Like the photos they take when trying to sell a house it would be best said that one of our recent stops did not reflect the description tabled on the ever informative, google.
Now it has to be said that not much would compare to the luxury of our Airlie Beach Glamping experience with its sensational palm tree lined tropical swimming pool, amazing weather right on the Barrier Reef so being objective was probably a little challenging.
On arrival for our overnight stay we pull up to what looks like a tin shed, in essence it’s just a small country pub with a big space out the back, it offered power, showers, toilets and meals. Perfect for a quick overnight stay. We go in, pay our $5 for shower use as we are in a drought and water is like gold (I have yet to see the showers), we query wether we will actually fit in the space due to several swags and tents, cars strewn around and the publican assures us we will. She leaves to go out to the camp area and calls out “hey you blokes, move your bloody cars for these nice people”…all eyes on us.
With several manoeuvres and my directions, oh god what is that smell, we back her in. It was like putting the Taj Mahal beside tent city, to say the least, we stood out a bit. The smell at this point was wafting in waves in my direction. I walk around to the door of the glamper van only to find a pair of men’s dirty underwear lying at the entrance. Off to a great start once again, The Husband has not noticed the smell, which is a considerable surprise considering his questionable sensitive nose and stomach, he heaves at the slightest thing, he has noticed the underpants though and using his best AFL kick, punts them so they are now hanging on the wire fence where the dog living next door happily strolls over to sniff them.
I ask The Husband what the falling down donger next to us is and he states ” I think that’s the showers, “showers they cant be showers, it’s feral, it smells and god knows what that is on the floors, needless to say I stick to the luxury of the glamper van. This though is not the stench that continues in waves like an assault on the senses. The cement toilets, this epitome of style built at the back of the pub and is designated by the publican as the ones we use if we need to. I can’t describe the smell, I didn’t bring my gas mask, I resolve to pack it for next time, it goes on the list of what to bring next time now that we are experienced glampers. Written on the toilet lid in black texta is “please keep the lid closed,” this apparently keeps out the snakes looking for a drink, oh god I decide should the need arise to hold on.
All of a sudden a massive rumbling, it’s a train, a very loud very long coal train, the noise is fairly extensive to say the least. Excellent mouldy rotting showers, stinking toilets and the earth shuddering sound of an 80 car train carriage thundering past, Glamping bliss.
Once settled we venture inside to the pub, to say that the people inside are salt of the earth is not in question but seriously when did having teeth go out of fashion. We are told there are no individual meals tonight due to the NRL Grand Final. Everyone “can pay 10 bucks for an all you can eat extravaganza.” I can’t wait for this one as we hand over the cash and I realise the food will come in segments and I will be forced to waste 2 hours of my life that I will never get back watching the most boring game on earth. Now, being a Victorian I follow AFL, the Grand Final had been the day before at the reasonable time of 3 p.m which is a suitable time for a GF. There’s time to BBQ, time to party, get your cocktails on and be in bed at a fairly reasonable hour. Not the league final, it didn’t start till 8 p.m, which meant dinner would be a long and drawn out process.
Now watching the owners of the pub I was surprised to see them drinking, not a big deal you would think but they were not just having a tipple they were sculling Bundy cans like no tomorrow. This should be interesting. The first course arrives, hot dogs, sausages, soggy onions, wings and rolls. There was so much food just not what I was expecting to end our long day of driving, I resolve to chow down on a hotdog.
The game commences, the owners keep drinking. We have sat through 15 mins of the first half when the wife says that she thinks her husband is not enjoying himself and resolves to shut the pub herding us all out the back to watch the TV in the mosquito ridden beer garden. They bring bottles of scotch and bundy and a plastic box of money. We are seated behind the makeshift bar. Half time sees the wife trying to force feed everyone with the second course of wings and potatoes chips. Did I say how close the beer garden is to the cement toilets as another train rages past. At this point the owner says to me “when people ask us is there any road noise I tell em no, I don’t tell em bout the trains, cause they don’t ask.” Well thanks for that bit of information I’m sure trip advisor will eventually herald the reviews from travellers who didn’t find this very amusing. (I’m not one of them as every small business deserves a go.)
The clientele ranged from fisherman sporting a sunglasses tan, a heavily pregnant woman wearing a tracksuit and a 3 sizes to small shirt and thongs, various children, a couple of backpackers and numerous men sporting minimal teeth. As the owners kept drinking the boys commenced pouring their own. The owner suddenly appears with a Ukele and begins to strum, kill me now. You know that if you get up to leave you will be noticed, such was the fate of the backpackers as once they left were discussed in rather raised voices “poor bastards, probably can’t cope cause it ain’t soccer, doesn’t know a lick about league.”
The moment it’s over I very politely take my leave, race to the glamper van….oh no I have to use the loo.
Caravanning in Heels 