How I met Hagrid from Hogwarts !

Posted on May 13, 2012 by Angus

One of the unique aspects of Montville in particular, and the Sunshine Coast Hinterland in general, is that you don’t come up here for the nightlife!

 The most exciting thing that happens after dark in Montville is a brilliant meal in one of our superb restaurants. This is followed by carpet slippers and a warm mug of cocoa with a Milk Arrowroot biscuit to dunk before retiring with the latest thrilling Enid Blyton adventure to read in bed!

There are of course other more physical late night activities. We suspect the sudden surge in such nonsense that this area seems to generate must be something in the water.  However before you dash off for a Bex and a  lie-down, out of respect for the sensitivity of you, our gentle reader, we will draw the blind down on any further description of such goings-on . In moral safety you may read on!

The average length of stay in this industry from an owners viewpoint is about five years. If your accommodation property is on a major road, at a popular beach area or down town in a city you will have the drunks and socially impaired banging on your door seeking a bed at all hours of the night. You will have incoming guests on late night flights that by definition mean a bleary 3am. check-in. This becomes a tad tedious , can generate extreem rage and thus precipitate an early exit from the industry.

By contrast in the Hinterland it is all over by 7.30 pm! In our sixteen years at Clouds of Montville I can almost count on one hand those people who have come in off the road with no booking after this hour. (The exception is of course the occasional Friday night out of Brisbane where an accident can cause you to leave with your kids in primary school only to arrive in time for their High School graduation!)

There was one memorable occasion two years ago that defied the norm. It was about 10.30pm  and “the light of my darkness’ had retired to bed. I was closing windows in our bedroom on the first floor when there was a heavy banging on the locked reception door. I failed in my chivalrous attempt to get the”the chosen one” out of bed, to go down to answer the door and drive away any would be robbers whilst I bravely went for help. I returned  to the window.

Looking out over the car park I could see the rear end of a station wagon with the interior lights on. Inside I could make out two young girls, perhaps ten or eleven years old. This was obviously a family, so down the stairs I went, hit the outside lights and cautiously opened the front door.

Standing in the glare of our security lights was this massive and hairy man. It was the reincarnation of Rubens Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. Harry Potter had come to Montville! He was massive with a shaggy mane of hair and a wild and tangled beard. I was standing there staring at his belt buckle which was about level with my face! In a thick southern Italian accent ( and it is difficult to write in a southern Italian accent) he said “You gotta helpa me….my wife she is gonna killa me!” 

 Let me assure you that this is not the sort of statement that you really want to hear with a weak bladder, late on a dark and stormy night with help an hour away!

At this point I was becoming very nervous as it occurred to me that if this giant of mankind was terrified of his wife, what on earth was she like! I invited him into reception and he then proceeded to tell me his story.

 ”My name is Tony, I am a diesel fitter froma Western Australia. I maka the gooda money in the mines and I taka my beautiful Gina and my two beautiful girls for a holiday. I plana this so good, we drivea, we stay, we drivea ,we staya, we drivea, we stay…but tonight we drivea and we have NOWHERE to stay and my Gina  SHESA GONNA KILLA ME!”

 At this point Gina appeared. She was one of those brilliantly dressed, petite, high heeled, southern Italian women. Just a total contrast to her massive and hairy husband. She could only just see over the reception counter. She was charming, well spoken and a delight as were their two daughters. I promptly opened the Family room got the extra towels, biscuits and milk and needed physiotherapy for a fortnight after the massive and hairy Tony gave me a hug of thanks. ” YOU SAVEDA MYA LIFE” he cried as he put me down on my feet again.

Well ,they were brilliant guests. Gina was simply charming and a wonderful mum. The girls had that courtesy, respect and confidence that you so often see in kids that have been raised with standards. Tony was this marvelous, massive, expressive and hairy gentle giant, devoted to his precious family. They stayed with us for four days.

But the really nice touch was the Christmas that followed when we received this glittering, expensive and ornate Christmas card. The post mark was Western Australia. Inside there was no signature, just five words, and it read ” SHE HASNTA KILLDA ME YET!” 

 

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How to put a sparkle in your day!

Posted on March 26, 2012 by Angus

At Clouds of Montville we have a beautiful salt water pool in our gardens. Over the last few weeks it has been like the biblical ‘cup’ with all the rain we have had but it is a popular spot for our guests to linger in the heat of a Queensland summer afternoon.

We are also blessed with grandchildren. Three lurk locally where an appropriate sign on the gate warns the unwary to ” beware of the ferral children”! We also have two beautiful girls who live interstate and are a joy to see but not often enough due to the tyranny of distance.

Our local grandkids covet the pool at Clouds. On hot days they are frequent and joyous visitors. To us it is just great to have them over. During a recent visit, with all their excitement and chaos, I was inspired  to try to think of a collective noun to describe a gathering of grandchildren . I came up with the following:

When very young and crawling and throwing up on polished floors or leaving slippery  toys in the path of the unwary and ancient like myself, I felt a “minefield of grandchildren”was appropriate!

Once they get to the stage of becoming complete hooligans, racing round the house with scant regard for the Dresden China. When rape and pillage with nerve shredding volume is the upshot of an ill-advised jug of red cordial I determined that an “erruption of grandchildren” was an apt description!

Once in the pool at Clouds all social graces vanish, the volume and laughter lifts expotentially . We get phone calls from the fourteen people left on the east coast of New Zealand complaining about the noise.The sheer quantity of water that flows from our pool across the surrounding region would have Noah knock up a quick Ark in anticipation of an imminent deluge! Thus a collection of grandchildren in a body of water will henceforth be known as a ” tsunami of grandchildren”!

Perhaps you, our valued readers, might come up with an appropriate collective noun for the ‘noisemakers’ that we all so cherish?  Love to hear from you!

Of course the joy of grandchildren is not bestowed upon us without some perils. A few weeks back on a particularly hot day I needed to venture off into the “great unkempt” ( not the armpits but rather) the bottom of the paddock. Prior to sallying forth I grabbed some sunscreen kept handy on the veranda with the kids towels, flippers and general water paraphernalia. It was layered on, thick on the face and neck in the true ‘slip, slop, slap’ tradition. 

Some two hours later in a road to Damascus moment I suddenly remembered the mail I had promised to post for the Chosen One. Leaping into the Clouds Ute (OK with a crook knee the concept of a leap may be somewhat generous) it was into the office and out the gate with the Post Office as the prime destination.

All of you must have had those days where normal people stare at you in a somewhat impaired way. Certainly they are very nice but don’t actually look you in the eye. There is a certain mist of embarrassment in the air, indefinable but acutely present. For men you loiter behind a sign to check the family jewels are not exposed. For women it is a glance in a shop window to ensure the spinach you had for lunch is not still draped across the corner of your mouth or that something appalling and unexpected has not crept out of your nose to wave at your friends with every breath!

Nobody tells you what is wrong and everyone seems to look at you in a sidelong, almost apologetic manner. It’s as though they don’t want to be caught staring. They are very kind but almost too kind as though they feel troubled and sorry for your condition. It was the same that afternoon everywhere I went.

Once home I decided to check it all out in front of a mirror, to finally pin down the defect. The bottom line is that if you have grandchildren and they swim at your place and they use sunscreen always ensure that you don’t use the bottle that their Mum has bought the little girls that is loaded with glitter!

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When Moses came to Heathrow!

Posted on February 20, 2012 by Angus

Deep in the mists of time when the world was young and Bert Newton still possessed his own hair I did not use a walking stick.

Those who have stayed with us at Clouds of Montville over the last year or so will have glimpsed a “hunchback of Notre Dame ” like figure creeping ,walking stick in hand, through the bosky shade of the dappled tree ferns. Or will have received a swaying and perilous breakfast carried and served with one hand by yours truly. A feat I might add that stands with synchronised swimming at the top of the pecking order of bizarre and terrifying human activities.

I suspect too much football and a passion for water skiing in my youth may have initiated a dicky knee. Some of course may believe that a married life of more than forty years will have worn it out. (I am assured that the constant genuflecting and prostrating oneself before the ‘Chosen One’ can bring on this condition!)

My focus now of course is to determine which timber to use for the impending wooden leg. Where can I purchase a stuffed parrot. Not the type you pick out of the radiator grill of a Kenworth, rather one from a costume hire place to attach to the shoulder with Velcro. Then a hook and a patch over the eye and a lot of practice saying “Aaagh, Jim me lad!” in a very west country accent.

 Well if the golden arches can have a clown of nightmare clothing and Elm Street makeup then Clouds can have a “Long John Silver”!

 Despite the obvious disadvantages, a walking stick does in some circumstances give you an edge. At domestic airports you need to practice your pathetic, suffering in silence, Joan of Ark, eternal martyrdom appearance. You must shuffle, obviously in pain, to the check-in counter, place your walking stick on the desk so they cannot ignore your infirmity, lean heavily against it and sigh deeply.

You must exude the weariness of someone just back from saving the sight of 493 Nepalese porters high in the Himalayas. If you excel in pathos and you strike a warm and sensitive check-in clerk, if you ask them how their day has been, enquire after their dog, their mother and can fake extraordinary sincerity then you might just score an upgrade!

As most of you will know airport departure gates are generally as far away from the check-in desk as the outer suburb of the city to which you are flying. You pass people camping on the way,women giving birth, small vegetable gardens planted to sustain those moving from the check-in to the departure gate and handy undertakers thoughtfully placed for those who take an early departure.

If however you have a walking stick and you look as pathetic as a Basset Hound with depression they will whisk up one of those electric people movers that go “beep, beep, BEEP, beep, beep” as you scatter before you the peasants on foot struggling onwards in search of the promised gate. The fanfare that greets the arrival of a potentate at his palace can be no grander than going forth with the electric chorus of an airport people mover.

‘The ‘chosen one’ and I caught a plane last year and arrived at Heathrow after some twenty four hours in the air. In a past life I must have done something really bad as some unseen and mystical force whispers in the ear of  young mothers and says “fly with your seven tired and appallingly behaved young children under five years of age with bowel trouble, an inclination to throw up and the lungs of a chain saw, leave your husband at home and sit next to Angus so they can climb on him and leave special presents in his lap of regurgitated milk or worse!” Thus on arrival at Heathrow I was ready to kill.

The immigration hall at Heathrow was modelled on the previously mentioned Australian departure gates. I suspect it was in the North of Scotland. Having wheezed my way there after what seemed like several days, we found that the entire population of Pakistan had just arrived complete with cattle, sheep and goats and we were way way up the back of this somewhat pungent host. I had visions of a holiday being spent almost entirely at the airport and that we would clear Immigration after three weeks just in time to trek to our departure gate for the flight home! 

I was about to expire on the floor when a very substantial  West Indian lady loomed ominously overhead. She looked as if she should have been Idi Amin’s mistress. She had gold braid and badges. She had identity tags and security cards pinned to an impressive front end. She had leather belts and webbing and bristled with two way radios, phones and bunches of important looking keys. As she strode towards us with the accuracy of an Italian cruise ship sighting a rocky outcrop she trumpeted ” Sir, you cannot stand there!”

I was tempted to ask her “where the bloody hell do you want me to stand you overzealous, overdressed public servant who by the grace of god happens to be a guest in the country of my birth!”….but I fortunately refrained (out of self preservation) as she was significantly larger than I! With the flourish of a walkie-talkie she cried “follow me!’ and what transpired was biblical.

For those ancient enough to have seen the movie ‘The Ten Commandments” this was to become a re-enactment of Moses parting the waters and leading the Children of Israel through the Dead Sea and on to the Promised Land. The only thing missing was that our Moses had a Jamaican accent rather than American . Unlike the prophets of old she had no staff to smite the proverbial waters but brandished her two-way with ecclesiastical vigour for much the same result.

Like the persuing Egyptian warriors she tossed aside the offending Pakistani arrivals and we were swept in her wake past acres of muttering hill tribes to the very front of Immigration. By this time I was quite expecting bolts of lightening and peals of thunder! The Chosen One was all the while urgently whispering in my ear “for god’s sake don’t stop limping or we will be lynched by the mob!”

 There was a flourish of stamping and with ‘Moses of the Windies’ still leading the assault we overran Immigration, on to our luggage and so burst forth into the English night air! It was quite extraordinary. A ten hour disaster was transformed into a ten minute triumph and all due to a walking stick!

The moral of the story is of course that should you travel by air take a walking stick, master a limp, and practice faking ‘sincere and down trodden’ ! It can truly work miracles and so, true to this biblical theme, ‘here endeth the first lesson’ !

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When pointing a python, accuracy is critical!

Posted on January 23, 2012 by Angus

We have a couple of wonderful people who regularly visit from Canberra. No they are not politicians who I am told have extraordinary similarities to nappies in that they need changing frequently for much the same reason. No these good people are the salt of the earth, clever, hardworking sensible and not inclined to emotional outbursts or irrational behaviour.

He is a senior officer in the Army whilst she is head of nursing at one of the major base hospitals in the A.C.T. They have stayed with us many times and the odd bottle of champagne has been known to evaporate suddenly in our mutual company.

Late afternoon, after a quiet glass or two on the balcony of their unit upstairs at Clouds of Montville, we were walking along the veranda when we noticed a very large python gently resting in the rafters above this first floor walkway!

As much as we love the wildlife of the area a large overhead snake is not conducive to high occupancy levels and so the offending reptile needed to find more appropriate lodgings.

Now I am relaxed about snakes, he of military inclination is fine with snakes but she of the Florence Nightingale persuasion is totally, irrationally, hysterically terrified of anything remotely of the snake variety.  She is the only person I know who when given a snake skin handbag at Christmas by an unthinking relative called the snake catcher to have it removed!

At the sight of the python she departed with the speed of a politicians pay rise through the Lower House and up to the far end of the veranda. I and my military assistant grabbed a chair and garbage bin. Doing a Meldrum I climbed onto the chair and was able to grab the python behind the head and then gently started to unwind it from the rafters. This was a substantial beast in excess of 2 metres long but obviously well fed and generally quite placid.

It was soon apparent that the python had no plans to fit into the offered garbage bin. Rafters were far more attractive in the warmth of a late summer afternoon and besides the sheer bulk of the creature meant that to get it in would have required a lot of pushing and jumping on it to make it fit. Now pythons are generally friendly and generous creatures ( small furry marsupials might well dispute this statement) but they tend to get a little terse if pushed, shoved or jumped on . Like visiting  relatives, violent actions in the company of pythons are best avoided. Climbing down from the chair I found myself in the warm embrace on this handsome creature which in more ways than one had started to grow on me.

The solution appeared to be the roof of the BBQ area which was about a meter below the first floor veranda. At the time it was overgrown with vines, all green and black like an englishman’s teeth. I reasoned that I could gently toss the python onto the roof of the BBQ area and in so doing the python could make a graceful exit stage left. A masterful plan that my military advisor totally endorsed. Meanwhile his wife had lost the plot. Unable to cope with all this snake hugging she decided to banish it from her sight and flee the veranda with shrieks of “SSS…..NAAKE…….. SSS….NAAKE!!!!” reverberating across the hinterland as she clattered down the stairs towards the safety the lawns below.

Ignoring the general clamour and alarms emitting from the nursing staff I pointed the python at the roof of the BBQ area and with a masterly heave-ho dispatched it in the direction intended. The python was obviously female and like all females had absolutely no intention of doing anything that I remotely directed or intended. It had by this time wrapped its tail around my wrist and thus conspired to totally thwart my aim. Instead of heading west it departed due north totally missing the roof of the BBQ area!

I was aghast. I wished the snake no ill will and yet it was now destined to fall from the first floor to the ground below with the possibility of serious internal damage. Critically at this point  the hysterical nursing staff emerged fleeing onto the lawn, gesticulating, pointing heavenward and still crying “snake, snake, snake”!

 As fate would have it, with extraordinary accuracy the python landed, square across her shoulders and together they raced across the lawn in an unholy embrace! In mid stride they explosively parted company.The python, doubtless swearing to give up rafters forever, with a flurry of shrieking birds to the shrubbery! Florence Nightingale did an “Up There Cazaly”  to the summit of the bird bath where she froze, ashen, on one leg, like some unique and tottering piece of garden art or a Crimean War Memorial on a bad day.  I, to the dining room side board, to repatriate a bottle of Napoleon’s best as I knew it would be needed! This maybe totally apocryphal but I suspect the Major, seriously mirth stricken, retreated in good order to change his pants!

Believe it or not, bless them, they still come back and stay with us! They have dined out on this story and we are known in Canberra military and nursing circles as one of the few resorts in the world where staff  joyfully throw snakes at their guests! All of which just goes to prove that when pointing your python, accuracy is critical! 

 

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How our Christmas turkey may yet save mankind… and other things!

Posted on January 1, 2012 by Angus

The last mutilated mince pie has been dispatched to the chooks still proudly bearing the festive teeth marks of a small grandchild or large rodent ( the dental and behavioural similarity between the two is truly remarkable!).

We anticipate an imminent visit from an eminent bacteriologist from the Fleming Institute (of Sir Alexander Fleming and penicillin fame) to secure the remains of our turkey. This deceased bird, lurking in the bowels of the fridge, is now growing a rich and strange beard of greenish mould. The Fleming team seek an antidote to the Bird Flu bacteria that threatens South East Asia and the world. Our decomposing fowl may just hold the key to the salvation of millions!

The Christmas cards have scummed to the high humidity of a Queensland summer. They have absorbed moisture and their corners are now turned up. They have started to fall about each other arm in arm in a blaze of confused glitter, colour and the slurred goodwill of an inebriated and shoeless hens party going home!

Already extracted from some of the cards has been what I term as “The gift of Total Inadequacy”. This gift is the small enclosed letter that brings you all the latest news of the happenings in the life of some far flung friend. Doubtless we all receive them and indeed some are bright, interesting and cheerful. Others however make you hide in a dark place under the stairs and silently weep at your own shortcomings, personal failures and inadequacy. 

These generally start with a detailed description of where they have travelled during the year. The places will be exotic like re discovering the source of the Nile, close encounters in the Arctic with Polar bears , excavation of some lost Aztec temple or on the Packers yacht in the Greek Islands and all by first class air travel!

 Of course the highlight of your year will have been a Tupperware conference in a two and a half star motel in Loganholme.

Their children or grand children have all been selected to represent their school ( which are private and hideously expensive), state or country at almost every imaginable sport. They will be Prefects, School Captains and leaders of the Debating Team. They have all gained an Honours Degree in Classical Studies on a scholarships at Cambridge or Yale. They will be doing advanced aeronautical engineering or building bridges over the Zambezi river.

By comparison your son will have gained some exciting new body art when dropping out of year ten and is known to be studying the manufacture of amphetamines late at night on the Internet. Or your fourteen year old grand daughter has got herself knocked up by some Afghanistan refugee and is now comfortably setting up house in the Villawood Detention Centre whilst expecting the arrival of twins and a burka!

Their families always seem to have the makings of a 1960′s American family sit-com. where all the children are good looking, well spoken, funny, washed, brushed, courteous, tidy, eat cauliflower and never break wind!

I promise for next year exclusive to Clouds of Montville I will provide you with the perfect “Gift of Total Inadequacy” template for you to use to dispatch with your Christmas cards to induce wringing of hands and entombment under the staircase of those who would put you down! Here is just a sample…

“Mary and Frederick were in great form when we dropped in to Denmark. Then it was off to see Phillip in the corporate jet. He has been poorly but our grandson who is the cardiologist to the Royal Family was, with brilliant surgical intervention, able to promptly have him heading home again. The Queen instructed the R.A.F. to chopper us to Sandringham so were able to catch up with all his news on our flying visit…”

I have to say that on reflection an unsolicitated cuddle from a grand daughter or, whilst seated, a casual arm around my shoulders from a grandson is worth far more to me than any title that the world can bestow. I am sort of comfortable with a kid that can run joyously last in the school cross country yet will stand up for a weaker kid being picked on by those bigger and stronger.

When I look back on my academic record the milestones of my progress were a series of scholastic miracles where I scraped a pass that truly confounded teacher and parent alike. Had there been a university at Lourdes I would have been granted a scholarship on the strength of the Divine Intervention that my schooling had demonstrated. It is of little wonder that my parents never sent a news letter with their Christmas cards!

We had a great Christmas at Clouds. Certainly it could have been busier but that reflects the nature of the times we live in. For the first time we did a Christmas Day feast for those guests who wished to stay in. “The Chosen One”cooked up a gastronomic blur of extraordinary quality with enough to provide for the entire Spanish army on a small campaign! It was a resounding success and I urge you to note ahead to book for Christmas 2012 (I have!).

And so to New Year and I could not but help to notice our local TV channel exhorting me to ‘join the revellers on the coast to welcome in the New Year!’. I have always had difficulty in defining exactly what is a ‘revel’ or indeed a ‘reveller’. I strongly believe that I have never actually been one.

I suspect that to have a half decent revel you need to stand on a beach very late at night with thirty thousand of the intoxicated and unwashed ,the grievously tattood and the socially impaired .You will then be required to jump up and down, shouting incoherently to very loud music whilst drinking vast quantities of warm alcho-pops and throwing up. It strikes me that there is a common theme in relation to toilet facilities provided for ’revelling’ in that they perenially overflow with suspended unmentionables. Thus ‘revelling’ has never been my forte!

And so it is for our many guests at Clouds on New Years Eve. Not the remotest ‘revel’ in sight. In fact those present were ’revel’ refugees like myself. A quiet drink in the garden, a view of the distant fireworks on the coast, a wonderful dinner at an award winning restaurant and a great nights sleep! What a brilliant way to welcome 2012!

From Margaret (the light of my darkness!) and I, a wish that the New Year is the best yet for you and ‘yours’!

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When Robin Hood journeyed west of Ipswich

Posted on December 6, 2011 by Angus

A few weeks ago a small group of battered accommodation owners decided to retreat for a few days R&R prior to the Yuletide rush . After much debate we journeyed south to the fair country of Spicers Hidden Vale which lies due west of the Ipswich marshes.

It is indeed a goodly place most ably run by mine host the fair and friendly Cieran, Lord of Hidden Vale. It is a country seat complete with two moats ( a lap moat and a normal moat) and of comely buildings and cottages arranged around the dining hall where many a fine repast was to be consumed . In ample measure flowed the beer, the wine and mead. The servants all were of a pleasing disposition and greatly did we enjoy the luxuries of the ‘Hidden Vale’.

(This is all getting too hard ! So we will now leap forward from the language of Chaucer and the Middle Ages to a more contemporary communication style!)

Spicers Hidden Vale is, you see, miles from anywhere. Its isolation is a major attraction. However because of its location there needs to be activities on the property for the recreation of guests and indeed there are.

I considered horse riding which was on offer. To my mind horses are extremely dangerous devices both  at the front and at the rear. In addition they are very uncomfortable in the middle. With a horse there are always two minds as to direction and speed and in every case the horse has the final say . It is about as stupid as driving a very fast car with only brief moments of control over direction, steering and braking. This is why people who ride horses can generally be recognised by their slow speech, plaster casts and broken noses!

 Also on the menu was archery.  Being of English stock I felt for certain that my ancestors were exponents of the Long Bow. That brilliant and very English weapon that initiated the tradition of ‘defeat by the English’ that the French still cherish so dearly. It is a bit like the new Spanish navy with its glass bottomed boats…so they can see the old Spanish navy!

In my bones I felt an empathy with Sherwood Forest and thus I suspected that in some distant life my forebears roamed with Robin Hood. And so a challenge was issued to three others of our group, including two Maid Marrion lookalikes, to an archery contest. The gentle reader will be pleased to know that our enthusiasm fell just short of Lincon Green tights and cod pieces!

The upshot of the archery contest was that I came to the conclusion that HAD my ancestors fought at the Battle of Crecy in 1346 the French could have indeed been victorious. The Black Prince would not have won his spurs and the flower of French chivalry would not have been laid waste by the English Long Bow.

In the first round of our contest my every arrow, with extraordinary consistency, passed clear under the target. My challengers did splendidly. Had I been at Crecy I would have shot every French nobleman in the foot ! This would have seen the birth of the expression ‘hopping mad’ and doubtless in their wrath they would have triumphed over Edward III and the course of history would have changed forever!

The first real use of cannon in European warfare was at the Battle of Crecy so we decided that a re-inactment was appropriate and for that we would utilise the Clay Pigeon facility. At this I was not such an abject failure coming second in our group.

The most outstanding memory I will carry with me were a mob of kangaroos feeding just down  from the guns. They were well within range but were totally disdainful of the barrage around them. They understood well our singular lack of accuracy which was clearly demonstrated by the shower of intact clay pigeons that floated down amongst them.

It occured to me that our contribution to life is like the cannon at Crecy and our clay pigeon exploits, a lot of noise, frequently inaccurate and generally ignored by the mob!

The archery path leads me to one of my favourite stories the genesis of which comes from that great philosopher and writer Phillip Adams and I know I will not tell it as well as he does but from memory here goes:

Robin Hood is on his death bed in Nottingham Castle. He is surrounded by Maid Marion and a grieving group of the remaining Merry Men. It is a simple room in the castle. A bed, a wash stand, a large wardrobe and all is dominated by a substantial open window through which the golden autumn light above Sherwood Forest streams.

Robin is near death and the company are silently weeping at his imminent departure. He lifts his hand and beckons to Maid Marion and asks for her to prop him up in his bed and pass to him his trusty Long Bow.

He then beckons Little John and in a whisper requests his last arrow. Close to death,  he commands the company present that without question his last wish is to be carried out . He tells them that he will fire his last arrow and where it lands so there he must be buried. To this they swear a solemn oath.

Now satisfied that his last wish will be fulfilled with his final remaining strength he pulls back the mighty long bow and aims towards the open window, the sunset and the golden Sherwood forest below. He lets the arrow fly and sinks back upon the bed. The great Robin Hood has passed away.

And so it came to pass that two days hence with much grief , sadness and tears they buried the immortal Robin Hood ………on top of the wardrobe!

Thank you Cieran, Lord of Hidden Vale..we really enjoyed our stay! 

 

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“…three wise men bearing Easter Bilby, Long Eared Rabbit..”

Posted on October 31, 2011 by Angus

I was in a large national discount department store the first week in October. Wandering with some aimlessness (as one does in these sort of emporiums hoping to find something better which you never do!) I stumbled upon a veritable gay mardi gras, a virtual forest of blinged up Christmas trees. They were all sequins and tawdry colours. Fluorescent pinks shouted at taste numbing purples as they flaunted down the central isle. Cheering them on were towering displays of festive lights , plastic decorations and Christmas tins of biscuits and this was the first week in October!

My initial reaction was that some one had moved Christmas forward, possibly something to do with the Carbon Tax or Christmas Island. By my reckoning Christmas was some three months away. Perhaps the display staff had got the schedule wrong. On enquiring I was advised that ..”we like to get our Christmas stock up early!” To my mind it was that early it could have been a clearance sale from last Christmas!

This led me to think about how things have changed. As a kid I can recall the Christmas did not start to happen until the 1st. of December at the very earliest. We endlessly talked about our favourite toys and what we hoped to get. We ached for the day to arrive and its proximity was announced by a small out break of holly and the making of paper chains some two weeks prior. We cringed with embarrassment when the papier-mache nativity scene we had constructed at primary school was almost religiously unpacked and put in pride of place in the hall.

Elderly aunts brandishing large wooden spoons were a blur of activity in the kitchen where mountains of dried fruits and litres of appalling sherry were poured into dubious mixtures from which arose strange and exotic fragrances.

One very ancient relative, I recall , created a family legend one year with her Christmas pudding. Her pudding had been a family icon since before I was born. Within our clan her puddings were almost sacred. This particular year it was noticed that after the flaming liquor and fanfare of it’s presentation to the table had subsided that the brandy sauce went a slight shade of grey on contact with the pudding. Anyway it tasted just great to us kids which was possibly due to the significant alcoholic content.

It transpired later that with failing eyesight she had taken the wrong container down from the kitchen mantle piece where the spare flour was stored. Great uncle Robert had passed away some years prior and his ashes were stored in pride of place in a metal container in the middle of the mantle piece. Thus in lieu of the extra flour great uncle Robert joined us all for Christmas dinner that year!

This just goes to prove that the old saying is correct that families that eat together stay together. Some seven years after his departure to a better place it was still possible to pass great uncle Robert in the old family homestead!

The purchase of Christmas gifts required lists and considerable thought. There was much preplaning in the manufacture of peppermint creams and fudge of unusual consistency which should have been sponsored by the Australian Dental Association due to the ravages of the teeth and the displacement of fillings that it most certainly caused.

The joy of receiving gifts was only just offset by the pain of writing”thank you” letters to incontinent and insane relatives who had the temerity to send one festive handkerchiefs, perfumed crochet coat hangers or lavender soap instead of cash.

To me the magic of Christmas was all about midnight services and carols sung at full throttle about kings that went out to feed peasants who lived “underneath the mountain..” and outbursts of “..God rest you merry gentlemen..” Presumably this was terrific for the blokes but I always wondered about the ladies view point who were doubtless up to their armpits in preparing stuffed boar and roast swan for the aforesaid “merry gentlemen”.

 To my young mind I was confused as to who really was this “..first Noel..” A mate of Jesus perhaps. He was obviously of some importance as the “..angles did say to certain poor shepherds..”. It was a time of great longing and goodwill. It was spiritual, brief and intense where gifts were given and received, flocks were watched and nights were silent.

Today we seem to have lost the plot. We wring out every last potential marketing drop. We start some three months away. In some sections of the community we strive to emulate one of the later Commandments in that ” thou shalt out voltage thy neighbour, let thine amps shine out on high”. Thus we drape entire streets with coloured lights and sad plastic and inflatable old men with red suites and faces, large bellies, blood pressure and presumably due to overweight, the first stages of diabetes!

The shadow hanging over all this is the knowledge that Easter is just around the corner. We will not be out of January when the first chocolate droppings of the Easter Bunny will find there way onto the shelves of your local supermarket. The Holy Grail of the marketer is doubtless to somehow link Christmas and Easter together but not in a spiritual sense. If they could combine Christmas three months out with Easter three months later they would have a SIX  MONTH festive season!

You can envisage the outcome in fifty years time, there will be Three Wise Men bearing Easter Bilby, Long Eared Rabbit and Easter Peacock. With any luck they will have managed to manipulate the Christmas story and have Jesus born in a burrow!

If you are planning your Christmas shopping you would do well to come up to the Sunshine Coast Hinterland in search of gifts that show you care. There are some truly different shops to visit which will set your gift giving apart from the standard shopping centre solution. Here are just a few Montville suggestions:

Natures Image  for photographic art and brilliant local calendars. Montville Woods, as the name says, it’s all about local wood products. Chocolate Country  which hardly needs any further explanation. The amazing Diachronic glass jewelry at Illume Creations which is both affordable and stunning. Bower Bird which is a veritable treasure trove and Amazen Games and Puzzles. If you will excuse the pun you can pass the time at the Clock Shop!

There are some brilliant local restaurants such as Wild Rocket at Misty’s and the Montville Bar and Grill all of whom have gift vouchers for you to purchase. There is a great choice of quality shops and galleries to enjoy and explore and appart from that it is a terrific day out with wonderful places to eat such as Poets Cafe where you can sit back and watch the world go by!

At Clouds of Montville we can of course design a special gift voucher for you. We can use your words to truly personalise your gift voucher and no amount is too small. Your voucher can be deducted from the total value of any booking made and taken at any time through the coming year. We can include meals, massages, flowers and chocolates. We are small enough to be able to cater to most requests.

So there it is, a glimps of Christmas past, an eye to the future and something you should really plan to do tomorrow. Whilst I might look white haired, red, rotund and have been known to “Ho-Ho ” from time to time I am not inflatable, into reindeer and this is not the North Pole but if we can help with your Christmas gifts or Christmas gift ideas do please give us a call! We would love to hear from you.

Yours in flock watching by night!

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A trail tale!

Posted on October 20, 2011 by Angus

My wife (the chosen one) is blessed with a myriad of skills of which I am frequently instructed to be in awe! Navigation is however her Achilles heel. Maps, guides, trails and directions some how genetically imploded when this otherwise flawless design first walked upon the earth.  (Yes dear reader you will note that I can crawl with the best!)

On any car trip where she is required to navigate we take along a professional counsellor and our respective lawyers to negotiate the inevitable divorce which will be the highlight of the journey. 

 Incomplete instructions such as a strident ” Turn Here”on arrival at an unknown “T” intersection with a brake smoking, locked up double B semi trailer up your backside ( a basic ” turn right” or “turn left ” is deemed superfluous ) can generate an outbreak of knuckle whiteness, eye squinting and cats buming of the mouth of the driver.

Had the chosen one been navigating for Christopher Columbus he would have discovered the new world of Bognor Regis! Indeed had the chosen one plotted the course for Marco Polo, rather than meeting with Kublai Khan and opening China to the west , he would have founded a dynasty of swiming pool installers in Bankstown!

I am also highly suspicious of electronic navigation devices such as a G.P.S. When the Palmwoods to Montville road was closed due to a landslip a well signposted diversion was put in place. We instruct visitors to take the diversion which will simply bring them up to the heart of Montville.  Lost without the comfort of  their G.P.S. they fire them up again once on the diversion. The G.P.S. then directs them off on a side road and back again to the main road which is blocked, on down to the diversion and so the cycle begins again.

Should you see a grey, bearded and glazed couple in a now obsolete car slowly grinding out a circuit around the diverted Palmwoods road with rufous and watering eyes fixed on their G.P.S. they are probably guests of ours due to check in eleven days ago!

We have certainly done our bit to encourage overseas travel. If you put in our Balmoral road address a number of G.P.S. device’s will take you to a small Bedouin camp in North Africa. This is quaint but unhelpful if you are heading off to pick up a pizza in Montville.

To some however, maps and trails are, to quote Keats, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. The sheer cheek tightening excitement of trying to navigate through the Sydney and keep up with the traffic in a Lebanese neighbourhood using an out dated directory is the realm of the alpha male. 

Just once in your life you must expirence the exhilaration of arriving somehow at your planned destination in record time with minimal vehicle damage, slightly breathless, a heat haze dancing on your bonnet, the silence now only broken by the ticking of your cooling brakes, and the fading cries of road rage drifting off with the exhaust fumes! Your map reading supremacy is now beyond question! It is akin to watching the first golden fingers of dawn touch the south col of an awakening Mount Everest.( or similar!)

Some may find it fortunate that these qualities are not required to navigate the Hinterland. We have some brilliant maps to take you from chocolates to cheese, from dining to climbing. There are maps of the walks and maps of the parks. There are maps of Montville and maps of Maleny. The Glass House Mountains are thoroughly mapped. In fact should you linger too long in this area you could indeed be mapped yourself or at least become a prominent contour.  For some years, however, there has been a serious omission.

We are blessed with some of Australia’s best galleries. In it’s early days artists of all persuasions were attracted to the sheer beauty and the creative mantle of the Hinterland. The extraordinary output of this unique group of people encouraged the emergence of  galleries to represent, to promote, to display and to sell .

From this primative and possibly unwashed base you will find today one of the truly unique attractions to the area being our world class artists and the richness of their creativity but you need to be able to find them. To open this world up to the interested visitor we created the Gallery Trail Map.

There are eighteen galleries located on the Gallery Trail Map which was funded as a joint effort by a small group of accommodation houses, the galleries themselves and collecting returnable bottles. It is a simple and easy guide to get you around, no nasty electronics here! Plus it recommends four great places to stay to fit any budget as time on the gallery trail should never be rushed.

There are to my mind two great reasons why you should hit the road flourishing your map.

Firstly the galleries are all in themselves unique . There is  no way to say one is better than the other.  They and their artists each present something very different and rare. We live amongst some extraordinary talent and thus you must visit them all.

Secondly it is one of the few indulgences that is free! You can wander and pause, step back and admire. There is simply no pressure . It will cost you nothing to look and enjoy. You may well make a purchase and we hope that you do. What better way to bring to a close an escape to the Hinterland than to return with your own unique piece of it’s magic.

Thus if you seek a copy of the Gallery Trail Map give us a call (07 54429174) or toss us an email to  reception@cloudsofmontville.com.au The maps are free and we will despatch one to you by runner with cleft stick or even by post.  You can pick up a copy at any of our Sunshine Coast information centres or indeed from the galleries themselves.

As a closing remark I have to share with you a gem of a direction I received on a recent blast down an unknown country road from the one who, for my own safety, shall remain forever nameless… ” when you come to a fork in the road…take it!”

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Ladies…say goodbye to helmet hair!

Posted on August 24, 2011 by Angus

We frequently welcome the two wheeled fraternity to Clouds of Montville. Taking a motorcycle for a blast through the Sunshine Coast hinterland on a glorious autumn day can almost be guaranteed to make you feel young again!

As a callow youth we had motorbikes. Cars were unaffordable. It was a B.S.A. Bantam for the financially challenged such as myself. The “James Dean” set rode Triumph or Norton cafe racers.The chosen ones had Vincents with black leather tank covers.

Today’s youth drive very loud Nissan Silvia’s with what appears to be a galvanised Willow garbage bin stuffed up their bums pretending to be a massive single exhaust pipe.

 Our girlfriends braved the elements and picked the insects out of their teeth. Today’s equivalent has silver glitter nail polish, constantly tweets with a skirt that reaches just below her navel. She will recline in a fake Recaro seat that will have a horrid purple toweling cover. Her partner will have the rap so loud that he will be hearing impaired before he turns twenty one!

A motor bike was our primary transport. Now it is the realm of middle aged recreational transport. The only thing that bulges from the jeans today is a stomach escaping over the top of  a belt. Remove a helmet and the chances are the hair will be grey or even missing in action.

We have had many great motor cycle folks stay with us at Clouds. The Numea Harley Riders Club filled our triple garage with eight matching Harleys. They even had a chase vehicle to travel with them with all the luggage!

A retired engineer from up north is a regular. The bike and his wife are immaculate. She enjoys the trip but gets a tad distressed on their return home. He literally takes the bike apart to clean it and then puts it back together again. All well and good except that this all takes place in her kitchen.

We had two profiler’s from the Fort Lauderdale F.B.I. blast in one day on hired Harleys. They were presenters at a Brisbane law enforcement conference. We had a dangerous b.b.q. where they mixed the cocktails. Somewhat worse for wear we sent them on their way the next morning armed with single portion packs of Vegemite to feed to those who refused to confess. ( The eating of Vegemite in the U.S. is viewed in much the same way as we regard the French eating horse!) Indeed there have been many wonderful guests on two wheels.

The down side is of course that when you stay overnight you really want your bike to be secure and out of the weather. You want to get out of your leathers as you will by now smell like an Indonesian abattoir. This can be off putting to other diners at your chosen restaurant or to any passing animal activists. Fully encased in leather and boots you will walk like you have terminal piles and you will probably creak.

Finally when the light of your darkness removes her helmet she will look like a Disney cartoon character that has stuck its finger in a power point. An extreme case of “helmet hair” has been known to make grown men weep and clear even the best dining facilities.

It is at this point that we at Clouds can step in. There are two key points to your salvation.

1. We have undercover and secure parking for your steed.

2.We provide complimentary restaurant transport in one of our cars which means no more ‘helmet hair’ or pungent leathers to assult the senses of gentle folk of the hinterland.

This is truly a civilised way to bring an exciting day to a glorious close. So if you are of the two wheeled set make Clouds your destination. It just makes so much sense.

 This reminds me of one of the funniest things that I have come across in the world of bikes. Some years ago I pulled up at a set of lights behind a very large motorcycle. To my total surprise the bike and rider lost balance and the bike literally fell over in front of me. We were both quite stationary. I and a couple of guys behind me jumped out of our respective vehicles to help the rider who was pinned under his bike.

Fortunately  he had ‘sissy bars’ which prevented the bike from doing any serious damage to his leg. The really odd thing was that the rider was almost hysterical with laughter! With some real effort we finally got the bike off him and I was able to ask him what he was laughing at. When he finally settled down he said ” I’m a real idiot, I forgot that half an hour ago I took the sidecar off the bike!”

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Of strawberries, fish and sex pheromones!

Posted on August 1, 2011 by Angus

My brother in law does not have the appearance of a truffle hog. Even if he did I would take great care not to mention it. He is significantly larger than I and if he sat on me it would cause terminal internal bleeding. ( No one likes to be found in the herbaceous boarder three days later with dew on them and a leg in the air! )

I should explain that a truffle hog is a female pig which possesses natural truffle finding instincts due to a compound within truffles which is similar to the strong sex pheromones of the boar. These hogs are used extensively in Europe and particularly France to seek the prized truffle.

My brother in law has similar abilities when it comes to strawberries. He is also a fishing tragic which leads me to conclude that from a sex pheromones view point strawberries and fish may have a similar attraction. He is without question the one to count on to ferret out the very best quality crop in high strawberry season.

His innate ability to sniffle out the largest, reddest and most succulent strawberries is the stuff of legends which is just as well as my skills in this area are about as useful as nipples on a bloke!

On the Sunshine Coast Hinterland we are blessed with a strawberry season from May to October. At this time our green and pleasant land erupts like a pubescent acne. Red blotched breakouts transform the fields as peak season looms.

Garden strawberries as we know them came origionaly from Brittany in France in about 1740. A prominent figure at the court of the Emperor Napoleon, Madame Tallien, was famous for bathing in the juice of fresh strawberries. She used some ten kilos  per bath. Needless to say she did not bath every day. I can only assume that out of strawberry season you were wise to stand well up wind!

My research into the benefits of the consumption of strawberries has led me to conclude the following ….

If you are a folate seeking pregnant woman with Alzheimers, kidney failure , in need of the antioxidant Fisetin and wish to reduce the risk of cancer, heart attacks and improve your sex life whilst increasing the flow of blood and oxygen to your muscles by 7% (take a breath!) you should gorge yourself on strawberries!

I should also like to share with you that further research indicates  you can strengthen gums and teeth by cutting strawberries in half and rubbing them over your teeth and gums. Leave for about 45 minutes and then rinse. Be warned, however, with the blood red flesh of strawberries hanging from the corners of your mouth and smeared across your dripping jowls you will be arrested as a geek and accused of biting the heads off chickens!

This humble berry, the only fruit in the world with its seeds on the outside, is a “must do ” excursion if you are staying with us at Clouds. Simply a brilliant way to end your weekend with a visit to a very special strawberry farm as you wend your way home.

My brother in law has sniffed the air, absorbed the pheromones and declared his choice as BATAVIA BERRIES  at 9 Kings road, Glass House Mountains. ( You pass Kings road just north of the Glass House Mountains township on Steve Irwin Way so even the socially impaired should be able to find it!)

The strawberries there are simply extraordinary, full of colour, flavour and the size of the palm of a child’s hand. Do try to take along with you a Bulgarian dwarf or someone who is vertically challenged as they are closer to the ground and you can pick your own.

When the sun sets behind the Glass House Mountains I am reminded of the legend of the Beatles tour of Australia in 1964. They vanished from Sydney for one day and the story goes that they flew in a private plane to the Sunshine Coast. With the help of a well known local guide at the time, Jude Pietersen, they climbed Mt Ngungun.

 John Lennon was at this time embarking on the start of his journey of contemplation and self discovery. He had heard of the spirituality of the area and wanted to experience it for himself.

As the last dying fingers of light washed a brilliant crimson over the fields far below it is said that John  turned to his guide and exclaimed ” Hey Jude,  strawberry fields forever!” …. and the rest my friends is history!

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