Atherton Tablelands to Mount Garnet
fence n a barrier that encloses an area such as a garden or field.
We used to have one.
A 500 metre long front fence made out of 4 strands of barbed wire, complete with a painted gate which effortlessly swung inwards on beautifully lubricated hinges.
Twenty seven years later we don’t have one.
The gate, in it’s dotage, sick of repetitively scribing a perfect arc in the soft soil beneath it by having it’s increasingly sagging posterior dragged across it, simply dropped off it’s rusted supports in protest.
In sympathy, the fence suddenly decided it too no longer wanted to be a fence, and prostrated itself into mouldering metal strands on the ground. The wire was neither elevated following death to some heavenly foundry, nor immediately consigned to the blast furnaces of barbed wire hell.
It just lay there.
In the long grass,
Waiting for me to roll up the remains. Major undertaking.
Mrs GOF and I are now faced with the callus-inducing, hand-shredding task of building a new fence.
There is no finer post hole digger on the planet than Mrs GOF.
Her operation of a crowbar and post-hole shovel is poetry in motion and it rivals her previously acknowledged artistic prowess when partnering her push-mower around our half acre of lawn.
Who can forget the moment in 2008 when she and her machine pirouetted at the bottom of the garden for a return swathe with such exquisite grace and degree of difficulty that she was awarded a perfect 10.
Firstly however we need to buy some large wooden posts from one of the few remaining post and railway-sleeper cutters near the small township of Mount Garnet, 140 kilometres to our west.
It is like travelling to another world. A two hour drive from wet tropical rainforest into some very harsh, dry and rocky savannah country.
This is what you can see along the way;
(On Sunday I will post details of the return journey which will prove that the notion of “Wisdom comes with age” does not necessarily apply in all instances.)