With a special shout out to the beautiful big dog that lived in our dear little hotel, Le Cher Du Monde, in Port Douglas and some more northern madness on the heaving 4-mile beach that had a big a-frame board saying, ‘beach closed, croc sighted (water temperature 28 degrees)’, we were off next to Mossman Gorge. It was delightful, gorgy – ya know. No crocs up there which was a bonus, but that’s because it’s cold, so that’s shit. The trees have enormous, buttressed roots in the rainforest with vines in ornate patterns, and we found a lovely green pool off the main, rushing, dangerous river and got in that to cool our feet off. Then off to Daintree Village where we spent a joyful afternoon walking in slow motion down a country lane clutching a flier about local birds following the call of an oriole and a wompoo fruit-dove. When you see me, ask me to do my impression. You’d never believe a bird could make that sound. We also scored dinner in a ridiculously fancy restaurant – the sort that over adjectivizes its dishes but under fills them – because it was the only one open in a 10km radius.
Early the next morning we were stood on a wooden jetty by the river. Under the moist, grey sky, the air was gentle and warm; mist capered charmingly against the hills where flags of white cockatoos waved, and the green river mingled with the green banks and trees. I was positively trembling with excitement.
Here at last was our dawn cruise on the Daintree River Experience, run by the charming and expert Murray. I had been looking forward to this so much, for a year, in fact – when the world went silly and borders shut last July, we exchanged the Daintree and Barrier Reef for the empty lakebed of Mungo bundled up in hats and scarves, and I sat by my campfire muttering that I should have been on a sodding boat cruise looking at sodding birds on the sodding Daintree. The exalted moment had come, and, like the Kuku Yalanji Cultural Habitat Tour, it was The Best Thing I’ve Ever Done. Can you iMAGine my excitement when he handed me a little clipboard and pencil to tick off bird species – I nearly lost my goddamn mind.
Murray is a prince of the river. He steers his boat masterfully and cuts the engine just as the turn is made so the momentum takes you soundlessly within an inch of the eyes of birds. Over two hours we saw kingfishers, flycatchers, a great-billed heron, frogmouths, a green tree snake (that is not green and has a yellow belly, but, in a break from common Australian nominations, is surprisingly not called the yellow-bellied tree snake), a baby crocodile, a … very much granddaddy crocodile, and, very memorably, a black butcherbird capturing a white-lipped tree frog. This was rather brutal, so we gently steered away from Barratt Creek and nature’s rough cruelty and instead stopped round a bend to admire the mists smeared over the mountains. Here – best of all – we were told unequivocally to shut the hell up and quietly take it in.
Time drew on, however, and those who know me well and have endured me on motorways and federal highways know that morning is my peak, ahem, evacuation time. And there comes the moment when I am so desperate that I stop having fun and my silent need is so loud it’s fog-horning in the driver’s ear.
Needing to wee when you’re in the middle of a seriously croc infested river is no laughing matter.
We disembarked in a cloud of flitting welcome swallows that landed on the very boat where we sat, and bent double, I renewed my intense gratitude, regretfully returned the clipboard and hobbled off, half hysterical, to a convenience. Then back at our little bed and breakfast our charming landlady cooked us breakfast – even though we’d technically checked out – and I enjoyed the discovery of custard apples, sitting on the veranda surrounded by Ulysses butterflies, orioles and sunbirds and beautiful flowers. Red Mill House Bed and Breakfast – I can thoroughly recommend.