Motel Notes: Toowoomba, Rockhampton, Mackay
A touring companion drives north through regional Queensland over twelve days, recording the motels, the highway, the people she meets and the rituals that keep her grounded.
Toowoomba, days one to four
Cool up on the range. The motel is on the edge of town, brick, spotless, with a kind owner who waters the geraniums at seven every morning and says "lovely day" whether it is or not. I set the room up in forty minutes: my own sheets, a diffuser, the portable speaker, a silk scarf over the harsh bedside lamp.
Bookings were steady. Farmers in town for the day, a couple of travelling reps, a gentle retiree who wanted to talk about his roses for half the hour. I bought a box of lamingtons from the bakery in the main street and ate one every night like a reward.
On the road
The Burnett Highway is long and flat and beautiful in a way you only notice if you stop hurrying. I drove with the windows half down, listening to an audiobook about the Antarctic, which felt funny at thirty-one degrees. Stopped in Biloela for fuel and a toasted sandwich. Every roadhouse in Queensland makes the same toasted sandwich and I love every one of them.
Rockhampton, days five to eight
Humid and hot. The motel air conditioner rattled like a ghost in chains but it worked. My booking pattern changed completely: busier nights, later finishes, quieter mornings. I learnt long ago not to fight the local rhythm. I slept in, walked by the Fitzroy River in the late afternoons, and watched the fruit bats stream out at dusk like smoke.
One client, a young mechanic, confessed halfway through our time that it was his birthday and nobody knew. I found a candle in my toiletry bag and stuck it in a muffin from the servo. He blew it out and went red to the ears.
Mackay, days nine to twelve
Cane fields and sea air. My favourite leg. The motel had a tiny pool I had all to myself at six in the morning. Work was steady and kind. By now, though, the road was in my bones: I kept reaching for things in the wrong drawer and forgetting what day it was.
My touring rituals
- Unpack fully on arrival, every time.
- Ring someone who loves me every second day.
- Walk somewhere green or near water daily.
- Keep a strict end time and never extend when tired.
- Treat myself to one small local thing in every town.
Flying home tomorrow. My suitcase smells faintly of sunscreen, diesel and lavender. I'm tired and full and already planning the next route.
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