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
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