Tamar to Tasman

In the depths of cold and dark that are Canberran winter nights, a warming glow emanates from across the seas. Not so much from the UK – at least not up until this point – but from our fromage scented Gallic cousins. Scenes of summer meadows and mountain valleys, cheery peasants lining Boulanger boulevards, dreams of chateaux et gateaux, a blur of colour and heat wrapping an extra blanket around endless late nights. The Tour de France is almost as taxing for viewers down under as it is for the (non-doping) riders. A feat of endurance which is soon to be repeated with little respite as the Olympics kicks off. This very real tyranny of distance hurting.

Strategic napping has taken on greater prominence, and it was with a start that I was disturbed by a flight attendant asking me to lift my blind for landing as we approached Launceston. A tour of Tasmania, meeting great folk, eating well, celebrating arts and heritage, all taken in with the occasional climb and odd sprint.

Apart from the effects of a big Alpine stage the night before and unrelated back pain, Launceston on Friday 13^th started well. There was free car park money at Cataract Gorge, sunniness and eggs by the Tamar River at Stillwater, and an ambling drive west, along the coast to Wynyard, all bathed in warm winter light.

After spending some time with the locals, talking about what’s important to have a good life, it was time for me to again indulge in something approaching the good life with an ample and very pleasing serve of deep fried fish and chips in the car. Was this the peak of Friday 13^th? Quite possibly, as the darkness encircled, the mists descended, and the animals were crazily and manically dashing across the roads up from the coast all the way to Cradle Mountain. Which is renowned for wombats. Too many wombats, one of which sadly found its way between my car and the tarmac. Is this a requirement for citizenship?

The next day arose and the bad luck which preceded it was replaced with generally not-too-bad, actually this is better-than-expected type luck. Forecast wet misery held off until far into the day, and Dove Lake was still as glass, clear as a crystal and reflective of the land around. That’s not to say the sun particularly made much of an appearance, hence a tendency towards black and white over colour for at least a little while.

Despite the cloud scraping the jagged summit of Cradle Mountain, a vibrant lushness was still all too apparent. Seemingly tropical looking spikes and fronds interspersed with native pines, sassafras and trusty, gnarly old gums. Button grass and tannin pools occasional enlivened by flashes of parrot. It wasn’t until the final part of the day – higher up at Crater Lake – that the wet misery finally won out, and even this was somehow beautiful.

The descending gloom lingered and continued to be in place for most of Sunday. Slushy snow peppered the coldest surfaces of the car, and it appeared that the whole of this island was shrouded in the most English of drizzly cloaks. Instinct tells you however that, if anywhere, the south east coast will be protected. Is it worth an extra 200 kilometres detour just to get some sunshine? Probably not, but when the place happens to be the Freycinet Peninsula, it’s difficult to argue against it. For this is the sight of iconic Wineglass Bay, viewed after a surprisingly warming and unsurprising steep climb over a landscape more akin to the Kimberley than the far south of the far south of Australia.

Now down south, the remaining days were spent in and around Hobart, with its blustery freshness and maritime air akin to a slightly larger and more Aussie Plymouth. The area around Salamanca a reminder of what pubs could have been in Australia if it wasn’t for the gargantuan spread of gargantuan RSL’s and leagues clubs. Brickwork and wood, warmth and cosiness, and a mood just the right side of dinginess.

More contemporary yet with one eye on the traditional was the simply quite fabulous Museum of Old and New Art (MONA). It’s not your usual museum or gallery and while it could be seen as one man’s mish-mash of curious bits and pieces, it comes together in one engaging, labyrinthine whole. It’s an experience, a journey that begins with a sedate ferry ride up the Derwent, threads through angular passageways and covert crannies, and ends with gourmet foods and drinks in the late setting sun. A real asset to Hobart and Tasmania.

Above all, it’s the natural assets that are never far away in Tasmania, and Hobart itself is perched on the very edge of wilderness. To the west, a seemingly impenetrable wall begins at the edge of its suburbs, Mount Wellington towering 1000 metres above the city. While it might be pleasant enough in town, icy winds blast the summit of its peak, making it difficult to walk straight and hold a camera still enough to take pictures of the extensive views. Exiting the car is like leaving a warm oven and plunging straight into a bowl of liquid nitrogen. More tolerable perhaps, at this time of year, is lower down at Mount Nelson, where an old signal station becomes a cafe, and the fine views are protected by glass windows.

From here you can see across an island or two and yonder the Tasman Peninsula, itself almost an island, prevented only from being such by a thin strip of land at the evocatively named Eaglehawk Neck. This is where I ended up on my last day, a circuitous detour to the airport, first taking in the charming village of Richmond with its old bridge and fine attempt at looking like a small town in England.

From Richmond I headed south towards the peninsula, where the natural charms of its eastern side hit you in quick succession. With an absolutely picture perfect day you could almost see Antarctica. Well, maybe not quite that far, but the coastline was looking stunning at such tourist hotspots – though without very many tourists – as Tessellated Pavement, Tasman Arch and Waterfall Bay.

A fairly gentle coastal walk leads from car parking at Tasman Arch to Waterfall Bay. Here, not much was happening other than cliffs plunging forth into a deep, still horseshoe cove. This was pretty much the furthest south I could go, and it felt like that. Indeed, next stop Antarctica. Incredibly I had covered over 1,000 kilometres on the island from north to south. Not quite as arduous as that bike ride, nor as hot. But winter is not without its charms. Full of ingredients for a good life.