Crystal Waters – A Welshman, Irishman and Scot get deep.

The timing could not have been better, Vicky – my woofing host was driving up to Brisbane for her sisters birthday, allowing me to pick up my pack and catch up with Mel + Brett in town before heading to Maleny with Vicki's architect Mark.

Brisbane's West End, was a pleasant return to civilization, celebrated with steak sandwiches and fries, my first since arriving, but no wine. Over the years I have slipped out of regular drinking, preferring to put the money saved towards travel, that and the fact that hangovers are so much worse.

I remember when a hangover was a slightly vacant feeling and sore head that was all but gone with a lie in, bacon butty and tea. If it was really bad, a pint of orange juice and bit more sleep.

Now, I wake up at 5 or 6 am feeling top of the world, still drunk. By 4pm a pressure between the ears, and a sense of melancholia lasting well into the next afternoon.

So it was with some trepidation I accepted the Aboriginal's proffered foil wine skin.

Sat in the park dinking away the afternoon was a cross cultural party of bums. One of whom had a brand new mobile, he had proudly stolen from a traveler. “I told him three times not to leave it out!” Such is the twisted logic of the chronic alcoholic.

One girl, with a sweet smile, but tired eyes, smudgy tattoos and tell tale track arks offered me a cotton bud, thanking her as we cleaned our ears happily. Giggling when I exclaimed “eargasms”

When she left her light fingered companion took an album out of her bag and showed me pictures of her twenty years ago, glamor shots, beautifully composed black and white portraiture, magazine covers. “Damn stupid junkie bitch!” he shouted, slamming the album closed.

When the girl returned she saw her bag was open, and blamed the aboriginal lady who was injecting liquid feed into the stomach of her cleft pallated daughter.

The argument, was quelled before it turned violent. The quiet aboriginal who offered me the wine, spoke a few calm words and peace was restored, but only temporarily. I was still glad to leave. The book I had sat down to read appropriately: - Far from the Madding Crowd.

That evening Mel and Bret fed me a wonderful meal, and provided warm bed sheets. I wondered where the bums from the park had bedded down. The next morning Bret and I swam in the outdoor lake next the river in Brisbane. Hard to imagine I had walked by so closely and not even notices the free, warm pool. After lunch we met Mark – the architect with whom had I had arranged to visit Crystal Waters – a permaculture village, of a scale unseen in Europe. He had been in Brisbane on business, so I was able to get a ride, and see a gig in town.

Mark had recently split with his wife of nineteen years, the mother of his three children and was optimistically planning the next stage of his life. It continually amazes me the strength people find to move on.

As expected when Welsh and Scottish get together, we soulfully reunited our respective clans over drink. I discovered the family taking care of the campsite were Gourleys from Ireland. My name, Gourlay, comes from Scotland, earlier from Norman invaders.

The patriarch Murray, knew of our shared latin heraldic motto, which translates as “He who penetrates deep things” . The tendency to over-analysis, exploring to the point of obsession ran deep in his branch of the family too.

He was not surprised by the calluses I have on my left hand through nibbling on when I have a point to ponder.

Our Bacchanalian feast of wine, pasta, chillies, more wine, raw garlic on toast, a whole thumb of raw ginger and coffee was a wonderfully cathartic time, but did remind me of why I don't like to drink much anymore.