Around Australia by Schooner

The closest I've ever been to a real, live opal was in the Fortune of War Hotel in Sydney. The Fortune of War Hotel a few years back. That's me in the hat. For those who don't know of it, the Fortune of War is an 'early opener' in The Rocks, and one of just 143 pubs claiming to be the oldest in the colonies. In happier times Way back in the 1980s, I was a regular. The placed reeked of history, stale beer and Winnie Reds. There was the period-correct squishing and squelching underfoot as you walked to the bar, where you were called 'Darl'. It was a glorious place. Armed with a schooner of Toohey's Old and dressed in my best New Balance shirt, I'd sit facing the street and watch hordes of Japanese tourists trying to cram into the souvenir shop over the road. But this story isn't about the Fortune of War. It's about opals. Choose life My glory days at the Fortune of War were in the leadup to the 1987 sharemarket crash,

I wouldn't normally bother visiting somewhere like St George in Queensland. The town's motto is 'Resources - we exploit the buggery out of them'. Actually, I made that up, but with Cubbie Station to the south and the fracking paradise of the Surat Basin to the west and north, it's something the Shire Council should consider. Cubbie Station from the air Checking the place out meant a 250km detour on the way to my next stop (Lightning Ridge) but that didn't matter, because I was on a mission. St George, you see, is where our former acting Prime Minister learned to count. The former Deputy Prime Minister That's right, Barnaby Joyce developed his accounting chops in St George. I was excited. As I walked along the banks of the Balonne River, I wondered if I might bump into the great man himself? I mean Barnaby's known to like a bit on the side. Perhaps he might be supplementing his backbencher's salary by visitin

There was no memorial. No plaque. Nothing to indicate that the ground where I stood was soaked with the blood of the innocent. It was a dusty wasteland of drought-stunted trees, cacti, rusted bits of machinery and discarded beer bottles. A desolate place. A place where in 1837, Thomas Crampton shot and killed at least 15 people. Near Crampton's Corner, Goondiwindi I was on the outskirts of the Queensland border town Goondiwindi, discovered (according to the local authorities) by Alan Cunningham in 1827. That Goondiwindi needed discovering would have been a surprise to the Bigambul people who had a connection to country dating back some 40,000 years. 40,000 years of history, 191 years of recognition Within a few years of Cunningham's 'discovery', squatters started arriving, including a thug from England called Thomas Crampton. He'd been sentenced to transportation for robbery in 1830, but before his sentence in Van Diemen's Land was comp

A wizard draped in a very stylish purple cloak handed me the fattest spliff I've ever seen. I had to hand it back - it was early in the day, plus the place was swarming with coppers. Some of the heavy-handed police presence was in your face, like the eight police vehicles blocking the road out and conducting 'random' drug tests. Just as obvious were the plain clothes coppers trying to mingle in the crowd. (Note to police - if you're going undercover at a drug festival, perhaps dress like a Rastafarian, not a Rotarian). I didn't have a designated driver. The last of my travelling companions bailed somewhere east of Daylesford, and I haven't heard from her since. So I was travelling alone, making it certain I'd be sharing my bodily fluids with the drug-testing police as soon as I left town. The Age of Aquarius This was in Nimbin of course, birthplace of Australia's first real Green movement And if Nimbin is Australia&#

There’s a fine line between a hobby and a mental illness. Some hobbies are fine. Stamp collecting’s fairly harmless, as is having a pet rabbit. At the other end of the scale are the wealth and sanity destroying hobbies; equestrian, ocean yacht racing, owning racehorses. Then you’ve got showing dogs, which attracts people who are, let’s just say different. Go to any dog show across the country and you’ll be treated the full autism rainbow in all its glory. That’s not to say dog breeders aren’t nice people. They are. Strange, but nice. For treacherous, even dangerous traits, you need to attend a chicken show. Poultry fanciers are just plain evil. Even at a chicken show in a small town, you’ll hear of poisonings, abductions and death threats. These people take their birds seriously. In contrast, dog owners, like the objects of their affection, are mostly harmless. I know everybody’s entitled to a hobby. But I’ve never understood why people would pack

She had what appeared to be hog bristles sprouting from her nostrils. He smelled of Old Spice, with faint undertones of old chops. “Would you like to move the conversation back to our house for a private party?” asked Mrs Hog Bristles. I was in some bar in Hervey Bay. I always knew there was something wrong with the place, but I never imagined it would be my ground zero; the place I’d be invited to share bodily fluids with a retired couple from Wangaratta. Also, I didn’t have a wife with me, and I was shit-scared they were planning to do a Rockefeller on me. So I made my excuses and sprinted up the street to a bistro full of young, attractive people, where I knew I’d be safe from molestation. Hervey Bay is a strange place. Sure, it’s got all the conveniences a modern city should have. A couple of Bunnings. Aldi. KFC. Like most Queensland cities, there’s a sex shop on every corner, with a Thai massage joint next door. But at first (and second, and