By a Traveller with a Liver and a Pen
I arrived in Bundaberg with sand in my shoes, sugarcane on the breeze, and a thirst that could kill a lesser man. The Queensland sun hits different out here brighter, more personal like it’s got a vendetta against hangovers and English skin. The plan was vague: drink rum, eat seafood, get sunburnt, make friends with a turtle. I managed all four by Tuesday.
I checked into Dunelm House Bed & Breakfast, a century old Queenslander perched on a leafy street just far enough from town to muffle the noise but close enough for a tipsy wander home. Margaret, the owner, greeted me like a long lost nephew and poured me tea laced with unsolicited life advice. My room in the Bundaberg Bed and Breakfast was wrapped in lace curtains and smelled faintly of eucalyptus and antique wood polish. Charming, if a little haunted.
First stop: the Bundaberg Rum Distillery a cathedral of sin for the cane spirited faithful. The air was thick with molasses and industrial ambition. I took the tour like a pilgrim, listening to stories of flood and fire, of cane fields and innovation. The tasting room was a sunlit chamber of poor decisions. I sampled the Solera and the Small Batch Reserve, each sip a punch to the throat and a pat on the back. They’ve been making rum here since 1888, and you can taste every damned year.
Later, I stumbled educationally to The Windmill Café in Bargara. I inhaled a smoked salmon stack and drank a mango smoothie like it was penance. Bargara’s got that slow beating heart of the coast vibe: flip flops, sun hats, and the scent of reef friendly sunscreen. I spent the afternoon at Mon Repos Beach, watching sea turtles dig the sand like they had rent to pay. That night I returned, hushed, reverent, to witness hatchlings scatter towards the surf like miniature drunkards on a midnight kebab run. Nature’s miracle, delivered without a single admission fee or Instagram filter.
By Wednesday I was deep in Bundaberg’s underbelly: The Brewhouse on Tantitha Street. A moody gastro pub serving locally brewed beers and dangerously good steak burgers. The locals here talk to you. They ask questions. They want to know why you’re here. I told them the truth: “Rum, turtles, and an existential crisis.” They nodded solemnly. One man offered me a ride on his jet ski.
I visited the Bundaberg Botanic Gardens, which are more than a hangover cure they’re a redemption arc. There’s a miniature steam train you can ride like a wide eyed toddler, and I did. No regrets. I poked around Fairymead House, learned about the sugar barons of old, and wondered briefly if I had time to become one.
Thursday was all about sugar highs and aquatic lows. I boarded a glass bottomed boat at Lady Musgrave Island, out on the Great Barrier Reef. Crystal water. Parrotfish. A reef that hums with life like a Vegas casino minus the despair. I snorkelled. I saw things. Coral cathedrals and clownfish orgies. Someone fed a trevally with their toes. Someone else (me) nearly drowned laughing.
By the time I checked out of Dunelm House on Friday, Margaret hugged me and told me to “drink water and call your mother.” Sound advice. I left Bundaberg heavier in the soul and lighter in the wallet. I’d been rum touched and reef baptised.
Bundaberg is more than a distillery town. It’s a microcosm of Queensland’s weird, warm magic. It’s turtle tracks in the moonlight and molasses in your nostrils. It’s a place where the beer’s cold, the sun’s hot, and the locals’ll teach you how to say “g’day” with sincerity.
Go there. Drink the rum. Ride the train. Befriend a turtle. And for God’s sake wear sunscreen.
