WITH THE BILOELA EXCURSIONISTS
By G.W.
IT was only after we had borrowed the next-door-but-one neighbour's alarm
clock to wake us up at four o'clock to catch the excursion train to Biloela we
found that whilst it would keep passable time if you laid it on its face, the
alarm would not go off no matter what side you laid it on. Never mind, the
womenfolk said, it was just as easy to wake up at 4 o'clock as 8 o'clock if you
only made up your mind about it; merely a matter of will power— and of
course not staying up too late at the Anzac Club, in any case there was no
need to worry. They hadn't been getting men off to work at all hours for 30
years without being capable of pulling off a little job of this nature.
But we were very firm on this point. No one was to be bothered with the job of
getting us off. It was our own little affair. “We'll be away hours before any of
you open an eye,” was our final admonition.
It was exactly twenty-five to two — if we remember rightly — when we I
bounded out of bed for the first time thinking the train must be on the point of
departure. A pity to have wakened so early. Still it was worth it to know we
could notch another three hours' sleep.
The tooting of a motor horn bringing home a late but lively party from
somewhere out Glenmore way had us out at 2.15 in the belief that the car had
arrived to take us to the station. A rooster crowing out of his turn at 10
minutes to 3 flushed us for the third time. At 3.30 a disturbing dream in which
we were chasing a train up The Razorback broke our rest.
It must have been after this that we fell into a sleep such as opium smokers
enjoy. Oh that it would last forever.
Then a hand shook us, and a voice said: “Come on, there's a cup of tea ready
and the car will be here in ten minutes.”
“Where have you been all night — playing poker?” asked that keen observer
Mr. Luck as he gazed into the more or less limpid blue eyes of your
correspondent at the railway station. “Poker, be hanged!” we answered tartly.
“We've been practising getting up at 4 o'clock in the morning.”
In spite of the hour of departure it was what the Junior Reporter would call a
'goodly company' that boarded the Biloela excursion train. A member of
Parliament, a banker, an alderman or two, a shire clerk, an editor, the
Y.W.C.A. secretary, a handful of public servants, quite a cluster of the
younger business community — 5 o'clock is far too early for the merchant
prince to separate himself from the sheets - and the Labour Band. Later in the
day the Independent Member in a public speech referred to us as 'these
distinguished visitors from Rockhampton'. We blushed, but accepted the soft
impeachment, and the Independent Member consolidated his position quite
considerably so far as his seat at the next election is concerned.
There are many points of interest in the train journey from Rockhampton to
Biloela. The first point of interest to our excursionists was the Mount Morgan
railway refreshment room, where we breakfasted at half-past six on tea and
sandwiches. The next was the Wowan refreshment rooms where we
breakfasted again on tea and less substantial sandwiches. The third point of
interest was the Raines Hotel, just across the road from the station. A good
sprinter with a clear run can, they say, do it in 12½ seconds. No one made
this time on account of the size of what the racing reporters call 'the field.' But
the event recalled the pictures of a race to peg out a claim on the South
African diamond fields.
The scenery is not so interesting on the Callide branch as the Rockhampton
to Rannes run. That is be cause the stations are small and with out
refreshment room.
There is one exception. As the train approached Jambin old hands began to
move towards the landing platforms. Those who had not done too well in the
Rannes sprint removed their boots. They were not going to be so badly
served this time. But alas, there was no race at Jambin. The train did not stop
long enough and the excursionists were denied a first-hand acquaintance with
Stone's Famous Pick-Me-Up — though, they had a good look at the
laboratory where it was reputed to have been made.
There is no question that Biloela was out to do us proud. The whole
community turned up at the station. Flags and streamers with words of
welcome fluttered across the street. One hotel had lashed tree branches to
the verandah posts after the manner of shopkeepers at Christmas time. A
dog-fight started. Motor horns honked and cars dashed about the main street.
The dust became thicker, the flies more attentive.
We had hardly expected or deserved a welcome like this. We felt unworthy
and at a loss how to express our appreciation. But we had forgotten the
Labour Band. Soon there was a stir down near the railway station The Band,
its ten members widely spaced, came marching down Biloela's main street
playing a spirited march.
We felt that Rockhampton had at least offered something in return, and then
bringing our minds back to more practical things beat the local lads to the bar
before the rush set in after the procession. Also we staked a claim out on a
seat at the dinner table, before all had gone. These are little details that must
not be overlooked on excursion days.
Biloela's courtesies did not end with the flag waving. The town placed its
motor fleet at the disposal of the visitors to 'see the district'.
Your correspondent was of the company which included the Independent
Member and visited the Experimental Farm. Later we went to Thangool, which
is eight miles further on. Thangool was deserted when we were there in the
afternoon. It was Biloela's day, but some of Thangool's stickers refused to be
lured away.
There is a pretty rivalry between Biloela and Thangool, besides which I
imagine all other town rivalries are a case of love at first sight. Biloela doesn't
like the headway Thangool has made in the last 12 months, and Thangool
considers there is no longer any need for Biloela’s existence except as a
whistling station. It is not easy to say who’ll win out. Biloela has the advantage
of the start, but Thangool is the terminus of the line and is making up her
leeway in seven leagued boots.
There is urgent need for someone to let the world know how to pronounce the
name of Biloela. When the train left Rockhampton everyone was calling it
'Billoweela'. After the Mount Morgan contingent joined it was 'Bilowla'. But
when we reached the place itself half the natives were calling it 'Billoweela'
and the other half 'Bilowla'.
Perhaps the best way out would be to adopt the name of the Rockhampton
lady who told her neighbours that all her young people had gone off to “that
place they call Billylulu”.
At the sports ground they asked for a few words from the Independent
Member. He could not find it in his heart to disappoint them. He had to climb
up on to a very high and very ricketty scaffold. But his time was not yet. After
wishing the Biloela community a Merry Christmas and advising them to treat
their Adam's Apple and Abdominal Cavity generously — Mr. Luck was later
accused of priming the Independent Member up on this subject in the
interests of Rickarts' Xmas cakes— he safely descended to terra firma.
This was not the Independent's only risk. We rode back from the sports
ground in the back of a small truck carrying its full quota. The road was the
one in which a truck had piled itself up against a tree earlier in the day.
Your correspondent and the Independent Member have been in many tight
corners since our paths crossed. We caught his eye as he braced hlmself
against the woodwork. We tried to look cool and unconcerned and as though
we were used to this kind of thing. We even commenced a flippant and airy
conversation and the result was greatly reassuring. Then like the wellconducted heroine in the melodrama we thought it best to place our
unbounded faith and trust in our chauffeur, and gazed at the ruts with haughty
indifference.
And like the smiling courteous all conquering hero that he Is Mr. Tontolini
brought us back safely to the station without even turning a hair.
We left Billoweela — or Bilowla or Billylulu — to the exchange of cheer's, and
gave a promise to come back again when the cotton was in bloom and the
files have gone to their winter quarters.
On the way home a tense look plastered itself over the faces of the young
merchant princes. Recently they had paid two pounds ten for a “visualisation”
course designed to assist the memory in remembering the names of the
people you meet. For instance if you are introduced to a Mr. Baker you
immediately 'visualise' him in the form of a 4lb. loaf of Rickarts best product.
Next day you see this fellow in the street. You can not recall his name, but
you do remember that you associated him with a quartern loaf. Then tt comes
to you. “Good morning, Mr. Baker,” you say, and he marvels to himself,
“Wonderful memory that chap's got.”
I believe the merchant princes had almost convinced themselves — almost
but not quite — that they had got their two pound ten worth when they visited
the Callide Valley. But there half the men they were introduced to were of
Italian or Russian nationality. Under this strain the visualisation scheme
brought large corrugations to the noble brows of the students, and at Rannes
they clipped two seconds off the morning's time for crossing the road.
Hot pies and tea at Wowan sustained us till Mount Morgan was reached. We
came down the Razorback in two divisions, and it was just on 11 when the
lights of Stanley street showed up. And this was the end of another almost
perfect day.
“Central Queensland Herald” 27 November 1930 p3