13/05/2026 Trilby Station to Louth

 

The red-tailed black cockatoos put on quite a show for my last evening at Trilby.

Central Coast left the bunkhouse and a Merry Band of Eight moved in. They were on a mystery tour planned by Number 1 and his wife. They paid for the gourmet 3-course meal with preliminary cheese platter around the camp-fire and I was consumed by jealously even as I ate my more than adequate leftovers.

I made sure to get up before them in the morning and have my porridge before Liz arrived to make their cooked breakfast. I'd already cleaned my teeth and was filling my waterbottles when she caught sight of me. "I sent you an email at 06:00 to let you know that there's too much bacon so feel free to jump in and help yourself to breakfast."

I rapidly channelled my inner Hobbit and wrapped myself around a second breakfast. The band of Eight waved goodbye and I wasn't far behind them. 

One of the grey nomads wanted photos, cementing my celebrity status. Apparently word was out about the 'bicycle woman' on the Darling Run. The tourists all had me on their bingo cards.  I'm not sure what I thought about that.

It was a short day of uneventful riding on a sealed road to Louth. I took a few pictures but they couldn't do justice to the nuanced colours of the saltbush, the tender green of new grass, and the way clouds painted strips of light and shadow while far-away hills floated, powder blue, on mirage lakes.

Small town, big sign.

I crossed watercourses which were full of goats rather than water. I hung over the edge of the bridge and yelled 'Boo!' at the goats, who twisted themselves in knots to try to find out where the sound was coming from so they could know which way to run.

Look at me, getting cheap thrills from flummoxing silly animals.

A few kilometres further on I rolled across the bridge over the Darling and in to Louth. Caravans clustered in the free camping but the lack of facilities in such close proximity to other people sent me over the river to camp in the tiny campground beside Shindy's Inn, aka the Louth Pub.

Home for the night: campground beside Shindy's Inn, Louth.

The town of Louth was the brainchild of one Thomas Matthews, who decided the area needed another river port between Tilpa and Bourke. As with all the river towns, all was good until the railways took the freight away from the rivers and Louth lapsed into sleepiness. Technically Louth was still a town: it had the pub, a very small school, and a public park. In the 2021 census it had a population of 74, of whom only 25 actually lived in town and the rest were scattered sparsely around the district.

Thomas Matthews built his little Louth Empire despite his wives having the terribly bad habit of dying, leaving him to replace them until he was up to his 5th. She must have been a very brave woman given his track record.

Thomas decided he would build a memorial to Mary, wife #1, and had a suitable edifice made in Bendigo and brought to Bourke on the steamer Jane Eliza on an epic journey that took 4 years due to the lack of water in the river. Eventually the monument was delivered to Louth by bullock dray, and installed in the cemetery so that at sunset the Celtic cross atop it would glow and, on the anniversary of her death, would reflect light to the house in which she had lived. Wives 2,3,4, and 5 didn't get a look-in and I couldn't find their graves in the Louth cemetery at all. Mary's monument was now Louth's premier tourist attraction.

Mary's monument.

Up close.

Someone didn't want to miss out, space being at a premium in the Louth Cemetary.

Most of the graves in the cemetery were unmarked and listed on a plaque at the entry to the cemetary. Of the 62 unmarked graves, 17 were of children under 2 years of age. Sobering.

I wandered across to the free camping and said hello to the caravanners, whom I'd met in Wilcannia. They had spent a week in Cobar with a breakdown and were quite peeved that I'd gotten to Louth as fast as them. I thought superior thoughts and said nothing.

Waiting for water.

Part of the unspoken rules of camping at the pub was that the cheap campsite was offset by eating at the pub that night. What a shame, my Deb potato and sardines just had to wait for another night. I went over early and hung out in the comfy chairs in the dining area, and then got in quick and ordered my meal before the caravanners turned up. Just like Tilpa, Shindy's Inn had a big firebox out the front and in no time at all the locals had it roaring.

I had just resigned myself to a long night when they all packed up and went home, and the caravanners were left to carouse alone.

Which they did, loudly and out of tune.

I shooed the kangaroos away from the grass outside my tent, put my earplugs in, and went to bed.