Heavenly Beverley : Contradictions

The Tropics are getting under my skin. At this time of year, The Wet still makes its presence felt. The humidity is intense, the temperature never falls below twenty-four degrees Centigrade, showers still tumble out of the sky at unexpected intervals (mostly during the night and early morning) and our bodies are bathed in a constant sheen of sweat.

Uncomfortable, although it can be, sweat has become almost my best friend. My dry and cracked feet are revelling in the moisture around us. The other good news is that insects find gripping onto my skin a rather slippery exercise. So yesterday, instead of being bitten by a green ant, I was able to pluck the trespasser off my neck before he sunk his teeth into me.

In the aftermath of Jenny's funeral, we felt exhausted. So we returned to our digs and slept the afternoon away. Dinner at the River of Gold Motel's restaurant was easy and delicious. Mick, the proprietor, had presided over a number of motels all over the country. He was a genial and expansive host, welcoming a few couples to his restaurant as if we were the most important people in Cooktown. Tourism in the Far North does not really begin until Easter, so visitors during the months of The Wet in Cooktown appear to be treated very well indeed.

Saturday morning featured the markets on the foreshore. I was determined to browse, even though I wasn't expecting too many stalls. A downpour just before I departed meant those were not undercover were somewhat damp when I began my rounds. I purchased a few items and then moved onto the nearby Elizabeth Guzsely Gallery. After a very pleasant hour, I bought a lovely little painting named "Gangly", featuring an eel that reminded me of our happy stay at Cool Waters Caravan Park in Cairns.

After picking up Michael, he took us on a Magical Mystical Tour of local beauty spots. The Wet had turned the country green. We stopped at Endeavour Falls Roadhouse for ice creams and a walk. The explicit sign warned us to beware of crocodiles. Across northern Australia, crocodiles are to be taken seriously and those who don't do so at their peril. I watched Michael splash water on his sticky hands at the falls. He never took his eyes off the surface, like a wary antelope ready to spring back at a second's notice.

We drove onto Isabella Falls, an absolutely stunning location higher inland. We stopped before the causeway which was still running swiftly with above-ankle deep water. Discarding our shoes, we waded through and walked gingerly on tender feet down a boggy track to the lower side of the falls.

I was mesmerised. No crocs, I was assured by Michael. So I made my way into the cool soft spring-fed water. I was in paradise. Michael stayed dry and snapped photographs. The closer I moved towards the waterfall, the harder I had to push against the current. The power was tangible.

We returned to our unit with Michael in tow. We ate takeaway from Gilled and Gutted, the local fish and chips joint. Not bad at all. We retired fairly early. Michael endured an uncomfortable night on our couch as he was about half a metre too tall for the couch. The advantages were the sit-down toilet, the shower and the washing machine.

Sunday morning, we left my brother on our porch and visited Elizabeth Guzsely Gallery once more. We chose a gift for Kerri and Kev in anticipation of us staying two more nights with them in Cairns.

Next stop was the Grassy Hill Lookout. Its name does not do the location justice at all. Panoramic views of the Coral Sea, the Endeavour River and Mount Cook took our breath away. This was where James Cook beached the "Endeavour" in June 1770 to repair a gaping hole in the ship's hull. The natural harbour provided a safe haven for Cook, given the treachery of the surrounding reefs and coastline.

We stopped at the idyllic Cooktown cemetery to see Jenny's grave. Brother Michael was fighting to hold himself together. Because of many years apart, I don't think he felt he could let himself go totally in front of us. And my heart ached for him.

In the black sense of humour that can permeate even the most sacred of places, groundwater remains an ongoing challenge when digging graves. Pumps need to be employed so coffins don't float away like eerie canoes until the excavations are filled.

Having left Michael at his digs, we slept again. The humidity had sapped our energy once more.

The residents here in Cooktown are a hardy and cheerful mob. A birthday party held at the Bowls' Club was a testament to their resilience. Our hostess, Melissa, confirmed people either love or loathe the town. I think I understand how people go mad in the tropics. I am not planning on doing likewise.

Tomorrow is another day in Cooktown - our last full day. I will be delighted to head south towards Cairns on Tuesday and then home. But I also know that Cooktown will draw us back.