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 had 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.

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.