The trees have trees, that's how you know you are in the Wet Tropics World Heritage Area. We have seen some beautiful sights, connected with some great people and had some fun adventures over this past week. Here is the story:
We bid a fond farewell to our new friend Jazzy and turned southwards. Next trip we will have to go further up Cape York for sure.
We pulled in at the Marrdja Botanical Boardwalk, just past Noah Beach and wandered above the muddy intertidal waters full of mangroves and other plants. Just as we came to the end of the wooden boardwalk and were about to ascend back up to the car park, something magical appeared...
In a morning ray of sunshine, the dew steaming away from his jet black hair-like feathers, this majestic bird let us have a good look at him preening from just a few metres away. The most absurd combination of head crest casque, throat dangling wattles and iridescent blue neck and head. If you didn't know it was a real creature, you would think someone had photo-shopped the image as a joke. What a lucky experience.
On the road again, next we pulled up at a tea plantation. We got to see the hedgerows of tea plants tangling into the air, a farmer in the distance grooming the shrubs with some machinery and scored ourself some (verified super delicious) grower direct black tea.
We side tracked a little to wander the beach of Cow Bay. The rainforested mountains touching the sandy seashore is a powerful landscape. We enjoyed the sun, wind and natural driftwood sculptures for a little while before climbing back over Mount Alexandra. We stopped briefly at the highly regarded Daintree Discovery Centre, but balked at the price of admission as we had already done a lot of rainforest exploration (also, didn't have tax returns yet). Instead we crested Mount Alexandria and ate lunch at the lookout with sweeping views of the islands and mountains towards Port Douglas, our goal destination for the day.
We wound our way back down the south side of Mount Alexandra and this time were first in line for the next ferry crossing. No queue.
We managed to eke out a spot in one of the crowded (school holiday time) Port Douglas caravan parks and wandered into the Uber-designer Crystalbrook Superyacht Marina for a couple of (very delicious) beverages at the Hemingways Brewery. It actually wasn't as posh and plastic as the name sounds. We watched the sun disappear behind the mountains over the marina and enjoyed the beers very much.
That night something... interesting happened.
At around half past midnight, a... gentleman camper just over the way from us decided that cranking his car stereo up was the polite and neighbourly thing to do. After a couple of tracks, the gentlemen camper continued with his one-man-high-volume-dance-party (although his song choice wasn't actually that bad) so dutiful husband number one (Adam), descended from roof tent and wandered over to have a conversation with gentleman camper.
A few loud raps on the passenger window where gentleman camper was reclining and out of his vehicle he exploded. He staggered a little. Reeking of stale booze and cigarettes, gentleman camper revealed himself to be, in fact, a Drunk English Twenty-something Dickhead. Aggressive in posture, language and locomotion, DETD felt his inviolable right to be a DETD should allow him to play his music at a volume appropriate for his already damaged ears. Adam gracefully and peacefully de-escalated the situation using the age old art of bartender-fu and eventually DETD returned to his vehicle. The music continued.
It's funny. People we meet on the road tell bullshit stories about how dangerous and violent remote mostly-indigenous communities like Fitzroy Crossing, Katherine, Hermannsberg, Alice Springs, wherever are. We have been to these places and many more and never felt unsafe. Privileged white folks talk shit about culture and communities they know nothing about. Then the only time I (Adam) have ever felt the threat of violence in all our thousands of kilometres on the road is from some drunk idiot English backpacker in arguably one of the most affluent and exclusive postcodes in the nation. Food for thought.
DETD departed the park the next morning. The staff at the park were apologetic and commiserative, but glad that DETD's scheduled departure meant they wouldn't need to actually evict him.
The next morning (Tuesday) we wandered around Port Douglas. The beach and lookout on the south side of town offered stunning views of the coastline and mountains to the south. We replaced Adam's already worn out $1.50 Darwin Big W thongs (flip-flops for our North American Readers) with a better, more comfortable and durable model. We sat on the grass under palm trees on the north side of town and watched mountains, sail boats and even an antique paddle steamer (but probably converted to diesel) float around. A cheeky second beer set at Hemingways and we hung out at camp after lunch, writing the last (belated) blog post and doing Ruth's tax return.
Wednesday it was time for a scheduled event that felt so incredibly far away at Bluesfest, and even when we made it to Geraldton, or Kununurra. Ruth's parents flew into Cairns to meet up with us for Ruth's 30th Birthday. We drove the winding Captain Cook Highway, perched between mountainside and ocean south. A stop for coffee at Palm Cove, a meandering wander along the promenade and around lunch time we made it to the home of Julie and David. Julie went to High School with Ruth's Mum in 1971. Julie and David were kind enough to put us all up for a few nights.
We made friends with corgi and cat, enjoyed delicious fresh mandarins from their backyard and generally felt at ease. We wandered around barefoot indoors, showered without thongs (flip-flops) on and generally enjoyed the luxuries of a house. Delightful hospitality in the shadow of Mount Whitfield.
We went for an afternoon drive with Pauline and Barry (Ruth's Folks) to see the house in Machans Beach that Pauline lived in, the banks of the Baron River where Pauline was once dropped home from school in a boat as the flood-waters rose. And the inlet to the north where Pauline's Mum used to go yabbie-ing when the tides were right. There was actually a man there doing the sand-plungering yabby collecting thing and Pauline got to have a go. We enjoyed bonus foot-mud treatments, an apple from the old local corner store and swung by Pauline's High School before returning to our host's house.