cold rain to find a drink and a feed.
Most kitchens weren’t open till 6pm and it had only just struck four. So we went for a crawl about town. Our old motel had the cheapest piss and a fireplace. Good music and a large smoking area. No food though. So we made a move to a place up the road. The one not recommended by the bar staff.
When you’re fairly cut and step into a bikie den, most times its a good idea to have your drink and move along. But we had our meals, a few more beers and shared a few lingering stares with rough heads in leather vests.
We went back to the Hotel Motel and I drank 4 buck schooners of Coopers until I was out of coins. A piss-head approached me at the urinal.
“You with the Girraween Times mate?”
He was getting close. I would be pissing on his leg soon.
“Seen you been taking photos around town with a fancy camera. What for?”
‘Just like taking photos, out here hiking mate. Camera ain’t fancy, just old’ I shrugged
And he left me to finish up at that, with a nod and a stumble backwards out the door.
Got up the next morning for a hike and it was very pretty. The skies cleared. The roos came out and the sun shone on massive mounds of granite sticking out of the bush.
I was listening to Zeppelin. I walked past a dusty plateau. It fit.
A crazy basalt gorge. They’re just hanging there. Falling in slow motion.
Tried to get brave and hang over the edge to have a look down.
It was a long way down to the briny blue.
An old wooden boat sailed past the headland at a safe distance.