One of the things we had been eagerly anticipating in Australia was the free camping. There are sites where you can pull up by the side of the road and spend the night at no cost. Admittedly, many of them are nothing but patches of ground in close proximity to public toilets and better suited to vans than tents, but so what if they don't cost anything?

We decided to test out one of these sites after leaving Guyra and continued heading north through country terrain. One of our guide books, "Camps 4", has a list of many free or low-cost sites and one of them was in a tiny place called Cooyar.

We pulled up and found what looked like the spot behind the local pub, the Cooyar Hotel. There were a couple of 4x4's behind the pub, each converted to allow people to sleep in the back, so we thought we had found the right place. I asked the two women who were sitting having a drink and a natter outside their vehicles and they told me just to ask the lady in the pub if it was ok to pitch our tent.

I wandered inside and was greeted by a character I later found out to be called Bill The Barman. I asked if it was ok to camp outside and Bill, the shrewdy that he is, asked if we would be having a drink in the pub later. I replied in the affirmative of course and was granted permission to throw up our tent.

At this point, dear readers, ponder the meaning of "free". The thesaurus offers helpful suggestions such as "gratis", "without charge" and perhaps most seductive of all "at no cost". I shall return to this concept later.

In the meantime, we struggled to erect our small two-person tent as we could no longer find our bright red mallet. We were convinced that we couldn't possibly have left it at our last site in Swansea, but neither could we find it in the back of the car. Eventually, one of the two women nearby realised our predicament and found a hammer in the back of her vehicle and kindly lent it to us.

The tent was put up in a personal best of 10 minutes - ok, we'd only put it up once before but we were both faster and better this time. We then hurriedly heated up some pasta and threw together some coleslaw for dinner. We just about managed to eat this sumptuous repast just before the sun disappeared for the night.

With nothing else to do, we decided to head for the Cooyar Hotel to fulfil our side of the bargain. Just a couple of beers you understand, nothing special. Certainly not a big night. Most definitely not.

Once through the door, we experienced one of those "strangers walk into the country pub and all the locals look at them" moments. The bar was best described as rustically bare and old-fashioned - Katy felt she was inside the Crocodile Dundee films. We ordered a couple of beers from Bill and sat down quietly at the bar to drink them. If you had asked, we would probably have said we would have one more and then call it a night.

Oh dear, how wrong we were!

One of the locals by the name of Dave started chatting to us. He had emigrated from England at the age of 14 and now worked on a macadamia nut farm nearby. Then one of the pub owners began talking to us. She was a lovely lady called Shirley and - it later transpired - was betrothed (such a beautiful word) to Dave. (We think we might have been invited to their wedding if it takes place while we are in the country.)

We had another beer and were introduced to more of the clientele, including the two women who had lent us a hammer and their husbands. Sorry, we can't remember your names but we know that one of you used to live in Highgate and drinks Sambuca. A lot of Sambuca.

Similarly, we were introduced to the other co-owner who wasn't behind the bar because her sons were visiting and she was entertaining them. Again, we can't remember her name, for which we must apologise once more. What we can remember, however, involved her dancing on the bar while being smacked on the behind with a fly-swatter by Shirley.

There are also vague memories of a young couple with a toddler - he was wearing a cowboy hat and she looked about 16 - and also of Katy talking to a young guy with a tattoos all over him, including a very visible one on his neck. He was apparently due to start work as a Correctional Officer in a few days - presumably something to do with the prison or probation service.

You have probably guessed by now what caused this temporary but massive memory loss. One beer turned into two or three or perhaps even five or six. Aware that we could no longer take that volume of liquid, we moved on to try the local Bundaberg Rum with coke. It seemed like a good idea at the time. As did mixing it with the Sambucas we found lined up in front of us, courtesy of our newly-made Highgate friend. Or perhaps it was one of the others?

We have no idea what time we staggered back to our tent. Katy was apparently clutching a blue bucket which one of the landladies had insisted we take with us - though for the purpose of regurgitation or urination, I'm not sure. I was holding a hammer which had been kindly donated by Dave once he heard about our mallet-less incompetence. Whatever the lateness of the hour, it was absolutely freezing and we fell into our sleeping bags fully clothed and pulled our quilt over our head.

The morning was not a happy time despite the discovery of two stubby-holders (insulated to keep the beer bottles cold and hands warm) and a Cooyar Hotel sticker, presumably donated by Shirley. Our heads were throbbing and our mouths were dry and foul-tasting. Packing up the tent was a terrible ordeal. Bending down to extract a peg was bad enough, but standing back upright was a far worse experience. We are obviously not cut out to be serious drinkers in the world of Australian country pubs, because everyone else seemed to be fine. The two couples in the converted 4x4's were tucking into a massive grilled breakfast. One of the landladies looked bright and alert as she commiserated with me and filled our bottle of water. And Dave and Shirley were already up and away, performing some errand of assistance for a friend with car trouble. We are such wimps.

We eventually managed to leave and drove slowly and carefully northwards. Our plan to reach Rockhampton or nearby was in complete tatters of course as we could only manage about 20km before we had to stop in a town called Yarraman where we found a café which was open.

"What can I do for you?" the lady in charge cheerfully enquired.

"You can save our lives with two large mugs of tea and something to soak up the worst of our hangovers," I replied.

"Been to a party?" she smirked.

I shook my head ruefully. "No, just a quiet night in Cooyar."

She must have understood because she cackled to herself and began her mission of culinary mercy. Thankfully, the tea and egg-and-cheese muffins worked to some degree because we were able to resume our journey.

We didn't get far, however, before we decided to give up for the day. After trying various places we decided to book into a motel in Kingaroy. Katy immediately donned her pyjamas and took to her bed for the rest of the day, and after a nap, I was sent off in search of Pot Noodle or something similar in order to complete the cure. We spent our motel time drinking water and tea, and watching rubbish programmes on TV.

Remember what I said about a free camp site? Well, we must have spent $60-70 in the pub and the motel was another $80. So next time we consider parking ourselves at such a site, perhaps we'd better check it's not part of the local pub's grounds or it could end up costing us another $150!

On the other hand, after six months of behaving ourselves in New Zealand, maybe it was worth it?

Richard