We had some lovely riding in northern New South Wales away from the coast through cattle and horse ranch lands, along sugar cane fields and beside crystal clear rivers. A tailwind and some good beer helped. We then hit the long stretch of beach from south of Gold Coast to south of Brisbane. On the road it was hectic, and with not a lot of room given the cycling didn’t feel safe. Australians are generally kind and welcoming to us, but not when they’re in their trucks. There was a coastal shared path for quite a lot of the route, although the whole area is very busy and built up so it was slow going. There was more tedious riding through south Brisbane, so we veered off from the city and headed for a rail trail. We remembered a guy we met in a pub back in Crescent Head (whose daughter and family is cycling round Germany) mentioned a bike route following old railway tracks which might help avoid Brisbane itself. We should have listened in the first place and stayed away from the traffic.

Our first day on the Brisbane Valley Rail Trail was great. There were some sections over grass, but even then it was a million times better than the busy roads. Richard flagged me down in the middle of a field and told me there was a large group of sheep ahead so we needed to slow down to let them cross. “Those are enormous sheep” I said as I watched the herd of cows crossing the track ahead of us.

I spotted a billboard advertising award winning pies in one of the towns up ahead, so when we arrived I made a beeline for the bakery. It was one of the best pies I’ve ever had. Just down the road was another pie shop, and I realised that this was the one with the awards. So we stopped again for another. This time it was beef curry, and although really great it was a pie too far and I was sleepily weighed down by pastry for the remaining short ride.

We arrived in Lowood the weekend of their agricultural show, and were pretty excited about seeing this slice of rural Aussie life. Some more cyclists doing the trail turned up to camp, including Donna who is so far the only other full-on touring cyclist (all four panniers, camping equipment etc) we’ve come across in Australia. She’d been planning a big ride around Aus long ago, but life intervened until she’s finally been able to do it now. She was riding the opposite way, so wasn’t able to stalk us, and was very enthusiastic about the trail, convincing us to stay on it. She also told me about a particular cake in a town up ahead, so I am now locked in on that like an unbelievably slow guided missile.

The next day we tried to pay for entrance to the show, but they wouldn’t let us because we’re camping on the grounds. I promised to buy a lot of hotdogs and candy floss instead. The show was interesting to see. There were lots of cows, some crap art and songs about trucks. Sadly we missed the woodcutting competition; all eleven categories of it. We planned to go to the pub in the evening, but it turned out to be reservation-only that day, so the caretakers invited us to join them for dinner. They are (former) Brits who settled here long ago, and entertained us with tales of their travels to get to this point.

Carrying on down the rail trail was a treat. It was easy cycling, great scenery and so nice to not have to worry about traffic. Some of the bridges and old station buildings have been incredibly well preserved, there was quite of bit of impressive mural artwork, and Richard had lots of history signs to read up on while I caught up with him. We camped at a couple more showgrounds, which have been a revelation. They are really cheap, really friendly, they have hot showers, and they allow us to stay in small country towns and villages. Which means pies. At Blackbutt we had some amazing ones (their Big Mac pie is a strange work of genius) and I kept my date with a cake.

It’s been freezing at night. I’ve trusted my sleeping bag’s stated comfort temperature and have been lied to. On the plus side it is so brilliantly clear at night that it has been like peeling back film to reveal the sky in HD. Seeing the stars lit up like this is a remarkable thing, especially after the haze back in South East Asia.

Rural camping means rural wildlife. Australians will roll their eyes at the charge that all their wildlife is trying to kill everyone. And yet we see signs in camp toilets warning of snakes and frogs that might be in the toilet bowls; warnings of cane toads in showers; posters detailing the steps to take if you are bitten by a snake; notices on how to handle aggressive kangaroos; warning signs about magpies. These are different than in the UK, but even the bloody birds are a threat. We’ve passed numerous cyclists wearing bike helmets with cable ties attached that stick out like spikes. Presumably this is protection against magpies, which we are warned can be dangerous if you pass near their nests. Either that or there are loads of complete loons here.

Rural camping also means there were days and days of no phone coverage, so we were often scrambling to get stuff done while loitering outside public buildings trying to filch off their wifi. I’ve had this blog entry written for over a week, but haven’t had any way of posting it. Crazy that Cambodia was more connected than Australia.

We left the rail trail. We thought we’d be smart and cut off a corner and go more directly north east. For the first ten miles it was a glorious ride on a quiet undulating road with great scenery. Then there came a turnoff and a sign warning that no motor vehicles were allowed. This wasn’t because it was a bike trail, but because it was inaccessible. Previous rains had washed down and created trenches a couple of feet deep in the dirt road and exposed large rocks and boulders. The way was very steep downhill, which meant being very careful and taking it slow. When we got down into the valley we were able to ride along a grass track with cows loose around us and herds of wild deer, and I felt a bit better about the day. I knew we’d have to climb back out of the valley at some point, but we had a lot of time and I was hopeful there’d be a proper road.

We could hear the sound of a river near us and as I followed the track with the GPS it slowly dawned on us that we would have to cross it. We weren’t on an actual road, so there was no way there would be a bridge. The first place the track crossed, the river was too deep and too fast flowing, but the next one was do-able. The water came up too high for the panniers, so they all had to come off the bikes. Fortunately Richard had some spare shoes and was able to ferry our stuff across, because the bottom of the river was stony and painful to walk on with just my bare feet. It was also freezing. The track wound round and climbed up again, but was rideable, but when it sloped back down we saw we’d have to cross the river again. This time it was wider, but not deeper. I don’t think Richard appreciated me wondering out loud if there were crocodiles.

The way out of the valley was far worse than the way in. We couldn’t ride any of it; it was too steep and either too rocky or was covered in deep loose gravel and sand. Parts of it took both of us pushing one bike and going back for the other. Near the top I could barely put one foot in front of the other, but we finally made it to a paved road. The final few miles to a town were uphill, and the bike had become a torture device for my legs. We got to a campsite in the middle of nowhere. A couple of people saw us putting up the tent and warned us that we’d be in for a rough night as it would be getting down to minus two. I put on as many layers as possible until I could barely zip the sleeping bag up, but spent a comfortable night thanks to being forewarned about the cold.

The next day my legs were burning just standing up, so of course the first couple of hours were uphill. I saw a handwritten sign advertising Mandys for $5 a bag, which I thought was pretty bold by the side of the road. When I got to the top of the incline Richard was chatting to a couple who had given him a bag of mandarins. Ivy and Ron are cattle farmers, and proudly pointed out their cows in the next field. They also sell produce from various farms at this lay-by a couple of times a week. After a rest and a chat we went on our way, the bags a bit heavier but us a bit happier.

The showground in town wouldn’t take tents. They were nice about it and tried to help with where we could try at the next town. I am not making it to the next town, so we opted for a full campsite and the luxury of a camp kitchen, and an unexpected country singer who sang and played around a campfire while we huddled round.

After getting our arses kicked when we left the last one, we joined another rail trail at Kingaroy. The first day had some of the greatest riding and achingly quaint country villages we’d seen so far. At the end of it was a free camp, which even had showers. They were ice cold, and I’d just finished washing my hair upside down when I turned round to see the “press button for hot water” sign. Oh well, half a hot shower at a free place to sleep is still a great deal. Later in the evening one of the caravan campers came over and offered us some food from his BBQ. 

After a steak, egg and cheese pie for breakfast, we rejoined the rail trail, which was paved for about 15km and pleasantly uphill, though unspectacular. The track quickly deteriorated to the dreaded rocks and fine gravel, making the usually welcomed downhill hard work. After that the gullies started. The railway would have had bridges over them, but those are long gone. The streams at the bottom had rock stepping stones across and the uphills were too steep and the gravel too loose to ride up. After the eighth one it became really hard work to push the bikes up. 

The landscape was now parched dry and yellow and we were thoroughly in the middle of nowhere, riding across deserted farmland. The grass tracks ran through head-high yellow grass or through open fields. Up ahead Richard had stopped and was urgently motioning for me to get to the opposite side of the track. He’d disturbed a huge snake crossing the road in front of him which had coiled and hissed and raised its body into strike mode. We were a bit worried now riding alongside the long grass in the middle of nowhere. On the next gully my chain came off and jammed in the chain rings, which meant wrestling with that next to the long grass which we now knew contained snakes and was exactly what we didn’t want to be doing. It took us both near the end of our tethers on an exhausting day.

The enormity of Australia is evident even on the east coast by the sparse populations and the long distances between towns, but the roads were on there was flanked by a lush coastline, dense trees and wooded hills. Here the dry grass goes on forever and the horizon is nothing but sky. This is was my first time feeling the vast harshness of this country.

The last 20km were some of the longest and most miserable I’ve ridden, through endless dry fields on grass tracks, wondering if what I’m trying to wring out of my body might just not be there anymore. Richard was now far off in the distance, slamming the interminable cattle gates shut as he went. We’ve planned to camp on some grass outside a public toilet, so I don’t know why he’s in such a rush to get there. When we arrived in the small town we went to the only place open, which was a cafe that sold hot pies and cold drinks.

The free camp we’d aimed for didn’t allow tents. We’re in a tiny rural town with maybe an hour’s daylight left and neither of us can go on, so we just pitifully wandered towards the pub. We passed some blokes who noticed that we’d caught the sun badly and implored us to wear sun cream, one telling us he’d lost family to skin cancer and other that he’d lost body parts to it. I’ve given up reminding Richard every day so hopefully he listens now.

The pub had rooms to let. It was the most quintessentially 1920s Australian building I’ve ever seen, and really cosy despite the smashed windows. I was woken up by sharp knee pains, which is a bit worrying for a cyclist, but it’s probably the heaving the bikes uphill on foot, rather than the actual pedalling.

I had a steak pie for breakfast for the third day in a row. We are carrying round a bag of mandarins, bananas, countless cereal bars and yoghurts, but I have no willpower around pastry.

I loaded up on painkillers since my knee was in a state, but I felt okay once we settled into the ride. Then at one point as we started a large hill I felt lancing pain like a hot iron through my knee. I started seeing lights in front of my eyes and had to pull over suddenly. I shovelled in more pain killers and waited a bit. That was the last I felt of it. We haven’t been on paved roads much in over a week, so even though there was plenty of climbing we underestimated how fast we’d be. We got to our planned showground camping before midday, so we decided to go on. By ride’s end we’d put together two days’ distance in one, combined with the most climbing we’ve done in Australia. I know I was taking out my frustrations of yesterday on the roads, and trying to exorcise any doubts about being able to do this.

We made the decision to go inland to avoid riding through a city, and we stayed there because it was tough but rewarding, and because this rural country Australia probably won’t be around forever. It often felt like riding through the Australian version of a wild west. Some towns, taverns and characters were straight out of a film set. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life. 

A playlist for the ride: