Tasmanian Tales

We've had a reprieve from housesitting and were on the road again. This time we were travelling in a shiny red ute, a Holden rodeo. I told Himself it made me feel young and adventurous.
Elsa the gorgeous German pointer had said a fond farewell to Himself, she had become very attached to him during the past week. I had been in Caloundra visiting my dear Dad.
Her family were now back with her in Launceston, before they embarked on the next leg of their adventure in a week's time.
We had been generously given the use of their second vechile.
Down the east coast we drove until we stopped at a beautiful lodge on the Freycinet peninsular. Tasmania had been visited by the Dutch, the French and then the English in turn. The French saw that the island already belonged to native inhabitants so didn't bother any further - not so the English who came later and claimed it as their own. However Freycinet peninsular was named after that first group of French explorers.
The lodge was absolutely beautiful, our cabin looked out over Coles Bay, so peaceful and relaxing. The decor, furnishings and ambience left nothing to be desired.
The next morning after a hearty breakfast at the lodge we embarked on the walk to Wineglass Bay. 18 years ago I had done it and had fond memories, white sandy beaches and green clear water set against a backdrop of the Hazards, pink and blue granite stretching endlessly upwards to the blue sky above.
We made it to the Lookout, challenging, but I assured Himself that this was the worst, it was all downhill from here. The Lookout was spectacular, they had certainly made a heap of improvements in the last 18 years, the walk to the top meandered a lot more and was not as steep as I recalled.
However Himself was recovering from a chest infection and did ask the question at the lookout "how about going back to the car park?"
You could not come this far and not go down to the bay, was my reply. Surprisingly or not, it was steeper then I remembered and as we went down all I could think about was how we were going to get back up.
2 hours later, after drinking in the beauty of the bay I believed my legs were only sufficiently rested to contemplate attempting the return trip. There were 2 options, 45 minutes of pain or 3hrs over flat terrain in the heat of the afternoon. We chose the 45 minutes of pain. I now know that I will never again do this walk, and certainly not in another 18 years, not unless they put in a chairlift.
Sitting on our deck watching the sunset and sipping champagne, I'm paying the price, I don't thing my calves will ever recover, - well I'm hoping by tomorrow they will. However, the price is worth it, it's a beautiful and ancient part of the world, somewhere where you feel such a small part of a magnificent time line stretching back eons into the mists of time. Australia certainly does not have the historical heritage the UK has, but places like this give us a real connection to our past, its natural beauty unspoilt by time.

Return to Oz

"Are you watching my cap, in case it falls out of that bag"?
I don't know how many times himself had asked the question, but I was becoming extremely irritated by its regularity. The cap in mention was a tartan beret, given to himself, by his brother. Himself quite liked the way it sat jauntily perched above his silvery locks. He had reminded me at least 5 times of its presence in the last hour. So much so, that a disreputable thought had begun to emerge and niggle away in the recesses of my mind. I decided the next time himself asked I was definitely going to do something about losing that cap.

We had sold the car and were on the train to London, to spend some time seeing the sights, before returning to Australia. An emotional farewell was said to Alfie and his owners. Alfie had caused a last minute disruption by seizing the opportunity to escape down the Tunnel of Love, between the hedges, whilst our bags were being placed in the owner's Land Rover!

The train, not one of Richard Branson's, but nevertheless, was exceedingly comfortable and fast.
Our luggage comprising of 2 large suitcases, 2 carry on bags, one backpack, 2 oversized shopping bags and 1 small shopping bag, had been stacked neatly nearby where we could keep a watchful eye. I was secretly pleased with how well I'd packed everything. The only thing that didn't fit in the suitcases were my new purple, Italian leather, boots which I'd placed on the top of the bag containing my china teaset. Himself was carrying the china so I knew the boots would be safe.

In under an hour and a half we had pulled into Paddington station and were making our way to the taxi rank. I had absolutely refused to use the tube. We had weighed the bags before we left and both suitcases were just under the weight limit at 22.5kg each. I believed, it would have been an impossible feat for me lugging a suitcase plus the extras on those never ending staircases/escalators in the tube stations. I knew there was definitely no way I could keep to the right, it would be all totally straight down the middle. Himself must have thought that as well or else didn't think it would be worth his while disagreeing.

We arrived at the taxi rank and joined the queue, there had been only one ugly incident on the way. It was a stand off between us at 5 paces. Himself wanted us to use the escalator and I didn't. Luckily a domestic was avoided by the intervention of one very brave station attendant who informed himself that the lifts were only another 20 metres further on.

The taxi took us to Earls Court, he managed to circle the block only once before finding it. It was between 2 major roads, Earls Court Rd and Warwick Rd. Both roads took a continuous stream of traffic in and out of London city. I waited outside with the bags while himself booked us in. He returned to inform me we were on the 7th floor. Picking up half of the bags, I watched while himself tried to negotiate his way through the glass revolving doors. The doors seem to jam and himself was stuck between inside and out, trapped in a glass cage. Looking nonplussed he gazed inquiringly out at me hoping for inspiration. Unable to hear what he was saying I decided the situation called for decisive action.
So I picked up the remaining bags, pressed the button for the single door entry adjacent to the revolving doors and walked through, smiling reassuringly at him as I walked past, on my way to the 7th floor.

Some time later he joined me on the seventh floor with the bags. We unpacked and settled in to what was going to be our new home for the week. A one bedroom open plan apartment, (apparently it was one step up from a studio) compact and comfortable describes it best.
I unpacked the bag containing his tartan cap and himself placed it lovingly on the bedside table, pleased that it had safely made the journey.
Not so lucky were my purple, Italian leather boots. Somewhere between here and Bath, one of them had fallen out of the bag with which himself had been entrusted. A wave of disappointment and annoyance descended over me and my eyes were immediately drawn to the tartan cap that had somehow survived the journey. Normally I'm not into retribution, but the trials of travelling sometimes cause us to behave in strange and mysterious ways. Looking at the beret, sitting innocuously on the table, I knew the cap's days were definitely numbered.


..... Remaining photos - Kew gardens

🎶 What's it all about Alfie?

Over the past few weeks Alfie had visited the beagles many times, invited or uninvited, I'm not sure which. As soon as our backs were turned he was gone, quick as a flash through his secret escape route in the garden, the tunnel of love.
One morning as Himself answered a knock on the front door Alfie had pushed past him and was off like a shot down the road with himself in hot pursuit. Luckily, he was caught by a neighbour several blocks away, his reputation as an escapologist has spread.

All these episodes had done nothing to lower our blood pressure. The only consolation was that when Alfie returned he appeared very repentant and when straight to his basket, either from guilt or exhaustion.

They say if you survive the panic and fear caused by traumas in your life, then bonding occurs with all involved. Well the three of us had bonded.
We had now bonded so much with Alfie that he went everywhere with us.

Preparations were made for him to travel in the car. Himself had covered the back seat of the fiesta with a plush, paw patterned blanket, though Alfie much preferred to travel in the front drivers seat. Alfie turned out to be a fairly good traveller, the only exception was if he spied a female dog out the window - then all hell would break loose.

We took him on several trips with us. A lovely day was spent exploring the Cotswalds , visiting the villages of Bibley, Stow in the Wold and Upper and Lower Slaughter. The sun was shining, the sky a brilliant blue and it was so warm we actually sat outside for lunch.

Another day we headed south to the towns of Crediton and Tiverton, these were Himself's old stomping grounds, he lived here 30 years ago. We were on a mission to find two of his favourite pubs and the house in which he lived.
We scored one out of three, The Ring of Bells, pub - now closed.

We arrived about 1 pm at the 'Mare and Foal,' a charming old building just outside Crediton. Himself took Alfie for a stroll while I went inside to enquire if they were serving lunch and could I bring the dog in with us.
"LUNCH, I haven't had mine as yet ", said the publican, but by the look of him he had never EVER missed a lunch in his life - he was a giant of a man.
Luckily the response was yes to both questions.
On entering Alfie was delighted to find that a cute little Labra-doodle lived in the pub. Her name was Daisy and as soon as they set eyes on each other it was love at first sight. Both tails starting wagging and they chased each other around the tables and under the chairs, knocking each other over and generally having the time of their lives. It soon became obvious how attracted they were, by the amount of mutual licking taking place.

The publican witnessing all this frivolity asked "has he been done"?

Has he been done for 'breaking and entering' - yes.
Has he been done for loitering with intent - yes.
Has he been done for 'disturbing the peace' - yes, but "just what did he mean?"

Himself being always on the ball , replied that Alfie wasn't desexed.

Before Daisy knew it, she was picked up by big beefy hands and placed gently behind the bar and the bar door locked firmly behind her.
Both dogs were distraught at the turn off events and began to whimper inconsolably.

Alfie kept his whining up until the publican brought out lunch. He only then decided that there was something that he enjoyed better above all other pleasures in life and that was a plate of twice cooked chips!

Is that what it's all about, Alfie?

A case of mistaken identity

Ever met someone whom you thought you knew and then it turns out you were wrong, that it was just a case of mistaken identity. It happens with monotonous regularity to himself. He is not only mistaken for acquaintances, past work mates or a friend of a friend, but usually it's for quite a famous lookalike.

Rolf Harris, Kenny Rogers and now Steven Speilberg, there seems no end to the list of celebrities that himself has been mistaken for???

Last week in Bath we went to see a Steven Speilberg film, Lincoln. On our way there we popped into a nearby grocery store to grab a few snacks for the movie and guess what, it happened again. The shop assistant asked Himself if he was 'Steven Speilberg'?

Himself is becoming a tad deaf lately and didn't answer straight away, giving the poor chap some false hope that a celebrity had walked into his shop.

But being an honest fellow, 'who wouldn't tell a lie', he revealed the truth, letting him down gently by saying he was not the first to mistake him for Steven Spielberg.

Will the real Chris please stand up.
You be the judge, check out the photos below and see if you can tell who's who.

LOST - ONE BLACK LABRADOR

LOST - One black Labrador answering to the name ALFIE. Friendly, loving, playful, a substantial reward is offered for any information leading to his whereabouts.

A trusted housesitters worst nightmare had come true, we had lost the dog.. He was somewhere outside on a bleak cold February night with temperatures close to freezing.

The 'Trusted Housesitters' advert, had said, a challenging escapologist pooch, why hadn't I paid more attention to those words. Being a teacher I had written numerous reports, of all people I should know the true meaning of the word, 'challenging' - avoid, avoid, avoid, at all costs especially if you value your sanity. But yet we had taken on this job without a second thought. I have been on holidays way too long.

Himself had been watching the late night movie and nodded off towards the end. During the split second that his eyes had closed Alfie had made his escape. Himself had sworn that all the doors had been closed, in fact he had woken me from a peaceful slumber to inform me of the very fact. Now after searching the house and the gardens at 1am in the morning, I was now wide awake and full of dread about what could have happened to Alfie.......?

"Was he lying bleeding, the hapless victim of a car accident.
Or could he have been knocked senseless on slippery rocks after bounding headfirst into a stream.
Worse still had he been taken by dognappers or been set upon by wild beasts.
More likely, he would be freezing to death in the open fields with no shelter."

There was no end to the disturbing images,my imagination was running wild on overdrive. Sleep eluded me and I tossed and turned until the grey light of dawn, crept in through the bedroom windows.
Unlike himself who matter of factly said Alfie would turn up in the morning and had promptly taken himself off to bed, and within minutes was softly snoring.

The morning arrived and with it a phonecall. Alfie had spent the night at the neighbours, arriving there just before midnight.

Himself collected him and brought him home. Alfie was very subdued. He made a beeline for his basket, consumed a couple of 'Bonio' beefy, biscuits, washed them down with water from his bowl and then went straight to sleep, exhausted from the nights adventures.

Apparently it appears thar Alfie is very fond of the two nice little female beagles who reside down the lane at the neighbours house.

Crime doesn't pay or does it?

They say crime doesn't pay, but I'll let you be the judge.

Recently every second person we meet, on finding out we're Australian, has asked about the allegations coming out of Australia of match fixing, drug taking and organised crimes involvement in sport. It has been widely reported as big news over here, with the media revelling in the story. The biggest Australian story since the radio hoax. Well I must say it's been a change to hear some news being reported from home, even if it is bad, we don't usually hear much about Australia on the TV, radio or newspapers.

However, In between stints of caring for pampered and eccentric pets, we've had our own brush with crime, to be true, organised crime. The story unfolds while we were minding Buffy, the Chesapeake Bay Retriever in Wales.

Buffy in his heyday was a magnificent specimen of his breed, powerful, muscular, with a sleek coat and fast loping stride. These dogs have a keen sense of smell, which enable extraordinary tracking abilities so that they can hunt down and catch prey in one ferocious bite of their wide powerful jaws. However, with the passing of time, as sadly happens to us all, Buffy was no longer the dog he was in his youth, suffering from failing vision, hearing loss, arthritis, incontinence and irritable bowel syndrome, to name but a few ailments. However he still retained his keen sense of smell and was able to track down someone nibbling on a choccy biscuit, several rooms away, on the floor above and behind closed doors. These days the wide powerful jaws were only used for crunching the occasional doggy dentastix.

So it was not surprising that Buffy hadn't heard the neighbours house alarm going off frantically into the night. What was surprising, was that neither had the rest of us.

I answered the doorbell that night, to a man enquiring if I'd heard the alarm and rung the police. On replying no to both questions, he said he was new to the cul de sac, but a short time ago, he had seen a young man in a hoody and jeans, running down the street. He was going to check with the other neighbours and if they hadn't informed the authorities, he would. Closing the door I thought to myself, what a nice man and how fortunate Buffy was to live in a street where everyone looked out for their neighbour.

Later that evening the doorbell rang again. This time it was the distressed homeowner. I ushered him into the lounge, pointed him in the direction of a comfy armchair and placed a whisky in his hand. As he sipped away, he calmed down and was able to tell us of the break in and how the robbers had brazenly, totally removed the two French living room doors from their hinges to break into his house (similar doors to the ones pictured in the photo below).

I enquired as to whether the police had any leads, mentally picturing the youth with the hoody, running away with the stolen booty. He said he had only just called the police to inform them and as they weren't aware of the incident they hadn't arrived as yet. Strange I thought, I told him that one of the neighbours had dropped in earlier, had called the police and possibly had got a good description of the thief. Maybe police communications hadn't relayed the message as yet, being new to the area I wasn't sure just how long was the police response times. It hadn't been that long, only 4 hours since the call - the night was still young.

Weeks passed by and we had moved on, I thought no more of the incident until Buffy's owner contacted me. Apparently the police had caught the villains, two escapees from prison. Another neighbours CCTV footage had assisted in their apprehension, combined with the details I'd given of the night in question, there was enough evidence to charge them. One of them had actually admitted to knocking on my door and enquiring as to whether I'd rung the police.
An open and shut case of when crime doesn't pay.

Recently we had our credit cards scanned at an ATM, something you hear about happening but never expect it to happen to you. Fortunately, by chance I had happened to check our balance on the cards (didn't want to be caught short on my next shopping trip). It didn't look quite as healthy as it should have been. On further investigation I saw that money had been taken out in 5 equal amounts over 2 days. The money had been withdrawn from, you'd never guess where - Melbourne, Australia.

Is it really true that Australia is the home of organised crime?

The cards were immediately cancelled and while I await new ones there will definitely be no more shopping expeditions for me.