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. 

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

The gales blew all night and rain fell intermittantly. Our neighbour remarked this morning that their caravan had rocked and rolled all night, however Chris and I could see why; they do not have their stabilising legs down, and when asked why not, the master of the van said he couldn’t be bothered. Let them rock and roll!

We headed off on our day’s exploration soon after 9 am and headed back to Margate and then north east up into the hills to Sandfly at about 178 metres ASL where this minor through road meets the Huon Highway. From here it was just nineteen kilometres of excellent road down into the Huon Valley and its commercial centre, Huonville.

Despite its status, the population is a mere 1,700 or so. This is the centre of a traditional apple growing area, although most of the orchards seem to be fairly modest. This would account for the fact that the Tasmanian apple growers have used their few but very loud voices for many years, keeping foreign imports out, most particularly New Zealand’s own excellent produce. Alas, those restrictions were lifted in very recent years however I have still not seen familiar apples in the stores. Today, here and further affield, we saw apples for sale all along the roadside, and being out of season, all sitting in refrigerated cabinets.

Apple growing has been in decline since the 1950s and today cherries and aquaculture are the main providers of income to the region, particularly the latter. We saw dozens upon dozens of circular structures in the river, particularly downstream from Port Huon, advertising the importance of fish farming, and it would seem from the signwriting seen that it is salmon which populate these strange dwellings.

We travelled down the western bank of the river, significant at Huonville where it is bridged, but soon becoming wide and very impressive. It is the fourth largest river in Tasmania, at a length of 170 kilometres, starting from the Scotts Peak Dam at Lake Pedder, part of the lake system in the Franklin-Gordon Hydro project, visited last week from Hobart. It is tidal all the way upstream to Glen Huon, where it flows down rapids, and then on past Huonville and toward the sea. In the lower reaches, the average depth of the river is three metres and and at its maximum, twelve metres. When it meets the Tasman Sea near Surveyors Bay, it is more than five kilometres wide.

Boats at Franklin

At Franklin, we parked near the Wooden Boat Centre but rather than explore this tourist attraction, wandered along the jetty where we found an amazing assortment of boats tied up.

The town, with a population of just over three hundred people, now survives on the tourist trade, with a  special emphasis on wooden boat building. A shop, workshop and small museum opens to the public, however this would have appealed more to my older son who is in that trade, rather than us. We remained satisfied with the completed craft at the jetty.

Franklin was established back in 1848, first named Huon, renamed in 1853 as Franklin-Huon and finally just Franklin in 1878. Potatoes and other vegetables were first grown in the area, but by the late 19^th century, it had become part of the apple orcharding area. Nowadays there are a variety of agriculatural pursuits, most likely none terribly lucrative, however it was here we purchased potatoes and onions from a road stall. Chris said I paid too much; I am satisfied I have contributed to the State’s black market.

Geeveston's timber sculptures

We stopped briefly at Geeveston, the gateway to the famous tourist attractions, the Tahune Airwalk and the Hartz Mountains National Park, which lie nearly thirty kilometres to the west. The town promotes itself as Tasmania’s Forest Town and has a number of wooden scupltures decorating the town. We were particularly taken with the façade of the Bakery, in fact drawn in, in search of a yummy pastry to supplement our cut lunch. Alas there was nothing that leapt out at us screaming “Buy me!” so we left empty handed.

Reaching Suveyors Bay, we left the main road and took a lesser road on around the river bank, past clusters of holiday baches, and then re-joined the main road at Dover. With a population of just less than 1,000, Dover is the southernmost town of its size in Australia. Originally named Port Esperance when the post office opened in 1856, it was renamed Dover in 1895; however the bay retains that name.

Views across the river

Today it is a fishing and holiday village, with a few more significant sized apple orchards in the surrounding hills. The populated or cultivated area on this western bank of the river is a narrow strip with a backdrop of forest. Milling has been the main source of income for the greater part of the European settlement, although today it is only from the plantations rather than the tall stands of old forest in the more rugged reaches.

The last leg of our downriver drive took us to Southport, which like Dover, was firstly established as a convict probation station. For many years it was an important supply centre south of Hobart. Today it seems little but a holiday spot as well as a base of the barges which service the fish farms. It was here near the beach we sat and ate our lunch, lamenting the incessant showers and the lack of a sugar bun. From time to time there would be a break in the weather, the sun would come out, the occasional rainbow would promise an improvement, and then a squall would come over to destroy the moment.

Near the Arve River

Fed and watered, we headed back upriver, this time keeping to the main road as far as Geeveston, where we turned toward the Hartz Mountains and travelled up over the Arve Spurand down to the Arve River Picnic Area where we set off on the very  short riverside walk, through mud and pungas, or tree ferns, under glorious red beech trees, all dripping rain and all very beautiful. The Arve River was already up high under the bridge and by now, as I write this evening will be even more so.

Now exercised, we returned to the Huon Highway and Huonville, and here turned downstream on the northern bank. A few kilometres on we turned north and headed up into the mountain heights, through the tiny settlements of Pelverata and Kooata, the latter at an altitude of 431 metres ASL and back down to Sandfly before retracing our route back to Margate and Snug.

We passed a road marked “Tramway” and another “Coal Mine Road”, but there was no evidence of where these references came from. Later I learned that the Sandfly Colliery Tramway, also known as the Kaoota Tramway, was a twenty kilometre tramway linking the Kaoota coal mine to Margate. It was constructed between 1905 and 1906, climbed 457 metres ASL and crossed ten bridges. After coal mining ceased, the tramway was used to transport logs, fruit and passengers. The line was lifted and abandoned in 1922 after bushfires destroyed several bridges along the line. Apparently about six kilometres of the old track still used as cycling and walking tracks; perhaps we will have time to walk some of it? We are extending a further day.

Chris did ask me today as I navigated him up and down some wondrous roads whether I intended that we should “do” every road in Tasmania? Alas, not possible in seven and a bit weeks, but I am doing my best! Today we travelled about 245 kilometres.

The weather forecast promises temperatures of 7 degrees tomorrow morning rising to 15 degrees during the day, on-going showers, complete with gale warnings. It would seem there is little change expected for the next week.

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

The rain heard during the night did not bode well for our planned tour today. However one cannot hang about in Tasmania waiting for perfect weather or at least at this time of the year. While we have extended our scheduled time here, we are still limited by that departure date in November, and time seems to be still ticking away.

I had made lunch last night so there was little excuse for delay in our departure. We left the camp at 9 am, the distance less than ten kilometres to the ferry terminal and were there before 9.15 am as you would expect. But even then we were cutting it fine. Had we left it even minutes later we would have been amongst those left to wait for the next ferry.

Bruny Island lies about three kilometres in a straight line east of Kettering, if my measurements off the map are correct; the ferry takes about quarter of an hour to cross to Roberts Point on North Bruny Island. We were surprised at the size of the Mirambeena, a two decked 52 metre ferry built in 1991, today laden with more than fifty vehicles. We did venture out onto the deck to take a look at the coastline and the great number of yachts moored at the Kettering Marina, but it was far too windy and cold to linger long. Instead we stayed in the landcruiser and hoped for better weather on the far shore.

Live fish farms

Alas it was not, in fact not anywhere at all on all of Bruny Island. Geographically Bruny Island is actually two land masses that are joined by a long, narrow sandy isthmus, like so many geographical features on this part of the coast. On arrival we set off for the south, intending to work our way back as time allowed, as did everyone else, evident by the long snake of traffic from the ferry terminal. There is little at Roberts Point apart from a takeaway store catering for those who miss the ferry and have to wait for the next; they run between during daylight hours at intervals of one to one and a half hours.

The tourist brochure likens Bruny Island to Singapore, but only in the sense of land mass, because unlike Singapore with its population of about six million people, Bruny Island has but around six hundred and fifty permanent residents. 

From Roberts Point, looking across toward Barnes Bay, we noted the same tall structures we had seen off the Tasman Peninsula, which I suggested were shellfish farms. Seen from above today, we realised they were the live fish holding farms similar to those seen off the Eyre Peninsula around Port Lincoln.

Cape Bruny Neck Game Reserve

Many of us stopped off at the Cape Bruny Neck Game Reserve to see the Short Tailed Shearwater and Fairy Penguin rookery. These birds don’t often share the same breeding space; this is one of the exceptions. A long stairway extends from the car park to the top of the Big Hummock and offers views over the reserve and up and down the coastline, west to the D’Entrecasteau Channel and east to the Tasman Sea. The wind was so strong, this was not a pleasant outing at all; in one gust I saved myself by grabbing out to an Asian tourist who probably wondered what I was doing. We descended a further series of steps down to the shore from where one can watch the Fairy Penguins come ashore at dusk, however we were far too early and not keen to stay another minute.

We drove on to South Bruny Island, down the west coast through Alonnah which hosts the one police station and hotel, a store and the school, then on south to Lunawanna, more a locality than a settlement with just a hall, then on up over steeper country through forest and past a long settled sheep farm, soon entering the South Bruny National Park. I had high hopes of walking in the National Parks here on the island but the weather was just foul.

At the Cape Bruny Lighthouse we emerged from the vehicle just long enough to call into the “museum”, a modest collection showing the history of the lighthouse, manned by a volunteer ranger from up on the Murray River. He and his wife had taken on the role for ten weeks and had subjected themselves to the freezing conditions for just two weeks so far. The ranger told us how he had been wearing his woollen beany to bed every night, how the fire just sucked up the firewood and how the wind howled through the gaps in the house. I asked if his wife was suggesting they should repeat the voluntary role next year; he chuckled and said she wasn’t keen to come here again but was not against the work, per se.

From the museum we could see snow on the mountains of the Hartz Range on the mainland (snow had been forecasted in Tasmania for all areas over 400 metres and these were far higher than that). We could also see across the wild southern sea to East Cloudy Head, Tasman Head and The Friars, and agreed that a Bruny Island Cruise today would have been absolutely hideous. Closer to hand stood the Cape Bruny Lighthouse, not very far up the hill at all, but the thought of fighting the wind for colder and equal views did not excite.

We retreated to the northern end of the National Park and lunched at Jetty Beach, still inside but under lovely trees and views of Great Taylors Bay beyond. There were some hardy fools here camping in tents and like structures; today marks a public holiday for Tasmania, Hobart’s Show Day or People’s Day, and many are, no doubt, taking a very long weekend.

Again we could have taken advantage of a walk staring here, that out around Point Labillardiere; we left it to the hardy campers.

Distant Cape Bruny Lighthouse

We drove back out of the park on the dreadfully potholed dirt road, back to Lunawanna, then turned east up into the Bruny Island State Forest up a forest track of just eleven kilometres, a short cut in distance but not in time. We pulled off onto a muddy steep track labelled ‘Lookout” and wondered what we had got ourselves into. I alighted to take the obligatory photograph over the forest toward Cloudy Bay and Chris locked the front wheels for our exit, which turned out less problematic than I expected. The tall slim stringy barked gums were beautiful, offering some of their debris as road base, but none so big as to create an obstacle.

We emerged onto the main road that sweeps around the lower shore of Adventure Bay, and followed it to the end. Here is the start to the Fluted Cape Walk, one I had been keen to do, at least when I planned the day away from the weather. It is here that one sometimes sees the rare white kangaroos but arriving at the road end, already having come through two hail storms in the last hour, we realised it would be quite foolish to set out on the two and a half hour walk. We had to settle for the birdlife and an echidna, the latter intent on playing chicken until we stopped and waited for his retreat.

Memorial in Adventure Bay

Here at Adventure Bay are several monuments to the explorers who have made their mark in this part of the world and put Bruny Island into the history books. Abel Tasman first sighted the island in 1642. Captain James Cook visited Adventure Bay in 1777 with the ships Resolution and Discovery. Captain William Bligh visited Bruny four times and it was from here that he left on the Bounty for Tahiti and the famous mutiny. It was this same Bligh who planted Australia’s first fruit trees at East Cove.

The French explorer Bruni D’Entrecasteaux (after whom the island and the channel were named) also visited in 1792 and disproved both Cook’s and Bligh’s assumptions that the Island was part of mainland Tasmania.

After examining the various memorial structures, we headed east then north again, across The Neck and as far north as the road could take us, the most northern part of the road running along a high ridge from where we had beautiful views across to the South Arm and the wide waters that are in fact the mouth of the Derwent River.

The holiday settlement of Dennes Point lies on the western corner of Kelly’s Point and is nothing but a string of homes that lie empty most of the year. We followed the shoreline south again, over farmed hills (for there is far more by way of agricultural activities here on the northern part of the island) and down into Barnes Bay, a very sheltered bay with numerous secret coves. Soon we were back onto the road toward the ferry terminal, in time to board the 3.15 pm ferry rather than the 4.30 pm we had originally intended. Our trip had been disappointing as regards the weather and the limitations caused by that, however we both agreed that Bruny Island was a very beautiful place and well worth the effort we had taken, albeit an abbreviated one.

Back at Snug, we took time to check out the information plaques and posters at the beach reserve where we had lunched yesterday. We discovered that Snug and the surrounding area suffered devastation and loss from bushfires in February 1967, the town of Snug almost burned to the ground.

It is a sobering thought indeed to consider the following statistics for Black Tuesday, 7 February 1967 as we learn of the devastation and on-going horror of the current fires in New South Wales. Over forty six years ago, sixty two lives were lost, 1,085 houses, 233 cottages or shacks, 128 commercial and public buildings, 104 bridges and 150 vehicles were destroyed. 265,000 hectares of land were burnt out and 80,000 livestock, mostly sheep, died. 4,320 kilometres of fencing were destroyed and there was wholesale devastation of telephone and hydro lines and equipment. In total the damage was estimated at $40 million; in today’s money that would be a whole lot more.

We returned home and took in the updated news, nearly all about the fires up north. And that which was not, was about the increase of crocodiles turning up on the North Queensland beaches and parents withdrawing their kids from the lifesaving classes. Well, wouldn’t you? Shoot the critters, I say; the crocs, not the kids.

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

This morning we retraced the route travelled a few days earlier, back up over the Tasman Peninsula and around the pretty shore, up the steep road out of Eaglehawk Neck, across the fire damaged Forestier Peninsula, across the bridge over the Denison Canal, past the reconstruction of Dunally and on west to Sorell. There we stopped at the Coles to restock our fridge and refill the diesel tanks before travelling on toward Hobart but stopping at a suspension specialist in the eastern suburb of Mornington. After receiving more reassuring murmerings we decided to proceed with our Plan A, the tour of the southern reaches of Tasmania, so travelled on through the busy city streets of the State capital and on down to Kingston, Margate and so here to Snug.

Looking at the map of this region and considering the possible attractions the average tourist might pursue, the caravan parks are few and far between, so it was a question of staying here or going on through to Cygnet, or Huonville or even all the way south to the pub at Southport. I had decided that Cygnet would best suit our purposes however I suspect that Chris had silently set his mind on this at Snug. We parked up in the beach reserve for lunch and he remarked, in his typical understated Pommie manner, that “We could do worse than this”. Given that unless I have a very good reason to insist otherwise, I generally let him have the last say; he is after all the driver. And so here we are.

It was still fairly early in the afternoon when we checked in however there were delays one after another; the chap in the next site had plugged in to our tap and had the wrong kind of fitting for our adaptors. Three heads and much discussion later, all in the absence of that errant camper, the water problem was solved although Chris said he would have words later with the cuplrit, a fact that seems to have since slipped his mind. These same extra heads engaged us in much chatter about travel, their own rig, the upcoming wedding of their son and much else. Our plans to drive up to the Snug Falls promoted in the tourist literature went out the back door, so we spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on television news, missed for the past three days and catching up with Olly and little Charlie on Skype.

The ABC News channel is on non-stop fire alert and reporting; the New South Wales fires are worse rather than better than when we last checked and a state of emergency has since been declared. It is a hideous situation and puts our own little lives into perspective. But there is little we can do. Thoughts and prayers are rather useless, the best we can do is stay out of the way. We will have to consider this when we eventually return to the mainland and head north.

22 October 2013 - Port Arthur Holiday Park, Port Arthur, Tasman Peninsula, Tasmania

Another fine day in Tasmania; how lucky we are. We were parked up and at the Port Arthur Historic Site by about 9.30 am which is the opening time on the brochure but not on the door; we could have been there half an hour earlier. We spent well over an hour completing our tour, today wandering around the Dockyard, where sixteen large decked vessels and around one hundred and fifty small open boats were built during the fifteen years of operation. We wandered about the Governor’s Gardens, reinstated in the early 1990s after over a hundred years of neglect. Today they were full of glorious blooms and we decided the trees must surely look much more stately and beautiful than they did in the convict days even though various Governors’ wives put such a priority on the planning and planting of these lovely areas. Of course you do not need to be a rocket scientist to realise that these same wives never deigned to soil their hands in the planting, or maintenance. They had their own “slaves” on hand for such menial tasks. After pausing to again enjoy the whole peaceful vista, we returned to the introductory museum and completed our reading of the many descriptive panels on offer.

The Governor's Garden

Today I sought out my husband’s pet convict, one of those two hundred male prisoners transported on the convict ship Enchantress in 1833. His was one Ebenezer Brittleman, a sixty four year old gardener from Sheffield, England. He had been convicted in January 1825 for picking pockets and was sentenced to seven years transportation. He was sent to Port Arthur for being drunk and employing a boy to convey spirits into the prison barracks. He was too old to be sent to work in the gangs so was employed at lighter duties around the settlement. For a while he was sent to split shingles which was a job usually reserved for well-behaved ganged convicts.

Chris was disappointed with his man; I think I would have done better to draw his card myself. I thought he sounded more like me that Stephen had.

It was after 11 am by the time we set off across the southern part of the peninsula, to the fishing village of Nubeena, the commercial hub of the region. There we found a decent sized IGA supermarket, a bottle store and a couple of vehicle repair servicemen. The first of these was not really interested in our problem so sent us back up the hill to a tucked away workshop, Sharman’s Auto Electric. Here an auto electrician obviously handles all vehicle repairs even if he prefers the auto electrical side of his trade, or at least that is what we assumed. This very pleasant young man, wearing a ring in one ear, pirate style like our ten year old grandson, was happy to slide under our landcruiser and emerge to assure us there was nothing to worry about. We had heard a knocking sound some days ago; I was certain it was on the roof and sure enough we found the bungee cord around the spade had worn through. We rescued the spade and discarded the cord, but still the knocking persisted and it seems to have become worse over the intervening days and distance. I had visions of the exhaust pipe flapping about ready to drop onto the road, or worse. Even with Mr Sharman’s reassurance, neither of us were entirely satisfied and so the mystery remains. However we did try to put our worries aside for the rest of the day, and continued on over the hill to the north of the peninsula (which I continually think of as an island) to Premaydena where we turned west and out to the Coal Mines Historic Site and to Lime Bay State Reserve.

The Historic Site is not very evident from the road and certainly did not seem to offer an attractive setting for lunch, so we continued to the end of the road and parked up under lovely trees in the Reserve. There is camping available here, just simple toilets and not much else. No doubt it is a busy campsite in the summer holidays, offering a lovely beach and probably excellent fishing. There are walks to take however we were again pressed for time and wandered only a short distance along the shore before turning back to the car and on back to the Coal Mines.

This, like several other sites on the Tasman Peninsula, is all part of the penal operation, although is less known and less visited by tourists, despite the fact it is free. Dotted across the 214 hectare site are over twenty five ruins and dozens of mining features, mostly well labelled, all surrounded by beautiful regenerated bush and a multitude of birdlife. The well-marked paths offer a variety of walks, short and medium and today we did the loop that is supposed to take two hours to complete.

Remants of the Mines accomodation

The mines were developed to limit the colony’s dependence upon costly imported coal from New South Wales and served as a punishment station for men who had committed a serious offence in the colony. They operated from 1830 through to 1901, although in those latter years were no longer serving as a punishment centre. At their busiest, there were almost six hundred prisoners with their jailers and their families living and working at the Mines.

We thoroughly enjoyed our stroll about the area, uphill to the signal station site, around the huge shaft now mostly filled in and down the inclined plane where the coal carriages once ran, along the shoreline where once there were jetties and a commissariat, and through the prison and soldier barrack areas, today only random stands of stone and brick.

Back on the road we travelled east back to Premaydena, then on to Koonya, both with evidence of past civilisation, then came south over the hills on an unsealed road, and back down to Nubeena, this time seeing the shellfish farms laid out along the far shore of the bay. We travelled on around the bay to White Beach where we were very surprised to see so many baches, some quite smart holiday homes and some little more than shacks. It obviously is a popular place over the summer.

Views above Maingon Bay

Then we came on back to Port Arthur but turned south just before reaching the Historic Site and drove on around the shore to Carnarvon where most of the Port Arthur people actually live. We continued south on out to the Southern Ocean at Maingon Bay where the fierce waves beat upon the shore and from where one can see in the distance to the south east, the towering cliffs and columns of Cape Raoul. Here too is the Remarkable Cave, yet another sea cave cut through the sandstone cliffs and offering the tourist who is willing to clamber down the many steps to the bottom, a view through the dolomite and sandstone, out to the sea. Today with the tide out, one could have walked through to the seaside of the tunnel, that is, if one were foolish enough or should I say, lucky enough to not encounter a rogue wave.

 We returned to camp having had an excellent day but only too aware that there were still things we would have liked to include in our exploration, not least of all, a drive over to Fortescue Bay and to have undertaken at least a short part of the walks on offer there. I could say we will leave it for next time, however next time here is not likely to happen. Hopefully the reader can enjoy it in our stead.

Our visiting potoroo

Back at camp, we propped the landcruiser up on our spare yellow plastic ramps, laid a tarpaulin on the ground and both lay under the landcruiser, poking and prodding pieces of machinery, one no wiser than the other, and decided that it did seem, after all, that nothing was likely to drop off tomorrow as we make our way back toward Hobart.

I watched a superb fairy wren gleefully bathe in the pan of water I had left beside our caravan, and then a little while later a potoroo turned up and decided he rather liked wren-flavoured water. A lame green rosella returned for a second helping of cornflakes and then it was time to close up and come inside. Tonight will be colder than the last few nights I think. But we have been so very lucky with the weather.

21 October 2013 - Port Arthur Holiday Park, Port Arthur, Tasman Peninsula, Tasmania

Last night we were treated to further wildlife out our caravan windows: a wallaby and a potoroo grazing and snuffling about the camp, such a delight. A kookaburra sat in the scrubby tree watching this all play out with the patience that only kookaburras have. After dark fell, we took the opportunity to watch three quarters of the DVD about James Cook we purchased at the museum named after that great navigator more than two years ago, and may well watch the last of it tonight. No television has its benefits.

This morning we were not woken to the shrill calls of large birds but the gentle chatter of smaller ones. With lunch packed we headed back to the Port Arthur Historical Site, paid our dues and spent a very full day absorbing the history and beauty of that was once one of the world’s most significant penal settlements. Fortunately the price of the ticket covers two days which one actually needs to take this all in.

Transportation of convicts to the Australia was part of Great Britain’s great social engineering plan; a fact that has to be remembered when one considers the facts of the resulting history.  While horror stories abound, I suspect the success stories of those that came out the other end as trained trade’s people, often now able to read and write where they had not been able to before, and with the resilience to face the adversities that life on the other side of the world offered, are those we should celebrate. But we do not; instead we learn with horror the terrible conditions that were endured and condemn our forbearers. Indeed, I personally can be thankful for the penal system in that it lured two of my grandfathers to this part of the world, one who came as a soldier to guard a convict ship and another who came to join his ex-convict brother to make his fortune in the New World.

Port Arthur began its life as a timber getters’ settlement, staffed by convicts, but came to the attention of Governor Arthur’s as offering an eminently suitable location for a correctional institution. Although convicts had already been engaged as labour here, it was only in 1833 that it became a punishment station for repeat offenders. By 1840 more than two thousand convicts, soldiers and civil staff lived at Port Arthur which by this time had become a major industrial settlement, producing worked stone and bricks to furniture and clothing, boats and ships.

With the end of convict transportation to Van Dieman’s Land in 1853, Port Arthur also became an institution for aging and mentally ill convicts.

An inquiry into the running costs of Port Arthur recommended its closure and in June 1871 the Tasmanian Government took over control of the prison from the British Government. It continued to serve as a prison as there was no room in Hobart to house the remaining inmates. Finally in 1877 the remaining convicts were transferred to facilities in Hobart and Launceston and the staff and stores removed.

After the penal settlement closed, Port Arthur was divided into town lots and sold. The new township adopted the name Carnarvon in 1884 in an attempt to lose its shameful convict associations. The Commandant’s house was converted into the Carnarvon Hotel in the 1880s. the Commandant’s offices and the Junior Medical Officer’s House were just some of the buildings that became tourist accommodation.

In the 1880s and 1890s a series of fires took decision about what should be saved or destroyed out of everyone’s hands. The site was left in ruins. The 1895 bushfire destroyed buildings including the Asylum, the Separate Prison, the Paupers Mess, the Hospital, the Parsonage and Government Cottage. Then in 1897, the fire that swept through the town on News Eve, succeeded destroying many remaining buildings including the Penitentiary and Commandants Offices.

Protection of some of the ruins began as early as 1916 with the establishment of the Port Arthur Scenic Reserve, Australia’s first gazetted historic site. By the 1970s the site came under the management of National Parks & Wildlife Service and a major redevelopment and conservation project was conducted from 1979 through to 1986.

Remains of Port Arthur's Church

On arrival, one is given a lanyard with a coloured ticket, yellow in our case denoting the Bronze Pass, and a playing card to match up with a convict individual who becomes one’s own identity through the whole experience should you desire. My nemesis was one Stephen Ashton, brickmaker by trade, aged twenty two hailing from Hull in England, convicted in March 1828 for burglary, transported for life. He was sent to Port Arthur for absconding from the prisoners’ barracks and remaining illegally at large until apprehended by Constable Hurst. He tried to abscond from Port Arthur with several of his friends. They managed to get as far as Wedge bay on the Tasman Peninsula, where they were caught and brought back to the settlement. As punishment, they were all stripped to the waist and given fifty lashes, all beaten in the presence of their mates in the hope that this would make the other prisoners think twice about escaping. They were then ordered to work in leg irons for a year. Now this is a true story and one day Stephen’s descendants might be lucky (or unlucky) enough to draw the same card and find out about their delinquent relative.

Port Arthur came into the headlines far more recently for a more modern and unsavoury reason than its long known history. In April 1996 a lone crazed gunman let loose in a way that has become all too familiar in news of America rather than this corner of the world, and massacred thirty five innocent bystanders. The culprit, who will remain unnamed because to do otherwise would be seem to celebrate his memory, was subsequently tried, found guilty, and sentenced to imprisonment for life with no eligibility for parole. The crime which was reported around the world caused widespread shock, as these incidents do.

Today the café which was central to this incident is but a deserted shell and a memorial garden is left to celebrate the lives of those who fell victim of this senseless slaughter. Needless to say, little is made mention of this event other than in passing as did our guide today.

At a distance, almost like a grand English estate

After spending some time in one of the museums and acquainting ourselves with Stephen and Chris’s convict identity, we joined Guide Graham and several dozen other tourists for a forty minute introductory tour, followed by a twenty minute boat tour around the bay, the Isle of the Dead where around 1100 people were buried between 1833 and 1877 and Point Puer Boy’s Prison which operated from 1834 to 1849 as the first purpose built juvenile reformatory in the British Empire catering for those aged nine to seventeen.

Graham told us that we were fortunate to have come today because on Wednesday a cruise ship was expected to anchor in the deep port, discharging about two and a half thousand passengers into the Heritage Site. This I would not like at all!

We spent the afternoon wandering about the site, in and out of buildings, restored or ruins, reading the many interpretative panels, watching films and listening to audio stories. Despite the horrible history of the place, the sun and sea enhanced this delightfully serene spot. Seagulls and swifts swooped and dived about the ruined towers and high walls and the whole spectacle was just lovely, enhanced by the excellent weather. Alas we were unable to see everything we wanted and will have to return tomorrow morning. I should be glad of this however I already had a full day planned. It will be a busy day indeed.

20 October 2013 - Port Arthur Holiday Park, Port Arthur, Tasman Peninsula, Tasmania

What a difference good weather makes! This morning campers were outside chatting happily with their fellows, doors and windows thrown open, winter clothes swapped for shorts and singlets, happiness all around. No doubt awnings would be soon erected now that the winds had abated however we were gone before that.

Perhaps I should drop in here, as a passing note, that the All Blacks gave the Wallabies another walloping last night; a fact I did not mention this morning to those happy campers who had probably forgotten the humiliation overnight if they had bothered to watch the game.

Off we went across the Derwent on the Tasman Bridge, and through to Sorell, just twenty five kilometres away, a rural centre established in 1821, catering for the resident population of less than two and a half thousand and all those north, south and east who cannot be bothered to travel the extra distance into the throbbing metropolis of Hobart. We thought we might stop and mozy about however nothing caught our attention except for the Coles we noted for stocking up on our return journey. 

There are numerous roads to Sorell and we would have come to it more than a week ago had we chosen to travel on the main road from Triabunna to Hobart. The lower section of this travelled today crosses Pitt Water via a couple of very long causeways; the Water today was as calm as the river, quite a contrast from yesterday’s wild waves.

A further thirty or so kilometres overland takes one through to Dunally, famous for two things, the first the terrible losses in last January’s bush fires and the second, the manmade canal that offers easy access for boats from Marion Bay to Frederick Henry Bay,  thus avoiding the rough seas off the Tasman Peninsula before entering Storm Bay and the Derwent River, essentially a shortcut to Hobart.

As we travelled over the hills north west of Dunally, we could not help but see the devastation of the forests, the trees in that survival mode of sprouting leaves from whatever part of the tree exposed to air, appearing like green bottle brushes. We noted too, the new houses or those still under construction and then would see others untouched by the disaster; fire destroys randomly and we have heard of this in the current bushfires around Sydney.

Of the canal, we learned that the Denison Canal is the only purpose built sea canal in Australia. The only other canal was the unsuccessful Lauderdale (Ralphs Bay) Canal which failed due to siltation. A proposal for a canal at Eaglehawk Neck was rejected for the same reason. Work on this successful canal began in 1902 and unofficially was in use by 1905. In the month prior to the official opening, one hundred and four vessels passed through.  The dredged approach channel in Norfolk Bay is nearly a kilometre long and the Blackman Bay channel is over half a kilometre. The excavated canal is 895 metres making the whole project a total of 2.424 kilometres; quite impressive.

Another tessellated pavement

Today we were treated to the opening and closing of the bridge, to allow a rather smart yacht pass through unimpeded. We then passed over the bridge ourselves and onto the Forestier Peninsular and travelled along the shore to the lovely seaside settlement of Murdunna where we saw the first of the many shellfish farms we were to pass. Murdenna is in the north of delightfully sheltered Norfolk Bay, but then all bays look delightful when they glisten in the sunlight.

The road rose up through the forest and then descended sharply toward Eaglehawk Neck. We turned off and took a winding narrow road down past a lookout that offered splendid views of the rugged east coast and isthmus below. At sea level we pulled up and walked for a little way to admire the tessellated pavement, mostly submerged under the tide this morning but still beautifully fascinating.

Eaglehawk Neck was the site for guard dogs back in Port Arthur’s convict days; these were chained across the isthmus and no doubt kept on the brink of hunger, enough to be tempted by even the scrawniest of escaped convicts. I had learned of this in the Launceston Museum and also long ago when I read Marcus Clarke’s For the Term of His Natural Life.

Rugged coastline of Tasman Peninsula

After crossing this notorious neck of land and thus arriving on the Tasman Peninsula, we turned off the main road yet again and up to the special features of the high sandstone cliffs; the Tasman Blowhole, Tasman Arch and the Devil’s Kitchen. In each case the ferocity of the sea has cut first caves and then, tunnels inland through the cliffs thus providing formidable scenes for the tourist. Even today with the tide still high and the seas relatively quiet, it was still a sight to behold.

We lunched in the car park, with all our windows thrown open; can’t remember when we did that last. Back on the road, we followed the western shore to Taranna and then crossed the peninsula to Port Arthur where we easily found this caravan park. We booked in, were offered three days for the price of two and may well stay that long. Soon set up on an excellent drive through site with thick and thorny grevillea hedges, we discovered we had our own pet pair of parrots who turned out, after consulting our Field Guide, to be Green Rosellas, peculiar to Tasmania. A currawong, several fairy wrens, a dozen honey-eaters and a blackbird also arrived to introduce themselves and one could not help but feel good about the place even if there is no television reception and the water is the strangest colour of brown.

Green Rosellas

We popped into Port Arthur to check out the Information Centre which is in fact the entry station for the tourist attraction. Busloads of folk filled the entryway. I had tried to check out the situation online but been quite confused. We wanted simply to wander about the site and yet could find no fee listed for this. The truth is that no such simple solution exists like there was when Chris was here last, but then that was forty years or more ago. Now there is Bronze Pass and a Silver Pass and a Ghost Tour and a this and that. Chris demanded the price for a simple entry – no boat cruise, no guided tour, of the poor chap behind the counter who was not thanked for his reply. It seems we will have to take the whole tour or nothing. I thanked the chap sweetly telling him we would be back in the morning, and dragged my grumbling husband away. It is he who is the Whinging-Pom today, not I, the Whinging-Kiwi of yesterday. Actually a Whinging-Kiwi is worse than the other; Poms are renowned for their Whinging, Kiwis are not.

Clouds have come over and it is drizzling, a fact that seems does not bother the wonderful birdlife outside my window a bit. The rosellas love the pink flowers of the grevillea and are also quite partial to the crushed cornflakes I put out for them. We saw two echidnas today; one crossing the road in front of us and the other beside the entrance to the camp; this excitement and my delight at the birdlife unfortunately has no effect on Chris’s disappointment about the lack of television. It is Sunday and he does like the Cycling Central programme on SBS; alas not tonight.