When the locals refer to Tassy, one can hear the love in their voices. Love for a place that is special. Nature is close to anywhere and history, though young by world standards, surrounds one almost everywhere.
We are moored at the Port Dalrymple Yacht Club on the Tamar River in the north of Tasmania. There is a big fetch to the north and northeast and a little less to the southeast. The western shore which is the closest is still so far away that no land bird life can be observed from Mylady. In fact, this bay is dominated by about ten small seagulls which are aggressive and attack us every time we show our noses on deck or dinghy to shore. It is so much in contrast to some of the anchor places in the river where bird life abound. There graceful black swans parade in the shallows, birds of prey circle the river on the air currents, oyster catchers dig in the mud with their long pointed bills, big and small seagulls beg in competition with the pelicans for something to eat. In the background the constant chatter of the crows are often interrupted with the sharp pitched voice of beautiful galahs and song of yet unidentified small birds. The fur seals swim far up the river and have a habit of drifting. A few have bumped into Mylady already.
We sailed up and down the Tamar River. In Bell Bay, across from our mooring, is the largest port in Tasmania, according the pilot book we use. The quantities of big ships, twenty to fifty thousand tonners that come up the river have amazed us. Strong currents, shifting shoals and hazards in the river demand full alert of everybody concerned, all the time. Adding to this, silting up of the river due to the building of dams further upstream and one have a tricky and sticky business. Trying to prove a concerned case for boating, there was a photograph in the local newspaper of the only remaining dredger stuck in the mud just south of Launceston.
Low Head pilot station in the north facing Bass Straight is an old settlement and the rock enclosed small harbour is a beehive of fishermen activity. The museum was very interesting and the walk to the lighthouse enjoyable. Every Sunday around noon, they sound the foghorn installed in 1929, which is the only fully operational one of the type “G” diaphone in the world. The semaphore telegraph on the hill with which a message could be send in four minutes from the entrance of the river to Launceston, the main hub of the north some fifty eight kilometres away, was fascinating. At the side of the road is still an engraved rock pillar with “Hobt Town 167 M” and “Low Hd 1 M” distances in miles on it. Now I can understand why some of the local elderly refer to Hobart as “H’bt”. The small fairy penguins have a rookery just below the lighthouse and a ‘”gentleman’s retreat” of 1838 is a castle-like tower in the garden of a lovely old house built from natural stone and convict-made bricks.
From Launceston we drove with a rented car to Evandale and then westward through Perth. In Westbury we needed a toilet stop and discovered Andy’s with its baked cheesecake like I last had in German influenced Namibia. Cheesecake that melts in the mouth. I was in seventh heaven. Deloraine was by all standards, a big town. There we stocked up at Woolworths and turned south on the mid-highlands road through the mountains. My ears froze whilst we admired the pencil pines. It is hard to see how they can be related to the great red woods in California as the information board claimed.
The view over the big lake was stunning even though the water level was low. Heavy weather blackened the sky and after a few flakes of snow, it turned into hail and rain followed. It was cold. After most of the rain stopped we took the descending road winding next to the lake down to Miena. The fish camps were most interesting. Not too many people but every house looked like a story. Just passed Miena, on the Bothwell road, the snow-clouded sky gave a serene sense to the stark naked dead eucalyptus forests. Fortunately the heater in the car worked. The combined effect of drought and fire is visible throughout Tasmania.
In Bothwell we came to the unpleasant knowledge that most of the accommodation offered in the local tourist newspaper is not available because there is no occupancy. We wondered why they advertised. Will there actually be enough travellers over Christmas? We did not encounter more than three cars on the whole trip that we thought looked like tourists. We ended the night up in Bush Inn at New Norfolk, a cold, old, dilapidated hotel, but it had the oldest, continuous trading liquor licence in Australia. According our informant, a local lass with ancestral linking, the hotel was the only worthwhile touristy thing in the town and the hotel has traded ownership many times.
From there we went through Bridgewater, Brighton and stopped in Richmond. Richmond was a lovely quaint little tourist town, neat and interesting. We loved the general dealer grocery shop with its street stand advertisement of “Yoghurt the way only Greeks can make it”. It had wall paintings reflecting the different stages of use of this building. It always was a grocery store and some of the original stone wall is still in use. A little curio shop owner surprised us with some traditional Afrikaans expressions.
It was a beautiful sunshine day and we could appreciate the old bridge that the convicts had built. Just out of Sorell was a fresh veggies store and even we could afford a bag full of delicious cherries. The beautiful blue wren was a delightful sighting. But the animal care centre, just as one enters the peninsula to the historic Port Arthur convict settlement was the highlight of the trip.
The Tasmanian Devils were most interesting. About a foot high and twice that length, these black dog-like animals with their red ears look simultaneously cute and devilish. The white markings some have are neither characteristic nor uncommon. They only live about five years and are poorly endowed with beauty, brains or skills and are therefore forced to live as scavengers. The weakest and young are often eaten by their own kind. Unfortunately these devils are threatened by a cancer type for which there currently is no cure. The disease spread at a rate of ten kilometres per year. A lot of investigation and projects are going into the survival of the devils which have long since lost existence on mainland Australia.
However, more fascinating for me was the film we saw of the Tasmanian tiger. The footage was taken of the last animals in captivity at Hobart in 1938. It is a Dingo dog-like animal with a thick long kangaroo tail. Its’ back and tail have tiger stripes across and it has a pouch (Marsupialia) to carry the young. Many sightings have since been reported but none confirmed. Is the animal extinct? Fascinating!
The Sunset Beach Cabins close to Dunalley was excellent. Tall enough mirrors, high enough shower, long enough bed, working heater and fitting the budget. Near Cygnet in the Huon Valley was a small bay and yacht club where we wished we could be with Mylady. It was ever so peaceful.
Hobart’s Central Back Packers’ only advantage was that it was central. The Salamanca Market was a delight with lots of art and craft stalls. Diverse live entertainment was most enjoyable. We left Hobart as the rain started. All the way to the West Coast we did not see ten vehicles on the road. Impressive forests crowded the little visibility left by the heavy rain. We would like to return to the mined Queenstown in better weather. In the graceful Empire Hotel we could imagine the rich times of the gold past.
Strahan, a neat, small tourist town had small memory plaques on the low foreshore stone wall. It was special. Involuntarily we spent memory time with our own loved ones. The road from Zeehan, Rosebery to Burnie led us through forests and more logging plantations. Penguin town has penguins everywhere, from letter boxes to street statues. From Solaire to Folktown, close to Beauty Point, we were on the worst corrugated road I’ve ever been on. Bridport bay was totally lovely. Scottsdale has a most interesting information centre combined with forestry. Here we could learn about the poppy fields that are in bloom in large parts of the state. Tasmania is the only state in Australia allowed to grow poppies and the harvest is strictly controlled. It is illegal to enter any poppy field and huge fines or even imprisonment can result.
Derby, a very small town had a genuine old atmosphere to it. In St.Helens we saw an industrial fishing vessel with a scallop dredge and sorting bench. Also the small fishing boats launching into and retrieving from the Tasman Sea at the southern point off St.Helens. A dangerous game played with ease by the local fishermen. We enjoyed the sandy beaches and colourful rocks. The wind was as always, cold. Everybody assured us it is summer, but agreed that it is still cold.
We were through the one horse town of Scamander before we knew it but made a u-turn to take pictures of fascinating metal art, covered in cobwebs and dust, at the only petrol-café-grocery shop. Large flocks of sulphur-crested cockatoos would not sit still to have their picture taken. Smoke curls from a couple of chimneys and a few smart modern cars belied the ghost town appearance of Rossarden. Here we saw the first, and only, wild deer.
From Avoca we went across country through intensive farming land to Poatina and had a look at the lake from the east side. That was a good excuse to get via Longford back to Westbury and excellent cheesecake.
We replaced the wheel on the alternator with a bigger one and hope to solve our fan belt problem. The sheet metal man fixed our heater chimney problem. Bus service is not cheap, but available. Telstra phone booths are spaced frequently. LPG gas is locally filled but one can only collect it an hour later. Internet is not everywhere or easily available.
Initially, the accents with which the people spoke, made communication discerning. It was suppose to be English, but it could have been Greek for all I knew. Tuning my hearing unto a person did not help either. It quickly became clear that whatever the dominant background of somebody was, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, German or even Scandinavian, is the lingo with which English is spoken. Sometimes they even laugh at us when we can not follow them. In turn that makes for situations that do not encourage interaction. Then there are also the exceptions to the rule. Some of these grumblers will actually make an effort to be informative, but very seldom spontaneously hospitable. Even to this are exceptions. We have met a handful of spontaneous, sincere, helpful interesting people we would love to call, a friend.
It is 20 December 2008 and warm weather has arrived in Tasmania. Morning temperature 9 and day temperature 17 to 22 degrees.
Take care and have a blessed festive season.
MisA-le & Eelco
S/V MYLADY : Home - somewhere on the oceans, where the wind is free.
