For almost three years now we have been hearing about Lawn Hill and the fact that it is THE place to go when in FNQ (that’s Far North Queensland in travel talk). We never knew what to expect and never thought to ask - there being so many other important things to occupy one’s mind when one is a permanent traveller, things like what time should we get out of bed and where should we go to today. Each new question adds more to the dilemma. We then have to decide if we are going to spend the new night in a caravan park or in a rest area by the side of the road. If we are not going to stay in a park, do we have enough power and water on board to see us through the night and tomorrow – and on it goes.
Anyhow, I digress from my subject matter. On this trip we decided to visit Lawn Hill National Park. Thanks to a last minute briefing by Tony O’Donnell (I will go into our meeting with Tony and Shayne in a later bulletin) we pulled into Burke & Wills Roadhouse, a little settlement between Normanton and Cloncurry. We booked in for the night and booked the van into storage so that we could travel the 230km track out to Lawn Hill and tent it for a couple of nights.
The population of Burke & Wills is normally 23 plus a few vanners travelling the Gulf Savannah. However, tonight, as I write this, the population has probably trebled with an influx of cowboys and girls here for the annual Camp Draft, which is being held straight across the road. The Roadhouse and its outbuildings are the only structures in town aside from the camp draft yards and associated building. Because the Roadhouse is also the tavern, the “restaurant”, the takeaway café, the store, the service station, the caravan park and home to a dozen or more backpackers and assorteds who make up the workforce, everything happens here. Currently there are three 50 metre road trains from Pasminco Century Mine parked twenty or thirty metres away from our van together with an assortment of cattle road trains. For some reason the cowboys and girls seem to have gathered in the tavern and are playing their favourite cowboy and girl songs, probably at the jukebox, at an increasingly loud level of noise. It looks like we are in for a rollicking good night.
Anyhow, I digress from my subject matter. The road out to Lawn Hill is not too bad. The first 146kms to Gregory Downs Station (cattle station, not railway) are a mixture of single and two-lane bitumen. The next 40 odd kms are good dirt (as far as the entrance to the Pasminco site) then, for the rest of the way, it is average to fair bulldust, dirt and gibbers. Many people take their vans as far as Gregory Downs and camp on the riverbank beside the multitude of large signs that read, “For ecological reasons camping is no longer permitted on the river bed” and travel to Lawn Hill sans van. When I say “many”, I mean 15 to 20 vans there on our way out and more than that when we came back. Obviously, if you can park your van on the right side of the signs they will make great shades from the rather hot afternoon sun. Very thoughtful of the Burke Shire Council.
Gregory Downs seems to be a wild old settlement at the best of times. I’m not too sure if it is back trading again but we understand that the pub temporarily lost its trading license for reasons that have not been disclosed. One would have to assume that to lose its licence in a place like Gregory Downs, it must have been a serious reason; probably selling liquor illegally to the local aborigines.
[Later] - Well here I was blaming the poor old Roadhouse for the singing and swinging going on tonight. We have just taken a break and wandered over there to see what was going on, only to find it practically deserted. All the fun is happening over the road in the camp draft yards so over we went. You sure can pick the bloody city slickers. We were resplendent in our boxer shorts, sleeveless tees and thongs while everybody else, even the toddlers, were in jeans, cowboy and girl shirts, riding boots and hats. I said earlier that the settlement’s population had probably swelled three times. That was a great understatement, it is more like ten times its norm. Most are gathered around the bar while there are many on the dance “floor” – ha, ha, there is no floor, the hoe-down is happening in the dirt just the way it should be on such occasions.
Music is being provided by a DJ perched atop a semi-trailer with his huge speakers, flashing lights, etc. One of the dancers, a fine looking young girl, performed a dance step that I didn’t recognise. She threw herself on the ground, raised her legs and shoulders, and started rocking, much like a rocking horse. The really tricky bit was, each time she rocked forward, she placed her hands on the ground and did a pushup. She did this a half a dozen times before jumping back onto her feet and proceeding to brush the dust, leaves, spinifex, etc from the front of her jeans and cowgirl shirt. It was good to see that chivalry is not dead as there was a great rush of young men anxious to assist her.
Anyhow, I digress from my subject matter. Bright and early last Wednesday we did the trek to Lawn Hill and booked into the camp ground known as Adels Grove. Being one of the first campers to arrive on the day we had a pretty good range of spots to choose from to set up camp. The one we chose was a little beauty. We were on the outer perimeter of a most magnificent grove of trees, overlooking a billabong, which is actually a part of the waterway forming the Lawn Hill gorges. I reckon many of the later arrivals were very jealous.
We set up camp and after lunch travelled out the 10kms to the National Park where we whetted our appetites for the following days events with a couple of walks, one to a set of rapids known as the Cascades and another to an aboriginal rock art place known as Wild Dog Dreaming. On arriving back at our camp we changed into our togs (or bathers or swimmers, depending on where you were brought up) and hopped into the billabong for a very refreshing swim. I got pretty excited when a young woman, who was trying manfully to stay in her briefest of bikinis, seemed to take a great deal of interest in me. I was happy in the thought that I hadn’t lost it but eventually deduced that she was actually the wife of a travelling astronomer who was putting on a show that night and was seeking attendees at $20.00 a head. As you can well imagine, it was a bit of a let-down. However, Rob lead me back to camp where we set to in our most peaceful spot, beside the most beautiful watercourse, with a well-earned Happy Hour.
Lovely! However, during the course of the day the Grove had filled up with happy campers and just as we started enjoying our cool drink, along came a convoy of two well travelled Troopies (one towing a rather large trailer) and a Patrol, all top heavy and laden to the hilt with camping gear. They stopped just short of running into our Pajero.
One of the Troopies had a most unusual attachment to each of its four wheels. It was a series of pipes that came from an on board compressor that constantly monitored the pressure in the tyres. I assume it would have been particularly beneficial for desert crossings, which we found out later they did two or three times a year. When it was operating it made a sound not unlike a mooing cow. I later asked the driver if he was a milkman in his spare time but my friendly approach was not taken too kindly.
Anyhow, as soon as they came to a halt, out jumped a horde of persons, male and female but predominantly of the latter persuasion, ranging in age from late youth to slightly senile. They immediately, and loudly, set about selecting suitable places for their swags - between us and the billabong.
For Rob and I, stress was actually setting in before one of the group leaders called them all together to explain that the fence they had passed through, that we were sited just behind, was actually the boundary of the camping area, and they would have to look elsewhere. There were a lot of unhappy faces and mumblings as they dragged their swags through the dust looking for less attractive sites.
Now, across the road a late middle-aged couple, who had arrived during the day, had set up their camp. Just as the horde arrived, this near neighbour, who we will graciously refer to by the initials SFB, decided that the whole park would love to hear a selection of Irish folk songs. He thereupon put a tape into his car’s tape deck, opened the doors wide, and turned the volume up full blast. What is an afternoon of Irish folk songs without a campfire! He then set about chopping up a few of the trees he had brought with him and lit his campfire, which the rest of us in the park would more accurately describe, as a bonfire.
While we were distracted with SFB doing his thing and the horde of swagbearers wandering aimlessly through the park looking for trees to tether their swags to, we missed the fact that, hidden behind our Pajero, the tour leaders were busy setting up a camp kitchen and trestles and stools for dining.
By the time SFB’s concert had finished, the horde had mostly all tethered their swags and were milling around waiting to be fed.
Anyway, Rob cooked our dinner and after cleaning up for the night, she lit our little campfire which, by about 7.00pm we were sitting beside, waiting for quiet to descend. At about 7.30pm the tour leaders decided it was time to start cooking dinner, which they loudly and proudly announced, was the fish they had caught the previous day, cooked Moroccan style. As hunger set in, the voices of the horde grew louder and louder. Finally, at 8.00pm dinner was announced and there was a great rush for the table, which was almost resting on the mudguards of the Pajero.
Before dinner was served however, it was time for a glass or two of wine and the singing with great gusto of Happy Birthday to Dot or whatever her bloody name was.
During dinner, the park was filled with the happy voices of this most unlikely group of foreign and local tourists who, we had found out, were on a 4WD tour conducted by a company known as Diamantina Tours. They were following the ill-fated expedition of Burke and Wills from Melbourne to the Gulf of Carpentaria and back. One bloke, a South African, spoke with an accent – very loudly - a cross between that of the English manservant Jeeves and Afrikaans. He had many boring tales to relate.
At 9.00pm, the curfew hour for the park, the girls, happy with their fill of fine food and wine, were ready to rock and roll. However, after some quiet words from the tour leaders relating to possible problems arising from them being kicked out of the park, common sense won out and they all headed off to bed in their swags to the miffed mutterings, “but it’s only nine o’clock!”
Peace at last - so Rob and I hit the sack for a night filled with nightmares about Irish folksingers and English/Afrikaans storytellers.
It only seemed a matter of moments later - but it subsequently turned out to be about 5.45am - that we were awoken to the sound of loud voices and the glow, which lit up our tent, of what surely must have been an out of control bushfire bearing down on the campsite. It would be up to me to gather the throng of disoriented campers and lead them to the safety of the Emergency Assembly Point that I had located shortly after our arrival. I jumped out of bed only to find that I was wearing the tent as a sort of pith helmet for our two-man dome tent stands barely four feet high and I am somewhat taller. However, I fought my way out the front opening and made ready to calmly but authoritatively command the frightened mass to follow me when I realised the inferno was actually in front of SFB’s camp. He was gaily chopping more wood to feed it while he and his wife merrily rabbited on, one to another. The reason they spoke so loudly was to hear each other over the roar of the fire.
With that, the horde also awoke and one by one wandered over to the food trough to greet and be greeted ooh so loudly by their ooh so jovial tour leaders.
Well, it was obviously no use trying to go back to sleep so I climbed back into my bed and lay there, rather uncomfortably, as during the night my airbed mattress had leaked quite considerably. While I lay there trying to get things back together, Rob made us our morning cuppa.
Later, after breakfast, we headed back to the gorge to do another short walk and go for a paddle in one of the two person canoes that were available for hire. The previous day we had seen the signpost to Island Stack and, as it was only 210 metres, decided to leave it until today to do. Little did we realise that it was 210 metres vertically and constituted a climb up what the National Parks people refer to as rough stone steps but which I would more accurately describe as foot holes in the side of the mountain. Being the type of person she is, Rob decided that this dice with death would do us the world of good and instructed me to lead on.
By the grace of God, we made it to the top. There, and as we made our way around the rim of what turned out to be a tabletop mountain, we were greeted by some wonderful sights of the gorge and surrounding countryside. Obviously, we made it back down safely, but not before I lied to a number of people, who were trying to decide whether or not to make the assent, that it really was a cakewalk.
The canoeing, that we did next, was quite wonderful. However, before we set off we did have a bit of a problem. The boatman who hired us the canoe told us to get aboard and indicated that the heavier one should sit at the back. Funnily, I stood aside and beckoned Rob to take the back seat. However, after the threat of a whack in the head and a “Jeez mate, you’re game” I took my rightful place. He gave me a double paddle but for Rob he produced a single that, compared to mine, looked like a toy. When I complained, he not so funnily, said that mine was to row with and hers was to get us out of trouble.
The first stretch was along a wide river type watercourse. About 750 metres later we entered the gorge, which twisted along until it came to a series of small waterfalls. Here we hopped out, went for a short exploratory walk to the source of the waterfalls - the upper gorge - before returning to the canoes for a swim then the paddle back. There are plenty of fresh water crocs in the gorge but thankfully no salties. The whole trip took just on two hours.
We spent the rest of the afternoon lazing around our campsite mentally preparing for the return of the horde and their 8.00pm dinner, which turned out to be some sort of artichoke concoction. To me it sounded abhorrent.
The next morning, while the horde and we made ready to leave this little part of paradise, one of the tour leaders came over looking quite dejected. He told me that we nearly had one of his group, (one of the slightly seniles) as a travelling companion. Apparently, she had tried to get into our Pajero but became quite stressed when she saw there was no back seat – I having laid it flat to make room for our camping gear. Fortunately for us (but sadly for our informant) some of her fellow travellers told her that our near new looking silver Pajero was not the clapped out cream Troopie that she had previously been travelling in and pointed her in the right direction.
Well, as I indicated earlier, we are now back at Burke and Wills, safely ensconced in our caravan. It is 11.50pm and the earlier very listenable country music has now turned to hard rock. However, the DJ has just announced last drinks. The last song, the lilting, “Who Let the Dogs Out”, obviously struck a chord with the dogs between here and Normanton who are all howling either in gratitude that they have been acknowledged in song or in very fear of the noise reverberating through the darkened countryside. However, I hold no grudge to no man, and don’t begrudge the gathered throng of bushies one of their rare rollicking good nights.
It’s now time for bed but, in closing, I would like to say that I did enjoy our trip to Lawn Hill and if it seems otherwise, it is not because I am half way through the first month of an alcohol free diet that Rob has got me onto.
Anyhow, I digress from my subject matter. On this trip we decided to visit Lawn Hill National Park. Thanks to a last minute briefing by Tony O’Donnell (I will go into our meeting with Tony and Shayne in a later bulletin) we pulled into Burke & Wills Roadhouse, a little settlement between Normanton and Cloncurry. We booked in for the night and booked the van into storage so that we could travel the 230km track out to Lawn Hill and tent it for a couple of nights.
The population of Burke & Wills is normally 23 plus a few vanners travelling the Gulf Savannah. However, tonight, as I write this, the population has probably trebled with an influx of cowboys and girls here for the annual Camp Draft, which is being held straight across the road. The Roadhouse and its outbuildings are the only structures in town aside from the camp draft yards and associated building. Because the Roadhouse is also the tavern, the “restaurant”, the takeaway café, the store, the service station, the caravan park and home to a dozen or more backpackers and assorteds who make up the workforce, everything happens here. Currently there are three 50 metre road trains from Pasminco Century Mine parked twenty or thirty metres away from our van together with an assortment of cattle road trains. For some reason the cowboys and girls seem to have gathered in the tavern and are playing their favourite cowboy and girl songs, probably at the jukebox, at an increasingly loud level of noise. It looks like we are in for a rollicking good night.
Anyhow, I digress from my subject matter. The road out to Lawn Hill is not too bad. The first 146kms to Gregory Downs Station (cattle station, not railway) are a mixture of single and two-lane bitumen. The next 40 odd kms are good dirt (as far as the entrance to the Pasminco site) then, for the rest of the way, it is average to fair bulldust, dirt and gibbers. Many people take their vans as far as Gregory Downs and camp on the riverbank beside the multitude of large signs that read, “For ecological reasons camping is no longer permitted on the river bed” and travel to Lawn Hill sans van. When I say “many”, I mean 15 to 20 vans there on our way out and more than that when we came back. Obviously, if you can park your van on the right side of the signs they will make great shades from the rather hot afternoon sun. Very thoughtful of the Burke Shire Council.
Gregory Downs seems to be a wild old settlement at the best of times. I’m not too sure if it is back trading again but we understand that the pub temporarily lost its trading license for reasons that have not been disclosed. One would have to assume that to lose its licence in a place like Gregory Downs, it must have been a serious reason; probably selling liquor illegally to the local aborigines.
[Later] - Well here I was blaming the poor old Roadhouse for the singing and swinging going on tonight. We have just taken a break and wandered over there to see what was going on, only to find it practically deserted. All the fun is happening over the road in the camp draft yards so over we went. You sure can pick the bloody city slickers. We were resplendent in our boxer shorts, sleeveless tees and thongs while everybody else, even the toddlers, were in jeans, cowboy and girl shirts, riding boots and hats. I said earlier that the settlement’s population had probably swelled three times. That was a great understatement, it is more like ten times its norm. Most are gathered around the bar while there are many on the dance “floor” – ha, ha, there is no floor, the hoe-down is happening in the dirt just the way it should be on such occasions.
Music is being provided by a DJ perched atop a semi-trailer with his huge speakers, flashing lights, etc. One of the dancers, a fine looking young girl, performed a dance step that I didn’t recognise. She threw herself on the ground, raised her legs and shoulders, and started rocking, much like a rocking horse. The really tricky bit was, each time she rocked forward, she placed her hands on the ground and did a pushup. She did this a half a dozen times before jumping back onto her feet and proceeding to brush the dust, leaves, spinifex, etc from the front of her jeans and cowgirl shirt. It was good to see that chivalry is not dead as there was a great rush of young men anxious to assist her.
Anyhow, I digress from my subject matter. Bright and early last Wednesday we did the trek to Lawn Hill and booked into the camp ground known as Adels Grove. Being one of the first campers to arrive on the day we had a pretty good range of spots to choose from to set up camp. The one we chose was a little beauty. We were on the outer perimeter of a most magnificent grove of trees, overlooking a billabong, which is actually a part of the waterway forming the Lawn Hill gorges. I reckon many of the later arrivals were very jealous.
We set up camp and after lunch travelled out the 10kms to the National Park where we whetted our appetites for the following days events with a couple of walks, one to a set of rapids known as the Cascades and another to an aboriginal rock art place known as Wild Dog Dreaming. On arriving back at our camp we changed into our togs (or bathers or swimmers, depending on where you were brought up) and hopped into the billabong for a very refreshing swim. I got pretty excited when a young woman, who was trying manfully to stay in her briefest of bikinis, seemed to take a great deal of interest in me. I was happy in the thought that I hadn’t lost it but eventually deduced that she was actually the wife of a travelling astronomer who was putting on a show that night and was seeking attendees at $20.00 a head. As you can well imagine, it was a bit of a let-down. However, Rob lead me back to camp where we set to in our most peaceful spot, beside the most beautiful watercourse, with a well-earned Happy Hour.
Lovely! However, during the course of the day the Grove had filled up with happy campers and just as we started enjoying our cool drink, along came a convoy of two well travelled Troopies (one towing a rather large trailer) and a Patrol, all top heavy and laden to the hilt with camping gear. They stopped just short of running into our Pajero.
One of the Troopies had a most unusual attachment to each of its four wheels. It was a series of pipes that came from an on board compressor that constantly monitored the pressure in the tyres. I assume it would have been particularly beneficial for desert crossings, which we found out later they did two or three times a year. When it was operating it made a sound not unlike a mooing cow. I later asked the driver if he was a milkman in his spare time but my friendly approach was not taken too kindly.
Anyhow, as soon as they came to a halt, out jumped a horde of persons, male and female but predominantly of the latter persuasion, ranging in age from late youth to slightly senile. They immediately, and loudly, set about selecting suitable places for their swags - between us and the billabong.
For Rob and I, stress was actually setting in before one of the group leaders called them all together to explain that the fence they had passed through, that we were sited just behind, was actually the boundary of the camping area, and they would have to look elsewhere. There were a lot of unhappy faces and mumblings as they dragged their swags through the dust looking for less attractive sites.
Now, across the road a late middle-aged couple, who had arrived during the day, had set up their camp. Just as the horde arrived, this near neighbour, who we will graciously refer to by the initials SFB, decided that the whole park would love to hear a selection of Irish folk songs. He thereupon put a tape into his car’s tape deck, opened the doors wide, and turned the volume up full blast. What is an afternoon of Irish folk songs without a campfire! He then set about chopping up a few of the trees he had brought with him and lit his campfire, which the rest of us in the park would more accurately describe, as a bonfire.
While we were distracted with SFB doing his thing and the horde of swagbearers wandering aimlessly through the park looking for trees to tether their swags to, we missed the fact that, hidden behind our Pajero, the tour leaders were busy setting up a camp kitchen and trestles and stools for dining.
By the time SFB’s concert had finished, the horde had mostly all tethered their swags and were milling around waiting to be fed.
Anyway, Rob cooked our dinner and after cleaning up for the night, she lit our little campfire which, by about 7.00pm we were sitting beside, waiting for quiet to descend. At about 7.30pm the tour leaders decided it was time to start cooking dinner, which they loudly and proudly announced, was the fish they had caught the previous day, cooked Moroccan style. As hunger set in, the voices of the horde grew louder and louder. Finally, at 8.00pm dinner was announced and there was a great rush for the table, which was almost resting on the mudguards of the Pajero.
Before dinner was served however, it was time for a glass or two of wine and the singing with great gusto of Happy Birthday to Dot or whatever her bloody name was.
During dinner, the park was filled with the happy voices of this most unlikely group of foreign and local tourists who, we had found out, were on a 4WD tour conducted by a company known as Diamantina Tours. They were following the ill-fated expedition of Burke and Wills from Melbourne to the Gulf of Carpentaria and back. One bloke, a South African, spoke with an accent – very loudly - a cross between that of the English manservant Jeeves and Afrikaans. He had many boring tales to relate.
At 9.00pm, the curfew hour for the park, the girls, happy with their fill of fine food and wine, were ready to rock and roll. However, after some quiet words from the tour leaders relating to possible problems arising from them being kicked out of the park, common sense won out and they all headed off to bed in their swags to the miffed mutterings, “but it’s only nine o’clock!”
Peace at last - so Rob and I hit the sack for a night filled with nightmares about Irish folksingers and English/Afrikaans storytellers.
It only seemed a matter of moments later - but it subsequently turned out to be about 5.45am - that we were awoken to the sound of loud voices and the glow, which lit up our tent, of what surely must have been an out of control bushfire bearing down on the campsite. It would be up to me to gather the throng of disoriented campers and lead them to the safety of the Emergency Assembly Point that I had located shortly after our arrival. I jumped out of bed only to find that I was wearing the tent as a sort of pith helmet for our two-man dome tent stands barely four feet high and I am somewhat taller. However, I fought my way out the front opening and made ready to calmly but authoritatively command the frightened mass to follow me when I realised the inferno was actually in front of SFB’s camp. He was gaily chopping more wood to feed it while he and his wife merrily rabbited on, one to another. The reason they spoke so loudly was to hear each other over the roar of the fire.
With that, the horde also awoke and one by one wandered over to the food trough to greet and be greeted ooh so loudly by their ooh so jovial tour leaders.
Well, it was obviously no use trying to go back to sleep so I climbed back into my bed and lay there, rather uncomfortably, as during the night my airbed mattress had leaked quite considerably. While I lay there trying to get things back together, Rob made us our morning cuppa.
Later, after breakfast, we headed back to the gorge to do another short walk and go for a paddle in one of the two person canoes that were available for hire. The previous day we had seen the signpost to Island Stack and, as it was only 210 metres, decided to leave it until today to do. Little did we realise that it was 210 metres vertically and constituted a climb up what the National Parks people refer to as rough stone steps but which I would more accurately describe as foot holes in the side of the mountain. Being the type of person she is, Rob decided that this dice with death would do us the world of good and instructed me to lead on.
By the grace of God, we made it to the top. There, and as we made our way around the rim of what turned out to be a tabletop mountain, we were greeted by some wonderful sights of the gorge and surrounding countryside. Obviously, we made it back down safely, but not before I lied to a number of people, who were trying to decide whether or not to make the assent, that it really was a cakewalk.
The canoeing, that we did next, was quite wonderful. However, before we set off we did have a bit of a problem. The boatman who hired us the canoe told us to get aboard and indicated that the heavier one should sit at the back. Funnily, I stood aside and beckoned Rob to take the back seat. However, after the threat of a whack in the head and a “Jeez mate, you’re game” I took my rightful place. He gave me a double paddle but for Rob he produced a single that, compared to mine, looked like a toy. When I complained, he not so funnily, said that mine was to row with and hers was to get us out of trouble.
The first stretch was along a wide river type watercourse. About 750 metres later we entered the gorge, which twisted along until it came to a series of small waterfalls. Here we hopped out, went for a short exploratory walk to the source of the waterfalls - the upper gorge - before returning to the canoes for a swim then the paddle back. There are plenty of fresh water crocs in the gorge but thankfully no salties. The whole trip took just on two hours.
We spent the rest of the afternoon lazing around our campsite mentally preparing for the return of the horde and their 8.00pm dinner, which turned out to be some sort of artichoke concoction. To me it sounded abhorrent.
The next morning, while the horde and we made ready to leave this little part of paradise, one of the tour leaders came over looking quite dejected. He told me that we nearly had one of his group, (one of the slightly seniles) as a travelling companion. Apparently, she had tried to get into our Pajero but became quite stressed when she saw there was no back seat – I having laid it flat to make room for our camping gear. Fortunately for us (but sadly for our informant) some of her fellow travellers told her that our near new looking silver Pajero was not the clapped out cream Troopie that she had previously been travelling in and pointed her in the right direction.
Well, as I indicated earlier, we are now back at Burke and Wills, safely ensconced in our caravan. It is 11.50pm and the earlier very listenable country music has now turned to hard rock. However, the DJ has just announced last drinks. The last song, the lilting, “Who Let the Dogs Out”, obviously struck a chord with the dogs between here and Normanton who are all howling either in gratitude that they have been acknowledged in song or in very fear of the noise reverberating through the darkened countryside. However, I hold no grudge to no man, and don’t begrudge the gathered throng of bushies one of their rare rollicking good nights.
It’s now time for bed but, in closing, I would like to say that I did enjoy our trip to Lawn Hill and if it seems otherwise, it is not because I am half way through the first month of an alcohol free diet that Rob has got me onto.