26 October 2013 - Snug Beach Cabins & Caravan Park, Snug, Tasmania

Winds blew all night keeping one camper down the row awake all night in her canvas camp trailer; thankfully we slept much better. After extending our booking here, we set off south on the coast road, passing through Kettering from where we had sailed to Bruny Island, and on through the most delightful settlements and along the prettiest coastline we could recall of our travels, little inlets and bays, through charming Woodridge, Birchs Bay, Flowerpot and Middleton. At Gordon, we pulled into a reserve where camping is allowed and several parties were in the process of breaking camp or casting lines out into the choppy channel. We passed cherry orchards, sheep farms that draw the tourist to watch the milking of the ewes and taste the cheese, lush paddocks where small herds of Hereford cattle contentedly grazed and their young calves gambolled about. Out in the D’Entrecasteaux Channel, the white horses danced and we stopped to watch a large yacht handle the conditions with panache and a small jib raised halfway as they headed north toward Hobart. And here I suddenly remembered the name of the yacht I sailed on with my four day old son, in Port Vila, New Hebrides, the year 1979; this was the start of his link to boats and to matters marine, the yacht was the Huon Chief and she had sailed the famous Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race, the skipper an apple orchardist. Funny how these memories pop up; yachts, Huon, apples. Far to the south across the wide estuary of the Huon River, and up across the dark heavily forested ranges, the snow-covered Hartz Mountains capped the picture.

Along the northern banks of the Huon

At Gordon, there is a monument to D’Entrecasteaux; Australian’s are amazing with their memorials to this and to that, mostly to pioneers and fallen soldiers, but explorers get more than their share of celebration too. Mostly these are shoulder height pyramids of stone, chopped off at the top for birds to perch on, with the words shaped in bronze and always the name of the politician who was on hand to unveil the handiwork.   

A few kilometres on, now travelling west, straight across from Surveyors Bay, we stopped at Ninepin Point to read the interpretative panel which explained the significance of the Marine Reserve just here. The conditions are such that the water here, already brown with the tannins from the organic material breaking down, is even more so than elsewhere, making the depths of the estuary darker than it would otherwise be, thus confusing the marine life. And so here there is a plethora of fauna and flora that is normally found in much deeper waters. Now in better times and better climes, we could have donned our togs and dived in to discover the extent of all this life for ourselves. Needless to say we didn’t.

We left the main road and drove down along the narrow road that followed the coastline, or rather, the southern river bank, past Randalls Bay where there is a conservation reserve boasting Tasmanian Bettongs and other beasties that might have been fun to find, but Chris could not be convinced to add a coat or two to the many layers he was already wearing.

Soon we arrived at Cygnet, tucked up in what might sometimes be a very sheltered inlet, Port Cygnet. Blue skies, even with the addition of the occasional showery squall, do make everything look better, and today, the landscape was indeed just beautiful. Cygnet was busy with people, waiting for the bus through to Hobart, making their way to the many cafes or craft shops or just busy doing what they normally do on a Saturday morning.

We wandered up the main street and back down the other side, picking up a bag of Gala apples from a stall outside a private residence and a few provisions from the local IGA store. We continued down toward the waterfront, the Port Cygnet Wildlife Sanctuary where a huge variety of water birds are to be found. We saw swans, for which the settlement is named, Cape Barron Geese, Plovers, Oystercatchers, Gulls and Terns,  Ducks, Large Egrets and Snipes.

This, or at least Burtons Reserve, the picnic area adjacent, was once a hive of industry when Cygnet had large apple processing factories. One of these commercial barons of Cygnet was a chap by the name of Robert Harvey, who in 1897 was trading as the Port Cygnet Fruit Evaporating Company, and dominated the town which was then known as Lovett, controlling the coal mine, sawmills, apple pulping and packing, bought all the locally produced fruit, as well as providing supplies to residents of the town from his store in the main street. Probably the mayor as well however there was no mention of that.

Cygnet had been named by D’Entrecasteaux, but was renamed Lovett by the British settlors in 1862, then finally returned to its first European name in 1915. In the 1840s the town was host to several Convict Probation Stations, but by now I expect that to be the rule rather than the exception. They lasted about a decade here.

In the late 1900s the town attracted more than its fair share of alternative types, lifestyle communities, artists and the like; in other words, left over hippies. They have put their stamp on the place and one would know that simply by wandering up and down the street as we did rather than reading it in the tourist literature.

We drove on upriver, past dozens of yachts, salmon farms, blueberry gardens and even a rather strange houseboat permanently set up at a jetty. At Poverty Point we pulled into a small reserve to lunch. The wind was still cold and strong; I sent Chris to the rear of the vehicle to fetch the eski and saved myself the Antarctic blasts.

Continuing on, we passed several larger commercial operations where it was evident that entrepreneurs have poured great sums of money, either their own or the bank’s, into developing orchards and gardens. These contrast with the lifestyle blocks with their small or semi-neglected horticultural efforts. There is hope yet for Tasmania.

Snug Falls

Once we arrived back out on the main road yet again, we headed back to Cygnet and turned north travelling up through Nicholls Rivulet, named after William Nicholls who was the first European settlor in the region in 1834. The road wound up through the forest, past little holdings tucked into the bush and beside the rivulet, inviting disaster by flood or fire, and then over a saddle and down through Oyster Cove, emerging once more onto the coastal highway near Kettering.  

We turned north to Snug, but on reaching the village turned up into the escarpment, or rather the Tier. Four kilometres up into the forest, here past very new smart residences equally at risk from fire as those older and more rustic dwellings seen on the road across the range, we arrived at a modestly signed car park. With coats and boots on, we set off for the 2.1 kilometre walk down to the base of the Snug Falls, which plunge impressively 25 – 30 kilometre over a rock face. The track was steep and in part quite muddy; the falls more spectacular than usual, according to a local we met on the track, because of the recent rains.

Well exercised, we returned to camp. Chris washed the two days of mud from the landcruiser and I did a small load of washing, which dried in no time at all. We will be ready to move on again in the morning.