Author Archives: Bev Marshall

The Coast of Diminishing Returns

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Sometimes, more is not better. That is the case as we travel further north up the Queensland coast. There’s more heat, more humidity, more things that want to harm, or kill you. Now, when we go to the beach the signs are less than encouraging, warning of strong currents, marine stingers and crocodiles. The only thing less inviting would be attending a party political rally. While it is not quite stinger season yet, it is close as temperatures are rise and the ocean is getting warmer. Beaches have “stinger net” areas for swimming, which might enclose 250 metres of a two kilometre long beach, so it’s not really like the beach at all – especially when the tide’s out, then it’s more like a big damp sand pit.

stinger net at half tide

The small and invisible pests are the worst. Midges. The very word strikes fear into my heart. Where mosquitos are like attack helicopters and let you know they’re coming for you, midges are more your stealth bomber – and the real damage happens after they’ve gone, and you wake in the middle of the night ready to tear the itchy skin off your body. I am an expert in the range of insect repelling techniques and potions; even my moisturiser is insect repellent. In this instance I subscribe to the more is better philosophy.

We arrive in Airlie Beach, capital of the Whitsundays to meet with family for a week. My oldest brother, sister in law, five nieces with their three husbands, one boyfriend, and seven kids all travel in from New Zealand and Melbourne. There are moments of mayhem, especially when Scott hands out water pistols – and yes, it’s even worse when the kids get a turn.

The idea of cruising the Whitsundays has a dreamy appeal – gentle tropical breezes, white sandy beaches, snorkelling in clean, clear waters. That’s what the brochures sell and we are ready for it. The weather has different plans. For the entire week the wind doesn’t drop below 30knots (55 kph) making water activities more like water torture. Our full day charter, booked well in advance, goes ahead, and the 2.5 hour trip to the snorkelling spot sees one adult and one kid feeding the fishes. For a lot less money we could have taken the Cook Strait ferry in a gale force wind and had the same experience. But when we arrive at the designated bay, it is a bit more tranquil than the open sea and there’s a great deal of fun bombing off the top deck. You can’t do that on the Interislander.

no children were injured in these activities!

We are at the southern end of the Great barrier Reef and here we find a mix of lovely, floaty soft and hard corals. The soft corals are beautiful, waving so gently in the current they seem to be breathing. Colourful fish dart about, hiding in the gaps and flitting back and forth. It’s very pretty, but the wind does make the water a bit choppy. I now know how much energy it takes to keep a kid afloat while you adjust their mask and try to convince them to keep their mouth closed on the snorkel. It’s a bit like being hugged by a drowning koala. The conditions mean no paddle boarding or kayaking as the skipper would be picking us up in Fiji, which in hindsight might be nice.  But by the time we all get home the worst is forgotten.

The next day the blokes go fishing and, surprise surprise, report rough conditions and tough fishing; a mediocre adventure mitigated by the consumption of a record numbers of beers. We cancel the last day’s snorkelling and beach trip in the interests of family unity, avoiding further trauma to children, and returning from holiday with the same number of people as left. 

The week ends as it begins, with Air New Zealand completely stuffing up various family bookings, requiring the repurchase of tickets, extra nights accommodation, and family groups split by ridiculous ticketing processes. Here in Australia, Qantas is the subject of a Senate Enquiry into flight prices and consumer rights following a tidal wave of marketing disasters. It doesn’t help that Alan Joyce, the CEO of 15 years, left early with a $24 million in bonuses and share options. Perhaps Air NZ will take note and proactively sort itself out. Oh how I laugh to think that might happen.

Windswept and interesting, that’s us

The Northern Migration

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Do you ever wonder who comes up with group terms for birds and animals? Such as a parliament of owls, an array of hedgehogs, or a tower of giraffes (yes, really)? This is a rabbit hole that deserves excavating at some point, but as most mornings we wake to a cacophony of high pitched faarrrk, faaarrrk, faaarrks, heralding the awakening of the crows, I can easily understand why the collective noun for these faaarrrkers is a murder.

We are nearing the end of a three week stay at Blacks Beach, 15 kms north of Mackay. The beach stretches six kms and is as usually punctuated by fishers people tryng their luck. The fishing is patchy, but the keen anglers are now bringing in Spanish Mackeral, though I have yet to see one grace our table. The fisherman tells me he’s not that keen.

We are lucky to have not one but two sets of visitors while we’re here. Aussie mates Eleanor and Philip are doing on water what those from the southern states generally do on the road: heading north over Winter. They leave Lake Macquarie, south of Newcastle, NSW in early July and this is the first time our paths converge. We think we’re lucky with our whale encounters off K’gari/Fraser Island, but every day they are sailing with hundreds of migrating whales and, in the solitude and quiet the open ocean, they can hear the whales singing in communication.

It is hard to fathom the numbers of migrating whales: estimates vary, but around 60,000 leave Antarctica and begin the world’s longest mammal migration of 5,000 kms to the warm waters of northern Australia where they mate, calve and teach their newborns how to be whales. Comparisons with the vast numbers of “grey nomad” caravaners heading north over Winter are inevitable, though there’s probably a bit less of the mating and calving.

Each time we go to a lookout – or the Eimeo pub which, while otherwise unremarkable, is on a bluff and has stunning views and sunsets – we see humpbacks. At this time of year they are heading back south. As will the caravaners and yachties as Spring arrives.

While Martyn and Sue are here we take a trip 80km inland, up the Pioneer Valley, to Eungella and Broken River. Our mission is to see platypuses and this part of Australia is recognised as the world’s most reliable location for observing them in the wild. The drive starts as we expect with miles of sugar cane fields, a couple of sugar mills and little else. Then the road climbs. And climbs. And climbs, zig zagging almost 700 metres up to Eungella where we can look back out over the rainforest back to the coast.

But the platypuses – Broken River does a great job of making sure you have the best chance of seeing these shy creatures. There are paved walkways with information boards describing the habitat and local flora and fauna. Two viewing platforms, one up and one down stream sit at broad calm pools, and further well beaten paths edge the river. Dawn and dusk are the best times for viewing, but patience is definitely the order of the day. After 45 minutes squatting riverside, I need knee replacements. As I decide to walk down and try the other end of the river my reward awaits at the road bridge. A feisty little animal – monotreme actually – is ruffling the waters and riverbed looking for tidbits. We see several more over the early evening so we’re relieved we won’t have to get up at dawn and try again. FYI a group of platypuses, should you be lucky enough to see more than one at a time, is the very appropriate paddle.

photo credit for playtpus photos goes to Martyn and Sue.

We are on the final countdown now, with just under two months of travel remaining. In mid October we fly home, mercifully a few days post the New Zealand election, so we are missing all the rhetoric and hyperbole that is typical in the run up. I’m extremely confident in the Electoral Commission however, as having moved 500 metres up the road and notified my change of address (same post/zip code), they apparently don’t have enough information about which electorate I’m in. IT’S THE SAME ONE! Sorry Kiwis, but there’s something we can learn from the Aussies – introduce democracy sausages – it might make the election more palatable.

Every Dog Has Its Day

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While a dingo is genetically somewhere between a wolf and a modern domestic dog, it is certainly having its day in the limelight. It might turn out to be a very bad day, as calls for culling become louder. Since April this year there have been six dingo attacks on people on K’gari/Fraser Island. The latest, where a young woman needs airlifting to hospital suffering from more than 30 bite wounds, galvanises political action and sees the Environment Minister visit the island to gauge the situation. Clearly, as a career politician, she is well qualified to understand animal behaviour. 

In the interests of investigative holiday-making, we too are on K’gari for a few days. The caravan is in storage and we take the Landcruiser onto a barge which runs across the inlet between Hervey Bay and K’gari, taking about 40 minutes. Friends Peter and Jenny, up from Brisbane, and Brigid and John, in from New Zealand, meet us at the barge. In fact we are gate crashing their plans, offering the Landcruiser for exploring the island: K’gari is, famously, the world’s largest sand island and a grunty 4WD is essential – that and a driver who sees no obstacle too great to impede progress.

We hit the highlights, balancing activity with our proclivity for copious eating and drinking. A swim in Lake McKenzie is mandatory. It is one of several perched dune lakes on the island, all well above seal level and fed entirely by rainwater. The shores are sparkly white, fine silica sand which filters the water so it is clear as gin – and we should know. The temperature lets you know you are alive, as you can see in the photo by the look on Jenny’s face.

A drive across the island to the east coast takes us through a series of six different dune systems. Drive is an understatement – we undulate, sway, bump and grind through rutted tracts which vie for space with soft sand. Sadly we do not count a physiotherapist or osteopath or even a massage therapist in our number.

The oldest dune system, on the west coast, is home to heaths, swamps and mangroves. We continue through woodlands, rainforest, tall eucalypts, and mixed forest before arriving at the Pacific coastal forests. All this over only 18 kilometres – which takes us an hour, slewing our way through the sand tracks. Suddenly it opens up and we power through the soft sand and hit the 120 km long beach road. This runs the length of K’gari and is an official Australian gazetted highway, which also happens to be a runway. We are not the first to roar up the beach, eyes peeled for dingos – we see three or four, and watch out for any rocks or soft sand traps.

You may think we don’t need to go whale watching again after our fabulous experiences on the Ningaloo Reef, but we do. Every time is different. The humpbacks in the Great Marine Sandy Park are on their way south and find themselves funnelled into the bay by K’gari. It takes them a few days to realise the short cut doesn’t work. There can be a couple of hundred in the bay at any one time. We see about eight pods of three or four and the final ones come and investigate our boat. The crew call this mugging, and joke it is the only mugging where you walk away still with your phone and wallet.

Remember that barge we came across on? Well the reverse trip takes somewhat longer than 40 minutes. The hydraulics on the loading ramp fail so we are slowly travelling with the ramp locked halfway up with a jury rigged cable (or is it jerry rigged? the internet is confused)securing it. We arrive at the mainland with no way to take the vehicles off – short of magic. Cue men standing around, shaking their heads, talking on phones and, in that time honoured fashion, generally pretending they know what to do. An engineer arrives – it’s Sunday by the way – and in just another hour and a half – how time flies when you are stuck on a barge with a 300 km drive ahead of you – the ramp descends to loud applause and we can be on our way.

Beyond the beaches and into the hinterland

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We take several trips up into what the Australians laughingly call mountains, but what we call hills. The Glass House Mountains, formed by volcanic activity about 27 to 26 million years ago, are thirteen hills that rise above the coastal plain of the Sunshine Coast. When he first saw them in 1770, James Cook thought they looked like the glass furnaces of Yorkshire. Needless to say, they already had more meaningful names to the local Aboriginal people. There are lots of walks, both long and short, a plethora of lookouts, and if you are up to it, climbs. The views are sensational and there is a special blue light that infuses the landscape.

While Scott punctuates our stay with a dive trip off in Papua New Guinea, I find more cerebral offerings at a yoga retreat at the Chenrezig Buddhist Institute/Monastery. It is a forty minute drive from the coast winding up through the Blackall Range through beautiful eucalyptus bush. As I get closer the road is gravel and narrows rather alarmingly: I hope I don’t meet any oncoming traffic as there is nowhere to go other than over the side of the bank. It turns out I took the road untravelled – there is a much easier route to nirvana, and it’s sealed.

The Institute itself is more extensive than I expect, sprawling over several acres with temples, stupa, prayer wheels, an art centre, and it also offers both short and long study courses. If you need longer to find enlightenment there is accommodation, and there’s the Big Love Cafe for those seeking more bodily nourishment (although I agree, the name sounds a bit dodgy). There’s also the Dharma Gift shop so you can take your new found tranquility with you. It is a serene and beautiful place. and I’m happy I get to experience it.

At this time of year it is possible to go to a different country show (along the lines of my last blog including Maleny Show). There are also markets galore and our local at Caloundra is a Sunday routine. It tumbles down the main street and in the middle, under a massive shady tree there’s live music showcasing local musicians. The food carts circle this area so it’s great for brunch.

However the reigning champion of markets remains Eumundi, running since 1979. There are two markets each week, on Wednesday and Saturday, but through Winter there’s a Friday night market once a month. So, why not? We decide to stay up there for a couple of nights and drive up on the appointed Friday. The night market promises a lantern parade and expectations are high for something along the lines of a Chinese lantern festival. Instead of grand we get cute: children make their lanterns and shyly parade along to show them off. There’s also music and food carts, but the full extent of the market is not open until Saturday.

This is what I wrote in this blog four years ago: On Wednesday we head up to Eumundi for the famous mid week market, hoping for fresh fruit and vegetables, homemade chutneys and interesting people. Yeah Nah. We park about a kilometre away as the entire population of Queensland has descended on the place.  The market area is bigger than the town itself and contains vast amounts of useless (read macrame dream catchers), useful, tasty and/or tasteless crap, miles of womenswear, yards of menswear, hats for all the family, and a fortuneteller, palm reader, medium or psychic so you can get in touch with someone who knows better than to consult these charlatans. If that’s not enough, there’s gallons of snake oil available to cure your sleeplessness, stomach disorder, eczema, arthritis, back pain, and neck pain, but not enough to cure my scepticism as to their efficacy.

Nothing has changed. The genuine artisan goods, food and, I hesitate to use the word crafts as it feels like it diminishes the skill and beautiful workmanship of many items, but yes, crafts, get lost in the many, many stalls and outlets of other stuff that is factory made and available anywhere.

Now about ten minutes away from Eumundi is Yandina, a place worth visiting for at least three reasons: lunch or dinner at the Spirit House if you can get a booking; the Macadamia Nut Nutworks; Buderim Ginger Factory.

To get to the Spirit House dining area, set in a U shape surrounding a small lake, you walk in through lush greenery including towering stands of bamboo. The whole setting is very tranquil and the food is both visually stunning and delicious. The crab and coconut soufflé, see photo, is so light it is what eating a fairy must be like.

Zingiber officinal – edible ginger. Go on, ask me anything. We do a tour of the planting and growing process, which in this climate seems remarkably easy. The young ginger has virtually no skin, is very pale and milder in flavour. What we see in the supermarket is generally older, and the exposure to oxygen means the skin is thicker and darker, and the texture is fibrous. In the processing plant vats of ginger in syrup simmer away before becoming anything from crystallised and chocolate covered ginger – highly recommended – to chutneys, syrups, marmalades, ginger beer, beer flavoured ginger, and more. The dark chocolate covered ginger we buy – exit through the gift shop – is made with young ginger so the texture is softer and not fibrous- very delicious. Turmeric is in the same family, along with galangal. That is fresh turmeric in the photo.

How many ways can you flavour and eat macadamia nuts? I don’t know, as we are yet to reach saturation, however as the three packs in the photo cost about $50 it’s unlikely we will ever find out.

Sunshine, a show and a shipwreck

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The wreck of the 226 tonne Steel Screw Schooner “Dicky” is visible at low tide on Dicky Beach. At 10.35am on 4th February 1893, in lashing rain and cyclonic winds the Captain beached the schooner to avoid hitting nearby rocks. There is a longer story, but here the Dicky rests. Or what’s left of it. The propellor has been restored and now sits at the end of a sculpture replicating the ship. Little known fact: Dicky Beach is the only recreational beach in the world named after a shipwreck.

restored propellor
what’s left

We are back, four years after our first caravan trip up the Sunshine Coast. We choose Dicky Beach for our first six weeks for a couple of reasons: an hour from Brisbane and Scott flies to Papua New Guinea part way through for a dive trip, so it will be an easy drop off and pick up ten days later. Secondly, we really like this Southern end of the Sunshine Coast. It is much more low key than up Noosa way, which feels a bit more flashy and over wrought. Our caravan park is about 50 metres from the beach and, at the beginning of Winter, very quiet. The beach runs for kilometres and there’s a shared bike/walkway up and down the coast.

We join the local Surf Club which is just over the fence. Our year’s membership is $5, $1 if you are staying at the Caravan Park. Bargain. Scott has a burning yearning for a Chicken Schnitty, a crumbed chicken breast run over by a Mack truck, famously the national dish of Australia and sharing honours with it’s ritzier cousin, the Chicken Parmi – the difference being a bit of tomato passata, ham and cheese slapped on the latter – so we go for dinner. There’s raffles, and I love a good gamble. You may remember I won big bucks at the Cairns Casino playing roulette. Anyway, who can resist a meat pack raffle, and there’s ten, yes ten, up for grabs. $10 for 20 tickets, the odds have to be good. Well my luck is in – it’s winner winner meat pack dinner! And Scott still gets his chicken Parmi. How proud am I? I don’t know why it is a surprise when we cook up the meat that it is all delicious.

We love a good country A and P show (Agricultural and Pastoral). Last year we had a great time at Kununurra, WA, which features competitions such as Hay Bale Stacking and the Cowboy Challenge – you can read my colourful description in this blog 

On our first weekend we are off up into the hinterland for the Maleny Show. It is the 100th anniversary so we are expecting great things. I fail to guess the weight of the prize bull, but then so does everybody else. There’s no Cowboy Challenge, but we check out the Comedy Races. I’m not sure what the ducks and piglets think, but we find the piglet race very entertaining. Actually as both the Cowboy Challenge and Pig Races end with guzzling a bevvy, I guess they are similar: the difference is a warm can of beer or a trough of caramel milk.

These shows definitely give rise to childhood nostalgia. The smell of candy floss (fairy floss) and chips and hot dogs – you want them til you have them, then wish you hadn’t. And the scarier rides – once you are on you can’t wait to get off.

Scott gravitates to the baking competition like an Aussie to a can of beer. The calico covered trestles groan with cakes, loaves, biscuits, and some offerings that beggar description. The kids decorations have the most imagination, though it’s hard to tell what some of the creations represent. I love that there’s craft section for the “70 years and over”. They probably have to separate them as they’d show up everyone else.

We spend an enjoyable hour at the show jumping, clapping clear rounds and gasping if a horse refuses a jump, or knocks down a rail. It’s nail biting stuff. We watch a real life Horse Whisperer, Guy McLean, who wields magical powers over the young horses he trains. Mounted on his feisty stallion, Guy releases three young horses from their halters and then, with tactics reminiscent of a sheep dog herding ewes, canters, turns, stops, divides, brings together and completely and effortlessly controls the horses. Look him up on Youtube and prepare to be amazed.

This year our plan is different: longer stays in fewer places along the Queensland coast. As this is the stamping ground, or more appropriately shuffling ground, of the southerners who head north for the Winter months, this requires some pre-planning and booking of desirable sites. Not our preference, as we would rather move, or stay, as the mood takes us. However since the pandemic more Australians have caravans and campers and travel within the country. A marked difference from our first trip in 2018 when we never booked ahead, nor need to.

At the moment, however, life is still very quiet here at Dicky Bay, just how I like it. I suspect it will all change with the advent of the school holidays.

Don’t all rush at once

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This is not the blog you are expecting – that will come soon.

New Zealanders can become Australian citizens more easily, and enjoy all the rights and privileges that brings. Here are some of them. A snapshot from today’s news that will have Kiwis rushing over the ditch. 

Politics:

  • Yet another politician has been stood down after sexual misconduct allegations from two female colleagues. Independent Senator Lydia Thorpe used Parliamentary Privilege to accuse Senator Van of sexual assault. Further allegations from others followed. 
  • The Brittany Higgins rape case (in case you’re behind the news) continues, despite the trial collapsing. Yet the fall-out impacts through and the media, with allegations about who knew what, when. This event dates back to 2019, and happened in the office of the Defense Industry Minister in Parliament House after hours. 
  • The 10 News political reporter confirms Parliament is a toxic environment to work.
  • The Government does not role model a safe workplace.

Economics:

  • Good news, unemployment is down. Bad news, this could trigger further inflation and another interest rate rise. 
  • The country is headed to recession, just like New Zealand according to today’s figures.
  • As in New Zealand, house prices are falling and interest rates rising – no-one can sell and no-one can afford to buy. 
  • Wages are higher, so are taxes – and there are more of them. Luxury car tax (which we had to pay when we bought the Landcruiser). Stamp duty on property.

Cultural:

  • After acknowledging the Aboriginal people have lived here for over 60,000 years, there’s a referendum this year which, in a nutshell, would enshrine a permanent Indigenous voice to Parliament in the Constitution. Be clear: this is to establish an ADVISORY body with the purpose of recognising and representing Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders.  Advisory being the operative word. Not making legislation, just having a (non binding) say. Imagine. Asking people who would be directly impacted by a law for their input. While this may seem like a no brainer – it is a no brainer – success is by no means assured. It’s not quite MAGA, but red necks proliferate.
  • A ten kilo, two metre carpet python snake was found in a bathroom in Queensland. 

None of these things reduce my pleasure at vacationing in this warm and pleasant land. We meet lovely people, most of the time; enjoy the opportunities offered to us as visiting neighbours; inject our enthusiasm and dollars into everything we do – It’s nice place to visit, but …….

One trip ends…and another one begins

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What could be more wonderful than the ferry from Tasmania arriving into Geelong three hours late, at 11:30pm? Only one thing: a midnight arrival at the caravan park to find the gate code they sent doesn’t work. Oh joy! 

Fortunately another late arrival uses their code and we don’t have to camp on the side of the road.

We’re on a mission to drive the 1,645 km to Queensland where we plan to store the caravan for a few months. We take the Hume Freeway and our first stop is Glenrowan. If you don’t know, Glenrowan is the site of Ned Kelly and the Kelly Gang’s fatal last stand. This town is all Ned Kelly all the time. A new Ned Kelly Centre is under construction at cost of $3.5 million. Priorities, priorities.

In a last minute decision we to go to the museum – it advertises an animatronic experience: a what you say?

We move into a dark room which recreates the Railway waiting room; the Police are taking the train to Glenrowan where they hear the Kelly gang are resting. For the next 35 minutes we see the famous story from multiple points of view. We progress through several rooms, each with animated life-like mannequins (this is the animatronics bit) conveying the story. There is elaborate staging and multiple special effects. It’s not the Marvel universe, but it is engaging.

One minute we’re in a rowdy pub with a band playing while the barkeep serves customers; we’re on a verandah witnessing the final gun fight; we’re in the burning house where the gang take refuge. The room is full of smoke (steam) and the sound of crackling flames. Suddenly the roof caves. There are gasps. Someone swears (me). Two children are traumatised for life. And that’s before we witness Ned’s hanging.

After this we need a drink. A temperature of 33C means where’s the beer? We find Red Dog Brewery, which turns out to be a vineyard and winery as well. Peter, the current patriarch, is on duty and the man can tell a good story. Or ten. His grandfather not only planted the first vines, small blocks of Trebbiano and Shiraz, in 1919, he also built, by hand, the cavernous cellar in which we stand sampling some good beer and drinkable wine.

I engineer our trip so Scott can see the Dog on the Tucker-box at Gundagai. There’s a famous (in Australia) statue, inspired by a bullock driver’s poem, Bullocky Bill. The mythical dog loyally guards his owner’s tucker-box until death. You can read the full story here. Excitement builds as we approach the site, and….. well, there’s the tucker-box, but where’s the bloody faithful dog? So much for loyalty. Walter has to sub in.

Many ask where we leave the caravan when we return to New Zealand. It varies, as it depends on where we end the trip. This time we head to Ballandean, just over the NSW border into Queensland, to friends who have a vineyard and winery Just Red Wines on the Granite Belt, a lesser known winemaking area of Australia. The region is elevated and specialises in cool climate wines, and you will find varietals not typical in other regions: whites such as Alvarinho, Marsanne, Roussane, Vermentino and Petit Manseng, and reds such as Durif, Petit Verdot, Tannat, and Nero d’Avola.

The Just Red property has two accommodation cabins with lovely views over the vineyard, and bush over a few acres at the back. We bring some track markers to replace the fading strips that mark the trail and that will be our first job when we return.

Oh, look at that – we’re back! It takes a couple of days to mark, and check the marking, of the trail. We call it blazing, but Australians don’t like that word, especially when you are talking about the bush. As you see, the Granite Belt is aptly named as the trail not only leads through towering native trees, but traverses the massive boulders that give the area its name.

So here we are, back in Queensland and this is the final caravan excursion for us before we sell up. In the meantime we are heading north along the Queensland coast: first stop Dicky Beach, a destination we remember enjoying back in July 2019 – our first trip. Seems like a long time ago.

Beaches, Bays, and Breweries

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And wineries, but that spoils the alliteration. It all sums up the east coast of Tasmania, so what’s not to like? We admit we do not carry out exhaustive tastings at all the wineries, but we find few wines we really like. Most vineyards are also wineries, some with a bewildering number of varietals growing in tiny amounts. Almost all produce Chardonnay and Pinot Noir and so, invariably, they offer a Sparkling wine or two. Which tells you something; when you can’t ripen or have to pick early, you can always make bubbles. And we taste a lot of very drinkable bubbles, so actually, who’s complaining? We find little to rave about however, with a couple of notable exceptions: Gala and Sinapius, both with excellent cellar door staff and good wines.

Scott sampling at Gala Wines

And then there are the gin and whisky distilleries. And breweries. And breweries also distilling. It’s a wonder the streets of Tasmania don’t resemble the 18th Century Hogarth drawings, showing the drunken debauchery the demon drink visits on society. Figures vary, but Tasmania has more whisky distilleries than any other state, about 70 gin distillers and more than 20 breweries.

You could never accuse Tasmanians of being wowsers. We see more than one bumper sticker proudly proclaiming “I’m not drunk, I’m Australian”. And get this. Tasmania also has a huge poppy growing industry, growing half of the global supply of legal raw material for pharmaceutical processing. Drink and drugs – where’s the rock and roll?

Bay of Fires Conservation area

The bays and beaches along the east coast are lovely. We look forward to this area as Tourism Tasmania heavily promotes Wineglass Bay, in the Freycinet National Park, and the Bay of Fires in particular. The sand is astoundingly white and the water as clear as gin – without tonic or lemon. Not always the case, as Wineglass Bay once ran as red as claret with the blood of whales hunted and then processed in the bay. Not so romantic a name then, as one might think.

It is the orange lichen-covered granite boulders that gives the Bay of Fires its name. Binalong Bay at the southern end of the Bay is paradise. It has the white sand and the water is the cleanest and clearest we have ever seen. the water temperature isn’t exactly tropical, but it is still swimmable – what we call bracing on first approach, moving to lovely once you are in.

Scott is delighted to find oysters for sale at $14 a dozen, unopenend. A trip back to the charity shop – the first time was to replace broken wine glasses – for a suitable knife, and he is one happy fellow. He immediately corrupts the neighbours’ 8 year old, who takes to oysters like a professional; the four and six year olds aren’t so sure.

I know the world is divided into two types of people, those who eat raw oysters and those who would rather poke their eyes out with an oyster knife. I’m in the latter group. Over our seven weeks here I lose count of the many dozens of raw oysters Scott consumes. I would eat them deep fried – to be fair I’d eat most things deep fried – but restaurants only offer natural or oven baked. Really, oven baked.

Binalong Bay, Bay of Fires. White sand and clear water

Port Arthur is famous for being both an early convict settlement and, more latterly, the site of a mass shooting in 1996. The site of the massacre, the cafe, is now a memorial garden. The historic settlement covers many hectares, but the main buildings are easy to walk around, and have plenty of information boards. The visitor centre houses interactive displays, short films, personal stories of convicts, and often details of what ultimately happened to them. Not always a happy ending.

Port Arthur historic settlement

The settlement is only accessible by boat or across a slim isthmus, so potential escapees either swam, or faced kilometres of heavy bush before being met by dogs, vicious through underfeeding. Guards would let them loose to chase those seeking freedom.

We are now leaving, but not escaping, Tasmania. There are places we would be happy to return to, and some lovely people we would like to see again. As I write this we are sitting in the queue of cars waiting to board the Spirit of Tasmania back to the mainland. So far it’s one and a half hours late.

Who knew Tasmania has a Lake District?

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I left you wondering, perhaps even worrying, about the next part of the journey from Strahan. It’s true, we thought we had left the worst roads behind us, but we now know there’s always something new to test your nerve. Queenstown, about 80kms inland from Strahan, is a copper mine town with a bewildering and empty landscape at odds with the wilderness that surrounds it. In the 1800’s they stripped all the trees, bushes and soils, as the sulphur produced by copper smelting kills the land. What’s left is what greed looks like.

The road in from Strahan is much as we expect, but the road out shows us why most people take the 100s of kms detour back north to go south to Hobart. Yes, people look at us strangely when we say we’re taking the Queenstown road, and we soon understand their puzzlement. The road is unlike any mountain road we’ve ever driven – anywhere. Certainly not dragging a 3.5 tonne caravan. Sheer rock one side, sheer drop the other. Pick your adjectives from steep; hairpin; precipitous; narrow; vertiginous; sheer; slow; suicidal. There are times we are going so slowly it would be quicker to get out and walk.

A break at the top of the range between Queenstown and Linda.

But we make it, nerves mostly intact if a little frayed, down the other side and find a lovely cafe in the literal middle of nowhere. Nothing else. Just a great cafe next to the ruins of the Royal Hotel Linda. They do a great Reuben sandwich, but I don’t recommend the trip to get there.

for a great Reuben sandwich

The Central Highlands surprise us – in a good way. The area is a labyrinth of alpine lakes and tarns, dolerite peaks, and alpine forests and vegetation. They call it the Land of Three Thousand Lakes though I’m sceptical anyone actually counts them. The largest is the Great Lake at 176 square kms. There are also lots of walking tracks, short and long, up and down and over ridges and peaks.

Yet the most remarkable attraction is man made, the Wall in the Wilderness at Derwent Bridge. (No photos allowed so use the link). The Wall is a 100 metre long wooden sculpture by artist Greg Duncan, and relates the region’s history. It is still a work in progress and it’s interesting to see his process sculpting laminated Huon pine. Some panels include the work of the hydro workers who built the dams and laid the pipes for hydro electric schemes across the highlands.

We are in Hobart to coincide with the arrival of the Sydney to Hobart yacht race. No, we don’t wait up until 1.00am to see the Maxi yachts arrive. Later that morning is interesting enough; wind absent for the previous 48 hours kicks up and catches those arriving around lunchtime. Tricky reversing manoeuvres ensue, give us plenty to watch. We empathise on one level, as I have a habit of guiding Scott into tricky caravan turning or parking situations – don’t ask.

We “do” all the things you do as a tourist in Hobart – Salamanca Markets; MONA (Museum of Old and New Art); Botanic Gardens; and historic places, such as Kelly’s Steps, pictured above. In 1839 convict labour cut these steps into the stone of the cliff dividing Battery Point and the harbour. That same stone quarried from the cliffs built the warehouses that line the wharf. These are the restaurants, shops and bars on what is now Salamanca Place. We leave Hobart feeling we could spend longer. It’s a charming city, just 244,000 people, but sitting as it does on the water with the river and the harbour, hills all around, lovely 18th Century architecture, it’s somewhere that would reward more time.

Kelly’s Steps, carved into the stone cliff

And I’d like to go back to MONA as you can never see it all at once. We take the boat up and enjoy some river views and Mimosas from the Posh Pit of the ferry. On arrival we climb up 99 steps to the expansive grounds. When we enter we descend several floors back to water level and work our way back up. No outside light and no clocks – just like a casino. And like a casino it’s a gamble you’ll get what you want. Everything you have heard about MONA is true – if you have heard about it at all. Art that isn’t a landscape of a portrait isn’t for everyone, but if you like a bit of provocation with your art it delivers on every level. It’s not every day you see a sculpture simulating the digestive system from mastication through to defecation.

From entry to exit, here’s your gastrointestinal tract

The Cloaca Professional (is there an amateur category for pooing?) or Poo Machine as it is more affectionately known, is fed twice a day and evacuates its “bowels” at 2.00pm. We didn’t wait for the poop to drop. Apparently it stinks.

Rock me in the Cradle

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Cradle Mountain is, by all accounts, one of the most fabulous tourist destinations in Tasmania. So we head there from Stanley, taking the road less travelled. Not necessarily on purpose. Paul McCartney must’ve travelled this way when he wrote Long and Winding Road. He should add narrow and hilly. This becomes a theme for us. We travel through farmland and also plantations of forestry, both pine and eucalyptus. About half way to Cradle Mountain we wind down a particularly gnarly section to Hellyer Reserve. It seems appropriate to take a break, have lunch in the picnic area beside the river and do, yet another, short bush walk. Again, we could be in New Zealand – the bush is so familiar, full of tree ferns (pongas) and native Beech.

Dove Lake against a backdrop of Cradle Mountain

We strike great weather for our three days at Cradle Mountain, which isn’t the highest mountain in Tasmania, but is surely its most iconic, standing above the beautiful Dove Lake. Famous for its remote wilderness and native flora and fauna, there are plenty of walks with varying degrees of difficulty. The 6km hike around the lake is popular, and as we circumnavigate it we see the shape of Cradle Mountain change. At first it looks wide and dense, but the closer we get, the more spiky, needle like shape becomes apparent. We don’t need to hike up there.

As it’s Summer – sort of – there are lots of beautiful flowers, most of which we can’t identify. One that continues to catch our attention is the Waratah, a Santa-red claw shaped flower. that stands out from the other white or pale yellow blossoms.

It’s a surprise to us that there are no koalas or kangaroos on Tasmania. They make up for it in the quantity of Wallabies and Wombats, the latter looking like big, mobile loaves of bread mowing the grass. And yes, Wombat poo is cube shaped – see photographic proof. On a night excursion we are lucky to see several endangered and very cute Eastern Quolls, which sleep in dens during the day and hunt at night. They are the second largest carnivorous marsupial, after the elusive Tasmanian Devil – which we still haven’t seen in the wild.

Cubed poo
Eastern Quoll

Because we can’t get enough of winding narrow roads we head to Strahan. Pronounce it any way you like – we try Strawn, Strewen, Straaaaaan, Stra-han, it seems anything goes. The star attraction here is the massive Macquarie Harbour, approximately 315 square kilometres with an average depth of 15 metres. The entrance into the harbour from the Indian Ocean is narrow and known as Hell’s Gate, which tells you something about the conditions rolling in.

Sarah Island

In the South West sits Sarah Island, Tasmania’s oldest, and probably most brutal, convict settlement. Set up in 1822 to imprison those who reoffended while serving their first sentence – you know, the one for stealing a loaf of bread or a candlestick – at one time over 500 people were living there. Chain gangs were taken up the Gordon River, which flows into the harbour, to fell Huon Pines which they rafted downstream for milling and ship building – all convict labour. Over 100 ships were built before ultimately the remote location proved too hard to supply and in 1833 the prison was closed.

We go to a local play called The Ship That Never Was which recounts one of the most daring escapes – not surprisingly there were multiple escape attempts. In 1834, ten convicts working on the last ship before closing the island, stole the almost complete ship. Astoundingly they made it to Chile. Four of the men were captured and brought back to stand trial on charges of piracy but their fantastical, and successful, defence was that because the ship wasn’t finished and registered it wasn’t a ship so there was no piracy. They were found guilty of robbery.

You will see on the map primary roads in grey. Our roads, to find our roads we need to zoom in. It gets worse when we leave Strahan. Because we don’t do the sensible thing that everyone else does. More in the next instalment.