In the dim light of 5:10 a.m., a golfer hit practice balls on the Townsville Golf Club, his face so screened by the receeding darkness that I was unable to ascertain if he was young or old. Beneath th...
I stole quietly into Townsville’s tropical dawn, the songs of a brush cuckoo and olive-backed oriole drawing me forth, the two vocalizations so different yet now so familiar – the brush cuckoo...
A word of advice to all sleep-loving campers: do not pitch your tent at the end of the campground nearest the bar. After an evening flayed by mega-decibel music followed by piercing conversations, and...
