Here I am. At the Tully Show.
A couple of unusual observations: It's not raining; the Tully Sugar Mill is crushing full bore; and I'm here early on the second day, the morning after the fireworks and band playing into the night.
There's a few hardy souls stirring, grinding the show back into gear for another day of rides, junk food, show bags, a plethora of competitions in the pavilions, cattle judging, chook judging, horse jumping, wood chopping, dare-devil bike riding, whip cracking, lies, stories and catch-ups at the bar, service clubs vying for dollars with their various fundraising activities.
I am here to cook chips in the Coast Guard van. Next to us is the Lions Club stall serving pies and drinks and next to them, with a line stretching back to the oval, is Rotary selling steak burgers.
We sell more than a few buckets of chips to successful burger buyers, then direct them for drinks to the Lions.
It's all friendly. Many of them have worked or work together at the mill or as cane farmers and go back generations.
There's also the banana contingent but with fairy floss smoke from the mill stacks creating exclamation marks high above the Ferris Wheel, the sugar is sweet on everyone's lips.
"Can't afford to shut the mill for the show this year."
"Too much cane to crush. Might have to leave some standing."
"I remember when the mill'd stop and the workers'd be sent over to the show."
"Can't afford the time now."
The MC welcomes everyone over a PA that must be powered by three phase. No-one escapes the commentary, particularly those contestants riding to win in the horse jumping arena. Particularly the young rider whose horse refuses a jump three times, unseating him on the third attempt.
A rural lesson in humility as the discussion booms publicly.
The chook pavilion has been rocking since dawn with roosters determined to out crow each other, and in the bovine area, cattle have been fed, groomed and fussed over, ready for another day of the judges' critical gazes.
The 'horsies' are hunkered down in swags next to floats and communal breakfasts in the early sun are in full swing, with stragglers yawning, sporting pj's and towels, heading for the toilet block.
In the early morning, as I wander through the sleeping sideshow alley, the pervasive smell of old grease follows me into the animal areas where it is layered with cow breath and manure, Lucerne hay and horse sweat.
It takes me back to every show I've attended as a rural reporter, or a child, - to the essence and heart of rural life.
Back at the van selling chippies, I catch snatches of conversation about how good the show is this year but the worry of whether it will be able to keep going if no-one steps up to take over from the old folks.
Next year is 80 years of the Tully Show. It will be the same for some of its main organisers. They reckon 80 might pull them up.
Then what?
