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