Day 342 | Long Waterhole, Winton: Full of bull

rest day

Winton’s a pretty town, less than 1000 people live here, 3 massive pubs from days when blokes were blokes, and streets wide enough to turn your average to large sized camel or oxen team.

Life is full of surprises, so it was inevitable that I ran into Steve, travelling light on a bike, all sealed roads, Hervey Bay to Katherine, just to fill in the missing leg in his 26,000 km round Australia, clockwise, for the most part, journey.

My first cyclist spotted since Mirjam back on the early Great Central Road, the fourth in 9000 km.

A couple of hours later Steve thought he’d better make tracks, us cyclists can sure natter on. Thanks for the tips on the Atherton Tablelands, mate.

I had to move off to the bull auction and I stayed for Lots 1 through to 51, ie, halfway. I sit next to an old farmer, not bidding this time, who fills in the details, why Lot 1 went for $3000, a great buy, (people weren’t warmed up), why one hit $16,000, (big, strong, ie, 920 kg), why the feisty ones didn’t bring so much, (too much trouble), their working life, (8 years), etc.

They are mostly about 2 years old, wild eyed for the most part, some paw the ground, dust flying everywhere.

It’s the auctioneer whose ceaseless, unintelligible, standard auctioneer patter who is the most interesting, always enumerating the length of the bulls “working equipment”, 42 cm, but I wasn’t game to ask exactly what was being measured, and the assistants, pointing out, dramatically, who had the current bid.

A couple of hundred people, a couple of hundred beige Akubra hats, a couple of hundred vigorously checked cowboy shirts and tight blue jeans.

That’s what this country was built on.

Probably will continue, whatever the future climate conditions.