Day #3 - Afternoon drives to Freycinet Park

 After lunch, my friends and I head off to Dolphin Sands, where we had formerly been going to stay in a spectacular mansion on the beach. Unfortunately, the savage and devastating bush fires earlier in December had completely destroyed the whole house. We are unable to see any ruins but did view other annihilated dwellings amidst the burnt, charred trees. However sad it is that people lost their homes and all their belongings, I can't help feeling sorrow for all the birds and wildlife that perished in the searing fires, including the lizards.

We continue on to the magnificent Freycinet National Park, plus the stunning, Coles Bay, childhood haunts of Peter's. We go up several short tracks to view the dark blue churning ocean swells smashing against the ebony shoreline. We are up high, and I feel a bit giddy staring down at the unbridled forces of nature below.  We stopped at a pub for a cold drink and pizza before visiting Friendly Beach, a surf beach with such inviting jade green waves; water so clear you want to wash in it and the familiar big chunky boulders.

Friendly Beach

Coles Bay hugs the Freycinet National Park

                                                Freycinet Park coastline

We end our day with an alfresco meal of cold platters, dips and the most heavenly praline cake at Peter's son's house with all of his family. I get shown some freshly caught abalone and simply had to pose with them. Then it was home to our Air BnB for a hot shower, a book and sleep on my second Tasmanian night.

                                  Here I am, struggling to hold these two fresh abalone

Day 3 - morning walks on the shores of Swansea

 Day 3, and it's a Sunday. Catherine has decided to go to Church so I get dressed for the occasion and jump in the car beside her. She has googled the exact location, time and service that we are to attend. However, when we get to the Church, there is a sign on the door stating the service is cancelled due to the Vicar being unwell. We discover another church around the corner, but that one only meets on every 1st and 3rd Sunday. Today is the 4th Sunday. Not to be put off, we head down to the beach for a walk around Waterloo Point, a walkway that loops past the golf course and alongside the sparkling blue ocean that is Swansea Beach. We will have Church at the beach.

I am enamored by all the large smooth rocks and climb down to get some better shots of the surf bashing against the shoreline. Catherine wisely stays on the track and explores all the nesting holes in the undergrowth, pondering what time of bird nests there. We are torn between penguins and rabbits; turns out they are the homes of mutton birds. Which doesn't surprise me because up close those little holes stunk. Onwards we go. Catherine gets a brilliant shot of a blowhole type, crevice in the rocks I keep an eye out for lizards, but they stayed well hidden. 

We carry on and discover that we are in a small place with a long name (see attached picture). It is also the site where a ship went down, with a family onboard, drowning six small children in the 1800's. Their parents, Thomas and Mary Ann Large, survived the shipwreck. Thomas and his family, were originally coming to Tasmania from the mainland, onboard the cutler, Resolution to set up a brewery. The shipwrecked at Great Swan Port in 1850. Intrigued by this sad story, Catherine and I set off to the cemetery to find this ancient grave. It took us a while, but I finally discovered the large white tombstone in another part. It was sad and moving to read, seeing their full names and ages, the stilted prose at the bottom offering one last watery hope for the lives forever lost beneath the deep green waves off

Swansea beach.

Strolling out of the cemetery, I found a crumbling vault without any name or identification with a large crack in the corner allowing me to see inside. There was only dirt but it was a spooky sight prompting me to call out to Catherine, 'look, I've found Dracula's crypt'. She came closer to inspect the ancient crumbling box and agreed it did indeed look like the decaying home of a vampire. We set off for home in the sunshine, moaning that we were sweating beneath a cloudless, hot midday sky while still in our church clothes and make-up.

Along the road we discovered a turn of the century guest house with exotic trees planted along the fenceline and too our surprise, a pohutakawa tree complete with green parrots flitting amongst the crimson blooms. The perfect melding of New Zealand and Australia.

Day #2 - Tasmania bound

After an average, overpriced Italian meal of Rosemary fries and leafy greens, I settled into my bedroom and realised I had no snacks! There was only peppermint tea and Nescafe coffee sachets. Not to be thwarted, I broke into my chocolate gifts for Peter and Catherine, trying not to eat more than one row of the artisan ginger and macadamia dark chocolate. I stay awake as long as I can before finally crashing around 9.20 pm.

I slept well but unfortunately awoke at 2 am -4 am New Zealand time. When I find myself in the hushed, dimly lit environment of hotels, lacking in warmth and personality, I imagine myself to be in the Lost in Translation movie slipping down the stairs and discovering my own version of Bill Murray. He is now older yet more attractive and I am some Antipodean version, older and not quite as attractive, of Scarlett Johansen. In my version, we still while away the nocturnal hours together, sharing witty banter, playing charades and maybe a bit of poker, drinking coffee and eating unhealthy snacks from the vending machine. However, I stayed in my room and drank peppermint tea, there is no vending machine, I'd already checked. I listened to podcasts and dozed until finally rising at 5 am to shower and even iron my clothes to kill time then headed down to the breakfast buffet at 6 am (8 am NZ time). I seldom find myself to be starving, but on this morning, I am. I devour a large chunk of sourdough bread, slathered with butter and marmalade, two bowls of fresh fruit salad, a large serving of delicious bacon and several cups of espresso coffee interspersed with glasses of sparkling water (I'm becoming a bit addicted to that stuff). My breakfast table is the stuff of Famous Five picnics on Kirrin Island, as my photos proudly show.

All too soon, my hotel stay is over, and I finally successfully negotiate the lift down, before dropping off both keycards and signing myself out on the app, without needing assistance. I walk to the domestic terminal, finding an abandoned luggage trolley along the way to throw my suitcase and backpack on, thank God, as the wine, scented candle and chocolates feel heavier today.

Departing is a bit more complicated than I reckoned on, with a full body scan and sniffer dogs at Launceston airport when I arrived, but I had nothing to hide, and the security people barely acknowledge me. I have learnt that patting the beautiful hound dogs at security checkpoints is strictly forbidden. So far, I am self-managing rather well.

Catherine is waiting for me in arrivals, where my suitcase appears almost instantly and miraculously. We get into her car, with our first stop being the small historic town of Evandale, where the annual Penny Farthing race is held each February. We have a nice lunch then wander the streets where I quickly make friends with a statue clutching a tarnished, ancient Penny Farthing cycle. 

Back on the road and before long I see my first roadkill victim on the Tasmania highway - a dead kangaroo. Ironically, later that day when we stop for milk and bread at the Swansea IGA food market, Catherine points out diced wallaby meat in the refrigerator which I decline.

We fly down the highway, through gumtrees, past dry and dusty paddocks where panting sheep stand in the heavy sunshine. Our large and lovely five-bedroom, two-bathroom home stands ready and waiting down a long driveway flanked with geraniums and agapanthus.  It feels like home yet still faraway. There is a large deck which would have overlooked the ocean and across to the stately Freycinet National Park with its hauntingly, large and impressive mountains but the view is annoyingly blocked by the roofs of two big houses. A joyous night is spent talking around the table, enjoying fresh food, local Pinot Noir and the company of gorgeous friends. There is much to talk about, but we are tired so reluctantly go to bed early, promising each other great adventures on the morrow.

Of course, the following morning, I am awake at 4.30 (6.30 NZ time) and quietly creep around the kitchen making hot coffee as the sun rises, casting rosy, golden lights across the still sleeping ocean. I want to get a better view of this breath-taking skyline so I skip down to the beach, only a minutes' walk away, and take a few shots of the sunrise. The air is warm, which is good as I'm still in my nightie, although I do have a jumper on, and my feet are bare. I pass big trucks and boats parked in the driveways of seaside mansions. These are the holiday shacks (the term Australians use for 'bach') of wealthy people. 

Before tiptoeing back to my bed, I whisper, 'good morning, Swansea beach' and look forward to the explorations of the coming day.

My long-awaited, Tasmanian holiday has begun.

                                                        5 am at Swansea beach

Boxing day airport shuffles

 It seems to me, being a writer with a moderately good grasp of grammar, that a travel blog is perhaps the best way to diary my trip. It's on the internet so therefore it is here forever, easily shareable and never to be forgotten.

Boxing day morning finally arrived. I had spent most of Christmas day, leisurely packing, restlessly checking the weather forecast constantly and praying frantically for fine weather to get out of Kerikeri Airport, notorious for strong winds and poor visibility. The day began calm and sunny, not a trace of wind. God had heard my prayers and answered, even though I had spent a restless night sleeping on my son's couch with the beloved dog, Rex, we set off for Kerikeri airport somehow just making it in time for baggage check-in. Aren't phone apps great, I checked onto the plane from the carpark while directing my son to the spot for my drop off.

I was soon in the air, seated next to a cinematographer, a nice young chap from New Zealand now residing in Spain. As well as his successful and highly interesting role in the film industry, he was also a guide for high end travel parties, his clients very wealthy international tourists. That evening he was meeting a Brazilian family. I was impressed. So good company on a 40-minute flight to Auckland. 

Then began the tedious process of getting to the international departure terminal, that I chose to walk to, as it was a nice sunny, breezy day and took me 10 minutes, pushing my case and backpack in the trolley. Through customs and departure, I stopped for some overpriced 'duty-free' shopping, finally settling on a bottle of premium NZ sparkling Cuvee from Marlborough and some expensive but delicious 'vegan friendly' dark chocolates made in Mangawhai, Northland. Ha ha! North and South Island treats. I also bought Catherine a lovely Ecoya candle. I love them and I hope she does too.

I chatted to a cute young lady from California; we lamented the distances we had to walk to just get.on.the.plane. Onboard, I had the good fortune of having an empty seat between myself and another woman. I watched the latest Led Zepplin documentary, "Becoming Led Zepplin" and thoroughly enjoyed it. Then had a tasty chicken salad for late lunch with a banoffee ice-cream, yum! Read my book and dozed, finally arriving in Melbourne on time. Once outside the arrivals lounge, and getting lost and confused about shuttles, now feeling more than a bit fatigued from the long journey, I decided to walk to my hotel. I pushed my luggage in a trolley, only to get completely stumped in which direction to go, with my phone, data roaming refusing to work, probably due to the fact I was stranded beneath a large concrete carpark.

The carpark underpass and taxi bay I became stranded in

Finally, I took a punt and dodging shiny taxis I crossed the road and continued down the footpath heading towards a fast downtown Melbourne street, searching for a literal sign on the large building across the road, that my hotel could be close by, and there I found it. Discreetly labeled on the glass front door, Ibis Styles Hotel. My pilgrimage to a distant mecca was now over. I hurried across the street, feeling faint with equal parts excitement and relief as I passed through the silent sliding doors into the hushed and sparkling foyer of my hotel where a charming concierge patiently helped me with  mycheck in using the hotel app screens atop the counter. A 15-foot Christmas tree glittered and winked behind me as I fumbled with my glasses so I could see to enter my details. My concierge handed me two key cards for my room, a slight twinkle in his eye, "in case you need a spare card". I think he really meant, 'you look like someone who would leave her keycard in the toilet and then cry 'lost' at the reception counter at midnight. He probably guessed I was a writer too, and lover of sea-drenched, sandy dogs.

 Off I headed to the elevator, dragging my cases, stepped in, pressed 2 and waited to ascend. Eventually the door opened again, and too my surprise, I was still on the ground floor. The lady chuckled and told me I needed to use my keycard to tap on. This was to be a constant source of frustration for me throughout my short and comfortable, overnight stay - forever trying to set the shiny, steel box to take me up or down. Once in my room, I flopped onto my bed, staring at the large screen TV on wall that said, WELCOME CURREEN, MR. Bless me, I'd arrived.

girls with guitars on the internet

 remember when Fred broke up with Sally

and she wrote a song about him

then posted it on facebook

and we all laughed

and made sadface emojis,

but other people said stuff like,

‘babe, that’s so beautiful’

‘oh hun, I feel for you’

‘this is sad news, big hugs xxx’

sad face emojis, hearts and something, something.

We giggled some more, and Fred hid from the internet for days.

 

Funny story,

Fred broke up with Mary the other day,

she wrote a sad song too,

posted it on all the socials,

it’s everywhere.

Fred hasn’t seen it yet,

but I have, and I groaned and laughed

keeping my sad emojis to myself.

I’m going to tell him,

‘You'd better stop dating girls with guitars’

then I’ll try not to laugh too much, 

well, not for too long anyway.

Ha ha.

But then I wrote this poem,

because I think there's too many fine lines that blur,

when you whine about your ex

post it on the net,

and make a small profit, be it monetary,

smug revenge or just bad shade thrown from a dusty guitar,

and a sing-song mouth that sugar wouldn't melt in.

So, I wrote my own song, without music,

that I'll post on the internet too.

I hope I don't piss those sulky songbirds off, 

because I don’t want the laughing gods

to take my laugh off me,

...it wouldn’t be a merry Christmas and a happy new year

without my snorts and giggles.

I hope Fred likes my poem, and it makes him laugh too,

God knows he's earnt it,

and he might even try to sing it too,

but with no guitars, I promise...

especially since it's on the internet now.