The Best of Tasmania - Recommendations

I haven't done this before but as this travel blog expands, it seems worth doing from now on. So, the best of Tasmania, based of course on my own personal experience, and therefore probably missing a lot out!

Best Picnic Spot - Sideline Lookout near Scottsdale

Prettiest Towns - Deviot, Ross and Stanley

Best Camping Spots - Cockle Creek (far south) and Jeanneret Bay (Bay of Fires)

Best Short Walks - So many I didn't do, but Cataract Gorge, and the walks around Cradle Mountain spring to mind. Also, for a taste of the Tarkine coast, the walk from the Edge of the World to Church Rock is pretty spectacular.

Best Long Walk - Anything with Tarkine Trails tour company. Amazing!

Best Hotels - Henry Jones Art Hotel in Hobart, and @VDL Stanley, in Stanley

Best B&Bs - Meredith House in Swansea (amazing hosts!) and Rosalie Cottage in Devonport (there are others run by the same people - quirky, cute, and comfy)

Best pub accommodation - The Old Bush Inn at New Norfolk, and The Regent in Burnie.

Most Spectacular Coastline - the Tarkine. Very different to Bay of Fires, but to me, more interesting.

Best food - Melbourne (hehe). Actually, the meal I had on my last night at Tapas Bar and Lounge in Devonport was spectacularly good, and the service also excellent. Go there!

Best shopping - Hobart (though I liked Launceston slightly better than Hobart as a city)

Best wine - The Tamar Wine Route. Also a really nice drive.

Best Galleries - Cow n Calf Gallery in Stanley (David Murphy, the photographer who runs the gallery, told me about the Church Rock walk - he was very helpful and interesting), Artisans Gallery at Robigana, and the Maker's Workshop in Burnie.

Best Coffee - Belle's Tearoom in Georgetown. The day I was there, she had just won a tourism award for customer service, and it was well deserved!

Best drive - Anywhere

Best Thing to Pack - A raincoat

a wrap up from the port of Devon and the spirit of Tasmania

Oh the joys of solo travel.... I am sitting in a pretty funky tapas bar (the third place I tried for dinner as the two that I actually liked were both hosting weddings) and typing on my laptop. I feel like a terribly important business executive but probably just look like a wanker. Never mind! Opposite me is a wall of photographs of some of the places I've been and they're making me really mad, because they are all the sorts of photos I tried to take, but they are much better, and mine are pretty dull by comparison! Oh well, I suppose he does make a living out of it so fair enough.

It's my last day in Tasmania before I board the Spirit, back to Melbourne where I have a whirlwind day of shopping planned. I am beginning to wonder how on earth I travelled constantly for almost a year - it's exhausting!

Which isn't to say I haven't enjoyed myself. Tasmanians are passionate about their island and I can see why. It is so full of contrasts; in a single day you can bask in the sunlight by the beach, shelter from the hail on a mountain top, and hike through a mossy green rainforest. It's not four seasons in one day here - it's forty.

The scenery really is ever-changing and magnificent. Cradle Mountain is a world unto itself, the Tarkine is a whole other dimension, the green valleys undulate into tree-covered hills. In the south there is wine and fruit, in the north tulips, lavender, cheese and honey, in the east salmon, islands and white beaches, in the west mining and forestry and stunning national parks. So much diversity in such a tiny place that it's mind boggling. I've lost track of the number of short hikes I could have done, but rejected due to the oncoming rain/cold/sleet/hail/fog obscuring the view.

 If I could suggest one area of improvement - other than the weather! - it would be the cuisine. Tasmania has amazing produce: beautiful full-bodied wines, fresh and sustainably farmed salmon, endless stocks of trout, scallops, fruit, vegetables, berries, cheese... Much of it is exported interstate and it really is wonderful. But, unless you're eating in a high-end restaurant, your choices are generally limited to the standard restaurant favourites. Lasagne, pasta, beef, fish and chips. I've only had one meal here that was particularly special - it was at a little cafe in Launceston called "Fresh on Charles" and it was truly incredible. But otherwise I remain fairly indifferent. And I have eaten at a couple of places considered to be "the best".

People have also complained about the accommodation prices, but I haven't found them to be too bad. In most places I've had a good little pub room to myself for $40 - $60. High end accommodation is also, in my opinion, fairly affordable. I stayed at @VDL in Stanley which was about $180 per night, but worth about $300. Which brings me to the Tassie towns. Ross, Swansea, Stanley, Oatlands, Campbelltown, Beauty Point, Deviot are all very picturesque places. I especially loved Stanley, with its galleries and shops and the amazing looming "Nut" with its terribly steep. but terribly rewarding climb. The scenery in Gould's Country, around Pyengana, south to Cockle Creek, and in the north west at the Tarkine is spectacular. The Tarkine forest and coast especially are unparalleled and unique. Probably because of all the forest, there is a LOT of roadkill on Tassie roads. I saw a number of wombats, devils, and many, many pademelons (wallabies).

I felt a bit sad driving over the endless carnage, though not entirely surprised as Tassie drivers seem to defy the laws of physics when they scream around the winding roads. I pulled over often to let a local fly past (they usually waved in thanks). They're considerate drivers, and for the most past they seem to stick to the speed limits that I could only reach with white knuckles and teeth clenched. They keep left religiously. The speed limits are hard to follow - I seem to only ever see the "end 90" signs, but never the "start 90" signs that must match them! There are signs saying what the Tassie speed limits are that basically amount to "90 on country roads except highways when it's 100 or freeways when it's 110 or maybe the other way around, and it changes to 65 at night, and in towns it's 50 except when it's 60 or 80, which you will know because the sign at the end of the town will tell you what speed you were meant to be doing....." Hmm.

I've crisscrossed most of the south, east and north west of Tasmania now, and have been rewarded with some truly special sights. I nearly went on a flying fox tour through the treetops at Hollybank forest, but the only option was a THREE HOUR tour! Three hours! If I had someone with me then maybe I'd go, but I definitely do not have the attention span three hours on flying fox.

I did make my way to Tazmazia and the town of Lower Crackpot. Since I was young, I've always loved mazes, and always wanted to be immersed in a lifesize one. Tazmazia didn't disappoint - it had everything a maze adventure should have. Little signposts dotted around the place with funny sayings on them, mazes within mazes, a pot of gold, a jail, a spook house and in the middle, the Three Bears Cottage, accessed via a secret passageway. My inner child (who isn't hidden very deep) absolutely loved it. And of course Lower Crackpot - a very tongue in cheek little spot with buildings in odd shapes, fallen over, upside down, funny names and bright colours. A couple of kids were running through the place shouting to their brother who was lost in the maze, and trying to guide him through - pretty cute.

I spent some time in Launceston too, and took the chairlift across the First Basin at Cataract Gorge. The city seems to derive its energy from the place, and indeed knowing it is there adds a vibe of open-ness and frivolity to Launceston. I liked Launceston straight away. It is open and spacious, dotted with old buildings and parks. When I arrived it was fragranced with the smell of beer brewing contendedly away at the Boag's building. It smelt like crops and summer and drinking with friends. It is also considered the "design centre" of Tasmania. This may be a self-assigned reputation, but it does have an air of funkiness about it. The actual Design Centre of Tasmania is here, a shop housing beautiful woodwork, furniture and jewellery. You can buy giant pegs there, but while I was tempted, I failed to come up with anything sufficiently useful that one could do with a giant peg. (Hang giant undies on the line?) 

While Hobart is a city well an truly entrenched in its maritime history, Launceston's personality is built around the Tamar River and the Cataract Gorge. The river isn't much compared to the Swan - it's incredibly muddy and the boats moored in the marina are sitting on beds of silt. At first I thought it was a recent phenomenon after an unusally dry winter or something, but after reading up on Lonny's history I discovered it has always been like this. The Gorge, however, is a fascinating battleground between two very different kinds of beauty. In the early 1900s, the people of Launceston decided to build their own playground around the Gorge. They created a swimming pool by the "first basin" and on the opposite bank, a "fairy dell" with green grass, pink and purple flowers, tall conifers and a rotunda for bands to play in. There were rules back then of course: no bad language, no unneccessary frivolity, rules that are kind of sweet in their antiquity but would have seen most of us in a lot of trouble if we had to abide by them!

So from cities, to mountains, to the coast, to the rainforest, via backroads, the Tamar wine route, dropping in to a couple of galleries and vineyards, meandering through "Meander Valley", I have found my way to Devonport. Today has been a day of relaxing and wandering in the much-welcomed sunshine, before I catch the ferry at 7:30pm to Melbourne. Then a whirlwind day of shopping in Melbourne, the train to Adelaide, 2 nights and a wine tour there, and then home! Home to my OWN home. Exciting!

There will be other updates for this trip of course, probably one in Adelaide, but the train trip won't go up until I get home as I'm guessing the Nullarbor won't have excellent phone reception... So thanks for your company, and don't go away just yet!

I love these birds - they look like they are all dressed up for
a dinner party in their little suits. I think they are Plovers..?

Boatshed at Cradle Mountain - Dove Lake

The Village of Lower Crackpot - take a look at the business name...

Words of Wisdom in Tazmazia

Lichen... familiar shape?

OMG LEGITIMATE TIGER SIGHTING!!

The change in weather - blue sky on the left, hail storm on the right!

the wild tarkine coast

The Tarkine coastline. I've been lazy and not written about it, but that isn't because I wasn't absolutely blown away by it.

In my travels around the world, I've always had to bite down a feeling of guilt when I've visited some "amazing" beach. The iridescent blue of the Greek islands? Try Rottnest. The Cinque Terre? Try Mosman Park when the wind is blowing in the direction that makes it kind of smelly. Spain? Try Scarbs. Wineglass Bay? Try Injidup.

But the Tarkine coast? Nothing I've ever seen compares.

On the second part of our Tarkine Trails tour, we spent two nights in the lovely village of Corinna. It has been almost entirely reconstructed in the style of a miner's village, but the cottages are large and salubrious (Lonely Planet uses that word a lot and now I'm using it too!). We took the ferry, skippered by the lovely Dale, to the mouth of the Pieman River. There we were taken in a tender to a rocky beach, from where our walk began. We walked north, to a place that I have forgotten the name of, but will hopefully remember to look up before I post this (if you're reading this, I either forgot or was too lazy).

We took a 4WD track (bless the rednecks - they have scarred the landscape but they left us a nice path) through several large, slippery, muddy, leech-infested puddles. It was great fun! I very nearly slipped over twice but managed to save myself in time thanks to the hiking pole kindly lent to me by David (yes mum, we laughed at the people using hiking poles on the concreted pathways of the Cinque Terre, but in Tarkine's mud puddles they are nothing less than essential!)

Finally we were through the puddles, and we rounded a corner to the coast. And oh! What a coastline! We were treated to the otherworldy experience of watching huge waves pound the rocks without making a sound, due to an offshore wind. It was like a silent movie and had an incredibly strange, goosebumps-inspiring surreality about it. It was like turning the volume down on the world.

The Tarkine coast is full of movement, both present and past. The waves are constant, rising in white bursts as they batter themselves to spray on the rocks, the ocean in complete turmoil as rips and currents tear each other to pieces over the sand. But it's the stillness that makes you feel as though you are caught in a freeze-frame of time, a moment away from the next earthquake. Even if you don't spend half your time with geologists like I do, the rock formations still speak of centuries of upheaval. The rocks are folded in on themselves in ways that defy logic, twisting and turning in unfathomable complexity. They spike into the air, jutting out of the ground in different directions, as though they were freeze-framed moments after the Big Bang. And in the foreground there is grass, bright purple flowers, orange-lichened rocks, many ancient shell middens left behind by the Tarkineer - the indigenous people who once lived here.

So it's not just the physical attributes of the land that make time seem frozen still, it's the history too. The shell middens are thousands of years old. Many are buried underwater now, but those that remain are dotted all along the coastline. They are made up of empty shells that once housed the food the Tarkineer ate. They were heaped into piles to ensure that empty shells were not confused with edible creatures. They are the last remnants of a people who were entirely massacred. The Tarkineer were rounded up by the army and moved to a small island prison, where they died slowly of starvation of disease. The reason? To make way for white settlement in the area.... take a look at a map of the area to gain an idea of the extent to which that is disgusting.

After our walk and the tour ended, I found myself drawn back to the coast. I drove to Arthur River to visit the "Edge of the World". If there is anywhere on this planet a place that could make you believe the earth is indeed flat, and we are all in danger of falling off if we venture too far, the Edge of the World is it.

The waves rush across each other to clash at the mouth of the Arthur River, black tannin-stained water meeting blue ocean waves in a constant struggle for supremacy. I have been told in a storm, the tannins in the water create a huge, engulfing foam that can smother the beach right up to the dunes. It looks peaceful from the surface, but the currents rage underneath so that if you ventured in there, you would never return.

I chased birds, photographed lizards, ran from a big black snake that blocked my path to Church Rock, and returned to the decptive stillness of the river that turns into raging turmoil just past the bridge where it meets the ocean.

I have sought wildness like this all over the world; I should have known I'd find it in Australia.

Birds braving the wind and waves at the Edge of the World

Colours of the Tarkine Coastline

Silica Mine in the Tarkine - looks healthy, no?

At the Edge of the World

green, endless green

day 1
The Tarkine! I am sitting in the Longhouse at Tiger Ridge, a purpose built camp base for the Tarkine Trails tours. It's 8am, cold and quite dark. So cold, in fact, that my fingers are struggling to type. It's raining a little, but here the rain isn't a nuisance; without it there would be no rainforest to visit so one can hardly begrudge it its presence.

I was collected from Launceston yesterday morning by our guides Trevor and Jane. There are eight of us in the group and it's a wonderful group - everyone shares a sense of humour and nobody has complained about anything. Perhaps a bushwalking tour attracts the more intrepid of the population. First on the bus was Michael, a Sydneysider who has travelled from Hobart. He is cheerful and very easy to talk to. He is one of those people who is always smiling, and he is easy company. Next on the bus was Mary. I had seen Mary briefly the day before,as we both returned from a walk to Cataract Gorge. She was sitting under a tree on the lawn and writing, and she struck me because she seemed very much at peace. She has beautiful, curly white hair and is gentle, with a quietly confident intelligence and sense of calm.

David and Shelly joined us next. David sits contentedly in the background and then embarks on the conversation long enough to drop a funny story or a pertinent observation into the mix. He told a hilarious story about their grandson that had Shelly cringing with embarrassment, and the rest of laughing and settling into a camaraderie, with others telling similar stories about young nephews and sons. Shelly tells interesting little anecdotes that run like a stream under the general observations of others, drawing everyone together and sparking off new discussions about the topic of the moment. Virginia was next - bold and witty and fun. And finally, Fergus and Gillian. Fergus is a gentleman with a keen intellect that you can almost see sparking up behind his smiling eyes. He is modest, sensible and has well balanced views. Gillian is similar, independent and clever with a gentle streak.

Our guides, Trevor and Jane are a perfectly synchronous pair; Trevor with the energy and enthusiasm to constantly keep us laughing, moving on time, and well informed, while Jane keeps things going in the background, and keeps Trevor going as well! They are both cheerful, capable, knowledgeable and entertaining. It's a brilliant tour group, with everyone having enough in common to get along well. (Uh oh - there is always one annoying person - perhaps it is me!?)

After some driving, some stories, and some warnings about jack jumpers (angry bullants that have killed more bush walkers than snakes have in Australia since the 60s) we assembled at the foot of our climb into the rainforest. A small gap in the trees, a small stream to wade across, and suddenly we were in the Tarkine.

When you arrive here, you hold your breath. The trees close behind you and the stream marks the boundary of two worlds. It's like walking behind a veil, with the modern world outside, and the ancient world in here. If a group of elves trotted past, or a velociraptor peered through the bushes at you, you would hardly be surprised. The silence here hushes your thoughts into submission, reaches into your lungs and draws out your breath, replacing it with new air and a meditative calm that tastes of eternity. You look up and your gaze is drawn to the towering heights of ancient trees. This place is like a fairytale come to life.

There are so many details to take in. The Tarkine distracts you with little subtleties while its spirit rages like the powerful undercurrent of a river. You see fungi as big as dinner plates as black as polished iron ore. Little green pearls are scattered on the ground underfoot - the seeds of the sassafrass tree. About the size of peas, they shimmer in the light and wouldn't be out of place on a necklace. If you crush the leaves of their tree you are greeted with an olfactory rainbow. The first crush smells of lemon, before it morphs into an orange scent, then briefly becoming peppermint before finally developing notes of aniseed. This manyscented leaf is a hint to understanding the Tarkine itself; at first glance it's just a forest, until you walk within it and realise it is one of the organs that give life to the earth. It sinks into your consciousness and takes root - while you are here you become just one more creature of the forest.

Tarkine typical scene - trees covered in moss

day 2
Our walk through the forest on day two brought us to the Huskisson river for lunch. We had seen giant myrtles, groves of 400 year old ferns, and towering eucalypts that had invaded the forest a few centuries ago when this place was last visited by fire, earning themselves the Tasmanian nickname of "fireweeds". We had admired the many colours of the fungi perched on the branches of trees, passed to each other pieces of lichen, seed pods, and leaves, slipped our way through miles of mud and brushed past leech-ridden palm fronds. When we arrived at our lunch spot the ground under foot was sponge-soft, the bounce a testament to centuries of leaves and bark and moss falling and rotting in layers upon layers, like the rainforest version of a London street. The river sparkled and glinted at us through the trees as Trevor pointed out the locations of wasp nests that must, at all costs, be avoided. Those wasps once chased him for two kilometres...

The lasting image of the Tarkine for me will be the green, endless green. Your eyes are constantly adjusting to new shades. The sun will strike the moss from above and the deep mossy green earns itself a yellowy halo. The sun races behind a cloud and the moss returns to its depths. Trees nestle against each other in a paintbox array of sage, chartreuse, olive and lime - there is more than I can begin to describe. Colour is fickle but constant, so many shades but all of them green, and each hue shifting from one moment to the next. Everything is moving and everything is still; you know there must be a million tiny insects skittering around, there are grubs inside the trees, water is shifting from the ground to the sky and turning into vapour, sinking into the ground to make mud, swirling in the air to become mist, but your mind is quiet and the blood in your veins echoes the water in the trees.

It's been cold, and wet, but water from the sky feels different here. It's the lifeblood of the rainforest and when it rains, it is like being in the lungs of a living creature, listening to the beating pulse that helps it breathe and brings it life. The rain has been gentle and it makes little clicking sounds all around as though you are surrounded by a million dancing beetles that are shaking tiny droplets of water off their wings. The forest is quiet because there are few mammals, and fewer birds than expected, so the only sounds you hear are the clicking ticking drops of rain, the birds calling in the distance, and the wind trying to assert itself far overhead. It is so quiet, so green, so alive, and so completely timeless.

When you leave, you are changed forever.

Fern fronds about to unfold

The tips of the myrtle leaves are red
to catch a different spectrum of light

Fungi

White lichen

Broken-off tree stump in detail

 

Gould's green pastures and the land before time

On the way to Swansea, I detoured via Goulds Country and waved the steering wheel back and forth to bring forth the ever greener vistas of pastures dotted with cattle, creeks and farm houses. At Pyengana I visited the cheese factory (of course), bought a chili infused "devilish cheese" (of course) and drove straight past The Pub in a Paddock where Slops the pig drinks beer (of course - he is a pig after all).

The wending road took me to St Columba Falls, which are only a short ten minute walk from the cap park, but a million years away from 2012. The bush swiftly turns into rainforest, and the palms, trees, moss and lichen echo the timeless majesty of their pre-historic ancestors. The falls themselves were pretty - but generally a waterfall is a waterfall so I didn't stay long. I adventured my way back through pre history, up the path sun-dappled in a Florence Broadhurst palm-frond pattern, and returned to the car to continue my journey southward. Back through St Helens, Scamander, Bicheno and down to swansea. At Swansea I stopped for a beer (happy hour - $2.50 beers - it was like being in 1999!) and then called Mandy who gave me directions to their beautiful home by the river, just across Meredith Bridge.

The homestead was just as I remembered it; the pretty diamond shaped verandah stones, the spooky cellar, the stairs up to the bedrooms on the top floor, and the "monkey tree" that James once hid way up high in when we were visiting. The home's history is literally stamped on the walls in the largest remaining original marbled wallpaper - the "marble" was hand painted. A drawing etched into a window depicts a man carrying a child across rocks - probably related to the story of a shipwreck at Maria island where many young children drowned. Mandy's decorating skills do the home justice with the furniture, the beautiful artworks, the grandkid's paraphernalia and the little touches of hospitality (perfume in the powder room, hand cream in the guest room, teacup and saucer left ready for the guest's breakfast in the morning).

We settled on the side verandah for some wine and cheese, and Mandy's amazing pickled walnuts. She recommended "A Year in a Bottle" by Sally Wise when I said I'd love to start preserving things now that I have my very own kitchen and pantry. If those walnuts are anything to go by, you can all look forward to some very yummy homemade foodie gifts in the years to come. After a dinner of roast duck and vegetables (again - amazing) we sat in the lounge room by the fire and chatted until it was time for bed.  It's a beautiful place and it was lovely to have a "night off" travelling, and just relax with old friends.

The next stop was Launceston, for which the post is half written, but I fear I will run out of time to finish before I head off to the Tarkine!

Near Pyengana, similar views to Gould's Country

orange rocks, white sand, turquoise water and a very little tent

Oh! Too long since I wrote - where have I been!

Well, according to the scribbles on my map, I left the eponymous Meredith House and went to Coles Bay. True to form, I ignored Wineglass Bay. I wasn't prepared to spend 4-5 hours on hiking to see a view I've already seen in a million photos. So instead I detoured to Friendly Beaches, and also did the Lighthouse walk which was very, very windy, very high, and very pretty.

I took the requisite photos and marvelled, like so many before me, at the orange lichen on the rocks, the white sand and the turquoise water.

After a short stroll or two, I hopped back in the car and drove to St Helen's (I don't remember if the apostrophe is there or not!). I took a detour on the way via Mount Elephant. Being a sunny day, it was actually enjoyable ricocheting around the mountainside corners. The scenery changed from coastal grazing pastures to typical Aussie bush. I almost stopped at the Mt Elephant pancake restaurant, but decided against eating more than I would be walking off!

Eventually I came to St Mary's. It was a sweet little mountain town with a view to the ocean, a quilt shop, a funny little handmade bits'n'bobs shop, and not a great deal else. So, back down to the coast and on to St Helen's.

At St Helen's I asked about a good camping spot (there was sun!) and the lady recommended Jeanneret Bay. It's a little point just north of Binalong Bay, with little trees and bushes and pure white sand. There were a few families camping there so it wasn't too quiet. Not quite ready to settle down for the evening, I drove north to The Gardens and went for a little stroll along the beach. Then as the afternoon wore on, I returned to Jeanneret, pitched The World's Cutest Tent - my little Kathmandu Mono (minor brand plug there) and ate some tuna, cheese, tomato and crackers and washed it down with some local rose.

And so began a freezing cold night. My cute little tent has a cute little airway to let in the sub zero temperatures raging outside (it was actually a fairly still night, I'm just phrasing it this way for dramatic effect). I got up twice to put more clothes on, and finally pulled out my transport cover for my backpack.Through my travels, this trusty little bag has served as a second bag of luggage, a seat, a pillow, and now a sleeping bag insulator. Finally I was warm and I drifted off to sleep with the sound of the waves crashing on either side of me.

The World's Cutest Tent

In the morning, as I was packing up my tent, I had a phone call from Mar which was lovely. We had a chat and then I finished packing up, ate my cereal and yoghurt breakfast on the beach, and got back in the car for the journey back to Swansea to see the Burburys.

Friendly Beaches

Friendly Beaches

driving through the clouds not hitting wombats and chucking a sook instead of camping

Thursday was meant to be wet and horrible, but Friday was meant to clear. Now they say Sunday. Drizzle and rain and clouds that skim so close overhead that a country-meets-Perth-meets-desert girl starts to feel claustrophobic. I haven't hiked because the views are obscured by clouds, and it's too cold, and it's wet and I would slip over. I haven't camped anywhere because the elusive sun is always one day ahead of me. So, today I chucked a weather related sook and blew 2 and a half nights accommodation budget on a really nice guest house in Swansea. I'm sitting in the lounge, surrounded by opulence, with an open fireplace that will be lit in a few hours. Tonight I will curl up on the couch and enjoy this weather for what it is - staying-in weather.

Did I mention this opulent guest house comes with complimentary port in both the rooms and the lounge? If I start to sound a bit toddled (more than usual) you'll know why.

My guest house - Meredith House - was built in 1853. So much history here in Tas! Little old wooden shacks are commonplace along the roads. Old coach houses and inns and council buildings are in abundance - every little town has some beautiful pre 1900s architecture to boast.

Yesterday I circled north from New Norfolk to Miena, a town perched on a dam at the Great Lake. I stopped in Bothwell long enough to take a few snaps of Australia's oldest golf course, and further north I briefly looked at the Steppes Sculptures (a Stonehenge-esque ring of stones from 1992) and while there, decided I needed to buy a warmer jumper. 7 degrees at noon - in October, in Australia? Really? I then visited Mr John Beaumont who sleeps eternally on a hill overlooking the lake from which he was the first European to drink. It took his servant three days to circumnavigate the lake (handy, those servants. Shame I don't have a servant who can go camping on my behalf). It's a huge expanse of water - apparently Australia's biggest natural freshwater lake (there go the specifics again!).

His epitaph says:

This John, historians relate, gave signal service to the state in many fields. He was the first to cast his eye and slake his thirst upon this noble inland sea, where now he spends eternity.

The Great Lake - looks like an ocean!

Oatlands, with its restored flour mill

Australia's oldest golf course

After Miena I drove south to Ross, stopping at Longford and Perth on the way. I bought a biscuit in Perth, took a photo of the empty street, and moved on. 2 Perths out of three down, one to go.

I also crossed Mt Blackwood, ascending then descending through dense fog. I caught brief glimpses of amazing views before the clouds obscured them, and also brief glimpses of my life as it flashed before my eyes on each switchback turn. Thankfully it's just a little too late in the year for ice on the roads. I saw a lot of wildlife - entrails emblazoned across the road and tongues sticking out from the force of impact the of the car that had hit them. Lots of wombats and some wallabies.

The amazing view from Mt Blackwood

Ross is terribly pretty at this time of year, all the trees are in blossom. Incidentally, the lambs here are all new too. Or maybe just smaller, due to having two heads to feed (haha). It's a tiny little town but very sweet, and the antique shop isn't bad. There was a stunning 1920s dress there - but it was sky blue and $595 so I reluctantly bid it goodbye. After eating the world's hottest curry at the local pub (when I left five people behind me were sweating over it and talking about how they regretted their order) I went to my cute little room above the town's 100 year old bakery.

This morning I actually woke to rays of sunshine! Alas, they did not remain long after my morning jog, but it was nice to briefly feel like I was back in the real world, and not in some Game of Thrones style tv serial in which winter is always coming. The 42nd parallel is also at Ross - it used to be the border between north and south Tasmania - back then the state was split into two regions which each had an extremely original name, such as Cornwallshire and Sherrifofnottinghamshire or something like that.* Pish posh - get some new names old England!

Pretty view from WW1 Memorial near Gretna Green

Oatlands, boot repairs. Would you trust any kind of repairs to this person?!

Random little old abandoned house with about seventy five electricity powered heaters, apparently.

From Ross I headed south, dropping into little towns (Tunbridge, Oatlands, Brighton). I met some antique dealers who used to own hotels all over WA before they retired here, ran into Mandy Burbury on the street in Oatlands (and arranged to have brunch with them on Sunday), dropped into a French garden and interiors store run by the Burbury's shearer and his wife (a shearer who imports French homewares - brilliant) and just missed a huge car crash on a roundabout near Brighton (passed three ambos, a fire truck and a police car heading towards the crash - didn't look good). By that point, the rain had well and truly asserted itself into my day, and I guiltily bypassed the nature park that Tarkine Trails had kindly offered me free entry to - it was too wet and I've seen devils and wombats before and really all I wanted was a roaring fireplace.

Mum an dad - do I remember this bridge from last time I was here? I always thought this was Ross bridge, but nope!

So, here I am. It's been a nice couple of days, driving around, admiring some incredible scenery, and for all my tongue-in-cheek whinging about the weather, it isn't the end of the world. There's still time for the sun to shine!

Now I'm off to have fish and chips for dinner.** Yay!

* The north was Cornwall and the south was Buckinghamshire. They split Tas at the 42nd parallel because two blokes running the place couldn't get along. A whole state. Split. Because of two little temper tantrum throwing twits. Honestly.

**Note: I actually ended up having seafood chowder and oysters for dinner - how decadent!

Free port!

cockle creek, the southernmost street, and a bloody old pub

I am sitting inside an excellent example of the type of building that is nearing extinction in Perth; a real, old, proper bloody pub! Proper bloody pub food, proper bloody fireplaces, and proper bloody locals. It’s bloody brilliant. (Old pubs make you talk like this.) A couple of women in the sports bar are trying to get their husbands go home and cook them dinner – not having muck luck. The proprietor, who has owned the place for 7 months, is reading a newspaper by the bar. Men are singing drunkenly. I am sitting in front of a lovely warm fire, waiting for my steak and Guinness pie, and drinking my Guinness to match. This pub, the “Old Bush Inn” at New Norfolk, is apparently the oldest continually licensed pub in Australia. If you get specific enough, you can be the oldest anything, but at 198 years it’s still pretty old. It reminds me a little of a place I stayed at in England, except here the locals talk to me instead of looking at me askance. When I walked in a drunk guy accidentally stumbled across my path and a lady said “ahh just push ‘im outta yer way luv”. I love people like this. Honest, frank, funny. One of the blokes here works at a rival accommodation provider, but he comes here to drink and I don’t blame him.

Yesterday I left Hobart and contrary to my plans to head north, decided instead to go south. Even though the various guides keep assuring you that distances are further than they look in Tasmania, so far they really aren’t. So I figured I have plenty of time to meander along the roads, up and down a LOT of very pretty hills, and to stretch a 45 minute drive to Cygnet into three hours. Along the way I discovered some old fruit picker's huts from the early 1900's which have been restored.

These huts housed whole families during fruit picking season.

Little old huts on the way to the other little old huts

Arriving around 3pm, I wandered through the small town. A lot of artists live there, but most of the "art" errs on the side of "n'craft". Still, it lends a Freo-ish vibe to the place so naturally I felt at home. The little boat harbour was very pretty, with rolling green hills in the background. The clouds persisted so I wimped out on the camping option as it looked like rain (the sun promptly appeared as soon as I paid for my room) and instead booked into the local pub. For $65 I got a room in a hallway that smelt decidedly like vomit, a kettle so foul that even I with my extremely relaxed food hygiene standards declined to drink, but a double bed and a lovely view.

As the rain held off until today, I would probably have been better off in my tent, but I did have an interesting experience in Cygnet. I got talking to a local shopkeeper, who is also involved in “The Red Velvet Lounge” café which the concierge at Henry Jones recommended to me. She invited me to join them for free soup night, which they have every Tuesday. So, at 6:30 I turned up, received my free, and very large, bowl of harissa soup with lots of fresh bread, and sat down to eat.  The brief display of sunlight was shining in the window and it seemed the whole town turned out for the weekly event. There were meetings, families, travellers, loners (me) and the place was bustling. I went back to my smelly hotel room with a full stomach, stayed up for hours reading, then went to bed to the sound of the neighbour’s TV (still going at 3pm, I began to wonder if he had died several hours earlier and nobody had noticed).

Looking towards Cygnet sailing club.

The splendiferous light fittings at the Velvet Lounge, and look! A sunbeam!

This morning I rose around 7:30 and went for a jog. I met a gypsy-ish grey nomad who had parked her camper on the side of the road, and talked to her while I patted her dog. She has decided she has done enough work and so she’s retired, and drives her old beaten up camper around the state, sleeping on the side of roads here and there. She isn’t impressed by the expensive camping grounds ($24 per night for an unpowered site does seem a bit much!) Her dog was a very sweet, friendly dalmation crossbreed of some sort (I’ve forgotten). Two years ago I would never have started a conversation with someone about her dog, but that was before Dozer. After my jog, I returned to find there was a problem with the water – no shower! – so feeling grumpy at the $65 total rip off I packed up my gear, and returned to the Red Velvet Lounge for brekkie. Black pudding, sausages, bacon and eggs – about as carnivorous as you can get. I ate it as snatches of a nearby conversation floated around me; some bloke’s musings on the bucolic spirituality of our ancestor’s language and the loss he feels for the deep truths of his pagan English heritage (um, try England, perhaps?). His verbose prose was pompously grandiloquent ostentatiousness, just like this sentence. I tried not to giggle.

From Cygnet I took the “long way” (27km) to Cradoc. The scenery reminded me of Bridgetown: green, undulating, a new stunning view around every turn. I followed the estuary/river/whatever most of the way, and then decided I would head to Cockle Bay, which is as far south as you can drive in Australia. The puny road tyres, wet roads, loose gravel and the working grader I encountered reduced me to a speed of 30-40 kmph, and a few times I very nearly turned back, such as when the road turned from gravel into pure clay. But my little VW Golf and my 4WD training (thanks BHP) got me through , until eventually I came to Cockle Bay. In summer it would be absolutely stunning. Beautiful white sand, gentle water, coastal hiking tracks, peaceful and very pretty. But tomorrow is supposed to rain pretty heavily so I wanted to get out in case my little car couldn’t make it back!

Cockle Bay

As far south as you can drive in Australia

Check out the name of the road (click to make it bigger)

Back through Huonville, dropped in to a couple of visitor’s centres, and then straight back through Hobart (the only option) and up to New Norfolk and the old, old pub. Tomorrow? Maybe the midlands and lakes, or maybe the coast. I want to spend a couple of days in one place and sleep, read, eat and relax.

I’m loving Tassie so far. I’m finding the trip much less lonely than travelling alone overseas, thanks to the affable locals, and the ease of staying in touch with everyone at home. Domestic travel is so relaxing!

My 198 year old room, with its funky green carpet.

MONA, the world’s largest house cat, it seems I might be dead, and are you rushing to the poo machine?

When my little Tassie tour was first conceived, there was no MONA. The Museum of Old and New Art opened in January last year. It’s the brainchild of David Walsh, of whom there is a rather interesting introduction on the MONA website:

…he has a Great Dane called Bruce and a cat called Christ. Like some of the greatest minds of the modern era (the people with the minds) he consumes too much dairy, and sometimes obscures insecurity by acting like a prick .Usually, however, he's a prick because he feels like it.

Basically, he’s a millionaire who built a museum, and refused outside funding for the sake of maintaining control over what it exhibits. The lady at my hotel's reception assured me that everyone considers at least one piece of art in the museum to be “very confronting”. I made a mental note to avoid her on the way back as I was pretty sure I wouldn’t join the ranks of the confronted. Instead, I was somewhat affronted at the lack feeling confronted. Too many art galleries in my travels? Too few morals? Too little religious fervour? Who knows.

I took the ferry to MONA. There were two extremely irritating women who talked through the entire commentary on the way over so I caught things like “to the left are”, “to the right is”, “zinc works”, “looks like the Kimberley” and “original boats only allowed to be used twice weekly”.

Click to enlarge
"Looks like the Kimberley" // Zinc refinery // Stools/hands at  MONA

When we arrived someone commented on a huge, HUGE cat, white with a tail bushy enough to stick on the back of a fox. It is quite probably the largest house cat in Australia. With a swish of its tail, it sashayed up the steep slopes of Moorilla winery, which houses the museum.

The museum is a large, long building, mostly underground. You ascend 99 stairs from the jetty, and arrive on a turf tennis court with little white stools that look like hands dotted around the place. The entrance is a smooth, polished and reflective metal doorway.

Inside, MONA eschews the usual little white label under each piece; instead you are issued with an “O” (not an orgasm, tho the place does like to shock). It functions similarly to an ipod and searches for art in your vicinity, then tells you about whichever piece you click on, often with the added options of listening to an interview with the artist, and reading about the associated “art wank”. You also have the option to “love” or “hate” each piece, after which you are told how many others agreed with you. Most of the pieces I loved were also enjoyed by people numbering in the two or three thousands. There have been more than twenty million viewings of the pieces by over four hundred thousand people – make of that what you will. I didn't "hate" anything - it's art, you can't hate it unless you hate freedom of expression, which I don't. (Schoolchildren and loudly speaking women excepted.)

MONA entrance // The "O" and artwank

Map and “O” in hand, I descended to the depths. I wandered the catacombs a little before making my way to the “Death Gallery”. It’s a small room with white stepping stones, black water, two mummies (one real, one on screen), a hanging noose and a poem about a disappearing butterfly. The map says things like “if you are here, you are probably drowning” where the water is. It’s quiet, and the stepping stones step up and not just across, which nearly caused me to end up in the bit where I’d be drowning. Depth of field is difficult in that kind of space.

I wandered for several hours. There was a “fat car” – a bloated Porsche -  whose creator says he has heard that the fatter you get, the more your brain shrinks. Not sure I buy that one. There’s a fair smattering of Ancient Egypt, some very interesting works, a lot of beauty, and a fair amount of typically modern artish stuff (the bookshop sells a book called “Why Your 5 Year Old Couldn’t Have Done This” – I flipped through and remain unconvinced). There are also a lot of vaginas but a notable absence of much phallic action. Apparently vaginas are more “shocking”.

I shall describe my favourite works.

An interactive piece, a series of light bulbs that flicker constantly. At the start of the line of bulbs is a heart rate monitor. You hold it, and your heartbeat is repeatedly flashed in the globe in front of you. When the next person comes along, your heart moves one spot down the line. My heart is probably still beating a lonely series of lights inside the MONA as I write this. I wanted to photograph this, so I held the sensors for a second time. But this time, no heartbeat! Does MONA assume I have no heartbeat because I am not shocked by vaginas?

I also enjoyed the blue skull made of taxidermied jewell beatles, who was eating a cute little bird that looked decidedly put out by the whole thing.

And Cloaca – the poo machine. I was wandering through the basement when a museum attendant came to me and said rather urgently “are you rushing for the poo machine?” For a minute I thought this was Tasmanian for “you look like you need the toilet” until, upon seeing my confused expression, she clarified “it’s about to be fed”. Well, that clears it up. Following her pointed finger, I slipped into a room that smelt like fresh rennet, where several engineered stomachs were hanging from the ceiling. Cloaca – the poo machine. He’s basically a digestive system. He is fed twice a day (by food from the museum café would you believe) and at 2pm, he poops. Sometimes he has diarrhoea. You can go and watch, but I choose to leave on the ferry instead. Still, it was engineering genius, fascinating to watch, and almost confronting to smell.

The little Death Gallery, and the Machine

Other pieces occasionally elicited a little smile from me, the brief flash of excitement at a new discovery, but mostly it did what modern art usually does; leaves me shrugging. At one point I thought my "O" was malfunctioning when it couldn't tell me anything about the black, bulbous artwork on the ground in the middle of the room, until I realised it was actually just three beanbags to sit on. However, the museum itself, the architecture, watching other people’s reactions, the sounds and scents and wandering, the mixture of the ancient (real mummified human remains) and the new (realistically moulded, vagina shaped “cunt soap” available from the gift shop – sorry for the rude word but honestly that’s what it says in the brochure) all made for a very interesting and enjoyable day.

Outside the MONA complex

Upon my return I wandered the streets, bought salt and pepper grinders made of Blackheart Sassafras, which is indigenous to Tasmania, and then picked up some groceries and wine for dinner and returned “home” to my hotel room.

I’ve decided that Hobart is like a country town, and I don’t mean that disparagingly. People ask you questions and actually want to know the answers. They tell you things, recommend places to go, show an interest in your travels. It’s lovely. I still don’t know where I’m heading tomorrow, apart from north east. Hobart has been fun, but I’m itching to get out into the countryside.

Sullivan's Cove

Want to see MONA for yourself?There are no close up photos here of the actual artworks because I am choosing to respect the museum's wishes that they not appear online, but you can follow my tour on the MONA website, as the "O" saves everything you view. I viewed a lot of pieces, but only selected the 61 pieces I judged most interesting. Go to the link, enter my other, other email address: serrins underscore karma at hotmail dot com (but replace the “underscore”, “at” and “dot” with the proper keyboard characters – it’s a security thing). Once you're in it's easiest to scroll down, and click on the "Works you Viewed" filter. Otherwse, roll over the pink dots and click them for more info.

My MONA tour: http://mona.net.au/theo/

tre anni fa

//three years ago

Three years ago, I planned a trip to Tasmania, to walk the Tarkine and drive around the island. Twice, I put it off, and now, finally, here I am. 

Day 1 - Melbourne.

The attractive approach to the city from the airport, with a friendly wink of recognition at the red and yellow spires announcing the city’s entrance. The friendly, well spoken taxi driver. The Federation style terrace houses. The parks, dappled sunlight, trams. Dark buildings that look as though they were transported directly from London. Kitch restaurants, vintage shops, tiny little doll-girls with red buttoned-up mouths and straight fifties fringes. Everyone looking unique but somehow the same. My relationship with Melbourne is like my relationship with London; a wry sort of acceptance of a place that I love everything about, without it being any of the things I love most.

Except food.

My host was recovering from a night playing poker in a bar where the whisky (or whiskey – take your pick) is served by strippers and men sit around smoking cigars, pretending it is still the 1940s. We sat and drank wine, chatted about this and that, then went out to dinner at Gingerboy –just around the corner. Popping just around the corner for dinner in a restaurant? Where in Perth can you do that? Oh – at my new place! (haha)

We ordered the banquet. A degustation style meal that started with what seemed like a scotch egg sort of entrée, but the eggs were runny yolk inside and it was recommended that you eat them in a single mouthful. In spite of my well documented tirade against uncooked eggs – this was something else. Divine. There was tempura squid which I wasn’t as impressed by, but it was preceded by a fruity fried rice, a zesty Thai carpaccio with cabbage salad, and followed by a lime infused rendang that was reminiscent of the stunning rendang at Cottesloe’s Vans. A selection of desserts filled my stomach to the last remaining cubic millimetre, and then it was a short walk home, a few drinks with the girls, and bed.

Watch out Melbourne: Alert Brunswick and Chapel Streets; I’ll be back.

Hobart

4:30pm, which is only just after lunchtime back in the real world. I am sitting in a luxury hotel room (every trip needs at least a couple of nights of luxury) at the Henry Jones Art Hotel. I am developing an affinity for art hotels, after my stay in Melbourne at the Olsen a few years ago, and now the friendly, affable hospitality of Mr H. Jones.

My hotel is on the waterfront at Sullivan’s Cove. My balcony, however, overlooks the atrium. The hotel is part of a complex that was resurrected from the ravages of time to house shops, cafes and a hotel that is pure "now". My suite sits somewhere near the roof of an old building that was either a storage house, a ship chandler, a general store or a depot for immigrants. The glass wall of my bathroom shows the large square stones of an old wall; my ceiling is made of old wooden beams and steel supports. I am luxuriating in a room that is more accustomed to hard labour than long sleep-ins.

Hobart greeted me on arrival with a burst of sunlight that pierced my un-sunglassed eyes. The clouds quickly closed over the sun, but at least he had momentarily proved his existence here at the edges of the Antarctic freeze. This afternoon, after checking in I wandered to Salamanca Place. The chill air carried barely a sound as I ambled, dreamlike, towards the well-known market quarter. I passed a boat called the “Karalinga”, another subtle welcome from this quiet city slumbering through a Sunday.

There is an air of calm, silent self-assurance here. Unlike Perth, Hobart doesn't seem to care that it isn't Melbourne. Today, there is nothing to distract me from the pursuit of the most vital of pastimes: doing absolutely nothing. I wandered into some shops, sat and had a beer (Van Diemen Brewing’s Ragged Jack Pale Ale – yummy and crisp, with a hint of fruit) at Smoult, then dodged through the drizzle back to my hotel. 

Now, Lana del Ray is crooning in the background and I am about to peruse the movie options, check out the room service menu, and investigate the softness of the bed. I am exhausted, and I must be refreshed for tomorrow as it’ll be a big day – visiting MONA.