Tuesday, March 30th …..

We were trying to work out when we were last on Bruny Island and it’s certainly been a long time. We were certainly there around 1980 when we had our slide-on camper. It must have been around Easter because we found the camps of mutton-birders and even saw some of them carrying their bags of birds from one of the rookeries. Muttonbird is the common name for the Short-tailed Shearwater which travels from the Arctic Ocean to breed in the Bass Strait Islands each summer. They dig burrows and lay their eggs which hatch out into a fatty, downy chick which have been prized by indigenous hunters for thousands of years. Harvesting muttonbirds is still regarded as an important cultural practice among aboriginal people and, on some islands it is a thriving business. Harvesting starts around the beginning of April and Easter is a popular time for hunters who look on it as a hobby. Apparently, collecting the chicks is a fairly cruel practice. For example, because the birds often share their nests with snakes, it’s stupid to put your arm in the burrow and feel around for the chick. Instead, the hunters use a stick with a hook on the end. When they’ve hooked the bird, a quick wring of the neck finishes the job. I’ve never eaten muttonbird, but you can buy them at the butcher’s for about $6 in the season. I’m told it’s strong-flavoured and oily. Many of the birds nest on a little island just off the southern tip of Bruny near the lighthouse. If you’re careful, you can jump from rock to rock across the gap. One or two mutton-birders we saw, made the trip safely but one poor fellow lost his footing and had to drop his bag of chicks to keep himself from a watery grave. Serves him right, you might say. The muttonbirders’ camps we saw were appalling. You can imagine the stench from the wholesale slaughtering of birds and the cooking of them in big drums. The landscape was a mess of grey down from the careless plucking and the oil from the birds seemed to be everywhere. The ‘birders had abandoned clothes and blankets too which were beyond redemption so it was not a place to hang around in. I wonder whose job it is to clean up after the annual harvest. We might have been to Bruny more recently but it is clearly this fist visit which has stuck in our minds. There’s a ferry to the island every hour or so we joined the line waiting for the boat to turn up. Up behind us is the Oyster Cove Inn sporting a bit of a facelift since we last saw it – some renovations and a new paint job at least. At the end of 1999, Marilyn and I were holidaying in Hobart and were seriously considering a change of lifestyle. Glancing through the paper, we saw an ad looking for managers for the Oyster Cove Inn which, at that time was a bit run-down and needing some imagination to get it moving again. We made an appointment to meet the owner, who lived in Sydney, and outlined our ideas of lifting the focus of the hotel, providing fine food and wine to tourists, gourmet picnic baskets to yachties from the adjoining marina, naughty weekends for jaded couples from Hobart, Murder Parties, and so on. Not what he was looking for, apparently, as he said, ‘Our business here is selling beer to the locals.” Oh, well, he probably couldn’t have afforded us anyway. There’s a new ferry on the run which takes vehicles on two decks and it’s only about 20 minutes across the water. Arriving on the other side, we drive through long stretches of farmland until we come to The Neck Campground where we find a nice spot among the trees and settle in. There’s a long-drop toilet and a covered picnic table for Day Use Only but, otherwise it’s pretty primitive. There’s not even any water. Nonetheless, the National Parks and Wildlife Service believe it’s appropriate to charge us $10 per night for the privilege of parking on their sand. For the rest of the afternoon, we explored the nearby towns of Adventure Bay and Alonnah. There’s not much to see as most of the industry here is farming. There are two caravan parks at Adventure Bay, but one is closed and the other seems to be mostly permanent vans. Alonnah has a ‘tavern’ but only supplies meals at the weekend. There are lots of B&Bs and holiday cottages so it’s cetainly geared up for tourists looking to get away from it all for a weekend. And, it’s beautiful! Endless, pristine beaches, rocky headlands and rolling green hills. We’ll certainly enjoy a few days of this magic place.

Saturday, 26th March …..

Although Mt Field is a very special place, we were pleased to leave the mud behind and head back to civilization. The river rose a bit more on Thursday night but didn’t break the banks. We intended to head for Hobart but had really no plans for where we might stay. Many travelers go to the Showgrounds which charges about $20 per night but the facilities are rudimentary. We thought we might try a caravan park near the airport but, as we were passing the Cadbury Factory at Claremont we saw the Berriedale Caravan Park on our left, on the banks of the river and looking very inviting. OK, decision made! Perhaps not the best decision because our site was narrow, at the bottom of a hill, with a couple of puddles and cost $30. Oh, well, it’ll do for one night. The best thing about it was that the park is next door to the Moorilla Winery which also features in our memories of Hobart. Moorilla was started by Claudia Alcorso who came out from Italy after WW2 to develop a textile industry in Tasmania. He started to grow grapes as a hobby but by 1980, it was quite a successful business. His son, Julian, was the winemaker and his two grandsons attended Friends School where I was teaching. We became quite friendly with the family and occasionally helped out with grape picking and bottling. One time, Julian rang on a Friday night to say he needed help with bottling the next day. Jamie was to play in a basketball match but we could fit in a couple of hours at the winery beforehand. To save time, Jamie went dressed ready to play. After several hours in the bottling plant, his shoes were saturated with wine and the smell was very obvious right through the match. Did he win? I can’t remember, but we went home with a half dozen of the wines we’d bottled that day and we still have one left. Moorilla Wines has been taken over by a larger company in recent years and has moved into high-class accommodation, restaurant, conference facilities and so on. Since, Claudio’s day there has always been a museum associated with the winery but the latest innovation is the biggest yet. MONA, the Museum of Old and New Art, opened this year. It is a multi-level building dug into the sandstone bedrock with 4 levels of exhibits, ranging from Egyptian mummies, to ultra-modern installation pieces. It was funded by David Walsh, a professional gambler, who has developed a reputation for purchasing contemporary art, the more challenging the better. It’s worth looking at their website to get a feel for what is on display but much better to spend an hour or two browsing. One piece which has attracted lots of attention is a poo-making machine. It’s a series of bottles replicqting the human process of turning food into you know what. Is it art? Who knows! We glanced over a lot of the more confronting displays but were awed by the range and quality of what he curators have put together. We particularly liked a Russian audio-visual presentation called The Final Riot, and a full-size Mack truck jammed into a tiny room with absolutely no way of ever getting it out. Entry is free and you can get an iPod with a self-guided tour. They’ve had 100000 visitors since it opened and some people return weekly to ‘get their fix’. An extraordinary thing to be sited in Hobart. After our two or three hours, we were able to relax in the winebar with a glass of Moorilla’s best and a cheese platter. Nothing gets better than this. In the evening, we treated ourselves to a meal at the Berriedale Bowls Club - porterhouse steak or Trevalla fillets for $10, with a nice glass of wine. This morning we packed up with the plan to head to Bruny Island. First stop, though was the local shopping centre for breakfast. I tried to park in the main car park but there was nowhere long enough for our rig so decided we would have to try somewhere else. There is only one exit, opening on to a narrow street with a sharp left turn – not the easiest but possible with care. I headed directly for the gate, there was another line of cars coming to it from the left and a third from the right. Just the situation where a little courtesy would help. I gently eased forward till it was my turn only to be berated by a female voice from the right. ‘How rude!’ Why don’t you wait your turn?’ Courtesy, I thought, is in very short supply. She was still yelling at me as we departed Glenorchy leaving the unfriendly natives in our wake.

Thursday, 24th March …..

Our second night in Bothwell was very wet and when we woke up on Wednesday ready to set off to Mt Field, it was to be greeted by a sea of yellow mud. Bothwell Caravan Park has been covered with gravel and, when the rain hits it, it liquefies. We couldn’t wait to get away, although, when we got to Mt Field, it was similar. This time, the mud was black. The Land of the Giants Caravan Park is inside the boundary of the Mt Field National Park. When we last stayed there, probably 1978, it was on a grassed area with plenty of room. Now it has been moved to a stand of tall trees closer to the river. This is all very romantic but no grass grows under the trees and, when it rains, the ground turns to black slurry. It also cost $28 per night which is at the top end of the market. I might have thought the government would want to encourage people to use the parks; charging $28 plus an entrance fee will only drive them away. I shouldn’t complain too much because the park is certainly worth a visit. When we lived in Hobart between 1975 and 1986, we came here often. Jamie did his first ski-ing here, we slept in the snow for the first time, we did our first serious bush-walking along the Tarn Shelf, so there are great memories. I did a Snow Survival course here one time. We had to carry all our gear for five days and stay dry and warm for all that time. The first night we stayed in tents, the second night in a snow cave and the third night in an igloo we built. All went fine until a warm front came through on the third night and the igloo collapsed on us. The fourth night was spent in a hut, drying out. One other time, a friend and I decided we would walk into a small hut at Lake Belcher, with our kids. For one reason or another, we didn’t get to the carpark until about 4 o’clock on the Friday and had to find our way to the hut in the dark. It was snowing as well. We crossed the Humboldt River twice I think. Jamie would only have been 12 or so. A great adventure! Anyway, back to the present day. Although it has been raining for days, Marilyn and I decided we would attempt a walk along the Tarn Shelf. The whole area has been carved out by a glacier and one part of it is a flat ‘shelf’ of land on the side of the mountain. All along it are small mountain lakes or tarns, surrounded by alpine vegetation. There are little huts as well and we thought we would try to reach Twilight Tarn which was about 2 hours walking. The first stage was a 16Km drive up the mountain to Lake Dobson, then a slog up a track to the beginning of the various walks. The drive was fine but we found the hard climb up the track just too difficult. The rain was coming down hard and it seemed much further than we had remembered. After an hour of trudging up the steep slope, we turned a corner and saw that there was as much to do again, it was time to head for home. We were saturated, cold and tired, and realized that it was 25 years since we had last done this walk and time has caught up with us. When we got back to the caravan, we noticed that the river has risen about a foot. I checked with the ranger who assured us there was no danger of being flooded. I hope they’re not famous last words.

Tuesday, 22nd March #2 …..

The first settlers came to this area after 1817 although hunters had penetrated this far years earlier. As most of the farmers were from Scotland, the town was named Bothwell and the river flowing through, the Clyde. The next town, just 32Km south is called Hamilton. As it happens, I was born in Hamilton, Scotland and the town just across the Clyde River from my birthplace is Bothwell. It’s almost like coming home.
The weather looked promising when we awoke so we decided we would stay another day, leave the ‘van in Bothwell and drive up to Derwent Bridge to visit a well-known attraction, the Wall in the Wilderness

A woodcarver, Greg Duncan, has this vision of carving a wall depicting the history of the region. When it is finished, he expects it will be 100m long. He reached the half-way point late last year and already the display building is being extended to accommodate the next stage.
On display are panels depicting two of the region’s industries: hydro-electricity generation and forestry, as well as others on local fauna, etc. The display shows each stage of the process from the drawings, roughing out and the various stages of detailing. They are stunning. There are also others pieces of work by Greg, his son, Daniel and his sister. What a talented family!
Our plans are to pack up tomorrow and head for the Mt Field National Park.

Tuesday, March 22nd …..

Whoever talked about the camaraderie of the road didn’t know what he was talking about. It’s every man for himself out there!
On Sunday evening, after a very enjoyable day, I put on the generator for Marilyn to cook dinner and to put a bit of charge in the battery. About 8.15, I went outside to refill the kettle when a man from a camper parked about 50m away, stormed across in his pyjamas.
‘How long is the generator going to be on?’ he said.
‘ Why?’ I replied
‘Well, it’s too bloody noisy and we can’t sleep,’ was the reply.
I had deliberately bought the quietest machine on the market, it was parked at our back wheel under the awning because it looked like rain, and it wasn’t disturbing us, but clearly this gentleman and his partner had particularly sensitive ears, and what were they doing in bed at 8.15 in the evening?
I’ve realized that it’s all part of the great divide in caravanning between the generator enthusiasts and those who would ban them totally. There is an unwritten law that it’s OK to run your generator up until 10 o’clock at night but for the zealot that’s much too late.
No doubt this will happen again and again and we’ll just have to become immune to it.
Last night, in the caravan park at Bothwell, we were just settling down to a quiet night of watching TV when there was a peremptory knock at the door. There stood a little gnome of a man, bald head and grey beard, telling us to turn our TV down. What? We’re hardly head-bangers, playing heavy metal too loud. He was camping the width of a tennis court away and behind a hedge. What ever happened to live and let live?
I think it’s interesting that the first fellow was camping in a whizz-bang which are universally hated by every serious caravanner. A whizz-bang is a little camper with a sliding side-door which makes the noise whizz-bang when you shut it. If you have one camped beside you, you will be driven mad by the constant opening and closing of that side door. But, do we complain? Well, not face-to-face anyway.
The second fellow was in a camper with a fold-out tent and I suspect was a purist for simple camping – no radio, no TV, no need for electricity. Well, he’s welcome to his simple ways; our way of camping is a little bit fancy and we won’t be put off by zealots trying to tell us what to do.
As you will have noted, yesterday we moved to Bothwell in Tasmania’s midlands. It’s another town of convict-built sandstone buildings, dating back to the 1830’s. The town also has the oldest golf course in the Southern Hemisphere with the first balls being teed off in 1839. A local farmer, Alexander Reid, imported several wooden clubs and feather-stuffed balls from Scotland. There is a nice little golf museum in the town which highlights this little bit of history.
When we had set up the ‘van, we drove up to Waddamana, an old Hydro town which has been used as an Outdoor Education Centre since the early 1970’s. Marilyn and I took our first group here in 1975. At the time, we all stayed in the old guesthouse which was managed by Bill and Fran Middleton. Bill was a real bush carpenter and made furniture out of left over bits of wood. We still have a wine cabinet and tea trolley he made. Fran was the cook but when our groups were there, Marilyn would give her the week off and take over her duties. This ensured the dog would be kept out of the kitchen and there would be no danger of cigarette ash in the soup.
Later on, Friends School leased three cottages and began to get serious about Outdoor Ed. in this setting. The cottages are still there but I suspect the lease has long since lapsed. We had some wonderful weeks here, our last one being 1986, just before we moved to Townsville. The visit yesterday brought back very happy memories.
Waddamana was the first serious hydro-electric station in Tasmania with the first generators coming on line in 1916. The history of the development of hydro-electricity in Tasmania is a remarkable one. The country is demanding and the climate harsh. Workers in the early days lived in tents and worked on hard physical tasks no matter what the weather. Horses provided most of the heavy pulling power and motor vehicles were few and far between.
At Waddamana, the first water was brought 1000ft down the mountain through wooden pipes, reinforced by steel bands. Although these had to be replaced very soon by steel, as they couldn’t withstand the pressures of the long drop, wooden pipes (made of King Billy pine) continued to be used on other schemes until the 1950s. Some of the last wooden pipeline at the Lake Margaret station was retrieved last year and has been preserved in various ways.
After World War II, workers were recruited from Europe and stories are told about 150 Polish soldiers who worked on a number of projects. There is a Polish Club in both Hobart and Launceston which date back to this time. Power is no longer generated at Waddamana and the original 1932 power station has been turned in to a museum. I liked this example of a non-PC poster from the 1950s.

Sunday, 20th March …..

Oatlands is a very pretty little town with many convict-built sandstone buildings – substantial homes, government buildings and smaller Georgian cottages. Like other places in Tasmania, most of these buildings have survived as the economy hasn’t allowed for demolition and re-building when fashions changed.
A lot of these buildings are now used for cafes and B&Bs, but most are still personal residences. It is quite a delight to walk around looking at the way they are being restored. There’s also a bit of topiary around the village and that’s becoming quite a feature of many Tasmanian towns.
The Callington Mill is the eye-catching first thing in the town you can see from the highway. It was built in the 1830s but was only operational for 55 years before falling into disrepair. After a century or more of neglect it was brought back to life in October last year and is now fully functioning, working 362 days a year and producing tonnes of flour and various by-products. It is a genuine wind-mill, not like some replicas in other parts of the world which cheat and use electricity.
We took the tour his afternoon, climbing the 56 steps to the top floor and watching the whole process as we moved down from floor to floor. Ben, one of the millers, ran up and down like a scalded cat making sure that everything was working to perfection and we were able to see the flour coming out at the bottom. It’s a light, sifted wholemeal with no additives.
All the power in the mill comes from the wind and the rigmarole to hoist the grain to the top or lower it down is extraordinary. Ben had to run outside to adjust the louvres on the sails, back inside and up two floors to attach a chain to the bag of grain, while pulling on a rope which operates the brake on the drive-wheel, then release the brake and kick open a trapdoor to let the grain down, then kick the trapdoor closed again (OH&S!) and start the whole process again. He is NOTALLOWED to carry the bag from one level to another (OH&S).
The mill uses wheat and spelt (an ancient cousin of wheat) both grown in Tasmania. You can buy the flour and bread at the mill’s information centre. We tried their fruit bread and bought some flour for Marilyn to make a Tomato and Olive damper in our Dreampot.
It was a great experience and terrific to see a truly Tasmanian enterprise being so successful.
Yesterday, we had a quiet day. We found a couple of geocaches which stretched our legs, but also read a bit and replenished our energy. This morning, Marilyn decided she would wash. I made sure the water tank was full and started the generator to provide power. Everything went fine except that the drain hose backed up a bit and we had a minor flood in the bottom of the kitchen cupboards. No big drama and it gave us a chance to go through what we had stored there and decide what we didn’t really need to carry.
It’s been a good stay here at Oatlands but we’ll probably move on tomorrow and continue heading south.

Saturday, March 19th …..

It’s been quite a while since I took the time to write some thoughts for the blog. While we were at Myrtle Park, without internet access, it was easy to put off the writing to another day and then I lost the impetus.
However, here we are at Lake Dulverton on the outskirts of Oatlands in Tasmania’s midlands and I’m back to work. I remember that Jamie rowed here at one time, probably 1985 or 1986, but the lake has deteriorated a lot since then. Weed has taken over the foreshore and it would be hard to launch a boat now and impossible to row it out through the weed to open water. Now the lake is tagged as a waterbird sanctuary and there are hordes of black swans, Eurasian coots and a variety of ducks.
The ducks, as always, are a pain, hanging around the door of the van demanding to be fed. The little flock that has adopted us also has a goose as one of its members and its honking certainly adds to the noise. Late last night we saw him out on the lake, alone, honking plaintively. Marilyn says he has misplaced his mate and is calling out to her.
Where we are camped is a free spot and is limited to three days. We’ll probably stay one more night before moving on. The big attraction of Oatlands is a restored windmill which we plan to visit this afternoon. I’ll write a little more after that visit.
In the meantime, I should tidy up a couple of loose ends from the last few weeks. Myrtle Park was a wonderful place to stay and we’ll certainly be heading back there at some other time. Every day was a revelation with the comings and goings of people in their individual camping set-ups – from very flash Winnebagos to shabby little bongo vans and even shabbier tents. One fellow arrived on a motor bike and set himself up with a hammock covered by a flysheet. He had all the utensils he needed for cooking and even a chair! I don’t know how he got all his stuff on the bike and we weren’t there when he left so we could check it out.
On the recent long weekend a large gang of people arrived from the Dutch Reformed Church. There must have been 200 people in numerous vans and tents, with lots of kids on bikes. Everyone was very pleasant and it was good to feel part of it. In fact, we were crowded in by a couple of family groups who had set themselves out nearby and whose camp had grown as new people arrived. However, we certainly didn’t feel encroached upon.
This get-together has grown from their traditional Church Picnic and has become an annual affair. We were visited by one of the ministers and his wife who had been part of the original picnics 25 years ago, and are now based in Winnipeg, Canada. They were a very nice couple and have invited us to look them up when we get to North America.
Yesterday, we had an appointment in Launceston and were rushing out the door when a fellow stopped us to tell us there was to be Memorial Service held today on the very spot where we were camped. There is a plaque under one of the trees remembering motor-bike riders who have been killed in road accidents and the God Squad organizes regular services at that spot.
This was the spur we needed to make the decision to move on and so we packed up and set off on the next leg of our travels. It was hard to leave because Myrtle Park is such a beautiful place and each day just rolled seamlessly into the next. We’re heading south now and hope to end up in Hobart in a day or two. I’m keen to explore some of the areas we had found when we lived there 25 years ago and this is a good chance to do that.
At the beginning of March, we flew to NSW to spend a few days in Wollongong to see my mum and Uncle Archie, and in Mudgee to see Marilyn’s father. We were able to celebrate Marilyn’s birthday at the Wollongong Golf Club with Sandy and Jenny and the oldies, and then take the train and bus to Mudgee to see Marilyn’s side of the family. We were only away a week but that was long enough to touch base with everyone.
We’re booked on the Spirit of Tasmania on May 10th to take our van to the mainland and will travel around there until the end of October. To break up the routine, we’ve booked a couple of weeks at resorts using our timeshare points. In June, we’ll be at Rafferty’s Resort on Lake Macquarie for a week, and in July we have a week at Seashells Waterfront Resort at Hallidays Point, near Taree.
Before that, though, we have a cruise which leaves Sydney on April 16th (just 4 weeks from today) and that is something to really look forward to.