Travels in Tasmania

The amateur camera work – Hawley Beach.

Exeter market purchases.

Waratahs.

In deference to the school holidays, we ventured forth last weekend from the safety of urban Hobart, into the wilds of northern Tasmania. We went to Port Sorell.

It was our first visit to the popular seaside town, and we returned home pleasantly relaxed and glowing, literally, from the sun. We left the sunscreen at home. We booked lodgings at the Shearwater Cottages and they were just lovely – soft beds, plenty of towels and facilities to prepare the morning oatmeal porridge, without which I am unable to function. Everything you could want really.

We walked the town, and everyone we passed greeted us warmly. We saw an unusually friendly cat lazing on the sun baked paving in a wide driveway. It was white, with a dark, striped tail and no ears, and as it approached us we marvelled at its seemingly unique genetic configuration. Until a passing couple told us of its recent run-in with a less than admiring dog, leaving us with the disturbing possibility that perhaps the lack of ears wasn’t breed specific after all.

We followed the path along the foreshore and saw dogs swimming to fetch balls, jostling each other for the honour of returning the prize to their mistress. There were kites in the sky above the water, and people attached to them riding boards that skimmed across the low waves like well-thrown stones across a pond. Sometimes. More often the activity looked like a lot of effort for a few seconds of exhilaration. Oh to be young, and energetic, and capable of participating in complex, hybrid sports.

Leaving the foreshore track, we used our modest navigational skills to regain the road and head into town for lunch. The Tempt bakery was bustling, so we joined the crowd for pies, pizza and toasties, with the scrumptious addition of a fresh lamington. And a guilt free lamington at that – thanks to my ongoing research into the lamingtons of Australia (expect an authoritative, peer-reviewed paper some time in the next 20 years or so).

The afternoon was spent motoring about the local area, beginning at Hawley Beach. The camera got a workout and so did we – red lichen painted rocks, vast swathes of clean sand and clear ocean, and a large, bounding, unrestrained dog. ‘I hope my dog hasn’t eaten you’, said his trailing owner, leaving us to ponder our lucky escape from so gruesome a fate. The headlines flashed before our eyes – ‘Witless holiday makers fall victim to mystery man-eating beast’ – and we shuddered with relief when it became apparent the man was speaking in jest.

Back in the car, we retraced our course back to Shearwater township, and noted, with utter amazement, that the waters lapping the foreshore in the morning had now retreated, as if in a blind panic, into the depths of Bass Strait. Gentle waves caressing narrow ribbons of beach had given way to a huge expanse of damp sand, punctuated by clumps of dark rock. People were walking dogs so far out from dry land, you could hardly see them with the naked eye. ‘What perverse tidal magic is this?’, we pondered. We still don’t know – I must check Google – but we’ve told everyone about it, with lots of shouting and flamboyant gestures.

Our motorised jaunt then took us a little further out of town to Squeaking Point, to find out who, or what, caused it be given such an intriguing name. We walked along the pebbly beach, and the sound of the small rocks rubbing against each other as we disturbed them brought enlightenment. Obviously, the early settlers had squeaky shoes, and they squeaked louder when walking on pebbles – clever, eh?

Back in town, we agreed unreservedly on the endearing character of Port Sorell and the Shearwater township – a character that somehow is not compromised by the apparent proliferation of huge, shapeless, rendered McMansions along the local roads.

There were plovers on every piece of grass, oystercatchers on the beaches, and some fabulous waratahs – how ironic is it that the state flower of NSW is impossible to find in its home region, but grows magnificently in Tasmania? As expatriates of Sydney, we fully appreciate that irony. As residents of Tasmania, we waste no opportunity to smugly show off our waratah bounty to unsuspecting ‘mainlanders’.

We saw the new Port Sorell Primary School, and a retail development project appeared to be under way just outside the existing shopping precinct. We observed, somewhat disappointingly, that Woolworths would be the lead retailer in this development. Having already browsed the local Shearwater Super IGA supermarket, and rated it the best we had ever seen, with an excellent range of items, and very good pricing, we asked ourselves why the town needed Woolworths. [We answered ourselves – ‘They don’t need Woolworths, but profit-obsessed megalomaniac corporations with a stranglehold on food retailing in this country, and an exponentially increasing disregard for the needs of consumers and suppliers, are driven to exploit every possible opportunity, and eliminate all competition’. We hoped that residents and visitors stayed away from the glossy ‘fresh food people’ with the cynical green logo that looks like an apple. And what is that silly little green thing in the Woolworth’s ads? Is it a talking pea? I like peas, but the only noise I can relate to them is the sound of gas escaping my back passage when I’ve eaten too many. And, good luck finding a fresh Australian pea in Woolies.]

But, I digress. We left Shearwater with the firm intention of returning for a more lengthy stay, and travelled the Exeter road back home. At the Exeter markets, we picked up honey, apples, two bits of classic vinyl and a German made twin cherry pitter that resembles a bizarre medieval torture device – it pits cherries in a flash, and doubles as a testicle prodder (see attached picture). I can’t wait to use it.

A detour down the Tamar and lunch at the Rosevears Inn set us up to tackle the Midland Highway trip home. A brilliant time was had by all.