Stranded in Winton: A Check Engine Light, a Toyota Hiace and Outback Hospitality

The trip from Walkabout Creek to Winton was considerably more exciting than we’d planned, thanks to a glowing check-engine light and what we’re now fairly certain is the power steering auditioning for an early retirement.

When we finally rolled into town, our first priority wasn’t diagnosing the van; it was finding somewhere to sleep before it decided to expire completely.

The first pub we came across had a caravan park attached. Inside, the lunchtime crowd had gathered around the bar. Grey nomads in matching polo shirts, ringers fresh off the station and locals who looked as though they’d occupied the same bar stool since the pub first opened all seemed perfectly at home together.

To the right of the bar hung a large sign.

CARAVAN PARK FULL.

“How ya going, mate? What can I get ya?” the barman asked.

“You wouldn’t happen to have room for one small van for the night?”

He opened an enormous exercise book, ran his finger down a page and said, “Yep. Number 44. One night only. Forty bucks.”

It was my first lesson in Winton; the signs here seem to serve more as conversation starters than as statements of fact.

I happily drove across the road, parked on Site 44 and declared the day an overwhelming success. We’d secured accommodation before the van had completely given up, which felt like getting ahead of fate for once.

We kept the evening deliberately quiet, with a couple of beers, some bowls of pasta and an early night. The mechanic was directly across the road, and for once we wanted to arrive before everyone else with mechanical problems.

The following morning I walked into the workshop full of optimism until I spotted the sign.

NO BOOKINGS FOR THREE WEEKS.

There’s something uniquely soul-destroying about reading those four words when your home has developed an expensive new noise.

The woman behind the counter smiled. “Can I help you?”

I pointed at the sign. “I’m guessing there’s absolutely no chance you could squeeze us in?”

We explained the symptoms. The strange whining noise that gets worse as you turn the steering wheel, the check-engine light we had diagnosed a year earlier and the fact we’d arrived from the middle of nowhere.

“No worries,” she said. “We can fit you in Wednesday.”

Apparently Winton has adopted a refreshing approach to signage. “Full” means “ask anyway”. “Three-week wait” means “tell us your story.”

Armed with this new understanding of local customs, I wandered back to the pub as soon as it opened.

The CARAVAN PARK FULL sign was still there.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got another site for a few nights?”

The barman checked the book. “Yep. Last one.”

Of course it was.

So we’ll be in Winton for the next few days while the Hiace receives whatever mechanical therapy it requires. Fortunately the Boulia Camel Races don’t start for another eleven days, so we’re in no particular hurry.

Besides, Winton has three pubs.

If you’re going to be unexpectedly stranded somewhere, there are certainly worse qualifications for a town to have.