Those darling downs

Rewind.... 6 March 2009
We left Brisbane late. Despite best-laid plans to get away before lunchtime, it was two o'clock by the time Grandma, Jen and I crossed the Story Bridge, heading to the west.

The petrol tank was full; we had a stack of CDs, written directions and bellies full of anticipation. We were giddy with excitement at the prospect of the journey ahead; a trip to the family farm in Queensland's west for dad's 60th birthday party.
I was looking forward to six blissful hours gazing at the browning landscape, contemplating the future and spending some much-needed quality time with my beloved grandmother and mate.

I used this precious time to catch up with Jen before arriving at the party where our alone time would be scarce and shared with many others. After living together in a flat in West End for over two years, we are now based in different cities.

There was much to say. I animatedly told her about the new house I was living in and she talked about her job. I heard an account of a recent break up compressed into ten minutes and barely scraped the surface when telling her all about my new love. That's the thing about not seeing a good friend all the time; you only hear the abbreviated versions of important moments in life.

As we slowly ascended the lofty heights of Toowoomba's ranges; car weighed down with overnight bags, pillows and party goods; it was time to stop to buy Icy Poles and let the dog out for a pee.

We tracked the long stretch of road between Dalby and Miles, facing a relentless western sun. The grassy plains seemed infused with the pinkness of the sinking light, sunkissing the entire landscape with a rich crimson glow. Telephone poles lined the highway, leaning so far sideways into the black soil, it seemed as if the tension of the lines was all that held them upright.

We marvelled at the Downs which are called Darling for a good reason. Jen told us she had never been this far west before. The dog snored gently on the floor in the back. I drove on, squinting.

At about the half way mark, we started short bouts of Simon Says and I Spy to punctuate the journey.

Grandma dutifully regaled me with stories to keep me awake. She told me how when I was a little girl, I learnt to drive when I was only five in our old diahatsu van. She made me laugh, telling me tales she'd told me a million times before, but I never tired of hearing.

Jen snoozed now and then in the back, her head gently bumping on a pillow pressed against the car window.

We wanted to get to the farm by 8pm, so not to miss too much of the birthday dinner celebrations. But arriving in Chinchilla, we couldn't resist the warm glow of The Commercial hotel and its promise of a cool drink and a snack to tide us over. We all needed a bit of a break and my heel hurt from being perennially poised over the accelerator for so many hours.

While Grandma and Jen went inside to buy drinks, I took the dog for a walk in the dimly lit main street to stretch our legs. On returning to the pub, we joined Grandma and Jen sitting on plastic chairs in an empty outside beer garden. I noticed Grandma had applied lipstick in preparation for our arrival at the party. I ate salt and vinegar chips while she sipped from a small plastic glass of chardonnay and Jen smoked a cigarette and drank lemonade.

Satisfied and well-hydrated, we headed off on the final leg of our journey. From our instructions, the property was another hour from Chinchilla, following half-hidden sign posts along dusty, dark side roads. We drove in silence for the final fifteen minutes, eager to finally arrive.

Eventually, we saw the lights of the homestead twinkling erratically in the distance. I drove slowly through gullies and creek beds so not to scare the nearby horses. We could hear the rise and fall of laughter and music of a party in full swing. Yawning collectively, we prepared to meet the plethora of family and friends awaiting us after our long drive.