Seemed simple enough: Logan for Lunch.
After the Xmas shenanigans, what could be better? A light drive along some good dirt to end at a place where you know you are going to be welcomed as long lost friends.
On very short notice the Lupino,(in the Hudson Ladies Lounge) assembled the following crew: Yandoit Andy, with Young Tom, in the Crossley Snail, Deaf John, in the Austin 7 Pram, Robbo in the Chev Ute, and, for the first time, Simon TASL in the 1949 Bentley White Gumboot Special. A brute of a car which vividly encapsulates all of the inherent qualities of life in the fast lane on the Gold Coast in the 1980's, viz, all go, no brakes!
We started of at Robbo's farm, then headed to Baringhup
and onto Eddington. It was here that the first bit of trouble reared its head. The Chev broke a front main spring leaf.
The pic above, shows the intrepid Robbo dealing with the problem. Those with an eye for sartorial splendour should note that Robbo's outfit is colour co-ordinated to exactly match the subtle tones of the Chev, even Brick the dog blends in. You think this is accidental? Think again: farmers are deep, like the soil.
We would have been in deep doo-doos had it not been for the expert assistance of Master Blacksmith Yandoit Andy, who, before you could say "fencing wire", had the whole thing fettled. The quality of his work can be seen on the left. The man's a bloody genius, and so nice too!
From there we journeyed to a place called "Three Bridges", which was a little misleading, as there were only two that we could see.
Temptation is put there to give into. Deaf John has two passions: old cars and trestle bridges. There is not a trestle bridge, no matter how humble or decrepid, that he has not dragged us to see, and this one was both humble and decrepid. There were huge spaces where the bridge used to be, and all of the timbers were rotted and probably white-anted to boot. So what does our Deaf John decide to do? Drive the A7 over it, off course! Nevermind that the holes could swallow the pram in one gulp. Click HERE to view this bit of Quixotry. (Vids by Young Tom and the Lupino.)
All of this took a little time, and we had booked for lunch at Logan, so we took the direct route to Tarnagulla, but did not stop at the pub! What a sacrifice!
This did not mean that we would take the highway to Logan though. The nicest route ran through Burkes Flat, Mc Intyre and Orville. It varied from open farming, with interesting
sheds, to goldfields scrub. A good fast dirt run. Some swapping of cars occurred, as
Got to Logan only an hour or so late, but should not have worried. Were received as old friends. It's more like going to a family dinner than
to a pub, only without the fights and isn't that what it should be like?
They had recently been rated Number One in Victorian
Bush Pubs, and been included in the coffee-
table "Australian Bush Pubs" book.
They were very proud of
this, and rightly so.
A brief word about dogs.
We, at the Ferals, like the little
dishlickers. We even appoint them to
important club positions. Frazzle the
Whippet is Cultural Attache because he has a keen nose for it, and is often seen shoving the proboscis up a lady's crutch to see if there's some there.
Brick, the Blue Heeler, is Border Security Operative, because he's deaf, blind, geriatric, overweight, and therefore superbly qualified.
We haven't made our minds up about Cooper, the slipper dog belonging to Simon TASL, but we have a theory.
Those of you whose love of books goes beyond the colouring-in variety, might have read "The Story of Dorian Gray" by that noted shirt-lifter Oscar Wilde. In it Dorian leads a life not dissimilar to the Ferals, but doesn't age.
Instead a painting in his shed does the ageing for him.
We reckon Simon TASL has a touch of the Dorians about him. He's affable, charming, good sense of humour. We know he's about 80 years old, but doesn't look any older than 70.
We reckon that all of that bad karma associated with having run with the Queensland White-Shoe Brigade, and being burned by them, has been channelled into Cooper, who is a snappy evil-tempered piece of work who even bit the Logan Fly-wire door because it came too close to his bone.
Anyhow, even he was welcomed at the Logan. The Logan is Mecca for pooches. They are more than tolerated. It is not surprising, on a warm day, to have more dogs inside the pub than people, who tend to go out onto the verandah.
Mind you, the dogs call a bit of a truce in there. There's no aggro. They just lie around on the carpet waiting for the chips and peanuts to descend, which they do. Peace on Earth, good will to all mutts.
A bit different to the atmosphere at another pub close by, ruled by a vagina-dentatus menopausal psychopath, but we won't go there, which we wouldn't, even if we weren't banned.
After a very pleasant meal, chatting with Keithy, Helen, Geoffrey and some nice bikies, we decided to head home, via the Bealiba Pub, which sports the most immaculately polished urinal you are ever likely to see.
A bit of promiscuous car-swapping on the way, which saw the Lupino barrelling down the dirt in the Bentley when he came upon a stricken Yandoit with fuel problems. "No worries. I'll fix it. See you at the pub."
Half an hour later we thought it might be a good idea to go back in the Ladies Lounge to see if assistance could be rendered.
We found the Yandoit with a crappy Chinese fuel pump in his hand saying shit like: "It's only a few month's old!" As if that were any guarantee. We offered to rig up a gerry-fuel feed, but he would have none of it. It was fucked and that was that.
So the only alternative was to tow the Crossley to Bealiba, which we did.
The pic on the right is of the Yandoit signalling to his young son Tom, who took the picture. I'm not sure what it all means.
The publican of the Bealiba, who had done rather well by all this delay, agreed to have the Snail stored in his yard till the Yandoit picked it up in the morning.
The pic below is of just that, and supplied by the Yandoit himself who seems to have no shame.
Back on the road, with Young Tom and Yandoit in the Huddo, and a mere 5 klicks out of Bealiba, the Chev stopped. Fuel problems.
No crappy Chinese number here. This was a GM mechanical pump. After a pleasant hour or so spent doing diagnostics by the Feral Brains Trust, it was deemed that the pump lever had been ground down by the camshaft to the point of surrender. The answer was obviously to bung a little weld onto the fucker, but that could not be done on site. Option One was to tow the car back to the Bealiba Pub, and give the publican a Christmas he would not forget, or, Option Two, gerry-rig a fuel supply.
The Lupino emptied his oil canteen into the Huddo, Deaf John found a bit of fuel line in the A7, and, after a little trial run, the whole shebang was deemed a starter. And off we went.
At this point the Yandoit mused that, maybe, they should go back and try the same with the Snail, but he was disabused of this in no uncertain terms.
We had to stop a couple of times to replenish the canteen, but as this coincided nicely with beer replenishment, no-one gave a rat's arse, and the day was completed without further mishap.
Postscript: The Lupino lent Yandoit and Young Tom the MG TC Rocket to go home. On the way the car misfired, probably due to crap in the ignition. Young Tom cried out: "Oh, no! Not another one!" Have faith young lad!
Pics and vids by Young Tom and the Lupino.