Fantassie Islands

Less musing, more amusing! Minimum philosophy maximum photography! Words are for birds! You can’t beat an overseas trip to perk up the blog, and so especially for you I hopped over the Bass Strait to the island of Tasmania for a long weekend, where tas meets mania and all is well with the world and, mostly, the weather.

Things kicked off on a splendid, warm sunny flight from Canberra on Saturday morning, arriving at a splendid, warm sunny Hobart, where the Salamanca markets were in full flow and fish and chips beside the harbour were always on the cards. Taking advantage of the fine weather after lunch I decided to test the hire car out to see how lame it really was by driving the incredibly dramatic road up to Mount Wellington, a hulk of rock rising up 1271 metres from Hobart and offering views of southern Tasmania.



Amongst the many bays and clumps of land in view was Bruny Island, destination for a couple of nights, and reached by a round about way via ice cream at Hoonville and a suprisingly large ferry from the smaller town of Kettering. The island lived up to everything I hoped for... tranquility and nature working in perfect harmony for the most part, though with such a sparse population, eating options were limited on the first evening. Thankfully the only pub on the island served food which was easily surpassed by the location on Sunset Bay. Which was, suprisingly, not the place I watched the sun disappear. Instead this was appreciated from the hummock, an oversized sand dune which affords views of the thin strip of land linking North and South Bruny. A beautiful place many fairy penguins call home.



The sun thankfully re-emerged the next day, sneaking through some early morning haze at Adventure Bay campground, staying in the luxurious end of town a stone’s throw (okay, it would need to be a pretty impressive throw) from the beach. An ideal place to take a pre-breakfast stroll and attempt to use a fishing rod. Webinar from Dad required I think.

After discovering a pleasant little breakfast spot, the rather too sensible and sluggish silver Nissan Tilda was used and abused on the alternating sealed and dirt roads of the island. The logical place to start is at the bottom, down at Cape Bruny which, in the buffeting wind, was one of those edge of the world type places that I rather like a lot for some reason. It could be my upbringing on an extremity of the British Isles which makes such a spot, reminiscent itself of other extremities of the world, somewhat alluring.



That’s not to say it was all gale force winds, plunging cliff faces and white bird poo everywhere though. Sure, there was a fair bit of this, but turn a corner, take a dirt track a couple of kilometres and you can easily find yourself in one of the many sheltered bays providing shallow waters and white sands to at least test the temperature of these southerly seas.





All this sea air makes you hungry, so I believe, especially when it has been a few hours since breakfast and a cheesemaker happens to be one of the few man made attractions on the island. In a country which likes to think it is sophisticated in the munching of cheese, and generally is despite the prevalence of the Coon cheese brand name and excrutiating absence of Reblochon, Tasmania happens to be la creme de la creme. The Bruny Island stuff was pretty good, lacking some mould in places, but other than that providing quite a diverse selection.

With body fat elevated to near 95%, something had to be done, and it was now clearly time for a decent bushwalk back near Adventure Bay. The steady hike from sea level to the top of Fluted Cape must have burnt off at least one of those small wedges, and the views over precipitous cliffs as you struggle to stay upright walking back down a few more. Despite being at times frustrating and a little scrambly, it was at least a bit of an adventure in Adventure Bay and provided a few stomach lurching moments (or was that the cheese?) looking down the full 300 metres to the brilliant blue sea.



By this stage, I had hit that holiday road trip style mood, a kind of self satisfied feeling of not really having much of a care in the world, living in the present and enjoying nothing else but being slightly disconnected from reality. Adventure Bay was a great place, lacking a cafe or takeaway perhaps, but a beautifully peaceful location where all you really needed was the world outside.



On Monday morning it was back over to the big island, a brisk return to comparative civilisation, off the ferry at Kettering and amongst the traffic of Hobart in 30 minutes. At least food choices were aplenty, and a supermarket was forthcoming to make some bird rolls for lunch. Now all that was needed was a suitable picnic spot, provided an hour further up the road in Mount Field National Park. This is home to Russell Falls, a place I had been three years previously but worth visiting again, encapsulating the incredibly lush green western half of Tasmania, and offering good, rewarding walking. You can’t beat some solid wooden decking winding through a tunnel of giant ferns.



Sadly it is a pretty solid fact that waterfalls need water and the first rain of the trip arrived as forecast and meant a twisty drive further up to the alpine environment around Lake Dobson yielded little other than wet jeans and the need for a cupcake to compensate. The western half of Tasmania was living up to its reputation as a rain magnet.

Never mind, all in all, mother nature had been pretty kind to me on this trip and there was one last pleasant surprise on my final morning in Hobart before returning to the airport. With an hour or so to spare I ventured over to the eastern side of the city across the broad channel of the Derwent River. At Rosny Park, the lookout yielded views as promised, but it was down in nearby Bellerive that I happily stumbled upon a sweeping sandy bay, with lovely views back to the city and Mount Wellington beyond. Happy that pretty much my last footsteps in Tassie were in the sand.

Malo e lelei Brodburger, ¿Te gustaria เที่ยว the bush?

That gently undulating downhill feeling continues unabated, possibly even sharpening with a gentle cooling off and some wet stuff from the sky. I remember February being the most miserable of months back home, blessed only in its brevity. Here it has better prospects, but still quite aint January! My efforts to even up the slope are taking on more extreme measures, which will culminate in a trip in a couple of weeks time to Tassie (disparate times call for desperate measures, where at least if nothing else I will temporarily acquire two heads). For now though, time has been perked up by Brodburgers, interspersed with multicultural vibrancy and equally dampened and delighted by some holes in the ground. Read on to find out what the hell I am harping on about.

Now, just when you thought Canberra couldn’t get any more true blue dinky di strewth me crikey woogoobabbalugga down woop creek, the place turns things on its head and goes all multicultural on us. Which is partly a means to make middle class whitey say ‘Look, at me, I’m not a racist, I’m eating gozleme’ but also a chance for people from various backgrounds to come together, show us what they call proper tucker, and do a few dances. Thankfully the many cultures of the multicultures trumps the monoculture through colour, sound and smells of the multicultural festival... though I’m not quite sure how authentic the same BBQ chicken and lamb skewers are in Thailand, China, Macedonia, Poland, Fiji, Saudi Arabia and Finland.



Beyond the similar sizzling smells, one of the most striking features of the multicultural festival is the number of people in a small area in what is usually a spacious, soulless part of Canberra city. This becomes even more dramatic after the sun has gone down, the samba beats backed by a constant throb of love, life and laughter transporting the mind to Rio... for a few seconds... before you run into the youths hanging outside the kebab shop with their stylised bed hair, short shorts and rising intonations.



All these people, all this diversity, all this choice. Too many people... too much choice... not used to it... can’t decide which of the skewers to queue for. There is a shining beacon on the way home. Thank Brod. No ordinary burger van.

Like the burger disappearing into my mouth, I too disappeared into a cavernous black hole with uneven surfaces and a slightly stale smell on Sunday, transporting myself through cloud and drizzle and downpours and cloud and drizzle and no sun and more drizzle to Wombeyan Caves, two hours to the north of Canberra. I figured if it was going to rain all day I may as well head underground and forget about it. I’m becoming a bit of a cave aficionado these days, and Wombeyan ticked all the criteria of Cave Environment 101. A narrow, precipitous road leading down to an even narrower lush valley, like a hidden world from Jurassic Park. Holes in the hills leading down and around stalag-thingeys and whatsamitecallits. Droplets of water drumming a regular beat in cavernous caverns. Cheesey narrations scaring the bats from their bat caves. And the dazzling light at the end, a sky glaringly grey and still drizzling.



The caves had it all, but I think the highlight was actually a walk through the beautiful bushland around this area. I wasn’t expecting anything quite so lush and wonderful, all deep greens and flowery whites, the smells far superior to the skewers of yesterday, and brought out more by the persistent rain. I actually got quite wet on the walk, but it didn’t seem to bother me too much (in fact, in a sadistic British way it was oh so rather pleasant). Even the churning muddy waters of what are probably usually beautiful still pools of water didn’t seem to matter too much.





That evening, all dry and cosy, I was reminded how so different it was exactly one year ago. We’d reached the 40s, my washing was drying on the line in a matter of minutes and, down south, Melbourne was smashing records. Victoria, and Australia, was about to experience its worse natural disaster in history as fire upon fire exploded and wreaked a path of unforgiving, indiscriminate destruction. In parts mesmerising, and in many parts harrowing, the account of that day retold on the ABC certainly gave some perspective. Rain, and post January downhill meanderings, aren’t so bad after all.

Awestrayleah

I don’t know if it’s the inherent seasonality of winter in my genetic make up that continues to make this time of year so enchanting, so suprising, so satisfying... my bones and genomes and chromosomes still attuned to expect grey cold misery but filled with long sunny days and nourishing warmth, triggering a slightly smug smile every day I drive alongside the white gums of Captain Cook Crescent. It’s the time of year when Australia seems to be the only place you would ever want to be, which is a bit tricksy of it my precious. It’s only tempered slightly by wondering each day if this is the summer ‘peak’, leaving us in a virtual hangover from too much tennis, BBQing, sandy toes and iced coffee. That’s a bit how I have felt this weekend, at a bit of a loss, disappointed at inefficient cycle mechanisms, annoyed at kitchen mess, unexcited by bushland spots, bored with facebook but not bored enough to play fishzoofarmland or whatever. There are still shots of tennis and BBQ smells to keep me from that. Plus mood swings in one paragraph.

One wonders if the peak is in fact Australia Day, the time when all this good Australia has gathered and snowballed and hits you in the face with its beauty rich and rare. A time when some 200 odd years ago some some bumbling Brits landed next to where Gelatissimo now stands down at Circular Quay, poked a flag in the ground and proclaimed this place for King and Country. Now that was lucky, as it means some 200 years later we all get a day off and do our best to be whatever it means to be Australian or, at least, honourary Australian.

For many it is of course obligatory to be beside the water, getting dumped by sparkling surf, casting a line, taking the dog for a walk, getting greasy hands from fish n chips. For me, it was a pleasure to head down to the coast over the weekend to do some, if not all of the above, and to be able to share it with, if not my own family, someone elses. Because the Australia Day weekend – like any day really – is a chance for families to come together, to share the good times, to play snooker in the garage and have the odd robust discussion after a few glasses of wine. It’s just doing what families do and thank you to that family in question who extended their warmth and endless food upon me and gave me something extra than just another trip to the beautiful South Coast. (Note: real family: it could be you! Airline ticket and time off required, good times guaranteed!)





And so like strawberries are with cream, steak is with salad, and hunger is with mention of nice food, the other Australia, the other jewel in which people gather beyond the crystal seas is the obiquitous bush. The bush is a giant green shrub situated in the heart of Australia that people worship, a concept popularised in 3D by James Cameron. In fact, that’s not far off the truth, though it is billions of trees instead, and miles of sunburnt country, with sweeping plains, some ragged mountain ranges, all subject to droughts and occasional flooding rains. The Bush is as Australian as Shane Warne dressed in a white singlet holding a lamington in one hand and a XXXX in the other while whistling the tune to Neighbours as he rides a kangaroo to the dunny. The Bush even has its own capital, known at Canberra, which is a roundabout way of bringing this post back from some wild tangents to where I was on Australia Day.

Canberra seems to come to life a little on Australia Day, which I guess should be expected given it’s the capital of Australia. Suddenly people are everywhere, things are going down, Canberra is on the news. My part in all this was mostly on the periphery, watching afar as 35,000 people picnic down on the lawns of parliament house for an Australia Day Eve concert featuring mostly Grade B Australian star turns. Watching instead the things that are here everyday, but just as worthy of cheering about.





January 26th itself, and possibly the peak of this summer, brings with it a sense of ceremony and celebration. In Canberra the Prime Minister and Governor General undertake their usual polite attendance of military parades, give us a speech on why it is so darn good to be Australian, and then, like everyone else, head off for a few gross processed cartiliage snags and listen to unpatriotic and underwhelming winning songs of Triple J’s Hot 100. For me, it was a bush walk, a fish platter and an afternoon watching sport. A good attempt at being Australian I think.





It is of course, totally self indulgent but then why not? Coming from a country where it is a national sport to grumble about everything, it’s refreshing to have some communal back patting and celebrate what you have got. The academics of course debate what it means to be Australian and have all sorts of serious ruminations and grievances but thankfully the rest of the country just indulge in one big “F**k it, let’s get out in the sun, eat some grub, have a few beers with some mates and listen to some tunes.” The culmination of “F**k it Day” is, you guessed it, fireworks, up and down the land. The best fireworks were happening on Rod Laver Arena, where some freckly Scottish youth was making a Spanish chap with a continuous wedgie run around and hurt his knee chasing tennis balls.

And as the fireworks fade, the end of a chapter of the year seems to abruptly come upon the nation. People go back to work. Talk of interest rates and environmental schemes resurface. Crap TV programs return for another series. Suits and ties and shirts emerge back in the cafes. It’s all a bit more serious and suddnely important. But it’s only the end of a chapter of what is a rather large and seemingly endless book. A good book. The peak may have been, but it’s no Mount Fuji, instead more like the alpine ranges of this great southern land, gently rounded and undulating, with plenty more high points on the horizon.

I'm hot N' cold

And so here we are in twenty-ten and January is racing away from us already! Predictably once back at work the weather turned from dreary to sweltering, the snow in Europe seemed all rather ridiculous and exploring Westfield’s air con rather sensible compared to wandering the Botanic Gardens in the midday sun.



Despite the heat, things don’t stop (i.e. life goes on… i.e. no slacking off… i.e. no stopping work because of the weather) and I’ve been busy meeting new year’s resolutions, including ridding the bike of cobwebs, giving it some air, tweaking with the brakes and using the damn thing. On a Monday night after work when it was still 38 degrees. Somehow it was really enjoyable, thanks largely to a reasonably flat route around part of the lake and the cooling airflow as I hurtled along at, ahem, great speeds.



I hope I am warming avid readers from Europe up. Sometimes I wish we could share more. Like when I can’t sleep because it is too hot, couldn’t you just dump a few piles of snow outside my back door so I can cool off? And when your tootsies are frozen from bitter Siberian winds, I can send you a puff of hot air blasting from the dead heart of Australia?

Having said that, things did chill out a bit later in the week thanks to the marvel of the cool change. This is quite an Aussie thing, and in geeky weather terms quite fascinating. An upper level trough which is responsible for directing the hot northerlies from the desert passes through and suddenly the winds are coming from Antarctica. On Wednesday the temperature dropped about 15 degrees in something like an hour. Just in time for a game of tennis. And then there was snow… well kind of…

Pleased to be on the open road, blaring away some tunes and passing through dirt bowl towns I headed down to the Snowy Mountains for a bit of a hike. Welcome back clothes! Up here at 2,000 metres it was time to break out the extra layers and head up into the clouds which were blowing around in quite a bracing wind.



While the Snowies might not be the most spectacular mountains in this world, you can’t argue with the contrast from virtually everywhere else in Australia, which is in itself refreshing. Openness, gravel paths, bogs and granite rocks. Dartmoor on steroids. Just to prove it is Alpine there are even a few glacial lakes, one of which, Blue Lake, was a rather delightful end point for an up and down walk. It even provided a perfect rock to sit upon for lunch and some sunshine. Someone is looking out for me… but then I haven’t really been a bad boy yet this year.

There were even a few blobs of snow around, and not a BBC news special on it in sight. Don’t think I can get away with a snow day tomorrow. And so, despite the walk back the same way, the clouds lifting had made it seem more like a circular, and pleasingly it was mostly downhill to the Snowy River crossing. All this happiness and love tarnished by a killer uphill section back to the car park at Charlottes Pass.

Now it was quite warm again, and back on the road home, past those same old dust bowl towns, there was more crazy weather experiences, as some very funky clouds gathered, forks of lightning created near heart attacks each time they bolted down into distant bushland, and I got through unscathed. Rain cleared, BBQ on, beer in hand, thoughts of Westfield air con in mind, and sweet sweet dreams (of Reblochon cheese on sale in Coles no less). Some dreams are harder to achieve than others.