Travelling Hopefully - Breeding Predators Edition

 Our guide approached us, despair writ large upon his face. He had been informed that the path to Cradle Mountain had been attacked by weather. Snow, ice, rain, mist, lakes of blood and plagues of locusts had been predicted for the Cradle Mountain region. The CoRS scattered in all directions seeking warmer clothing. Since there was only one store in Sheffield that sold such attire they all recoalesced pretty quickly. I joined the mad rush for warming attire. Only my companion stood proudly aloof. She did not panic, she did not falter. With a steady hand she produced her phone and searched through half a dozen weather prediction websites until she found one that pleased her. She then waved this in front of our guide’s face and in soothing tones assured him all would be well.

Strangely all was. At least for a given definition of “well”. Our minibus failed to slide off the ice slicked roads, the threatened blizzard and sleet didn’t eventuate and we arrived at Cradle Mountain chilly but unscathed. Or at least I presume we did. The prevailing mist meant that sight of the actual mountain was somewhat problematic.

At first we didn’t care as we had closer and more aggressive fish to fry. We visited a sanctuary for Tasmanian devils. Since they were a comprehensive sanctuary they also bred quolls, as you do. This is an attempt to defeat the face cancer which is threatening to wipe Tasmanian devils from the face of the earth thus fulfilling the fondly held dreams of nineteenth century farmers.

At the sanctuary fresh, cancer free devils are bred and kept. They aren’t released because there’s no point releasing them if they’re just going to catch cancer too. However researchers at the University of Tasmania are confident they’re only a couple of years away from a vaccine at which point a critical mass of devils will be inoculated and released in a black furred tide. I’m sure this won’t have any unforeseen side effects.

The sanctuary does release the quolls it breeds because nobody cares if quolls die.

Travelling Hopefully - Mural Edition

We rose early to see the sunrise. Unfortunately the sun was late and we were back at the motel before it turned up. With that as an introduction to the day our guide rounded up the CoRS and herded us onto the minibus. 

We were heading towards Sheffield, a town famous for being convenient for other more interesting places. Before the mural bedecked delights of Sheffield were paraded before our weary eyes we dropped in briefly on the Bay of Fires. There was a beach that we walked on to the delight of those among us who delight in walking on beaches.

Waving the coast goodbye we headed inland towards the delights of Sheffield. Sheffield’s delights are precisely two; murals and a Chinese restaurant.

The murals need a little explanation unfortunately I don’t have it. Suffice to say that most of the available wall space in town seems to be covered in murals. Some of them are quite good, others aren’t.

I was surprised to learn that Sheffield had a Chinese restaurant. I was even more surprised to learn that you had to reserve a table twenty four hours in advance. We obediently did so and presented ourselves at the restaurant at the allotted time. The young man behind the counter reacted as if, not only had he never seen a customer before but this might in fact be his first contact with the human race.

Eventually we forced him to admit that we did indeed have a booking. He gazed helplessly around the completely empty dining room and asked if table 9 would be acceptable. Frankly any table that wasn’t positioned over a trapdoor to the cellar was acceptable at this point. I’m pretty sure that he chose table 9 because it couldn’t be seen from the outside and therefore wouldn’t give passersby the impression that the restaurant was open.

Despite the slight horror movie vibes, the food was perfectly nice and reasonably priced although the young man, who appeared to be the only person in the building apart from ourselves, had terrible difficulties operating the register. There was a point where I thought he would actually be grateful if we fled without paying.

Eventually we did pay and we left replete with decent Chinese food and a slight feeling of only just having escaped with our lives.

Travelling Hopefully - Penguin Porn Edition

We rose the next day and headed to Wineglass Bay another beautiful place with a horrific history although in this case the atrocities were committed against the cetacean population rather than the indigenous one.

Along the way we stopped at a blow hole where we spent an entertaining twenty minutes or so watching water flow through a rock. We all agreed this was the best thing since sliced bread and continued our journey to Wineglass Bay in a state of near ecstasy.

A pleasant bushwalk took us to a lookout from where we got a great impression of how high we were above the bay. Our guide informed us there was a path involving many many steps that would take us down to the beach. I turned up my nose at such exertion but the Pilates instructor was jumping up and down with excitement and such is the effect of an attractive woman on a certain type of impressionable man (me) that I found myself following her down the path.

The journey down wasn’t too bad and we had a pleasant five minutes on the beach before we had to face the ascent. Partway up my companion’s enthusiasm drained away to be replaced by impassioned diatribes against her quadriceps which had apparently failed her at crucial moment. Despite this muscular treason we somehow made it to the top and stumbled frantically after the minivan which was in the process of abandoning us.

Catching the minivan was vital as it was our sole means of returning to our accommodation and, more importantly, penguins.

We turned up at the penguin pestering location in the early evening and after a brief opportunity to purchase a small penguin plush toy (eagerly accepted by at least one individual) we were loaded into a small van and driven to a piece of shoreline within the sanctuary. A guide asked us with apparent seriousness not to step on any penguins and led us into a surreal landscape illuminated in red and yellow lighting which I presume was for the benefit of the penguins as it certainly wasn’t helping the humans much.

Firstly we were shown a couple of penguins in a box. Apparently to assist the penguins in home making a number of artificial “burrows” have been created so that all the penguins have to do when they come ashore is move in. At that point I did wonder if this was all we were going to see of penguins so I dutifully took a photo before we were herded to the first viewing point.

The first viewing point presented us with the sight of a trio of penguins stumbling up the beach some distance away. There were “oohs” and “aahs” but they made themselves scarce pretty quickly. The next viewing point was pure gold. About a score of penguins were ploughing up the beach directly towards us. They paused for a moment as the shutter noise from some idiot’s camera spooked them but they regrouped and charged straight past us on the way to their burrows both artificial and penguin made.

That would have made my night but the next stop was the burrow area where penguins hang out. Penguins were indeed hanging out. In fact they were doing more than just hang out. There was flirting, mating displays and finally full on penguin on penguin action in front of us. My companion, displaying a level of depravity that she had so far kept hidden, filmed the whole thing. It will be visible on certain highly specific websites in a few weeks.

Once the NSFW part of the evening was over a pair of penguins walked up so close to us that I could have reached down and touched it. I didn’t in deference to the penguin’s sharp beak and habit of projectile excreting when they feel threatened. A group of people did their best to be as unthreatening as possible and eventually the penguins wandered off. Apparently they didn’t like the smell of somebody’s shoes. Shortly afterwards we wandered off ourselves our penguin cups running over.

Travelling Hopefully - Gruesome History and Wine Tasting

 Back in Hobart and fortified by an excellent dinner my companion and I abandoned our little car to the tender mercies of its slave masters and gathered along with thirteen presumably like minded souls for our quick tour of Tasmania. An individual approached and announced himself as our guide.

Once informalities had been completed our guide herded us and a collection of random strangers (henceforth to be known as CoRS) onto a minivan and we set out on our journey.

Five minutes later we stopped again outside a museum where we popped in to see how appallingly our ancestors had treated the local indigenous population (although the sole German amongst us can probably get a pass). After a grim but informative hour our guide rounded up the CoRS while the Pilates instructor and I went to find a post office.

Our minivan was still waiting when we returned so we climbed aboard and were transported to the charming colonial town of Richmond. Richmond has a bridge, a lolly shop and a bakery that sold curried scallop pies. To me that latter sounded appalling but my companion ate it with every evidence of gusto. I saved my gusto for a more appropriate subject.

With the colonial charm of Richmond finally exhausted the minivan pointed itself in the direction of a winery and we all went with the flow. 

At the winery we were presented with a series of wines to taste apparently on the principle that if they got us drunk enough we’d buy more wine. Most of the wine seemed to involve Pinot noir. I didn’t like the Pinot noir but one of the Rieslings was nice and the cheese selection was excellent. I didn’t buy any wine but one of the CoRS did so I guess mission accomplished for the winery.

Our guide finally managed to drag us out of the vineyard and back onto the minivan and we headed for Bicheno, a town largely famous for being the place where we were stopping for the night.

Travelling Hopefully - Most of Cape Queen Elizabeth

 The next day still semi delirious from our white wallaby frenzy we headed off to do the Cape Queen Elizabeth walk we had planned to do yesterday. This time we made absolutely sure we had water and supplies before abandoning our little car in what we hoped was a parking spot and not just a random location by the side of the road.

Our little journey got off to an inauspicious start when a couple of hundred metres along the path we encountered a couple coming the other way who informed us that an elderly lady had taken a fall a bit further along and that there was a fair bit of blood on the track.

Sure enough we soon encountered a clutch of people gathered around a rather battered lady on the ground. First aiders were in attendance and medics had been called so we eased around both blood and victim and abandoned them to their fate.

It all depended on the tide. Part of the walk took us along a beach which was submerged a decent part of the day. We had skilfully arranged to arrive at the beach at a time when the tide would be cooperative. Unfortunately the tide arrived at the same time and was unwilling to cooperate.

A frantic glance at my trail app showed us that we could circle around the rest of the walk and approach the beach from the other side when surely the tide would have sorted itself out. 

Up we struggled, panting through the bushes. At least I panted through the hedges. The Pilates instructor skipped gaily from rock to rock as if only lightly tethered to the ground. Eventually we reached the beach on the other side of a headland still inconveniently submerged. We found the rock archway that was the draw point for our entire walk. We took photos and then sat and stared at the tide for half an hour in the hopes it would take the hint.

The tide didn’t take the hint and eventually we struggled back the same way we came although not before scrambling up a sand dune in the vague hope it might magically deposit us where we wanted to go.

So we didn’t complete the walk although with all the backtracking and sand dune shenanigans we probably covered more ground than if we had. The elderly lady and the pool of blood were gone on our return proving that either medical attention had arrived or that the scavengers in this part of the world are pretty enthusiastic about their jobs.

Travelling Hopefully - White Wallaby Edition

 In the beginning was the plan. It was a plan meticulously worked out by the Pilates instructor with occasional unhelpful suggestions from me. We would rise, journey to Adventure Bay, known lurking spot of a community of white wallabies. After breakfast we would enjoy the sight of pallid marsupials disporting themselves for our amusement. Then we would drive to North Bruny Island where a brisk 13km bushwalk would build up an appetite to be satisfied at the only dining establishment on the island open on a Sunday night.

Things went wrong almost immediately. Offered the choice of two routes to Adventure Bay my companion chose the one she felt would be the most scenic. In this she was right. How much of the truly impressive scenery she managed to enjoy as she carefully guided our little town car along an unsealed track that existed largely in the imagination of the cartographer is another matter.

We emerged from the primordial forest grateful to have escaped with our lives and finally found the sole café Adventure Bay could boast. After breakfast we set out to see the white wallabies which we expected to be performing a welcoming dance in the street. There were none.

The wallabies are most active at dawn and dusk. Apparently 10am isn’t considered dawn in these parts. Faced with an absence of wallabies we headed towards the start of the Fluted Cape walk where apparently white wallabies covered the ground. On arrival at the car park we were greeted by a pair of regular wallabies who were working the car park like truck stop hookers. They were very obviously posing for photos before an admiring group but we spurned their coarse advances and headed into the bush.

The beginning of the trail came and went and with no sign of our prey we kept going. Things weren’t helped by the fact that everyone we passed regaled us with white wallaby sightings until we ground our teeth in envy.

At some point we realised we had pretty much committed ourselves to the entire walk and found ourselves plodding reluctantly up an impressive hill. Things weren’t helped by the fact that my companion’s white wallaby obsession had clearly spiraled into madness. She was seeing white wallabies behind every bush.

“There’s one!” She shrieked.

“That’s a rock.”

A little further on,

“There’s one!”

That’s a branch.”

And so on. Eventually wallaby spotting or, more accurately, not wallaby spotting had to give way to gasping for breath as we struggled up to the cape. On arrival the walk was definitely worth the effort as we gazed over the sea and assured each other that the inadvertent walk had definitely been worth the effort.

Since we had never intended to go this far we had left our water and supplies back in the car. Fortunately some passing hikers took pity on our obvious ineptitude and gave us some water. Refreshed and having exhausted the photo opportunities provided by cliffs, sea, bush and random islands we headed down by a different path so we could not see wallabies in a different location.

By the time we reached the car park we had covered ten hilly and unintended kilometres and agreed that the walk we had planned to do could be put off until another day. Besides it was grey and starting to rain. But the white wallaby obsession still burned fiercely in our breasts. A cafe employee assured us that the wallabies would come down out of the hills around and parade for visitors in the local’s yards. They would do this around five pm. It was currently twenty to three.

So we sat in a car park for the next two hours as the skies got greyer and rain misted down. My companion’s delusion got worse as the shadows lengthened.

“There’s one,” she shrieked.

“That’s a gas meter.”

Suddenly we saw a group of people staring fixedly up at a hill behind a house. Eagerly we joined them, there may have been a certain amount of elbowing small children out of the way. There in the distance was a whitish shape that with a certain generosity of spirit could be considered wallaby shaped. We took photos and assured each other it was a wallaby before returning to the car park.

Of course we could have left then but with the shadows lengthening we decided there was little harm in hanging around until our welcome completely wore out. Back in the car we peered out into the gathering gloom until my companion clutched my arm.

“There’s,” she hissed, “it’s coming down the hill.” She took photos which we examined minutely. It was a sign nailed to a tree. It was now around five in the evening. We drove slowly and a little disconsolately along the street. As if to mock us regular hued wallabies popped up in every yard. 

Then as if by a flipped switch suddenly we were overwhelmed with white wallabies. They posed for photos, they hopped across the street at one point I think they tried to steal our car. After a long day our white wallaby cup ran over and puddled on the ground.

Travelling Hopefully - Arrival Edition

 My journey of a thousand miles began with the traditional step towards Sydney airport but rapidly improved as we were rapidly herded towards a modest sized aircraft that surprised everyone by being on time. I was also pleasantly surprised to find that in defiance of rational expectations 

Also defying rational expectations was the sudden presence of the Pilates instructor who had unaccountably rejected multiple opportunities to flee for the hills and joined me on the flight. 

We landed in Hobart slightly early, picked up our rental car and set off for Bruny Island. Thirty seconds later we stopped again and referred to the vehicles manual to identify such useful things as the indicator controls and why the hell the car kept beeping at us.

With cheerful enthusiasm and frequent cursing we eventually (and by “we” I mean she) worked out how the car was meant to work and we pointed our nose in the direction of Bruny Island. My role was to simultaneously keep an eye on the map and the speed limit signs and warn her if we ran anyone over.

We headed through bustling, downtown Hobart and two minutes later had left Tasmania’s glittering, cosmopolitan capital behind us heading for a car ferry that would carry us across the storm tossed waves to Bruny Island.

Actually the whole trip was remarkably painless despite my propensity to shout “wallaby!” every time a marsupial got within a hundred metres of us.

Middle afternoon saw us crunching up the drive of our rented cottage as wallabies fled in all directions. We got out of the car, rhapsodised about the view and the quality of the accommodation and promptly drove off to see a lighthouse.

My companion was much taken with said lighthouse, with the view and particularly the clouds and the sunset. I having followed her eager ascent perhaps a little too vigorously simply gasped for breath and tried not to vomit.

With shadows lengthening and park personnel glancing meaningfully at their watches we clambered back into our faithful if somewhat undersized steed and returned to our cabin. Along the way wallabies scrambled out of the way with sufficient frequency to explain the roadkill littering Tasmania’s streets and, not infrequently, driveways.

That night I dined on most of a sheep while my companion seemed a little miffed that wallaby had been removed from the menu. My suggestion that she simply scrape some off the road was not met with favour.