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.