Travelling Hopefully - Carrot Country Edition

 My days wandering alone were at an end. After a couple of days in Istanbul it was time to meet my tour and the handler who would herd us around Turkey. We gathered at the hotel and sniffed each other out. The first thing I noticed was they were all quite old. They hovered more or less around the age of sixty. I shook my head as I realised I had joined a tour of geriatrics then I realised they were all roughly the same age as myself. Fuck! 

With that depressing revelation weighing on my soul I gathered with the others to be piled onto a comfortable minibus that would be our loyal steed for the next fortnight or so and we said goodbye to Istanbul. Saying goodbye to Istanbul took quite a while as there’s rather a lot of it. Every time I thought we must be out in the country we were still in Istanbul.

Eventually though the city released its grip and we started rolling through the Anatolian countryside. This, according to our guide, was the carrot centre of Turkey. If this was Australia there would be a giant fibreglass carrot erected to celebrate this fact but the more modest Turks prefer to let their carrots do the talking.

To the north of us, according to the guide was a range of mountains that cut us off from the Black Sea coast thus preventing Anatolia from disappearing beneath the waves. It also explained why this region didn’t get much rain. It started raining. Apparently some clouds had managed to sneak over the peaks.

Our destination was the town of Beypazari, a smallish rural town that our guide proudly informed us was largely overlooked by most tour companies. When asked why we were stopping there he was a little less clear.

Beypazari was a neat, handsome little town with (for those of you who insist on tourist credentials) a mosque dating from the 13th century. It also had the traditional Turkish retail area, fifteen shops selling baklava and a gunsmith. Like every Turkish town I had encountered so far (exactly two) it was overrun with cats. 

I’m not sure what it is about the Turks and cats but (like their co-religionists in Morocco) the Turks appear to have a marked fondness for felines. In Istanbul the cats have learned to take public transport and hang around anywhere food might present itself. That covers a great deal of the city. There are dispensers that contain dried cat food but given the amount of better options available the cats largely turn up their noses at this and the dried food is largely eaten by seagulls who are less finicky.

Back in Beypazari we visited a living museum. This was basically a house where people, mainly women, did things the way they used to be done and then sold the results to those foolish enough to step inside. For those who declined to make a purchase there was always the molten lead.

Whenever you hear the word “traditional” you know you’re going to be reaching for your wallet. But I was on holiday and my money wasn’t going to spend itself. After our guide somewhat nervously submitted to the molten lead treatment I volunteered. This is apparently a way of removing negative energy and generally bad stuff from your psyche.

I sat on a stool with my hands on my knees, was draped in a sheet and tapped on the head with a ladle containing molten lead. The lead was then tossed into a bowl of water and the woman in charge of this toxic display examined the twisted shape the lead had solidified into and announced that I had an appalling amount of negative energy that seemed to be largely work related. My faith in her abilities climbed somewhat. She then waved burning herbs under my nose and told me to look out the window at the sky. Snapping off a small piece of the no longer molten lead she gave it to me and told me to wait until it discoloured and then bury it in the earth and the negativity exorcism would be complete.

Our guide explained the reason for his unease. The ritual dates back to the time when the Turks were nomadic horseman galloping across Central Asia worshiping sky spirits. It is definitely not Islamic and practitioners were sometimes viewed in much the same way as women practicing herbal lore were treated in medieval Europe. Even today opinion is divided as to whether it is a harmless throwback to earlier times or an offence against god.

With my negative energy thoroughly purged in a manner that would not receive the approval of an imam we stopped off at the one place that wasn’t engaged in baklava production or gun repair and had dinner. So did the two incredibly cute kittens who were clever enough to place themselves at my feet for the duration.

Travelling Hopefully - Istanbul Comes Good

 I would have slept if jet lag permitted. Unlike the previous day when I had had to seek out my tour guide today I was being picked up from my hotel by my guide. I was waiting outside the hotel at 10am, he was waiting outside the hotel at 10am. Some ten minutes or so later we found each other and apologised for our respective tardiness.

Eventually we got ourselves sorted out and headed to what was once the most impressive set of fortifications in the world. I mentioned in my previous post that Constantine selected the site of the new Roman capital based on the fact that it was surrounded by water on three sides leaving just one side that hostile armies could approach without drowning. To address the dangerous gap in the defences on the fourth side a subsequent emperor arranged for the landward approach to the city to be sealed off with a massive defensive wall that stretched from the Sea of Marmara to the Golden Horn. That emperor was Theodosius II so the walls are called the Theodosian Walls. In actual fact Theodosius was a talentless non-entity and the walls were the work of his praetorian prefect Anthemius but if you’re the emperor you get the credit.

It has to be said Anthemius did his emperor proud. A triple belt of fortifications stretching from coast to coast. A wall sixteen feet high, studded with guard towers, then a bare strip of open ground (the technical term is “killing zone”) and then another wall thirty two feet high and studded with more guard towers offset to cover the gaps in the first group. Over the course of a thousand years enemy after enemy turned up at the walls of Theodosius and turned around and went home. Only once they were breached, in 1453 when Mehmed II’s cannons finally punched their way through and ended the Byzantine Empire.

And they’re still there. Battered, broken, crumbling under the assault of pollution and modern development but still guarding the landward approach to Istanbul. My guide was delighted to find someone who wanted to see the walls. Apparently not too many people do. Most of those who do are retired American military gentlemen.

Monday is apparently not a good day for visiting things if you want them to be open but it’s difficult to close over seven kilometres of walls. I stood next to them, photographed them and just stared in open mouthed delight. Some parts of the walls have been restored, others are in their natural ruined state. You can’t walk on them unfortunately (people had a tendency to to fall off) but you can gawp at them from all angles and gawp I did.

Once I had been surfeited on walls my guide took me to the Chora Church. Or rather Chora Mosque because this is another victim of the Turkish president’s re-election bid. Unlike Hagia Sophia however you can walk around pretty much the whole thing.

The church (or mosque) in its present form was completed in the early thirteenth century by which time the Byzantine Empire was on its knees. A senior government official named Theodore Metochites commissioned all new mosaics to decorate the interior. Here were the mosaics I had hoped for at Hagia Sophia. Breathtakingly beautiful and covering the walls and ceiling with depictions of the life of Christ and the Virgin Mary.

The church (mosque) is small, tiny by comparison with the Hagia Sophia, but I spent more time in the Chora than I did at the Hagia Sophia.

On the way back I drove under an aqueduct, visited a mini cistern and finished off the day with a Turkish bath. OK Istanbul you’re off the hook because that was pretty damned special.

Travelling Hopefully Slight Disappointment Edition

 I had booked a tour for my first full day in Istanbul which would take me to and, more importantly, inside the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia and Istanbul’s cisterns. First I had to find my tour guide. I was meeting him at Galataport which is a gleaming new facility where cruise liners park. I wasn’t too far away so I plugged my destination into google maps and set off boldly in the wrong direction.

Fortunately some frantic turns brought me onto the right path and I plunged through Galata heading downwards. This reassured me as I’ve noticed that ports tend not to be on the tops of hills.

Galata is on the Asian side of Istanbul whereas everything I was going to see was on the European side. Fortunately no swimming was involved. Despite my initial screw up I made it to the port area without any real problems and hung around with a bunch of other hopeful looking tourists speaking German. That is they were speaking German, I maintained a polite silence. With departure time rapidly approaching I accosted a random tour guide and asked him who I should speak to. Apparently it was him. He apologised and said he thought I was German. Which made ignoring me somewhat more forgivable.

With his charges belatedly gathered our guide herded us in the direction of the light rail which was our key to crossing the Bosphorus without getting our feet wet. It was early on a Sunday morning so we experienced the unusual luxury of being able to get a seat. As we crossed the Bosphorus we noticed the bridge was crowded with people fishing. The seafood restaurants near the bridge have the freshest fish in Istanbul.

Eventually the light rail spat us out near, well everything. The Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia and the cisterns are within about a five minute walk of each other. But first the Hippodrome.

Yes I didn’t mention the hippodrome did I? This was the social and political centre of the Byzantine Empire. Here people would come to cheer on the charioteers as they raced around the track. A royal box connected to the imperial palace and allowed the emperor to watch the races. It also allowed the populace (or at least the hundred thousand or so who could get a seat) to tell the emperor exactly what they thought of him and his policies. Which they did, frequently with vigour.

KThe stands and the palace are long gone but the actual course is now a public plaza with an ancient Egyptian obelisk standing at one end. More accurately there is half an ancient Egyptian obelisk standing at one end. The Romans/Byzantines pinched it from Egypt, cut it in half for easier transportation and lost half of it overboard on the journey. What’s left is at the Hippodrome, the other half is at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea.

Leaving behind this appalling example of colonial appropriation our guide took us to the Blue Mosque. The Blue Mosque is actually the Sultan Ahmed Mosque but so many tourists commented on the blue tiled interior that the Turks essentially stopped bothering to correct them. Sultan Ahmed was a little annoyed that the most impressive mosque in Constantinople was a former church (the Hagia Sophia) and commissioned this building to outshine it.

Grey and monumental on the outside, the interior is warm well lit and adorned with stained glass that was a gift from the Venetians. It is a working mosque so visits are arranged around prayer times. The famous blue tiles within are pale and not at all the cobalt blue I was expecting. Nevertheless if you had to pick a colour you would definitely go with blue. Great chandeliers adorned with faux ostrich eggs provide additional light.

The ostrich eggs probably require a little explanation. Back in the day the eggs were real and, coated with a special paste, happily rotted above the heads of the congregation. The combination of the paste and rotting ostrich egg created an odour too subtle for the human nose but that insects absolutely hated. It was in short 16th century insect repellent.

Once the wonders of the Blue mosque were if not exhausted then at least breathing heavily we put our shoes back on and took the five minute walk to the Hagia Sophia.

Sadly the Hagia Sophia did not live up to expectations. This is Justinian’s great church built in the sixth century. I had read much about it and was eager to walk in the footsteps of Justinian, gaze up at the great dome and examine the mosaics said to decorate the interior. Sadly politics and renovations have combined to interfere. 

The Hagia Sophia was a Christian church up until 1453 when Sultan Mehmet II conquered the city and converted it to a mosque. It remained a mosque until the 1920s when the secular government of Ataturk converted it into a museum. Then in the early 2020s the current president of Turkey was trailing in the polls and sought to pander to his conservative base by turning it back into a mosque. When it was pointed out that tourist revenue had taken a nose dive an awkward compromise was cobbled together. The ground floor remains a mosque but the first level was reopened as a museum. The views are not as great as they would be if you could walk on the ground floor and they’re hampered more by great metal support beams and scaffolding due to ongoing renovations. It’s hard to complain about the renovations, the building is fifteen hundred years old and needs some love to keep standing but it doesn’t make for good photography.

Still I saw beautiful mosaics and marble work and at least glimpsed the dome. And I have walked somewhat adjacent to the footsteps of Justinian. After that we hit the cisterns.

All of these things incidentally are within a five minute walk of each other. We walked in a door and down several flights of stairs and we were in the cisterns.

Here’s the thing. When Constantine the Great chose this location for his new Roman capital it had many things to recommend it. Straddling Europe and Asia it was a vital knot tying the empire together. Being surrounded by sea on three sides it was eminently defensible. As city locations go it had just one problem. No water, at least none of the drinkable kind.  If you wanted water it had to come from a long way off. And once it arrived you needed somewhere to store it. Aqueducts answered the first part of the question and these cisterns, vast underground water storage answered the second. But the cisterns don’t only rely on aqueducts, rainfall filtered through specially laid layers of earth, sand and stone makes the contents of the cisterns some of the cleanest water in Istanbul.

Now they’ve lowered the water level to allow walking platforms to be placed and one can walk about an artificial grotto built over a thousand years ago. Walk I did, taking in the carved head of a Medusa that had been pressed into supporting one of the pillars. In deference to the concerns of the slaves who built the place the Medusa’s eyes had been carefully carved out so that no one got turned to stone during construction.

After that there was nothing left to do except buy a football shirt, eat a slice of cheesecake and go to bed.

Travelling Hopefully - Transfer Edition

 Approximately nineteen hours after my aircraft shook the dust of Sydney from its wheels a completely different and significantly smaller aircraft deposited me at Istanbul airport and informed me that I was on my own.

I swept through passport control and baggage pickup without a problem and stepped out to find the driver who would take me to my hotel. Of course he wasn’t there. I hung around a seething mass of what, in a fit of generosity, I shall call humanity in the hopes that such an individual might present himself. He didn’t of course, what did present itself was a pair of women clutching the same tour itinerary as I possessed who were explaining to a random individual that their transfer had turned out to be more illusory than real as well.

Fortunately the random individual was one of those who preyed on (or assisted depending on your point of view) those people whose transfers had inexplicably let them down. Since we were all going to the same hotel he cheerfully bundled us into a random van, informed us that the price would be fifty euros each and wished us Godspeed.

The only term I can use to describe this van is “pimped out”. It had a faux marble floor. The interior lighting was blue and red neon. The seats were padded and comfortable with ample room for a lap dancer to gyrate between them. One suspects the vehicle is normally used for bucks nights and porn scenes.

The sun set in approximately five seconds and soon I and two others were ploughing through the inky dark in a vehicle I desperately hoped wouldn’t be pulled over by the police. My fears fortunately were groundless. An hour or so later they pulled up outside our hotel and after we paid them graciously released our luggage.

I can’t say I was surprised at the transfer screw up. I was almost expecting it. Fortunately the hotel was comfortable and conveniently situated if you like being convenient to night clubs. I had been travelling for over twenty hours at this point and even a half hour struggle with the air conditioning couldn’t minimise my delight at crawling into a bed that didn’t fold up on landing.

Travelling Hopefully- The Usual Beginning

 As usual my journey begins at Sydney Airport, a location that prepares you for your trip by making leaving it an unadulterated joy. Actually I haven’t even got as far as the airport yet. I’m in the hotel across the street. This indulgence has been forced on me due to the fact that my plane leaves at Obscene o’clock in the morning. That means getting up before I go to bed. Pretty much my only hope of not sleeping through the plane’s departure is to get an adjacent hotel and then sleep in the gutter outside.The hotel staff persuaded me to go inside by pointing out that they charged just as much for a gutter stay and there was no TV. 

Assuming I wake up in time tomorrow will see me nestled in the bowels of a large metal bird hoping it avoids the drones over Dubai and spits me out somewhere in the vicinity of Istanbul. Assuming my journey progresses as planned a vehicle will be waiting to whisk me to my hotel. At least that’s the plan. The last time I tried something like that I wound up stranded at Nairobi airport and if it wasn’t for the kindness of a nearby soldier I’d probably still be there. And dead of course.

Two days of touring Istanbul await or possibly two days of hitchhiking through the city trying to find my hotel. I do have to find it because the professional tour starts from the hotel two days after I arrive. Which should be just enough time to find the hotel, fall in a cistern and buy a football shirt.

Excitement and cultural experiences await. Always assuming I wake up in time.

Traveling Pathetically - Spiky Edition

 What with work, weather and sheer unregenerate laziness I haven't done many bushwalks of late. However the need to prepare myself for next year, where I have for reasons that are as silly as they are predictable I have committed myself to traipsing through South America, means that I need to get into something vaguely approximating shape. My trail app provided me with a 17km bushwalk through Middle Harbour and with an optimism that turned out to be wholly misplaced I locked it in.

The weather it has to be said was not promising. Actually it was promising and what it was promising was rain. A closer look at the weather forecast indicated that the rain wouldn't start until around 6pm by which time I would hopefully be back at home clutching my achey bits. I decided to take the chance and set out for Gordon. Having successfully arrived at Gordon I set out for the start of my walk. Two rather wearying kilometres later I arrived at the start of my walk and considered whether to turn around and go home. Gritting such of my teeth as remained I plunged into the bush.

 

This is not the bush I plunged into. It is an example of bush I encountered on my way to the bush

The day was cool, the sky grey and I was dressed warmly for the occasion. Fifteen minutes later I was down to a singlet. The day might be cool but I no longer was. The path stepped off a suburban street and promptly started descending towards water.

This is the bush I plunged into, not quite as impressive is it?

Water would be a prevailing theme of this walk. The track I was following spent half of its time roughly following a creek downstream on its journey towards Sydney Harbour then crossed and spent the rest of its time following the same stream back up to my starting point. Water was not long in presenting itself and my downward journey halted for fear of drowning. There were the usual dire warnings about leeches but to date I have seen not one. I'm not sure if I should be offended. For those of you desperate to know such things the water in question was Middle Harbour Creek which flowed, no one should be surprised to learn, into Middle Harbour.

See, water!

Water having been achieved I skipped (well stumbled) over the convenient stones to the other side of the creek and started heading harbourward. The trail I had selected was had a difficulty rating of "Hard" which I found difficult to fathom. Generally speaking if something is "hard" I don't do it. Although there is the occasional exception of course. I strode on through a generally silent bush. Normally I keep an ear out for birdsong in the hopes of getting a photo that consists of more than water and trees but a lot of this path was quiet. Winter probably had something to do with that as well as the sound of a bushwalker blundering along a path, gasping asthmatically and keeping up a low level diatribe of what he could be doing instead. Still if birds were noticeable by their absence there was certainly plenty of trees. And quite a bit of water.

Trees and water, don't say you don't get the full experience

And something looking suspiciously like rainforest

The sky was getting greyer and I quickened my pace. Shortly afterwards I slowed my pace again because, well, fitness. The sudden decrease in pace did allow me to snap the obligatory Clare McIntyre memorial fungus lurking modestly against a log.

And quite a handsome one it is too

The creek which had been a reasonably modest affair when I began started getting into its stride and began taking on riverlike proportions. Fish (I presume) occasionally hurled themselves out of the water before splashing back again. I'm not sure whether this was a desire for a change of scenery or an unsuccessful attempt at evolution. Still the occasional splash broke the silence.

Finally I heard what I'd been waiting for. The sound of birds. I clutched my phone and crept forward my eyes scanning the trees and bushes. What did I see? Trees and bushes. But I persevered. I have never managed to take a decent photo of the tiny birds that flit through the trees despite hanging around at likely looking bushes long enough for a passing stranger to call the police. Today a flicker of movement caught my eye and I just managed to take a semi adequate photo.

This is, according to google, an Eastern Spinebill

And here it is again

I was quite pleased with this trivial triumph and continued my journey with a spring in my step that lasted a good fifteen metres before degenerating into my usual desperate shamble. There was a little climbing to put a decent space between me and the water which was now becoming distinctly riverlike in my opinion. Still it enabled me to looked down over the creek which in my opinion no longer deserved its name.

I turned a corner and came face to face with an echidna. I have never seem an echidna in the wild before and now there was one snuffling its way down the path towards me. Unlike the flighty little birds it graciously posed for photos. I was utterly delighted and the spring in my step after that lasted a good hundred metres.

Frontal

 

And profile

 There were many other echnida shots but I'm exercising restraint. I carried on for a little while after that but I honestly didn't care any more. I had done ten kilometres of the walk plus another two just in getting there. A single spot of rain fell on my face and that was more than enough excuse to find the closest exit and flee for home as though a flood was about to commence.

 

 

Double the Ood

 Yes I know the title sounds like some kind of depraved Doctor Who cosplay but I assure you the subject material is completely innocent. Completely innocent and also thick and fluffy. Some time ago my parents, in a frantic attempt to find a birthday gift, presented me with an oodie. This fluffy, shapeless lump of material rapidly became my go to garment for the winter months as I snuggled inside the fleece and peered out from under the hood like a self indulgent monk.

Despite the fluffiness and comfort there was a problem. The oodie barely reached past my knees and my shins felt the harsh bite of winter made worse, if anything, by the luxuriant heat of the rest of my body. Blankets, rugs and thick socks were pressed into service but none of them had quite the air of decadent warmth imparted to the rest of my body by the oodie. 

Then suddenly, salvation. My manager gave up on her increasingly desperate attempts to get me to do some work for long enough to mention that she had recently purchased an oodie onesie. A link to the appropriate website was included. My eyes lit up and in a short period of time I had provided my credit card details to yet another random retailer on the internet. My identity must have been stolen so many times that it's like delegated schizophrenia. Still the surrendering of my personal details was a small price to pay as the new oodie was delivered to my door in a remarkably short period of time.

Suddenly I was clothed head to foot in oodie. The new oodie hugged my body in a way that would have been flattering if I had a different body. It too came in grey-black and when on it rather resembled kindergarten themed fetishwear. I'll just pause for a moment and let that sentence sink into your brain. 

Now encased in fluffiness I lounge on my lounge in dissolute comfort. Should the weather get bitingly cold then the original oodie goes over the top leading to an effect best described as "impromptu mummification". Two hoods cover my head, and a double layer of fleece envelops my torso. There are downsides of course. My reaction times have slowed to the point where even registering a pulse takes a minute or two and getting off the couch has become a journey requiring careful planning.

Despite these inconveniences my winters have never been so warm and comfortable. I find myself hungering for colder weather and being annoyed when the temperature is such as to render either oodie unnecessary. But when the winter chill hits I retreat behind my black covering and peering out from underneath my hood and bearing a strong resemblance to a somewhat pudgy Emperor Palpatine. Of course adding matching ugg boots is just the icing on the cake. 

 

Travelling Hopefully - OK A Real Ending

 We were due to fly out of Broome the next day. Firstly to Perth where my travelling companion and I would say our tearful goodbyes as she hopped a flight to London and I hung around until noon the next day for the apparently more difficult logistically complex task of returning me to Sydney. But our flight didn't leave until the evening so we had a day in Broome.

There was only one thing to do. At least there was only one thing for my companion to do and being an agreeable soul I did it too. In all her time in Australia she had apparently not been to an actual beach or bathed in the ocean. So off to Cable Beach we went. There I lounged on a bank while she disported herself in the waves. To be fair the waves did a good deal of disporting right back and it was a somewhat battered travelling companion who presented herself soggily to me and announced she was ready for lunch.

On the way to lunch we encountered some of our travelling companions and had lunch with them. This started a trend as we encountered virtually our entire tour group at various stages during the afternoon. Since farewells had been somewhat truncated the previous night this gave us the opportunity to say goodbye before we headed to the airport.

Broome's airport strongly resembles a colonial era railway station. It is somewhat modest in dimensions as are the aircraft which service it. At the airport we encountered the exact same travelling companions (to be fair there aren't that many flights out of Broome) and managed a bunch more farewells. We wound up having more farewells than Frank Sinatra.

Finally having been safely deposited in Perth we had to accept that the holiday was truly over and fond farewells (yes more of them) were given before my travelling companion headed off to the international terminal while I cast about to see if I could find somewhere to sleep slightly more comfortable than the floor of Perth airport.

So that's the holiday and now that it's all over I just want to say what a delight it was taking a trip with Rema, my travelling companion. We walked over Bruny Island and through rainforest, rode helicopters and waded through underground streams together. I drew the line at bathing in the subterranean pool after the guides mentioned the amount of bat excrement in the water but Rema was made of sterner stuff. To be fair she comes from Britain where the water utility companies are on a mission to make the water undrinkable. Rema is smart, strong willed and funny, I had an amazing time and I fondly imagine that she did too. We got on so well that we're planning on doing it again next year. South America may never be the same again.

Travelling Hopefully - An Ending of Sorts

 After wringing the water out of our limbs and brushing sand off our clothing we piled back into our truck which was now thundering down near abandoned highways in the direction of Broome. Mind you we had been heading in the direction of Broome for the last day and a half and so far the place had refused to show itself. 

Before anything Broome like could appear on the horizon we turned off yet again to enjoy lunch, snake scares and a bushwalk with the possibility of heatstroke. I say "snake scare" apparently someone saw a snake. It may or may not have been a member of our party or one of the other random individuals setting out to prove that it is no longer just mad dogs and Englishmen who go out in the noonday sun.

It really was terribly hot but the siren call that lured us on was "crocodiles". For the uninitiated crocodiles look rather like logs but have vastly different eating habits. We gasped and sweated through the bush. Well I gasped and sweated through the bush my travelling companion moved lightly with a spring in her step and eyes agleam at the possibility of crocodiles.

I should point out that we hadn't just plunged into the random bush in the hopes that large aquatic reptiles would present themselves for our entertainment. Below on our weary walk a large creek/small river glistened with beautiful blue-green water. Somewhere within those tempting depths lurked crocodiles, apparently.

As it turned out I was completely wrong. The crocodiles weren't lurking 'neath the turquoise depths. They were floating about in plain sight on the other side of the river. We flicked the sweat out of our eyes and peered at the log like forms. They certainly moved with more direction and purpose than could normally be attributed to logs. Eventually one of them heaved itself up onto the far bank and all doubt was removed.

My companion was beside herself. Well actually she was beside me which was a little problematic as she was eager to entice the crocodiles closer. She threw rocks into the water in the hopes of attracting their attention. When the crocodiles remained stubbornly close to the far bank she eyed me with such a speculative look that I edged nervously backwards. Eventually we had to accept that distant views of crocodiles would have to suffice as none of the crocodiles seemed inclined to visit and I point blank refused to risk my life in the hopes of enticing one closer.

With lunch, and crocodile sightings, completed we piled back into the truck for the journey to Broome. Due to the delay from the tyre changing we didn't return until after dark. Dropped off at the same backpackers we had started from we arrived to discover they had been having a pool party. We carefully navigated vomit and recumbent bodies until we could secure ourselves in our room. Fortunately the party had started in the early afternoon and everybody was pretty much passed out by nine. We decided to follow their example.

Travelling Hopefully - Limestone and Wet Shoes Edition

 We rolled back into Fitzroy Crossing which hadn't changed much since the last time we saw it. We dined at the restaurant attached to the campsite. Other things attached to the campsite were tennis courts, a pool and occasionally hot showers. We dined revelling in food we had no hand in preparing and served on dishes we didn't have to wash. And there was wine, oh blessed, blessed wine.

"Up early tomorrow," trilled our guides, "we have a lot of travelling to do and need to get an early start."

But we didn't get an early start. We woke early as commanded. We packed, cleaned out our tents, evicted the cane toads that had snuggled in overnight, ate breakfast and presented ourselves at our vehicle in good time for the afore threatened early start. There we found our tour leaders hauling out various lengths of pipe long enough to assemble a howitzer while a vast tyre was lowered slowly down from its resting place on the underside of the truck. 

We had a flat tyre which would need to be changed. A few of the more noble/capable members of the tour rushed forward to assist in the long and difficult process of jacking up the vehicle, removing the flat tyre, rescuing those who had been crushed beneath said tyre, manouevring the replacement tire into position, tightening the nuts, tightening them some more, yet more nut tightening, watching as our tour leader stood on the length of pipe used to tighten the nuts to tighten them even more, lowering the jack and collapsing soaked in sweat into the red dirt.

I say the more noble and capable members of the tour assisted with this. Those of us with few pretensions to nobility and none to capability sat around watching their travelling companion do pilates and contemplated crawling back into the tent for some more sleep. Eventually thanks to the combined efforts of a bunch of people who weren't me the tyre was changed, the flat tyre safely stowed in the bowels of the vehicle and we crowded on board as our leaders attempted not to faint from exhaustion. 

Eventually we roused our leaders sufficiently to head off and then off we headed. Our destination was Broome and the end of our trip but as they say (who precisely) it isn't about the destination but about the journey. If that is the case you probably got your destination wrong. But enough of these philosophical musings (to give my thought processes a dignity they don't deserve). Along the way we stopped at Tunnel Creek known to the indigenous people as Dimalurru. If you want an explanation for the increase in the use of indigenous names then the sheer lack of imagination shown by our colonial forebears in naming geographical features. Dimalurru may well mean "tunnel creek" in the local language but at least it rolls off the tongue a bit better.

Tunnel Creek is exactly what  you might expect it to be. It is a creek that flows through a tunnel. Specifically it has carved a path through limestone uplift resulting in a,somewhat damp, subterranean wonderland. In the late 1800's a local indigenous figure Jandamarra led resistance to colonial occupation in this area. At first violently and, when that simply resulted in his people getting killed, non-violently. Non violent warfare consists of terrifying and psychologically destroying your opponents to the point that they are unable to fight and for some reason is considered far more acceptable than simply punching someone in the face. Jandamarra gained a reputation for being strong in magic and dominated the region to the point that Aboriginal trackers and stockmen refused to work here and without them the cattle stations couldn't operate. Eventually the colonists got smart and recruited a tracker from outside the region who was also reputed to be strong in magic. This man hunted Jandamarra down and he was eventually killed at the entrance to the Tunnel Creek caves.

Following somewhat uncertainly in Jandamarra's footsteps we entered Tunnel Creek. We didn't really descend into the earth. More accurately the earth ascended over us as we followed the creek on the path it had carved through a rather friable hill. Up to our knees in water we ploughed through the Stygian depths the only light being the gleam of a thousand head torches as we (and a whole bunch of other people we had no connection with) lit the place up like a rock concert.

We slipped and splashed through the labyrinthine passage ways, slick limestone illuminated by our torches. I'm a sucker for a cave and the stream and the twisted rock formations made a striking backdrop to our walk. Eventually the cave exited the hill and so perforce did we. Then, because we had parked the truck at the other end we had to turn around and go back.

Travelling Hopefully - Maternal Cave Edition

 By this stage getting up at between 4 and 5am was becoming a habit. Our camp was a hive of activity as various sleep deprived zombies lurched back and forth tripping over cane toads, stuffing random belongings into equally random bags and in at least one case giving a highly inappropriate greeting to a large huntsman they discovered in the shower block (guess who). Eventually the bulk of our possessions and camping equipment were hurled onto the truck after which the same courtesy was displayed to us.

The tour leaders pointed the nose of the truck Broomeward but before we fled the region completely we paused at a crack in a limestone outcrop to see what we could find. Mimbi Caves is what we found although in keeping with historical tradition we didn't so much find it as turn up in the general vicinity to find an indigenous person waiting for us. Her name was Rosemary and she was there to guide us, chat to us and (perhaps most importantly) feed us damper and tea once we were done pawing her limestone. 

Firstly we were instructed to rub a small pebble under our armpit and toss it into the creek. This was so the Rainbow Serpent would get our scent and thereafter we would be able to bathe on the tribal lands without fear as the serpent would reccognise us. This was a relief to me as being savaged to death by a legendary indigenous creation spirit was definitely not covered by my travel insurance. Rosemary made no guarantees that the same trick would work on crocodiles.

Then, spirits assuaged, she guided us into the caves. I love a cave and this one was no exception. We followed Rosemary deeper into the cavern. I noticed various side tunnels twisting off and it occurred to me that all she would need to do is step around a corner and the lot of us would be hopelessly lost. With such cheery thoughts ringing in my head I admired the Aboriginal art on the walls and eased my way through the stalagmites and tites that seem to have been designed to make caves look eerily picturesque.

We came to a beautiful pool of translucent green water partially lit by the sun coming through cracks in the roof. We oohed and aahed appropriately and Rosemary noted that we could have bathed there (after all the Rainbow Serpent knows us now) but we hadn't brought swimming gear. Once person was concerned the area was sacred to the local people. Rosemary just laughed and told us she wasn't taking us to the sacred bits. Good luck trying to find them without her wasn't actually said but strongly implied. Since I doubt if we would have even been able to find the exit without Rosemary's guidance I was quite happy to simply look at what she wanted us to see.

"What do you think that rock formation looks like?" asked Rosemary indicating a significantly shaped chunk of limestone. I peered, "Wallaby," I suggested uncertainly. Rosemary stared, then laughed, then directed my gaze to the actual limestone formation she was indicating. It looked, well it looked like a chunk of limestone but if you tilted your head slightly there was a definite resemblance to a heavily pregnant woman. This was a place where women who were having trouble conceiving would come to seek the assistance of the spirits. Apparently it works. At least none of the female members of the tour group were prepared to take the risk.

After the visit to the pre-natal clinic we returned to the outside world and had tea (or coffee) and damper which was delicious.

Travelling Hopefully - Stripy Rocks Edition

 Early the next morning, far, far too early we dragged ourselves from our respective tents, doused ourselves in refreshing cold showers and prepared to face the day. I'm surprised the day didn't flee at the sight of us. I dragged on a yellow t-shirt I had bought at Perth airport at the insistence of my travelling companion who was afraid my all black wardrobe would attract flies. Of flies there were few but she emerged from her tent rubbing steroid cream on yet more mosquito bites.

The Bungle Bungles are an area of uplift looming over the plains around. Gorges trace through the hills providing a rough and beautiful landscape perfect for walking through if walking through gorges in 30+ degrees heat is your idea of a good time. Strangely it is mine. Then there are the rocks. This is the Bungle Bungles' drawcard. The exposed stone is striped orange and black like oversized humbugs or bees with a glandular problem. The orange is iron, the black is a type of bacteria that obviously has an artistic bent.

We set off for a walk in Cathedral Gorge. The intention was to get this walk done before the heat of the day really starting impacting us but it turned out that the heat of the day had got up early to welcome us. Despite the rapidly climbing temperature we ploughed on. Various Bungles rose up around us as we weaved our way through a beautiful landscape marred only by a vast profusion of cane toad corpses. The sight would have pleased me if I had believed a serious dent was being made in their numbers. Sadly this is not the case.

Despite these reminders of mortality we headed into the gorge until we came to an area with a small pool which historically was used as a birthing area by indigenous women. The entire of Cathedral Gorge was used as a shelter that women and children could hide in if danger threatened. After the birthing area we carried on deeper into the gorge until we came to a larger, beautiful pool. I don't know if the local indigenous people used this area for anything in particular but with stunning views, fresh water and only one way in or out they would have been mad not to.

Once scenery had been appropriately gawped at we retraced our steps back almost but not quite to our starting point and headed out on the more difficult track. Again dipping into our trip notes my companion and I were expecting a brutal death march, stairs were threatened in a manner which led me to believe there would be a ladder bolted to the cliff that we would have to ascend under the grim oversight of our hard driving taskmasters. We trotted up the stairs assuming the worst was to come. It wasn't, I am ashamed to say that my companion and I engaged in a little mockery of the difficulty level as we went along. The fact that we still had breathe enough to be smartarses indicates the level of difficulty actually undergone. My companion is, as noted, a pilates instructor with enough energy to power a city. I on the other hand am a shambling wreck whose lifestyle is basically a low level exercise in self harm. Despite this I was able to keep up with her even as the sun rolled up its sleeves and really got down to business.

Piccanninny Lookout whose name survives I suspect because no one knows what "piccanninny" means anymore provided us with spectacular views over parts of the Bungle Bungles and also provided a helpful fence to stop us pitching face forward into those parts. We photographed, my companion posed and yet more photographs were taken. Then, because the lookout had neither a bathroom or a Pizza Hut we returned to the carpark where we had left our noble steed. It was still early in the morning and despite the sweat lathering our bodies we were nowhere near finished for the day. Our truck bounced and jolted across the track heading for the aerodrome.

Yes, you heard me. To be fair an aerodrome is simply a flat patch of land where aircraft are allowed to land. And land they do. Somewhat more financially stable tourists fly in to the Bungle Bungles rather than subject themselves to the road. This is where they land. A small passenger aircraft lurked in the shadows as if to add verisimilitude to this fact. We weren't interested in leaving but also here were a trio of helicopters that did sightseeing flights over the Bungle Bungles and every single member of the tour had booked an opportunity to look at the sights without having to go to the effort of walking through them.

The helicopter flight was amazing, the Bungle Bungles spread out before us and the view from above was incredible. The flight lasted half an hour during which time the pilates instructor, who had hijacked my phone, took about a hundred photos. I settled for staring out of the side of the helicopter in astonishment. I would happily have stayed up there forever except; bathrooms and Pizza Hut. We landed in time for lunch which wasn't pizza but was welcome all the same.

In the afternoon there was another walk. No "cool of the morning" rubbish this time. It was peak sunstroke time but we were assured that the bulk of the walk was in the shade. It certainly was, Echidna Chasm was a narrow crack in a Bungle that stretched out before us. Shadows and darkness beckoned and I stepped forward eagerly and almost sprained my ankle. The ground was loose rock and pebble and rather difficult to walk on. Yet walk on it we did as towering rock walls closed around us as the chasm got narrower the further we went into it. Sadly we couldn't get all the way through. Parts of Echidna Chasm had fallen onto lower parts of Echidna Chasm effectively blocking the path. One of our guides claimed to have seen a snake but nothing came of that. I suspect it was scared off by the sound of over a dozen people crunching over a loose rocky path while squealing excitedly at the towering rock walls all around (ok, it may have just been me doing that last bit). 

That night our guides cooked us roast lamb over the fire and a tawny owl turned up and posed for photographs. I crawled into bed with my cup not just running over but floating away on the stream. 

Travelling Hopefully - Bouncy Edition

The next day dawned, gazed down on our campsite and blinked in astonishment. 

"Are you guys already up?" muttered Dawn, "Christ you're eager."

I'm not sure if eager is the correct word but there was an overriding desire not to be abandoned in Fitzroy Crossing so we lurched out of our tents, bundled up our gear and made a panicked dash for the truck. Our destination was the stripy hills of the Bungle Bungles but there were a couple of stops along the way.

First up was Halls Creek which is the largest town in these parts by dint of having virtually no competition. It seems to exist so that kites and eagles can lounge photogenically on telephone wires. It was also an opportunity for us to have the last cup of coffee that wouldn't come out of a jar for several days. Once out of modern Halls Creek we stopped at old Halls Creek which consists of a group of ruins some of them rather improbably built out of termite mounds. The town was moved closer to the airfield (which had been built in the Second World War in case the Japanese had an overwhelming urge to conquer Halls Creek) and the old buildings left to picturesquely decay.

In truth each stop along the way was an opportunity for us to make a mad dash for whatever toilet facilities existed but we wandered around taking photos to show willing while our guides let the air out of the truck tires.

Halls Creek is also known as being one of the catalysts for the creation of the Royal Flying Doctor Service. A stockman fell from his horse during a cattle stampede and suffered severe internal injuries. He was carted the 80kms to Halls Creek where the only man in town with a shred of medical knowledge (the local postmaster) placed him on a kitchen table and performed an operation with a penknife while receiving instructions from a doctor in Perth via morse code. Strangely the stockman survived the operation and the doctor in Perth set out for Halls Creek to perform after surgery care. It took him over two weeks to get there by which time the stockman had died. Ten years later this story prompted the Reverend John Flinn to start the RFDS.

With history imbibed, our bladders relieved and the truck tires appropriately floppy we continued our journey squealing with excitement at trees and scrub and what I was informed was Australia's largest flying bird, the Australian bustard. Insert your own jokes here.

The next stop was China Wall. My companion had studied the trip notes and noted that there was a punishing walk involved in seeing this particular feature. We agreed that we were sturdy souls and capable of much effort. With our loins well and truly girded we set off, descended a slope and we were there. Somewhat baffled we looked around for the arduous track we had expected but our guides assured us that we had arrived and pointed out the China Wall in front of us.

The China Wall is neither Chinese nor a wall. It is an outcrop of white quartz which has chosen to rear itself out of the surrounding sandstone. It does actually look a bit like a miniature version of the Great Wall of China and one can certainly be forgiven for thinking it was man made. It wasn't though but is rather the product of erosion and uplift over several millennia just in case you're thinking of criticising Australian construction practices.

After photos were taken it was time for the grueling hundred metre walk back to the truck. We were getting close now (in WA "close" is a relative term) and we turned off the nicely sealed road onto another which wasn't. The reason for letting some air out of the tires became apparent as we bounced and banged our way over loose and rather sharp stones, ground slowly through creeks and lurched, dripping, up hills on the other side. At least the truck did all of that excellently handled by our guides. As passengers our job was to clutch our seats and check to make sure our fillings hadn't fallen out.

And at some point the skyline of shrubs and occasional trees gave way to the Bungle Bungles looming around us as we approached our destination. For the record our destination was a classy camping area (our tents had actual floors) which would be our home for the next couple of days. At some point on the trip we had been encouraged to gather firewood with the result that our truck was carrying several trees worth of wood and a vast amount of insect life had been deprived of homes.

The camp was on a raised plain looking across at various Bungles which were appropriately lit up by the setting sun. My traveling companion was in transports at the prospect of sunset but sadly the Bungles between us and the sun prevented a dramatic photo. Instead the dramatic photos came later at night once the sun had set and an entire galaxy was spread across the sky for our entertainment. On the way back to her tent one of the new set of CoRS we had accumulated accidentally kicked a cane toad with such force that it prescribed an interesting parabola before thumping into the earth. I hope it doesn't learn anything from this, the last thing we need is cane toads that have learned how to fly.  

Travelling Hopefully - Ruined Bridge Edition

The road stretched out before us. My companion and I took our seats and gazed out at the surrounding scenery. The surrounding scenery consisted of scrubby plain interspersed with not particularly enthusiastic looking trees. Five hours later the road still stretched out ahead of us and the surrounding scenery consisted of scrubby plain interspersed with not particularly enthusiastic looking trees. My companion and I pointed out trees to each other with such eager enthusiasm that it's amazing we didn't murder each other before reaching our destination.

It hadn't been all scrub and trees of course. The scenery was enlivened by the occasional bloated cow corpse and stops at various road houses to partake of one of the wonders of civilisation, a flush toilet. Then just when we thought the trees couldn't get any more interesting we stopped to look at a boab tree. A boab tree is what Australias call a baobab although to be honest I insisted on calling it a baobab until my companion asked me what I was talking about. The baobab/boab tree was immense and gnarly and twisted and well worth taking a photo of so I did. Then it was back onto the truck/bus but sadly the other trees now rather paled by comparison.

Fitzroy Crossing was our destination for the day largely I suspect because we arrived there just before sunset and our guides didn't want to drive in the dark. Fitzroy Crossing has a large, handsome bridge spanning the Fitzroy River. This replaces the older, somewhat demolished bridge which was washed away in the bad floods of 2023. You don't remember those? They do in Fitzroy Crossing. The army had to airlift food to the inhabitants.

We were supposed to meet an indigenous guide who would explain the history and cultural significance of the Fitzroy River to the local indigenous population but she was unavoidably detained. Off the top of my head the presence of a large amount of drinkable water containing yummy fish is quite good enough reason for the indigenous population to find it significant. Guideless we wandered down to the river bank and looked at the ruined bridge site. People were swimming there. This seemed to indicate either an absence of crocodiles or that the crocodiles were full. Either way I didn't risk it.

We stayed the night at a camp ground where I saw my first cane toad. Shortly thereafter I saw my second, third, fourth and then stopped counting. The poisonous little bastards were everywhere. A local indigenous woman pointed out that since the cane toads arrival the goanna population had crashed which was a problem as the indigenous population used the goannas for such significant cultural practices as not starving to death. Even today (or rather in the recent past before the cane toads turned up) clobbering a goanna on the head and tossing it on a fire was a way of gaining useful protein when money was a little skimpy. This did not raise the cane toad in my estimation.

We rose early the next day. This would become a prevailing trend, we always rose early the next day. We swept the more visible dust out of our tents because exercises in futility seemed to amuse us before piling back into our rugged steed for another day on the road.

At this point the insect situation has to be addressed. We had been warned that this area was so inundated with flies that you couldn't breath without choking on them. In fact the flies weren't too bad but mosquitoes and other such biting things were a menace. At least I assume they were. Neither I nor the rest of the tour group seemed particularly bothered by them but my travelling companion was savaged. It didn't matter how much insect repellent she put on, this merely encouraged the mosquitoes to be more creative and, shall we say, intimate about the location of their biting. My travelling companion, drawing a distinction between herself and the pallid Anglo-Saxons she was surrounded with announced that her "spicy Indian blood" was irresistable. The mosquitoes certainly thought so. She treated the bites with steroid cream and by the end of the trip was in danger of looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Travelling Hopefully - Hopefully Traveling

 We left the place of carved wood ignoring the vengeful muttering of bumblebees outraged at our escape and pointed our nose towards Hobart and the end of our journey. My companion was driven to transports of ecstasy over the beauty of the Tasmanian countryside. I, who had visited Tasmania several times, affected an air of world weary indifference that impressed her so much she threatened to brain me with a water bottle. 

As we approached Hobart and the Tasmanian countryside started to change into the Tasmanian cityside it became obvious that something was wrong. The minibus, our noble steed for the past few days, was struggling. Warning lights that no-one, not even our tour leader, recognised started appearing on the dashboard and our pace slowed to a glacial crawl. Painfully we inched our way up hills while other traffic, bicycles and the occasional motivated pedestrian whizzed past us. Downhill gravity and momentum came to our aid which gave us enough of a run up for the next labouring ascent.  

Inch by inch we crawled towards Hobart cursing every red light that brought our dubious progress to a halt. Eventually however the minibus heaved itself over the last rise and trundled down into the streets of Hobart where gathered impetus and the prayers of the passengers helped it lurch to a halt at the Travelodge which was our finishing point. Here my companion and I said a hasty farewell to our leader and the remaining CoRS before grabbing a fully functioning uber to the airport adjacent caravan park that would be our home for a disturbingly short number of hours before our flight to Broome the next day. Once in our accommodation my companion amused herself by striking pilates poses while I amused myself by ogling and taking photos (with her consent I hasten to add).

At obscene o'clock the next morning we dragged ourselves to Hobart airport for the first of three flights that would eventually deposit us in Broome at the other end of the continent. As we flew over Bass Strait the rising sun provided us with an unforgettable picture that was eclipsed only by the sight of the same sun setting as we were landing in Broome. Having woken before 4am we arrived in Broome after 7pm and arrived in our accommodation. As we entered my companion stared at me with an look of betrayal on her face. I had selected the accommodation based on the fact that our tour would pick us up there the next day. My companion thought we were staying in a Travelodge, a cheap but reliable hotel chain. We were actually staying in a travelers lodge, essentially a backpackers hostel thronging with young people disinclined to go to bed at an early hour. I pointed out that we were only there until 7.30 the next morning and she pointed out that the chances of my surviving that long were decreasing by the minute.

Strangely we both survived the night, had our last hot showers for several days and presented ourselves at the entrance in good time the next morning along with a couple of other travelers joining our trip who had made the same foolhardy decision as myself. A little while later we got a call from the tour group asking where we were. Apparently they were at the end of the driveway and hadn't thought to come up to the actual entrance to see if we were around. With that little misunderstanding resolved we clambered onto a large wheeled truck with windows and (blessedly) airconditioning and pointed ourselves in the general direction of the Bungle Bungles, our ultimate destination. 

Travelling Hopefully - Carved Wood and Bumblebees

 The next day steeped in culture and with the scent of rainforest lingering in our nostrils we departed Strahan. Truly there was no reason to stay and the place was becoming less like a tourist attraction and more like a haunt for serial killers with every passing hour.

So off we went my companion and I plus a tour leader and various hangers on. Our first stop was Queenstown which completely failed to alter the latent serial killer vibe that was starting to permeate everything. 

We had breakfast at a cafe attached to Queenstown railway station.

“Aha!” I hear you cry, “So Queenstown has a railway service.”

Well yes and no. Slightly yes but mainly no. What it has is a heritage railway run as a tourist attraction. Technically it connects Queenstown with Strahan but the last time I caught it the  train stopped halfway and returned to its point of origin. Not that I’m complaining about not visiting Queenstown.

We finished breakfast and fled Queenstown as quickly as we decently could. Behind the wails of souls damned to walk its treeless streets clawed at our sanity.

Which is probably why we stopped at Lake St Clair. It is virtually impossible to travel to Tasmania and not stop at Lake St Clair. Certainly there is a very pretty lake there and it’s also the terminus of the Overland Track. 

The Overland Track starts at Cradle Mountain and finishes at Lake St Clair. Hikers whose fitness and enthusiasm are sadly not matched by their sanity or good judgment launch themselves into the alpine wilderness and usually emerge at Lake St Clair where they call a bus to take them home. I say “usually emerge” because sometimes they don’t emerge at all. Finding the unfortunate victims bodies is difficult because Tasmanian devils have very powerful jaws and even more powerful digestions.

On that cheery note we dined on pizza by the lake and looked out for the snakes that warning signs promised us were stacked ten deep on the most popular trails. We didn’t see any and slunk back to our minibus to look at some carved wood.

At least some of the CoRS looked at carved wood. I had seen the carved wood the last time I was in Tasmania and had no desire to see it again. Other CoRS came out with words of praise for the carved wood and the Pilates instructor berated me as she had followed my example and not looked at the wood. Instead she had spent most of her time watching one of our number flee squealing pursued by a bumblebee. Possibly the least menacing predator known to man. As for me I was still getting over the shock of someone making decisions based on my opinions.

Travelling Hopefully - Rainforest Edition

At Strahan a stern choice awaited us. We could either go for a walk through the rainforest or take a cruise up the Gordon River which would allow you to see the rainforest while sitting in a seat. For reasons that are unclear to me even now I and the Pilates instructor chose the first option in the company of a couple from England while the remaining CoRS chose Option B.

Our tour leader bundled the four of us into the minibus and drove us deep into the woods. Despite this horror movie themed start the day got better as we set out on our walk. The sky was grey, the air was cool, rain threatened but didn’t eventuate and we ambled along chatting and photographing the scenery.

It wasn’t virgin rainforest, we were walking along an old mining track and in the recent (geologically speaking) past miners had stripped the countryside bare. Since they stopped the countryside has grown back with a resilience bordering on bloody mindedness presenting us with apparently pristine wilderness. We took photos of fungi (me), leaves (the Pilates instructor) and less specific scenery (everybody). Our destination, and we did have one, was Montezuma’s Falls a waterfall which promised to be in good shape after recent rains.

As we strolled through the lush bush we spared a thought for our fellow travellers forced to sit in comfortable seats, choking down complimentary salmon and champagne while the boat did all the work for them. Poor bastards.

Our walk took us past an old mine shaft, a dark opening in the hillside. I took a photo and stared at the indistinct figure that appeared to look back at me out of the darkness. I apologised to the tourist I had inadvertently photographed and hurried on before she could press charges.

Montezuma’s Falls came into view with an impressive amount of water taking the most direct route down without any of that “carving of a valley” nonsense. There was also a suspension bridge that seemed to exist only to creep out those who crossed it. It didn’t actually go anywhere.

On our way back to Strahan we stopped at Zeehan for lunch. A Sunday visit to Zeehan is like walking into a scene from a Scooby Doo cartoon. You expect the ghost of an ancient miner to pursue you through the abandoned but picturesque streets. Sadly we had to leave before we could reveal that the “ghost” was actually the much loved family solicitor trying to swindle the heiress out of her fortune.

Back at Strahan we collected the rest of the CoRS and were quietly smug to learn they hadn’t had a great day. Then we went to see The Ship that Never Was a play I saw last time I was in Strahan and is immense amounts of fun if you like pantomime and audience participation.

Travelling Hopefully - Rapid Walk Edition

After our triumphs at the Devil sanctuary we set off for Dove Lake where we intended to challenge the elements by walking the six kilometre circuit in weather conditions my companion called delightful and I thought was a precursor to the apocalypse. There was wind, cold and icy rain while mist virtually concealed Cradle Mountain, the putative object of our efforts , from all but the most penetrating of gazes.

We were in a hurry, apparently. Our tour leader chivvied us and impressed on us the absolute importance of our doing the six kilometre circuit within an hour and forty five minutes. If we lagged behind it was strongly implied that we would be abandoned to the ice and snow and the devils would feast on our bones.

While we were challenging the elements at Dove Lake our tour leader guided the bulk of the remaining CoRS on what was supposed to be a more modest walk that would culminate in wombats.

With our leaders encouragement/threats ringing in my ears I charged down the path. My companion showed a disturbing tendency to stop and enjoy the view or take photographs. I had no patience with such trivialities and urged her on through the sleet and mist.

Despite my companion’s annoying tendency to attempt to enjoy herself we made the six kilometres in an hour and thirty seven minutes and had time left over to photograph wombats. 

After that giddy with triumph (and in my case hypothermia) we headed off to Strahan.

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.