Around Australia

By the time Trevor had dismantled, repainted and re-mantled the forepeak and saloon, he was understandably ready for a break. ‛I think we should go and drive around Australia before it gets too hot,’ he suggested. What a splendid idea! We'd been planning to do this for years. I’d been saving up since Panama – and had started to doubt it would ever happen. Australia is an enormous country and although much of its coastline is worth visiting, the real Australia is the interior. Sure, most of its cities are along its shores, but they are not what Oz is about. Our preparations didn’t take very long. We bought a cheap four-person tent, some interlocking, closed-cell foam mats to use as a ‛footprint’, several large plastic boxes for clothes, food and cooking equipment, dug out our propane cooker we use when tramping, sleeping bags, etc and loaded up the car. We went by way of Beelbi Creek, where Brendan and Caroline live, to pick up some things we had temporarily stowed there and Caroline persuaded me to leave behind our sleeping mats in favour of real Oz swags. One of these belonged to Trevor, anyway, and he looked at it with such nostalgic affection, that I felt that I’d better take her advice and do the job properly. For those who have never come across a real swag, they are an arrangement that make a lot of sense in that dry country. Their basis is a piece of proofed canvas a little over twice the width of a sleeping bag. On the bottom are sewn a couple of pockets at each end and these hold the closed-cell foam mattress in place. You can then tuck a couple of sheets and a blanket or two round the mattress – or put a sleeping bag on it – and put your pillow in place. Around the bottom and up one side of the mattress is sewn a zip and this fastens the whole thing up into a sort of super sleeping bag, but with an extension on top, which can be put over your head to keep off the dew or – on rare occasions – the rain. In the morning, you climb out, zip up the whole thing, roll it up and secure it with straps sewn onto the outside. The canvas keeps it clean, you can sit on it, but when you are ready turn in, you simply undo the straps and instantly you have your bed, ready to use. In dry conditions this effectively obviates the need for a tent, but we usually used at least the ‛inside’ of ours, because the floor enabled us to put our clothes down without their getting dusty and kept out unwanted visitors such as snakes. The screen kept out biting insects, of which Australia has a large and varied population. The swag also provides a comfortable seat on which to sit while cooking and eating. Caroline – as usual – had given sound advice.

Travelling around Oz in GEG was often like cruising in Iron Bark. GEG was not into speed, but would doggedly continue when many a more flash and expensive vehicle would have given up the ghost. She had no luxuries, but was essentially comfortable. She was strongly built and simple (apart from her electronic fuel ignition, about which more later). She was neither new nor fashionable, and throughout the whole 20,000 km trip, we would meet people who said, ‛You’re surely not driving around Australia in that?’. (We didn't have extra-wheels, or extra-wide tyres. Nor did we have a snorkel, roof rack or any other of the accoutrements that real four-wheel drive vehicles had. Even the spotlights fell off after the first bit of real dirt road!) However, after she had towed her third vehicle in half an hour, out of a veritable sandpit, one of the rescuees stated, ‛Now that’s a real car,’

and indeed, she seemed to required little more than petrol and the occasional top-up of oil and water. Cheap and reliable – like the ideal cruising boat. ‛Driving off the bitumen’ also resembles sea cruising. You give passing vehicles a friendly wave. You start fretting about where to spend the night a couple of hours before sundown and occasionally end up in less than ideal surroundings – gravel pits in this way of life –

rolly anchorages in the other. You try to avoid expensive marinas, a.k.a caravan parks, and seek out a free and secluded berth at night. Time was, when cruising in Scotland, that you could go into an hotel and request a shower: while land cruising in Oz, we did this at roadhouses, and often the hot shower was free or paid for by a ‛gold coin’ donation ($1 or $2) to the Flying Doctor. Believe me – hot and dusty needs a good shower as much as cold and salty. When roadhouses didn't oblige - or after a particularly dusty day, we did as we do aboard and used a ‛Sunshower’ to sluice ourselves off.

And like real cruising, we had to provision for several days without refrigeration,

hunt out laundrettes, watch our water consumption and look out for weather – some of the dirt roads that we travelled would be completely impassable after only a few mm of rain.

Of course, there were a lot of differences, too. It's an incredibly expensive way to travel – we spent more on fuel in 8 weeks than we would spend in 8 years, sailing, although, to be fair, we were travelling between the end of June and the end of September 2008, when the cost of petrol was at and all time high! We covered vast distances at great speed, so that while we saw a lot of the country, it was more like a series of snapshots than a detailed appreciation. On the other hand, if we felt tired of driving, we could stop – we didn’t have to wait until we found a safe haven to drop the hook. Overall, it was a wonderful thing to do once, but unlike cruising under sail, there was not much of a sense of achievement. It was partly for this reason, that driving on the dirt roads is so satisfying – at least there is some challenge to it. The most mundane day sail is positively exacting compared with driving along a well-made, hard-top road – especially in Oz where there is so little traffic. We left on 22nd June and set of NW into the heart of Queensland. Away from the coastline and along the Divide, we encountered well-wooded country and rolling scenery, but soon we were into a much flatter landscape. Horizons are often a long way off in Oz; roads run on to vanishing point,

and I found it difficult to believe that what looked like desert to me, was in fact cattle country – as Trevor described it: ‛a rabbit would take a cut lunch to cross one of these paddocks’.

The real desert was covered in vegetation – scrub that can tolerate minuscule rainfall and fierce, unremitting sunshine.

It was also difficult to come to terms with the sheer size of the place – after driving for a week, averaging about 420 km a day, we were still in Queensland! In the farming areas, the roads went through small towns – often little more than what would be regarded as a hamlet in England – that served a community that covered many square kilometres. We bought Trevor a new hat in Barcaldine. In sunny weather – the norm in this country – he nearly always wears a broad-brimmed hat, and as an Aussie he is a connoisseur. I was told that it was insufficient merely to have a broad brim, the hat must not only be made of felt, but the felt must be produced from rabbit fur. At one time there were many manufacturers of such hats, but now it was difficult to find one in the lower price range. His old hat had unaccountably shrunk and become uncomfortable, so eventually Trevor bit the bullet and bought himself a very flash hat made by Akubra. This one had a final flourish – a small black opal set into the hat band. Trevor looked very handsome in it, but was initially embarrassed to wear it. But it soon became impregnated with red dust and began to look lived in!



These small towns often had English names that conjured up in my mind a completely different image,such as Ilfracombe – a quaint little place,whose main claim to fame was ‛a mile of old vehicles’, which lined its only street. A far cry from the seaside town of stone buildings in faraway Devon.


















The drive across the central deserts along deserted and dusty roads was incredible. We saw perhaps a dozen vehicles in a day. Outside Boulia, a crude sign announced ‛Next Fuel 460 kms’.


In the ‛dusty Diamantina’, ’roos bounded along beside us, then, with suicidal tendencies suddenly crossed the road.


Huge road trains swamped us in clouds of dust.

For 8,000 kms there were empty creek beds and no running water. Often the bush was burning, which I found frightening and disturbing, in spite of rationalising the necessity for such an event, in this particular environment. The Australian vegetation has evolved in such a way that regular burnings are a necessity: a number of plant seeds will not germinate until they have been through a fire, and the fires clear out dead trees and plants, which enables new growth. But my imagination was tortured by the thought of the slow-moving animals entrapped in the flames, and the sight of the scorched land was distressing to a mind that associates greenness with health.

For three days we drove along the Donahue-Plenty Highway – the main road from central Queensland to Alice Springs. In many places we had to dodge
from one side to the other to avoid potholes, frequently filled with ‛bull dust’,a trap for the unwary, because the holes could be half a metre deep, but the soft dust made them appear innocently smooth. It was a strange experience to be barrelling along on the wrong side of the road for several km at a time, seeking out the better going.

Alice was a sad town, filled with unhappy-looking, Aborigines,too many of whom were waiting for the grog shops to open. I saw one elderly man, very distressed about the loss of his wallet, being treated with rudeness and contempt in the shops that he went into, enquiring if anyone had found it. After he left one establishment, I heard a woman remark, ‛It’s no use him asking us. You can be sure one of his friends stole it.’ He was a quiet and dignified man. I wondered how she could be so certain.

Alice has a horrifyingly high rate of crime and is on the ‛not recommended’ list for tourists in many countries. That the Aboriginal people are in a sorry state would be a masterpiece of understatement, but no-one seems to know how to give them back their sense of purpose. You can hardly blame them for preferring to eat out of tins rather than to spend days searching for food that is barely sufficient to keep body and soul together, but like most people, they need some purpose in life. There is a confusing double-think at all levels: ‛No-one is asking them to become black white fellas’ is something I heard frequently, and yet the same people would say, ‛We need more and better jobs for Aboriginal people.’ And yet surely working at a job from 9 to 5, five days a week is exactly what white fellas do and not at all what black fellas did. It’s not lack of money, that’s the problem, it’s that life has no meaning for many of them. And problems of the spirit take a lot more fixing than problems of the bank balance.

White Australians, with their belief in ‛ a fair go’ are confused and embarrassed by the situation, but I also found a surprising proportion very racist. I can understand that the word ‛Aboriginal’ is a mouthful and I enjoy the Aussie way of shortening words for convenience, but even so, I could never hear people say ‛Abo’,without wincing. No doubt one could say ‛nigger’ without meaning to be pejorative, but it’s hardly respectful.

There are two reasons for going to Alice: it is the centre of this vast country, and it’s the gateway to the famous Ayers Rock, or Uluru as it is now more commonly known. Rising out of apparently limitless spinifex plains, it is a startling sight – a huge, red monolith in the middle of nowhere.

Trevor tells me that its sacredness to the Aborigines is somewhat moot, because the people who originally lived round here moved on or died out many years ago. However, anyone can see why they might take offence at the
constant stream of tourists, hauling their unfit and overweight bodies up the side of Uluru, by a rope, held in place with large stanchions hammered into the rock itself. It was not a pretty sight and we didn’t join in, but contented ourselves with viewing it from the roadside and driving on. It dominated the landscape for several hours until the scrub blocked it from sight.

One of the things that I had not expected in Australia, was the vast number of trees that cover so much of the country. While there were many scrubby little bushes growing no more than waist high, much of the landscape was covered in trees that were far too tall to see over, and in many places positively grand in their appearance.

After Uluru, we were on the Central Highway, which in the Northern Territory was little more than a rough track. While no part of it actually required us to use four-wheel drive, a less robust vehicle would have struggled to survive its ruts and corrugation. As we crossed the Great Victoria Desert to the gold fields of Western Australia, the road improved dramatically and we stopped to look at the litter of abandoned mine workings – old and new – that dotted the country,

and on to Kalgoorlie, with its gaudy, ostentatious,19th century pubs.  

We spent a week in Perth with Trevor's family and then headed up north
through the Pilbara and Kimberley. WA is even bigger than Queensland
– and this northern part is remote and untouched. Red rock and spinifex,
aboriginal rock art,



boab trees, wonderful birds and, in the Kimberley, masses of running water – a delight



after all the arid country we had traversed. Although it was mid winter, the sun was hot enough that it was glorious to be able to swim - or even to wash our hands,



crocodiles permitting. Saltwater crocodiles are fearsome beasts and can travel a long way up the rivers. Even their small freshwater cousins grow to 2 metres.



We rarely saw the sea in the Kimberley and Top End, because big tides and mangroves keep the road well inland.

We travelled along the Gibb River Road, notorious for the number of punctures it causes. GEG didn't survive unscathed, but we drove this road with old tyres and the one that shredded itself was so worn, it was probably illegal.



A few days later GEG's electronic fuel ignition ceased functioning. After 3 days of fiddling, Trevor got it going long enough for us to limp back to the bitumen. We needed a tow truck to take us the 100 km to Katherine, the nearest town, where he spent 4 days sorting out the problem with help from experts mechanical and electrical, and a computer program. At the end of the process, poorer, wiser and with bloody knuckles, Trevor said that he knew what the F in EFI stood for! As always: Keep It Simple, Stupid.

There had been plenty of rain in this area, and our days were enlivened by creek crossings, some deep enough to lap over the door sills.




Now we needed our 4WD and high ground clearance. The Kimberley was amazing: rushing water and abundant life contrasting with arid hillsides. To be there in the Wet when the summer rains cut off much of this country for weeks, must be an unforgettable experience.

On across the north of the country almost to Darwin, before turning south, back into Queensland. The lovely wetlands and tumbling rivers were left behind and water was again a rare commodity. We stopped by a grateful oasis on the Diamantina, alive with parrots, pelicans and spoonbills. This was the billabong



of Waltzing Matilda and we camped 'under the shade of a coolabar tree'. A few thousand more kilometres, and we were back to Iron Bark. Our sturdy little home seemed very luxurious after 2 months living in a tent and cooking on wood



fires. But now we need to get on with the chipping and painting.

Tasmania to Queensland

From Tasmania to Queensland

We left Port Arthur on Friday, 4th April – Trevor scoffs at superstitions such as not leaving on a Friday. A pity, really – I rather like these old traditions. The end of Tasman I was an impressive sight as we sailed past.

There was some debate about our route: Trevor was feeling jangled by the gale and wanted to wind off latitude, while I, ever the optimist, was convinced that the change from summer to winter would be gradual and was concerned about getting stuck in high pressure north of Tasmania. As usual, Trevor won the argument and we went for latitude, but still with quite an easterly component because we were hoping to visit Lord Howe I. That evening, we had a wonderful display of Aurora Australis – just to make us wonder if we really should be heading towards the Tropics. We were soon close hauled and this continued for day after day as the anticipated westerly wind failed to materialise and we started to feel the effect of the SE Australian current. It was interesting to watch our progress through the water as against that shown on the GPS screen. While the compass pointed resolutely NE, our course made good varied from due E to due W! On one occasion we hove to for repairs and although we were apparently drifting at about 110° at a knot or so, the reality was that we were being set 170° at about 3 ½ knots. The net effect was to keep us close-hauled and making little progress.

On the morning of 8 April, we got into a favourable eddy: this kicked up a nasty sea, but at least we started reeling off some miles in the right direction. We were now somewhat harassed by discovering a leak – not what you either want or expect in a steel boat. At first the windows were blamed, but later Trevor traced it to corrosion around the exhaust pipe. During a calm spell, we hove to on the port tack and he hung precariously over the side with a tube of silicon rubber and managed an adequate temporary repair. Our favourable eddy died away and we were back to plodding away against wind and current.

By day 6, we were bored with our lack of progress and as we’d never sailed into Sydney, decided this might be just as interesting in its own way as visiting Lord Howe I. and a lot easier; so we altered course accordingly. The following night we picked up the loom of the city lights – over 100 miles away. The wind headed us again and the morning found us close-hauled once more and not laying our course. This was getting to be something of a habit! A series of afternoon thunderstorms affected the wind in our favour and the buildings on the cliff tops grew noticeably larger. However, as we sailed through the heads, just before dark, a tremendous thunderstorm came sweeping down on us with torrential rain. This promptly killed the wind and blotted out all the landmarks and most of the lights. We started the engine and Trevor steered into the rapidly deepening gloom, while I dodged from chart table to hatch, identifying lights as they appeared, for the impatient helmsman, and trying not to drip too much on our cruising guide.

Finally, we worked our way into an anchorage in Rose Bay as the rain eased off. The hook went down at 1950 – 9½ days and 773 miles after leaving Port Arthur, although Trevor reckoned we probably sailed at least 300 more through the water. We were heartily tired of the contrary winds and currents and joined the ranks of those who rate sailing in the Tasman Sea as one of life’s less enjoyable experiences. A couple of hot whiskies, some cheese and salami and a pile of pasta and pesto, washed down with plenty of good, cheap Aussie wine, restored our tempers.

In the morning, we took stock of our surroundings. We could see the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which Trevor informs me is nicknamed ‛The Coat hanger’ a few miles in the distance and the shore line was covered in large, and undoubtedly very expensive, houses. Unfortunately, with one or two exceptions in the style of an Italian palazzo, they were hideous, vulgar, ostentatious and, all too often, all three of the above. With so much wealth and with a new country untrammelled by historical precedent, it seems a great pity that Oz architects have failed to rise to the challenge of providing houses that reflect their country. Indeed, the older, vernacular architecture, is the stuff worth looking at: many houses built by ordinary people at the turn of the last century, are attractive and appropriate to the landscape. It is even possible to live in them without the need for air-conditioning – which can’t be said for most of the contemporary designs!

Rose Bay is reputedly one of the more expensive suburbs in Sydney, and certainly the prices in the shops were sky high. Apples and bananas were nearly $13 a kilo and one shoe shop had its sale prices at over $250! We found the streets noisy and full of traffic that had no time to let pedestrians cross in front of it. The bay was busy and noisy with ferry traffic and light seaplanes,

so the next day we moved to a more attractive and interesting anchorage. The sail was filled with interest: it was easy to see the appeal of the harbour area as a home. Islands and inlets abound and there are miles and miles of waterfront, some covered in luxurious houses, some in factories modern and decrepit, some in native bush. With low hills around many parts, it can’t be difficult to find a home with a view of the water. Sydney is truly centred around its harbour and ferries provide a huge amount of public transport. It makes for an attractively lively scene, with an endlessly fascinating array of craft: bustling passenger ferries, tugs, cruise liners, high speed ferries, launches and yachts sailing in all directions at every speed. We felt like country bumpkins in the city, and hugged the coastline, trying to keep out of everybody’s way. It was strange to be sailing with yachts that simply ignored us – just another east-coast Aussie boat among thousands. Iron Bark had come home. Tasmania may officially be part of Oz, but to me, Sydney felt like a very different and new country.

Under an overcast sky, I found the Opera House a disappointment, drab grey instead of the

gleaming white of my imagination, but we anchored right next to it between the Botanic Gardens – noisy with cockatoos – and the CBD with its myriad skyscrapers. The shoreline was walled in stone with nowhere to land a dinghy, but it was a wonderful place to sit and watch as continuous stream of joggers passed, isolated from everyone else with their headphones and solipsism.

The next day we sailed under the magnificent bridge to a small bay called Balls Head Bay, where we could anchor within an easy walk of a station. As we went ashore, we met a couple who recognised Iron Bark as a Wylo II design. It turned out that Ian and Robin knew Nick Skeates (who designed and built the original boat) very well, from when they all lived in New Zealand. They, too, were planning to go into the city for the day, so we went up to the station together, bought tickets and got on board the train. This took us over the bridge, with a splendid view of the shipping below and then into a very modern station, which our new friends told us was the best situated for visiting the waterfront. It was the first time that I had been in a city in years and it was rather overwhelming. We made our way to the waterfront area, which, like in so many cities has been transformed into a recreational area. Everything seemed very expensive and the city appeared to be awash in money and leisure – certainly there was no shortage of people enjoying the facilities and a large number of the voices we heard were Australian. Our day turned into something of a busman's holiday, because the four of us spent hours on the barque James Craig, shown over by David, one of her crew, who had joined the project in its early days and was still filled with enthusiasm for the lovely old ship – mentioned in one of Alan Villiers’ books. She had ended her working life on a beach in Tasmania – oddly enough in an anchorage we had visited only a few weeks previously – in the 20’s. A devoted party of people managed to get her afloat and to Sydney, where she languished for many years while they collected the money necessary to rebuild her. David told us that an astonishing amount of her plating, frames and deck beams were original, pointing them out to us when we went below. She had however, been completely ‛refastened’ with hot rivets, each one put in by hand using volunteer labour. A tremendous job. She is now a fully-functional sailing vessel, with the original rig, but 2 large engines. Because they want to keep her looking more or less as she did in her working years, she cannot be permitted to sail very far offshore because of the vast, open hold not being subdivided with watertight bulkheads. OK for cargo, but not for paying passengers (I suspect that many other things would be needed, too), so she has never been able to go back to Tasmania. However, she travels up and down the coast so many Australians have been able to get a taste of those more humble working ships that we hear so little about, unlike the tea clippers or warships. I'm not generally very interested in larger vessels, relating much more to fishing craft and pilot cutter type boats, but I found James Craig absolutely fascinating. A few days later, I re-read one of Villiers’ books and it all meant so much more after having been on this wonderfully restored barque.

There wasn't much time left to look round much more of Sydney, so we bid good-bye to Ian and Robin (whom, unfortunately, we never saw again, because I stupidly forgot to get their telephone number), and I dragged a reluctant Trevor up some of the streets to do some window shopping. We spent a fascinating half hour in an opal dealer’s shop. I wanted to look at some of these wonderful gems unset and although the young man who dealt with us realised straight away that we were not in the market to buy, he very kindly got out several different trays and explained the good and bad points of the stones, told us a bit about how they were mined and explained what a jeweller would look for when selecting a stone for a particular piece of jewellery. Like all true enthusiasts, he was very interesting and I learnt a lot. The day had been both exciting and exhausting and as we sat in our double-decker(!) train passing back over the Harbour Bridge, I was rather glad that I didn't have to do this every day.

Hicks that we are, we soon tired of Sydney and the impossibility of buying sensibly-priced produce, so decided to press on north, back out into the Tasman. Again we had contrary winds and current. Not enough that you could say we battled against them, but enough to

make progress tedious. Then, on 26th April we sailed into the Coral Sea. It greeted us with a boisterous WSW wind, but this sent us bowling on our way with surprisingly little sea. The breeze gradually moderated and the barometer started to climb. Although the wind and current hadn’t quite finished with us, the weather was definitely improving, instead of mollymawks skimming over the wave tops we saw flying fish and the sky was patterned with puffy little Trade-wind clouds. We debated sailing into the south entrance to Wide Bay, but there was a more attractive alternative, strongly endorsed by these new, Trade-wind conditions. We could go to Lady Musgrave Island – a platonic coral atoll, just off the coast – and watch boobies and noddies while enjoying blue sea, warm sunshine and the sense of isolation that such anchorages bestow. It wasn’t a difficult decision to make.

Winter days are short, even this close to the Tropics, and as so often happens, we had to heave to until daylight made it safe to enter the lagoon. Our (old) chart showed that the nearby Lady Elliott had a light and its characteristics were confirmed by one of the more astonishing features on our hand-held Garmin 76 GPS (given to me by my old friend Aubs, back in 2001). We were surprised to find that even little Lady Musgrave now has a light – the Australians do not appear to believe that the advent of GPS is an excuse to eliminate navigation aids: on the contrary, they are strewn around with an almost Breton generosity.

The night was squally, as was dawn. We waited for the light to improve and then made sail, perhaps a little over-cautiously, seeing as the the pass is clearly marked. However, it would have been embarrassing to put Iron Bark on a reef just as she was so nearly ‛home’ The wind was blowing straight down the pass into the lagoon and with a vigorous spring ebb against us, our 16 hp engine had its work cut out. Another yacht came steaming up behind us, but slowed down and waited outside the pass when they realised how we were struggling. After we’d anchored and made sure that we were staying put, we were surprised to see that it was someone we knew from Survarov. Later we got together and found that Pat and Marg had spent most of the time since we’d last seen them in Australia. Aqua Magic had been given a refit and was looking very spruce. They had travelled inland and had family to visit them and both looked fit and rested. Now they were looking forward to their next adventure – heading off into the Indian Ocean. It was fun to have a few glasses together and catch up on all the goss of mutual sailing acquaintance.

Lady Musgrave is particularly beautiful ashore, with splendid trees housing hundreds of





Nesting noddies,



and myriad flightless rails pottering around rooting in the undergrowth.



Day trippers come across from the mainland, but the island is a sanctuary and the birds are unafraid. At certain times of the year, turtles haul themselves out to lay their eggs. It’s a little piece of paradise – an outlier of the Barrier Reef proper and a taste of things to come, for those continuing north.



Iron Bark was built in the town of Maryborough in Queensland, and we intended to take her back there for a good refit. There was some corrosion along the stringers, which were inadequately sand-blasted when the hull was still upside down. Three winters frozen in resulted in a lot of water resting on the stringers, causing them to rust. The corrosion had to be dealt with, as did some rust on deck. The yellow cabin sides were looking pretty weary and there were plenty of other jobs, which would be done depending on how energetic we were feeling and for how long we could haul out. The slipway we planned to use can only be accessed on a spring tide and what with one thing and another, the earliest we could hope to haul was the beginning of July. In the meantime, we anchored in the mouth of the Burrum River, at Burrum Heads, whose main claim to fame is that it’s a very popular place for ‛grey nomads’ to spend the winter in their caravans. There is apparently no shelter between the anchorage and Fraser Island (of dingo fame), some 25 miles away, but in fact extensive sandbanks reveal themselves by half tide and we enjoyed superb protection, in spite of there being less than 2 metres range.



The winter weather was perfect, with sunny days and temperatures in the 20s and cool nights. The trees were noisy with rainbow lorikeets and kookaburras woke us in the morning as daylight crept in. It was a good place to get on with those jobs that could be done afloat and for me to meet Trevor’s friends and get to know his part of Australia. Brendan and Caroline O’Brien, whom Trevor has known for about 30 years, live nearby – which, indeed, is the main reason we chose to go to Burrum Heads in the first place – and they made me very welcome. We had free run of their lovely home, with a washing machine and hot showers available whenever we wanted one, true luxuries for those who live aboard small boats

However, living in rural Australia has one severe drawback – a vehicle of some sort is an absolute necessity – so obtaining one was our first priority. With the thought of doing some travelling around the country, we decided to buy a four-wheel drive, with plenty of ground clearance and room to carry a tent, food, cooking equipment, bedding, etc. While we had been in Nelson, some friends had taken us for a day tramp in their Isuzu Bighorn and we had been impressed by the vehicle. So when we saw the Australian equivalent (supposedly made by Holden and called a Jackaroo) we were very interested. It was being sold by a second-hand car dealer, who had had it for some time. Too old and too small to have any cachet, it would suit us very well, although I had doubts about a 2.6 litre engine. I was assured that by Australian standards, this is a fairly small one! The car seemed to have been well maintained and after some negotiation we bought it for AU$4,000. While we went raiding the local cash machines, the paperwork was sorted and in a surprisingly short time I was driving back to Burrum Heads. We called the vehicle GEG from its registration plate, as ‛car’ seemed an inappropriate word and the really vehicle didn’t seem flash enough to qualify as an SUV!



Then Trevor got down to work. Steel needs protection and for a good paint job, Preparation Is All. Ten years ago, The Man hired to sandblast the hull, prior to priming, was – as the Aussies say – a piker. The hull was sandblasted while still upside down and the stringers near the ground were awkward for him to reach, so he didn’t bother to do a proper job. This left us with the abovementioned corrosion problem. Steel craft are a boat-within-a-boat, so the interior joinery has to be removed and the corroded areas chipped and painted: a thankless and tedious task.



By the time Trevor had dismantled, repainted and re-mantled the forepeak and saloon, he was understandably ready for a break.

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The trouble with leading a full and exciting life, is that there never seems to be time to sit down and do the things that I ought to – like telling people about what we have been up to. I realise that it's a full 8 months since I wrote and update and am trying to make amends.

Leaving New Zealand and all our friends there was a wrench and I would have liked to stay for Christmas. But if we'd stayed for Christmas, we would then have had to stay for New Year, and then ... So we left.

Our destination was Tasmania, not the easiest of destinations, sailing from New Zealand, because you’re going west against the ‘Roaring Forties’. Admittedly, in this part of the world they don't really 'roar', but they can certainly blow strongly enough to give one pause for thought. Ideally, we should have waited longer, but if we waited until it was truly summer, we would have no time in Tasmania ... So we left.

The plan was to use a high pressure system to 'slingshot us', as Trevor put it, round the top of the next low and accordingly,when we sailed on 13 December, the tag end of a low sent us north out of Tasman Bay, to meet the high-pressure system. This gave us easterly winds and a push on towards Tasmania, just as had been predicted, but after a few days we were beyond the range of weather forecast and had to take the weather as it came. The Tasman Sea is notoriously rough and as it’s 1400 miles from Nelson to Hobart, we were resigned to some unpleasant conditions.

Our fine, fair wind, although occasionally reaching F9, held until 22 December, when it increaed and started to head us. For some time, we lurched along under bare poles, with the occasional heavy wave breaking over us, but when the wind came dead on the nose, we finally hove to, something which Iron Bark does extremely well. After a brief lull, which left us staggering about in a sloppy sea, it returned in the small hours of 23 December and by dawn it was blowing gale force; we lay ahull. On Christmas morning, tired of getting nowhere, Trevor set some sail, but in spite of efforts with various headsails, the noon position put us 36 miles north of the previous day's run, rather than W as we had intended. Some Christmas Day! I have a Thing about celebrating Christmas and unlike Trevor, feel that celebrations should take place on the day intended. This is probably because harsh experience has taught me that all too often a celebration postponed is a celebration cancelled. For all that, I was somewhat lacking in the Christmas spirit, but dear Katie had given me a package to be opened on the 25th, whether we were at sea or in harbour. In it were sweet treats for Trevor, a beautiful pair of earrings for me and a pretty dish from Nanook to Iron Bark, With the ritual glass(es) of sherry to accompany the ceremony of present opening, I was so enthused that I managed to make a festive spread and put up a Christmas tree!

Not surprisingly, we continued to get westerlies over the next four days and made slow progress towards Hobart. One of the advantages of having been sailing for so long, is that you do eventually realise that nothing lasts forever, which makes it a little more easy to be stoical about bad weather, even if it doesn't make it any more enjoyable. We finally sighted Tasman Island on the evening of the 28th December, and a couple of hours later came into its lee, where we lost the wind and ended up in a violent jobble. The currents surged around the headland, mixing with the swell and leftover slop. The mainsail was tthrashing around uselessly, Trevor was shouting at me (I was on watch) for being unable to sail the boat and all was sweetness and light. We were grossly undercanvassed, but a few moments after he'd shaken out the reefs, we were hit by a nasty gust and were then overcanvassed. Oh – the joys of gaff rig. That gust blew us back into the windless jobble, the tide carried us back into the wind and so we spent several hours being flung from one to the other. We couldn't sail and in such a slop, the motor wasn't much help, but finally the tide relented, or the swell eased or the wind shifted, or maybe all three occurred and we worked our way out round the headland.

By first light, however, sixteen days out from Nelson, we were sailing up a tranquil Storm Bay under topsail.

Entrants in the Sydney-Hobart race slowly overhauled us, as they sailed up the W side of the bay. The Port Authorities wanted nothing to do with a humble, ocean voyager, but the Bellerive YC kindly offered us a free berth, so that Customs and Quarantine could come and board us. Having informed them of our plans via e-mail before leaving New Zealand, we had no problems, although Quarantine charged us over AU$300 for the privilege of confiscating our remaining fresh food! I was saved the usual runaround that many foreign visitors get, because I am sailing on my wonderful Kiwi passport, which means that I have the right to enter Oz whenever I want and stay for as long as I wish. The reverse, of course, applies to Trevor, which suits us nicely at the moment.

We did some shopping – being now in dire need of fresh stuff, enjoyed wonderful, hot showers, courtesy of the yacht club and moved over to anchor later that afternoon. The following day was a Sunday, so we spent it on board, catching up on sleep and relaxing after the passage. We have more broken nights sailing on Iron Bark, because I can only manage the sails in light conditions, so often tend to be a bit tired when we get to harbour.

The next day being fine and sunny, we took ourselves ashore and went to explore Hobart. It's a perfect little city. Both sides of the long inlet slope up the water, so that nearly all the houses have lovely views. The town itself is small enough that you can easily walk around it and has a proper centre, rather than being sprawled all over the place. There are many fine buildings, built by convict labour, so without any worry about the cost of labour or materials, which make the 'downtown' area attractive. The waterfront is still a working harbour, but many of the old buildings have been repaired and altered to create amenities for tourists and townspeople.

We didn't stay long, however, because the place was seething with boats and onlookers from they Sydney-Hobart race. We wanted to go into Constitution Dock for night and a visit to the market in Salamanca Square, that Katie had told me was a must so we decided to go off and have a bit of cruising and come back in a week or so, having stayed over New Year's Eve to watch two spectacular firework displays, from a prime position in the harbour, aboard Iron Bark.

Tasmania is about twice the size of Wales and has a population of 400,000 – not many people for such a long and indented coastline. The coast also has quite a number of interesting offshore islands, which would be wonderful to explore. There is far too much to see in one season. We had to content ourselves with the southern part. As a cruising ground, it’s hard to beat and has something for all tastes. Hobart, the capital, set against the backdrop of Mt Wellington, spreads itself along both sides of the Derwent Estuary, which opens into Storm Bay. At the SW end of the estuary, the D’Entrecasteaux Channel wends its way 30 miles S, with numerous bays and rivers leading off from it. We spent the next month exploring this area, with occasional trips back to Hobart to top up our stores.

We were still 'enjoying' the spring weather, which meant quite a lot of cold, southerly winds which were enhanced to fresh and occasionally gale force in the afternoons, as a sea breeze built up. But the wind generally fell away at nigh leaving us in beautiful, calm anchorages. In Deep Bay, we met a lovely couple, Douga and Margaret, aboard their fine Herreschoff yacht, 'Gulls Way'. They invited us over for 'tea', which turned out to be an opportunity to sample their home-distilled rum and whisky, which was excellent. Later we visited them at their waterfront home in Barnes Bay, a delightfully simple house, set among the bush.

Our 1970 (corrected to 1984), 1:107,000 chart proved a little inadequate for exploring this area properly, and Douga and Margaret kindly gave us an old copy of a local cruising guide. We were so impressed, that next time we were in Hobart, we bought ourselves a brand new copy for a mere AU$26 - about £12. Cruising Southern Tasmania, is - astonishingly - a Government publication, put together in conjunction with the Cruising Yacht Club of Tasmania, and saved us from having to buy at least four other charts. This guide proved invaluable in an area that could keep any keen cruising sailor occupied for years.

Tasmania has a reputation for being home to many wooden yachts and a Wooden Boat Festival is held every other year on the Huon River. We sailed up here and saw more than a few fine examples. Many of the beautiful anchorages were made even more delightful by one or two wooden boats moored there. We had sailed to Dover, to do some shopping and as we came back to Iron Bark we saw two lovely yachts sailing towards us. Brolga, a pretty gaff double-ender was built by her owners, Tony and Susan. She is strip-planked on sawn frames – a very unusual form of construction. Saone is an elegant, canoe-sterned yawl of the old school, designed by Philip Rhodes and has been in Tasmania since she was built, in 1936. Jane and Ben keep her to a very hight standard as well as actively sailing her. Previous owners had surveyed the Melaleuca Inlet, in Port Davey, for one of the cruising guides that we were using, so she was locally quite a famous vessel. The yachts' owners were equally charming and invited us over for the evening after they had rafted up, to share their dinner. We really enjoyed their company and were sorry that we never managed to cross tacks again, although we saw both boats in the distance on several occasions.

A day or two later, we very nearly lost Lisa. We were sailing along, minding our own business, when a cold front pounced on us without warning. Only minutes before, Trevor had doused the topsail, but the wind was up to F9 before he could get the reefs in. We managed to wind up the jib, but were in among fish farms and rocky shores, so had some very unpleasant moments trying on the one hand to reef the sails, and on the other, to manoeuvre the boat around the various obstacles. Once under bare pole, we set off north to Isthmus Bay, which we knew would provide us with good shelter. We were towing the dinghy and even though we were in sheltered waters, the seas soon got up and Lisa kept surfing down on our stern. A couple of cross seas then swamped her and she swooped down onto the transom, smashing her bow against a roller that is fitted for a stern anchor. She snatched back again and capsized. Her weight was now too much for the painter, which parted. We started the engine and went back for her, but it took 3 or 4 attempts to retrieve her, the engine being barely adequate for working against such wind and seas, let alone for delicate manouevring. If all this wasn't enough, one of the oars had come adrift, too. Somehow we managed to find and retrieve that and then Trevor not only righted the dinghy, but managed to get a line round the forward thwart so that we could tow her again. As she was still inclined to surf, I suggested that we now motor at a little over 5 knots, rather than sail at about 4, so that we could keep ahead of her. This worked, and within half an hour we found a bit of a lee, where we could anchor and bring her on deck. It was the last time we towed Lisa in Tasmania, unless we were in very sheltered waters, but in spite of her battering, the repairs were quick and easy to effect. There is no excuse for this happening: we both know that one should never tow a dinghy, but human nature being what it is, we get idle.

The summer was proving to be hot and dry and there were a number of bush fires around, which I found quite horrifying. Trevor assures me that if the fire isn't too hot, the vegetation soon recovers, but I feel desperately sorry for all the animals that get caught in the fires. It will take a long time for me to look at the scorched and blackened aftermath, with anything like equanimity. As we sailed a little further south, however, the climate changed quite noticeably and was a lot damper.

We headed south out of the Channel, exploring round Southport, where we took a ride on an old narrow-gauge, electric train, restored by enthusiasts and probably barely paying for itself.

It was driven by a very interesting man, called Steve, who told us that he was building a steel, junk-rigged boat (Tom Colvin Gazelle). We had several stops along the way, where we would all (about a dozen of us) get out and listen, while Steve pointed out various sights and told us about the area.

From there we sailed to Recherche Bay. Here we left Iron Bark safely anchored and took the opportunity of using some fine settled weather to go tramping off along the South Coast Track for 4 days.

The first day was quite a short walk with a camp by a river, an easy introduction that allowed us to get used to the packs.

The second day started off pleasantly enough, but then the going got very boggy, with roots across the path. This went up a series of steep hills and the roots created steps about 2 ft high, which I found very tiring; I envied Trevor his long legs.

The official campsite seemed rather crowded and Trevor suggested pressing on to the next one. I wasn't sure I could make it, but decided to give it a go and fortunately for me, we found a lovely spot on top of a little cliff, overlooking the sea, with a stream running nearby.

The next day, we left our packs in the camp and walked further west along the magnificent coast to a place called 'Surprise Bay', where a beautiful river flows into the sea. We had a fine lunch of damper, chorizo and cheese before going back to our delightful cliff top camp, admiring huge, black cockatoos that often passed us in small, vocal groups.

I was rather dreading the walk back, but the root strewn path proved a lot easier descending, so that it seemed like there was much less going up than going down. Hardly possible when going from sea level to sea level, but other trampers agreed with me! It rained slightly over night, but we were camped on very sandy soil and it wasn't an issue when we came to break camp. After a hard start, the last part of the day was easy walking – just as it should be! We saw an echidna by the side of the trail – in fact he ambled across it right in front of us, completely unperturbed. He was a lovely little beast, chomping up ants with total disregard for his audience.

I was rather dreading the walk back, but the root strewn path proved a lot easier descending, so that it seemed like there was much less going up than going down. Hardly possible when going from sea level to sea level, but other trampers agreed with me! It rained slightly over night, but we were camped on very sandy soil and it wasn't an issue when we came to break camp. After a hard start, the last part of the day was easy walking – just as it should be! We saw an echidna by the side of the trail – in fact he ambled across it right in front of us, completely unperturbed. He was a lovely little beast, chomping up ants with total disregard for his audience.

Back at Recherche Bay, we righted the dinghy and rowed back to Iron Bark, well content with our four days ashore. It's possible to tramp all the way along the S Coast to Port Davey and for a considerable distance around this area. We'd been tempted to do so, but to get there would have taken 4 days, we'd want a day or two there and then it would have been four days back. This would have entailed carrying ten days' food (plus some in case) – a heavy load. Equally off-putting was the necessity of crossing the Ironbound Mountains, which sounded daunting. They are totally exposed and it's necessary to put in a very long day to get from one campsite to another, over steep and rough terrain. Everyone we met had said how arduous it was – and they were only carrying 3 or 4 days' food! Nearly everyone flies in to the little airstrip at Melaleuca Inlet in Port Davey, and walks out from there. We discussed the matter and decided that we would do it our way: having walked one half from east to west, we'd sail around to Melaleuca Inlet and do the other half from west to east – maybe missing out the Ironbound Range!!

This fitted in with our plans very well, because we'd intended to sail round to Port Davey anyway. Our only problem was that it was a long sail back to buy fresh provisions, however, after looking through my veggie and food lockers, I reckoned we had enough 'standards' to keep us going for a few weeks and just about enough tramping food – lightweight and quick to cook – for our planned walks.

We spent the next day in Pig Sties Bay. Our only chart of the area we were planning to sail was a small-scale one: 1:652,500, surveyed in 1912, which included surveys of Capt M Flinders! It showed the major sea mark of Maatsuyker I as ‘reported 2 miles from its charted pos'n’, so we had some doubts as to its accuracy. To have bought a new chart would have meant a couple of days sailing back to Hobart, so we put together a chart of Port Davey from our copy of C-map (alas, no longer functioning), printing out large scale sections on sheets of A4 paper and sellotaping them together. We then printed off some smaller scale chartlets for the approach. This way of using computer charts, suits our mentality much better than relying on the computer to work when you are actually sailing into the harbour! Our distrust of things electronic is not entirely unfounded – my computer packed up on our way back from Port Davey.

In summer it's just possible to sail from Recherche Bay to Port Davey – about 90 miles – in one day, if you average 5 knots. This seemed a big ask for Iron Bark, considering that it would probably be calm at both ends of the day, so we decided to set off after breakfast, sail as far as we got in daylight and plod on overnight, heaving to as necessary. This way we would arrive in the morning and have the whole day to find a good anchorage. However, we got a fine, fair summer easterly and were romping along, so in the end we pulled out the stops and went for it. We had checked our home-made chart carefully and were content that the datum matched the one we were using on our GPS well enough to enter the uninvitingly-named Coffin Bay in poor light, if needs be. The sun set as we approached the offlying islands, and this gave us another chance to check that our real position matched that on the chart. Port Davey may sound like a bustling township, but in fact this body of water, leading a dozen miles deep into the west coast of Tasmania, is in a completely unspoilt, unpopulated World Heritage Area, four days’ gruelling walk from the nearest road. There is no real necessity for the Hydrographer to ensure that the charts for the area are up to date and accurate and that the datum matches WGS 84, but we worked our way in with no problem.

In the morning we found we were in a safe anchorage, tucked out of the rather unpleasant swell that was rolling up the inlet. Trevor found it an uninviting spot, but for some reason it reminded me of the Outer Hebrides and so I liked it. However, even thought there was no wind, we decided to move into Port Davey proper.

Surrounded by mountains, with inlets, coves and islands providing shelter from any wind, Port Davey is the sort of place that sailors dream of, and when we steamed our way into its entrance, we found ourselves in a superb cruising ground. We sailed into pretty Bramble Cove and rowed ashore to walk to the top of Mt Milner. From here we had splendid views out to sea and over towards Coffin Cove,

We spent the next two weeks in Port Davey. The weather was generally very good, with only the occasional shower, which we gathered was not the norm for this part of the world. Although sunny, the wind was cold, which made conditions chilly for sailing, but excellent for tramping – at least for me, because I easily get too hot – and most days saw us ashore, enjoying the emptiness and wonderful views. After a few days, we ventured up Melaleuca Inlet, a river that winds deep into the country. At 'the head of navigation' is an old wharf, to which we took a stern line. A short walk away is the little airstrip that brings in the trampers

from Hobart and services the Park itself. Bird watchers have built a hide here, and we made a beeline for it. One of the most endangered parrots in the world – the Orange Breasted Parrot – spends its summers in this area, feeding on the grasses that grow up for a short period after a fire. The grasses soon give way to other plants and so the pattern of burning is crucial for these birds' survival. Personally, I feel that an even larger issue is where they spend the winter – along a stretch of coast in South Australia and Victoria. As in most places, areas of salt marsh have been drained and urbanised and these poor little birds have been pushed to the edge of extinction. However, we were very lucky and saw one or two of them visiting the feeding station next to the hide. There has been a lot of work done to assist these little birds – studying their diet, controlling burning of vegetation in the Port Davey area, even resiting a power station in Victoria, which was going to impinge on their winter feeding grounds. It almost makes one feel hopeful for the future of endangered birds in advanced countries. I say 'almost', because even as I was writing this, I heard on the radio that the almost equally endangered Swift Parrot, is under threat. There are about 1,000 pairs of birds left in the wild. Excited observers noted that a sizable group was settling into an area of woodland in Tasmania, busily enlarging holes, or making new ones in the old eucalypt trees, ready for nesting. Then they found out that the Tasmanian forestry industry is planning to log out this woodland in October, with predictable results to the unfortunate parrots. Bird Life Australia is doing its best, but at present has few hopes of succeeding. The bird is federally acknowledged as endangered, but the Commonwealth of Australia has no way of stopping this logging going ahead, short of stopping grants, etc to Tasmania. However, on the day that we saw our little Orange-breasted Parrot, we also saw the threatened Ground Parrot (although I couldn't photograph it), so I feel very privileged to have had a chance to see some of these lovely birds before they fall over the precipice for ever.

One of the more unexpected sites at Melaleuca Inlet, was that of a small tin mine – not at all what one would expect in a World Heritage Area. Peter, the owner of the mine, took the trouble to get in his runabout and come down to Iron Bark to invite us to visit them. To describe Peter and Barbara as a remarkable couple, would be a complete understatement.

As a young man, Peter, who is from the Isle of Man, mined coal in Spitzbergen. He met Barbara while he was at university, and after they married, they moved to Zambia where there were plenty of opportunities for miners. (Trevor was born in Northern Rhodesia, as it then was, and he and the Willsons found that they knew one or two people in common: don't tell me that it isn't a small world!!) Barbara taught in the local school and indeed, one of the reasons for their deciding to leave Zambia, was that under the new regime she was being pressurised to alter her assessment of her pupils' achievements to suit the local politics. They thught that Australia should offer interesting opportunities for them and their three children. Peter went fishing in Western Australia and Tasmania for several years, while Barbara taught and looked after the family. Then in the early 70’s, the lease of the tin mine in Port Davey became available (before the area was declared a World Heritage Area) and they’ve been there ever since. They travel to Hobart twice a year in their MFV, to shop and to deliver the tin ingots made in their bush-built smelter. They built their comfortable and attractive house with their own hands, too, bringing everything from windows to cutlery back from Hobart, as and when required. Their vegetables are home grown and they make their own beer, which they shared generously. I suspect that there are few tasks either of them would find daunting – while we were visiting, Barbara was recovering from a broken ankle and complaining about the fact that it made digging over the garden rather difficult! When she retired from teaching, Barbara spent more time helping Peter with the running of the tin mine and although they are both in their 70s, they continue to live and work there for most of the year. When they do eventually give up their lease, it won't be renewed and apart from Park Rangers, this wilderness area will be completely uninhabited.

Peter and Barbara knew the area well, of course and we made use of their knowledge to plan our next tramp, which we started the following day. At first the walking was fantastically easy, as we followed a long boardwalk across the boggy ground. However, as we turned off the main track, the going got worse and at one stage we were floundering round, lost in a bog, trying desperately not to fill our boots with water. We arrived at our planned campsite at lunch time, so decided to press on to the next one. The walking was a bit harder, but once there, Trevor soon found a nice spot to camp. As we were deciding where to pitch the tent, a spotted quoll, about the size of a large cat, wandered past quite unconcerned. Almost extinct on the mainland due to introduced predators (including dingoes) they are apparently not uncommon in Tasmania.

The next day was a lot shorter, but the track was overgrown and in need of maintenance. Trevor and I did a lot of 'gardening' as we walked. If everyone did a little, it would be more pleasant for all the trampers using the track. They didn't seem to be as carefully cared for as those in NZ. We pitched our tent right by the track, but as there was no-one about, we had no problems with lack of privacy! Our plan for the next day involved crossing over a mountain, so we went to investigate the route. We couldn't find the track with any degree of certainty and it looked as though it might involve a lot of bushwhacking, which I don't enjoy, so we decided to backtrack for half a day and then follow the main S Coast Track down to Cox's Bight.

I got up at 0630, so that we could have an early start. It started raining about half an hour after we got going and there were leeches everywhere. I find these animals quite revolting, especially when they are hanging on to my legs, sucking blood! We were a bit late donning our waterproofs and had no gaiters, so were pretty thoroughly soaked below the knees. We were meant to be doing this for fun, so decided we'd head back to the boat. After we passed two elderly brothers happily setting up their tent in the mud, we had another think, but on odds decided that we would have other chances to tramp without everything being wet and muddy. It was a long day, but we got back on board about 1930, just as it was going dark. A stiff whisky warmed us up and I felt very satisfied with the distance that we'd covered – about 25 km and not all of it easy. It

took ages for me to get the leeches out of our kit the next day!!

We spent a few more days around Port Davey, exploring the anchorages and tramping ashore. We climbed Mt Rugby, one of the highest points in the area to enjoy the truly splendid views.

We were now well into summer and saw several other boats – all Australian. Tasmania is definitely on the ‘road less travelled’, as far as long-distance voyagers are concerned.

There was still plenty for us to see and it was a long time since I'd bought any food, so we headed back to the D'Entrecasteaux Channel and civlisation. On the way back, my trusty Toshiba laptop packed in. We went up the river to Huonville, where we were lucky enough to find Logyx, where Anne and Rex diagnosed, helped, sympathised and suggested. The end result was the need to buy a new computer (sigh), but how many times do you come back from that sort of day with an invitation to go and have dinner at the expert's home? Reprovisioned and with the laundry washed and dried, we headed back down the Huon River and spent a very pleasant evening with Anne and her husband, David, at their waterside home. Apparently they'd had platypuses at the end of their garden until a new neighbour with 2 aggressive dogs moved in, cleared the bush and frightened them away. One thing with a boat – if you don't like the neighbours, you can always move! Then we went to places we hadn't yet been, looking at old convict ruins, seeing Tasmanian Devils and enjoying interesting anchorages and pleasant summer sailing.

Our tour of Tasmania took us all round the country, through little towns such as Ross,with its magnificent bridge and 'Saxon' church

past beautiful lakes and wonderful scenery. We had hoped to do some serious tramping around Cradle Mountain – our walking guidebook was enthusiastic and there were a number of different routes to choose from. As we drove along the winding road towards the Visitors' Centre I was full of happy anticipation. Imagine our horror when we arrived and found the place was seething with tourists, with a huge tarmac car park filled to capacity and several helicopters taking off and landing, to carry those tourists who were too fat and lazy to walk and see the beauties of the landscape. This wasn't for us and we turned round and beat a hasty retreat. Unfortunately, our little car couldn't cope with the roads to some of the more interesting places. We did manage one or two more lovely shorter walks however.

Near the end of our tour, we were lucky to spend an hour or so watching three platypus near Mt Field National Park. And when we set up camp, we frequently had visitors from dainty pademelons to thievish possums! But the only wild wombats we saw were dead, by the side of the road. This implies there are plenty about – we were just out of luck.