WoollyButt st. & Yorkeys Knob

Cairns

Flying in to Cairns is like arriving on the set of Jurassic Park. Blue skies punctuated by  wisps of cloud, mountains of lush tropical rain forest and a vast turquoise sea. I honestly expected dinosaurs to be roaming majestically across the landscape. But probably best not, as there are already enough strange, exotic creatures and sounds to keep you in almost permanent flinch mode.

When I first rode into town on the local bus (one an hour, makes Chichester seem positively metropolitan) I hopped off at the city bus stop on lake street to be greeted with what I thought must be chattering cockatoos only to look up in the trees to realise no, no not at all, they were bats, huge big black bats. Hundreds if thousands of flying foxes hanging upside down from every available branch like the welcome gates of a Hammer Horror theme park.

My initial reaction to this perceived terror was very English in that I simply quickly crossed the road and pretended the whole thing never happened. However at twilight they fly over the gardens of suburbia and into the forest to forage and as they sleep right by the bus stops it was clear I was not going to avoid my new vampire pals and after a few days I grew quite fond of the furry beasts. My photos aren’t natural geographic standard but you are not allowed to get too close as they are having babies right now, also you will get bat poo on your head but I did my worst.

Cairns and my little garden studio (highly recommended Marita’s air bnb) continued to be a succession of miserable view after miserable view with dingy weather, crowds and nothing to look at:

I explored the Botanic gardens which are a bit like being in the glasshouse at Kew, without the glass. It is glorious, and even more like a velociraptor may greet you round any corner. I did see a small wallaby – or macropod – in the woods, when it saw me it froze and we had a lengthy stare off, but by the time I got my camera out of my pocket, the little fella had vanished. I did however get shots of the Orange footed scrub fowl and the Australian bush turkey not as glamorous maybe but unusual enough. The bush turkey I could honestly have plucked and roasted, it was that bothered.

It was a particularly wet day, when it rains here, it is rather show biz rain, dramatic, over the top and impossible to ignore rain. I was wearing my pac a mac for the first time which meant I was basted in sweat and slowly roasted. It did add to the jungle atmosphere but you can imagine my disappointment when I saw this sign at the rainforest boardwalk:

With a good jog out of the question I called it a day.

The real rainforest was what I wanted to see so on a clear morning I found myself heading off to Karunda, a rainforest village in the mountains outside Cairns. I was travelling up the mountain on the Karunda scenic railway a historical and marvellous piece of engineering from the days of the gold rush. Work commenced to build the line in 1887 and apart from repairs much of it remains the original track which is slightly terrifying as you go over ‘stoney creek falls’ on a 1890’s wrought iron bridge with a sheer drop one side and waterfall the other. The train slows to a almost imperceptible speed and you hear every creek of the iron lattice work grown under the strain of the carriages.

It was a very special treat and I know Dad would have absolutely loved it, as I’m sure he did.

Now I don’t know what you would expect to find in a rain forest village? I had some idea as I’d seen the pictures, a sort of bright colourful market, indigenous art and displays, maybe a cafe or two. Well. After disembarking the train at the beautiful original 1800’s station, I wandered up the lane to be greeted almost immediately by:

Which obviously raised an eyebrow and a titter as I quickly grabbed my camera. 20% off as well! What a spunky bargain.

However at this point I still could not of imagined (and I’m quite good at that) what delight I would find in the central Karunda rainforest village market. In fact if you’ve not seen the photo yet, close your eyes and imagine perhaps the most unlikely of stalls that you might encounter here. Imagined? Well I can almost bet that none of you thought you might find this:

Yes. A Scottish fudge shop. And not just that! You could also buy sporrans, kilts, tartan key rings, fridge magnets, inflatable tartan bins (honest). You could sit with the bizarre dusty tam ‘o’ shanter wearing teddies and have your teee and fudge. There was also a corner display of all things Scott’s which had the feel of the sort of tourist attraction you’d get dragged round in the 70’s as a kid with crude wax work figures in unfortunate poses. It also had a bit about the history of the family and why on earth they were here. I’m not suggesting it wasn’t fascinating (I was so fascinated my jaw was open most of the time, until I realised and shut it politely) of course men from all over had got caught up in the gold rush and built the train line. It wasn’t an extraordinary story, just an unexpected treat, made all the more delightful by the fact screaming over the shops tannoy was a bagpipe version of ‘Fat bottomed girls’ I was in kitsch tropical paradise.

The journey down the mountain I can only describe as majestic and terrifying in equal measure. I was travelling back on the ‘Sky rail’, essentially a ski lift on a wire high above the rain forest. What could possibly be frightening about that? Well the views were indeed truly mind blowing, the sort that take your breath away and make you wonder, in awe, at the beautiful and completely amazing planet we are living on. I forgot I’m not great with heights. It wasn’t busy so I got my own car which was fine because I could see it all but possibly a scarier experience. I spent most of the time holding on to the seat and talking to myself continually like a deranged Woody Allen ‘you’ve got this Jane!’ ‘Look out the side, look out the side, not down, not up, it’s fine!!’ ‘The worst thing that can happen is you’ll plummet to your death, but hey! At least you were doing something amazing!’ And it was. Amazing.

Ther were two stop off points on the way down, one Barron Falls (or as I liked to think the Reichenbach falls) and then red, red something?! I was at that point a bit delerius and I’m pretty sure muttering continually and audibly. The beauty was we got to see the rainforest from the base as well as the top. It was magic.

Woollybutt St & Yorkey’s Knob

Now at a quick glance on the map Woolly Butt street didn’t look too far from where I was staying, I might cycle I thought! ( oh I have cycled here, 1km to the local shops, only beeped at once but it was literally all uphill on return and I looked like I’d been in a Sahara fun run). I mentioned it during a chat with Marita (my landlady). First of all I had to explain the woolly butt st appeal, which made her laugh (a good sign I thought) then I explained it was in Red Lynch (a local suburb) and I thought I might cycle. Suddenly her face altered and she looked at me as if I was in a care home and she’d come to give me my medication. ‘Oh’ I could see she was struggling to be polite ‘um I don’t think so Jane, there are a fair few mountains between here and red Lynch’.  So cycling was out.

Buses it was. So three buses a walk through a local park and up road later and I had made it, the now infamous Woolly Butt st. Firstly I must apologise for my previous spelling, which it turns out is wrong, secondly I must explain that yet again it was searing heat and full sunlight so it was with some sense of triumph I found a suburban street sign. I’m glad to report it was an under visited landmark (that day, who knows how busy it gets!?) so I didn’t have to elbow my way through Chinese tourists or raise my teachers eyebrows at any Americans but I was rather disappointed there was no cafe and gift shop. The area though as you will see is neither woolly or butt like but rather pleasant, green, safe and ordered. In fact I decided I could easily live on Woollybutt st.

But onwards and upwards (so to speak) we had a knob to find. I must say here that if you’re ever in Cairns don’t spend loads on coach tours, get a weekly bus ticket! The journey out to Yorkeys Knob is the BBC Natural History department at their finest, and if you imagine David Attenborough doing a little voice over in your head, it’s even more magnificent. Acres of sugar cane fields that drift down to the azure sea to the south and rainforest mountains to the north. ( Almost as epic as the number 57)

I arrived at Yorkeys Knob seafront and set about taking the obligatory photos of the signs and (in this case) the knob itself. Then I began to stroll along the esplanade with its cooling breeze and shady trees (oh I’m Dr Zeuss!) when simply by chance ( although some would argue there are no coincidences) I meet the most wonderful local resident Mr Maurice Milliner. Now Maurice, I feel, should be made town major, or suburb major or an honorary citizen (if he isn’t already) because within a matter of moments he had welcomed me to the area, made me feel at ease and we were sat down having a good old chin wag.

Maurice explained that the area was named after a George Lawson ( not Mr Yorkey, or Mr York at all!)  BUT! George was from Yorkshire and as a Yorkshire man the nickname Yorkey stuck. It seems he was a successful fisherman, making money from catching the sea cucumbers (Beche-de-mer) that were abundant in the coral sea. He was a well liked and respected man who gained the land rites to the whole foreshore and would refer to the rocky promontory as his ‘nab’, a term used in the north of England for an outcrop. This being Australia and full of good humour, his Yorkey’s Nab soon got turned into Yorkey’s Knob and the name just stuck.

I really liked Maurice, the fact he had time for strangers, a delightful almost Irish eloquence and enough sense not to take himself or the Yorkeys Knob name too seriously. But what I got most excited about was when Maurice told me they actually had a ‘Festival of the Knob’! Can you imagine my delight?! It seems it all began when locals had to fight in the courts against developers. The hearing ran for three days until finally the judge ruled in their favour, a victory for ‘the people’ he noted. This was a fantastic achievement but of course a very expensive one for many locals who had funded the case. After some deliberation on what to do to scrape back some money they decided upon a festival, to celebrate everything Yorkeys Knob, a Festival of the Knob!

The problem was at first, how to entice people to the festival? Did they have any famous names that could open the event? Heads were scratched then someone said, we have an English girl teaching at the local school called Julie Andrews and there is Kris Kristofferson a local busker. So it was, at the first ever Festival of the Knob Julie Andrews and Kris Kristofferson were crowned King and Queen of the knob! And being Aussies no one was bothered that long for the cheeky roose. How marvellous. After hearing this I felt emboldened to explain to Maurice my own very serious adventure and that I’d literally just come from Woollybutt street. Maurice laughed and I got an Aussie ‘good on ya!’ At last someone who could wholeheartedly appreciate a bit of tongue in cheek nonsense!

After our delightful chat and explaining to Maurice I was looking for somewhere to eat he directed me to Yorkeys Cafe. ‘Oh Tim will do you proud, tell him I sent you!’ he exclaimed. So I set off, I did wonder why Maurice had offered to drive it didn’t seem too far but under the midday sun by the time I arrived at Yorkeys Cafe I looked like an extra from Lawrence of Arabia ( albeit an oddly dressed one) now 90% sweat like a watery mirage. I asked the young man behind the counter if he was Tim and declared I had been sent from Maurice (as if this were some secret spy word which would see him press a button and me to suddenly slip through the door of the fridge into some fabulously cool speakeasy).

Thankfully Tim took this odd English girl in his stride and his cafe and food were as lovely as Maurice had suggested. I had a mouth watering peri chicken wrap washed down with a deliriously good watermelon and mint juice. If you find yourself out this way I whole heartedly recommend. Emboldened by Maurice’s reaction and also having to explain my new connection I told Tim the whole silly butt thing too. He laughed. Then he showed me his menu, ‘ we have a big knob breakfast’ he chuckled then said I should also see the sign over the shops next door, they hadn’t even bothered with the Yorkeys.

I found a picture on the local notice board of the last King and Queen of the knob! I’m quite jealous, I don’t think you could find a more tranquil, tropical paradise to reign over!