What is it that spans a couple of Swedes, wild rain, fudge, a crafty mountain village and pork ramen? My last day in Oz. What else?
It all started with a long farewell with Ulla and Bjorn as we parted ways after two weeks which felt like a life long friendship. I was very serious when I said I’d stay there next year. They were superb hosts and I agreed when Bjorn suggested that next year we should sit and have a beer together as well.
But the farewells were soon over and Denise and I headed out for our day together which started at Coles and the Coffee Club in Sunland before winding up at her place for a cup of tea.
The weather was undecided whether to rain hard or soft but, by the time we were ready to head to Montville, the clouds had left for a bit and we figured we’d chance it. This was fine until we were halfway through lunch at the Edge when the rain came down in torrents, blocking out the view and making everyone but us scramble up from the actual edge to the dry interior of the covered bit of the restaurant.
It didn’t spoil our lunch as we sat, dry and famished beneath the big umbrella over table 43. It was almost spoiled by Telstra who Denise had a long phone call with regarding mum’s landline phone but we soon forgot about them as we tucked into our delicious meals.
Having visited Montville last year, I was keen to return and I wasn’t disappointed. After the sudden storm, the weather cleared and we enjoyed a lovely wander up and down the main street.
One shop I didn’t remember from last year was, unknowingly, the inspiration for this blog post title. I over-heard a woman say it to someone she was with before entering the shop mentioned below.
We managed to avoid entering and, instead, bought some tea in a tea shop run by a woman who once ran the Chevron in Sydney before going broke and heading for the not as bright lights of Montville. She seemed lovely and far more suited to selling tea than running a big city venue. (By that I mean she was lovely.)
Still, as usual, all good things, etc and we headed back down to Denise’s place.
We sat and chilled, watching two movies on Netflix (one about Agatha Christie, the other with Ricky Gervais) before I had to present myself outside her house, ready for the shuttle bus.
We hugged and kissed and I joined the bus where things almost came a-cropper when the driver asked me how to get out of the maze of streets that is where Denise lives. I laughed and explained I’d only been there twice and this was the second of them. I also suggested that the rapidity by which the streets appeared and disappeared made it next to impossible to navigate successfully for anyone visiting. He agreed then, almost by a miracle, found a way out.
Arriving at the race course we were required to wait a while for a late running bus to cast off its passengers for us to collect. This was quite handy for the woman who was so desperate to go to the loo that she almost hid behind a distant tree to relieve herself while her husband told us all waiting, what she was up to. When she returned I helpfully suggested she might want to swap her husband for one with a little more discretion.
Soon enough we arrived at Brisbane International where the usual long wait entailed until, finally, I could check-in then head out to wait at Gate 80 for a few hours. Although mostly the usual, mindless journey through the various stages, I was surprised by one security guard who, on taking my walking stick, handed me one to use to go through the metal detector. I thanked him and, on handing it back on the other side, said it was the first time ever, in any country, that I had been offered one. The guard was surprised, saying they had a lot of them scattered around.
I was so delighted I decided to celebration with a delicious bowl of pork ramen at Tuk Chop.
And so the clock slowly ticked over to midnight then beyond before I boarded the first plane on the long journey home.
