Wineglass to Wine Glass

OK, I’ll put it on the record. The Wineglass to Wine Glass tour is one of the best guide-led tourism experiences in Australia.

Big call? Well this adventure delivers in spades.

The first ‘Wineglass’ is the world famous bay on the Freycinet Peninsula on Tasmania’s East Coast. It’s a remarkable piece of landscape, often described as the most perfect beach in the world. Elegantly curved, and drifting into the distance, your best view of Wineglass Bay is from the mountainous saddle as you trek in from Coles Bay. This lookout is high on my list of must-do experiences for all visitors to Australia, not just Tassie.

But it’s name belies the beauty of the place. Home to whaling stations in bygone eras, the bay would fill with the blood of slain cetaceans until it resembled a flattish glass of claret. So, not exactly the romantic notion you may have had I mind, but a true reflection of its heritage nonetheless.

For the botanically minded the walk down from the saddle to the beach itself is equally remarkable. There are clear points in the bush where the topography and plant distribution change. Trees at one step, shrubs and grasses the next. No warning, no gentle morphing. An abrupt geographical schism.

Really, it doesn’t matter what time of the year you visit, do yourself and favour and pack your cossies. Even if it’s a little chilly you must take a dip. This is some of the cleanest water in the world, and it’s flourishing with sealife. Bring a reel and cast a line. Trust me: pippies as bait, and you’ll be eating whiting for lunch!

If you do dive in, goggles are a must. You’ll no doubt wonder about the odd-looking rock formations scattered along the shoreline. Well, here’s the thing. They’re not rocks. They’re whale bones. Cast-offs from the region’s history, these giant ossaries make for remarkable snorkelling.

Crossing the peninsula we make our way down Hazards Beach, more oyster shell than sand.

It is at the southern end of this second beach that we find our second ‘Wineglass’. And this time, it’s a wineglass!!

Tucked into a bushy grotto set above a exquisite bay our guides have established a bush camp complete with full kitchen and dining platform. So to finish the day off, we tuck into lobster, oysters, prawns and mussels, local wines and home baked breads. Really, what more could you want.

I can’t recommend this tour highly enough, it’s one of the best I’ve been on anywhere in the world. So don’t just make time for it when you’re next in Tassie, make this the reason for the holiday. You won’t regret it.

Ed

Flinders Island

It was like a homecoming, in some ways, returning to Flinders Island. I’d spent the last couple of years telling everyone I met that this sparsely-peopled rocky outcrop in the middle of Bass Strait was my favourite place in Australia.

I get around this country a bit, so that was a big call. But on the basis of my first visit, it was one well-earned.

Flinders is extraordinary. Brutally beautiful, breathtakingly isolated, and stunningly sculptured. And so it was with a sense of hesitant anticipation that I returned. Had I built an image of this place in my head that it could not sustain?

As we flew low over Bridport then into the Strait a sense of calm descended, and then, as the peaks of Strezlecki came into view, a knowing smile found itself plastered over my face. I had no reason to be nervous about this island, even from the sky you can see how compelling a place it is.

It takes a certain calibre of human to survive and thrive out here. You need resilience, determination and a keen sense of self-reliance. But you also need to be able to appreciate the beauty of your world.

The feature of my trip to Flinders this time was a visit to Partridge Farm, a bed and breakfast that is self-contained in the truest sense of the word. The rooms are lovely, and the aspect pretty, but for me the real fun happened in the outdoor kitchen. You see all the ingredients we were going to cook that evening were sourced from the farm itself: the pork, the veggies, the chicken. The seafood had been caught jut metres away.

Try to put this in perspective. For any chef the purest exposition of our art form is a celebration of place. Paddock to the plate, some say. Eat local, cry others. It’s rare indeed to be able to combine all those things in a single site.

What made the deal complete was the barbecue. I’ve cooked on grills, coals, planks and even volcanoes. But this rotisserie, fashioned out of an ancient beer keg, was a remarkable cooking experience. It caressed the pork, drawing the skin into glass-like crackling, while leaving the meat moist and flavoursome. To be honest, I played virtually no role.

And that’s the way it should be. As one of the greatest chefs I’ve ever met once observed, ‘Great food is like a romance: don’t pursue too much, let her come to you!’. Granted, he was single, but the point stands. When the chef does less, the ingredients can do more. This strange ancient art is built on light hands and deft touches.

So once again Flinders had wowed me, and this time without even trying. I can say with 100% certainty that my next visit to Tassie will include Flinders for sure. It’s my little bit of restorative medicine.

Ed

Bruny Island

What is it about islands that makes them so damn romantic. My guess is that it’s kind of like the castles of old. You get a moat. That’s right, a physical barrier of water that keeps the outsiders, well, outside. Of course a moat is far more effective in keeping out a chain mail-clad warrior than one in T-shirt and thongs. You don’t get quite the same drowning effect these days.

Or maybe it’s nothing quite so elaborate, perhaps there’s just a loner component to my personality that loves the idea of some reclusion. I must admit that I feel far more refreshed after some time alone, than time spent in the maddening crowd. My wife would head to New York in a flash, I’ll take Bruny Island any day of the year!

You arrive by ferry out of Kettering and disgorge yourself onto the island. Even if you set no further off down the track, you can have a great day right there! With the salmon farms just a little way up the D’Entrecasteaux channel, there’s plenty of fish food in the waters, so it’s an anglers paradise. Flathead the size of a baguette, and cocky salmon galore. I even managed to land a stray Atlantic salmon: don’t tell the farmers, but it was delicious!!!!

However if you do choose to take a drive, it’s a fantastic place to explore. Bruny basically divides into two parts – north and south, connected only by the narrowest of sand spits called The Neck. It’s not uncommon for that stretch of road to be completely impassable when a king tide rolls in. Both ends of the island have lots to offer.

Around Great Bay, in Bruny’s north, there’s two stops you need to make. Get Shucked oysters, and the Bruny Island Cheese Company. For the foodies, this could easily be a complete day out. The oysters are profoundly briny, with a complex mineral character. This is mostly due to the fast moving waters of the channel. It brings plenty of food for the filter feeders, and they plump up well. These are some of the creamiest oysters I’ve ever had, with great fat levels and superb mouthfeel.

Heading off to Nick Haddow’s cheese factory was, in part, a connection to my past world. I’d used his cheeses for years in my restaurants, but never visited the source. It was extraordinary to see just how artisan his process is. In a small room at the back of the shop, Nick and the team stir and curdle, press and drain the cheeses, before setting them into the maturing rooms for up to two years. It’s kind of like the Hubble telescope, viewing back through time at cheeses of old.

In Bruny’s south there’s plenty more to do. Adventure Bay, Lunawanna, the Bligh museum. But if you have time to drive all the way to the island’s southern tip, you’ll find the Cape Bruny lighthouse. For me, the profound part of this story is not the beauty of the building, or even the years of service it has given in keeping ships safe. No, I sat there, at the base of the tower, trying to imagine building it. Here, on the very edge of the known world, buffeted by southern storms, a crew of convict labour toiled for years to construct this perfect English monument. With no one to turn to, and nowhere else to go, construction was the only part of their life with structure.

And while you’re there, Cloudy Bay needs a moment of its own. This remote and desolate beach is so barren you’d be certain that the island was your’s alone.

Ah yes, alone.

It here, on Bruny Island’s deep southern edge, that the meaning of the place emerges. Sit, reflective and meditative, and soak up the moment. Uninterrupted and perfect. Now that’s why an island matters.

Ed

Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens

The Botanical Gardens was a hidden gem right in the middle of Hobart. I couldn’t believe how much land was reserved for this magnificent garden with an abundant variety of plant types and plenty of lawn to relax on and breath away the day.

The Gardens has so much to see, the old flower clock, the Huon pines, the Japanese garden, even a special sub Antarctica display where you can experience the plants and the sounds of Macquarie Island.

Quite literally the lungs of Hobart and possibly the most delightful Botanical Gardens I’ve ever seen. Also a quaint place to catch a bit of theatre or contemplate one’s next Tasmanian discovery. The Botanical Gardens are a must see when in Hobart.

Jack

Tasman Island Cruises

Let’s be honest about it. Seals can’t smell.

I don’t care what they say the textbooks about seals using a profound capacity for sensory manipulation, no animal can stink this bad and not know it.

Although that said, I’ve been trekking with Jack Campbell.

There’s several major seal colonies around Tasmania, and I’ve been lucky enough to visit a few. But this is not the kind of experience that replicates itself: every visit is unique. This is part because of the trip that gets you there and the people you meet along the way, but it’s also a function of the nature of the colonies.

Tasman Island is about an hour’s boat ride south of Eaglehawk Neck on Tasmania’s southern east coast. It’s a stretch of land most famous for the Port Arthur historical site, but there’s plenty more on offer here. Wineries, farm tours, dive charters and, of course, some pretty extraordinary seafood courtesy of the fishing fleet based at the Neck.

But this tour is not all about the fur seals, as impressive as they are. This is a three hour eye opener that lets you come to terms with you own insignificance. You may think that the in-laws can do that in less time, but it lacks the romance, believe me.

Just south of Eaglehawk Neck is a rock formation that simply shouldn’t be there: Tasman’s Arch. It will, in the course of time, eventually fall to the sea, but it’s precariously balanced current state is something to behold. 50 metres high and 25 metres wide, this giant natural rock structure belongs in a sculpture museum. Although, some might argue that the entire peninsula is just a very large museum.

The most disconcerting part of the arch, as we float in, are the giant boulders littering the sides of this open cave. It’s not hard to match their forms to gaping holes in the ceiling above and realise where they came from. Every shudder and creak seems to announce an impending cascade of rock. But it doesn’t come. This arch has a few years left in her yet.

The caves continue most of the way down southwards, many of which we are able to drive into. By the way, let me put this into context. Imagine trying to reverse park a Volvo big rig up a slippery dip set on a rocking horse. That’s the skill set needed to manoeuvre the 60 seat boat in a 2 metre wind-assisted swell up the narrow channel of a sea cave. Brain surgery, that’s nothing. Try driving this boat!

There’s plenty more to see. Falcons, sea eagles, dolphins, whales, shearwaters. You name it, they’re all there. But this is one stretch of coast where the geology outplays the wildlife. Don’t get me wrong I love dolphins, they’re delicious - just kidding – but when you’re looking at some of the world’s tallest sea cliffs and you come to realise that your place in the world is smaller than Anthony Robbins would have you imagine, everything else kind of drifts into the background.

I had my moment with a seal, though. He’d swum up beside the boat to see what was happening, and I tried my best dog bark to say hello. The seal kind of stopped swimming for a second or two, looked deep into my eyes, and then shook his head. Dead true. His face seemed to ay ‘you idiot!’.

I’ve been heckled before, but this was a first. It was patently obvious that this was their stage, and no pretenders would be tolerated. From now on, I’m happy to be in the audience.

Ed

White Water Rafting

I’ve come to the conclusion that river adventures come in two varieties only – damp, and wet. This is not necessarily a problem as you know all this in advance. However, one does spend a measure of one’s time on the river anticipating a sudden shift from the former to the latter.

Our day out started innocuously enough, driving towards Mole Creek near Deloraine. A couple of sharp turns through the bush, and we were heading up the Mersey River, home to Australia’s championship whitewater rafting course.

This stretch of water is fed by lakes of the hydro-electric system. So, in essence, this is a controlled river into which the water flow can be adjusted to suit the needs of paddlers. Thankfully our guides have determined our need to be moderate, because to me the river looks plenty big enough already.

If you’ve never been in a whitewater raft then here’s the basics. It’s kind of like bobbing for apples, only you’re the apple. You, and five or six friends, hop onto an inflatable pad that seems far more flexible than it should be. Things start out simply. You could be gondoliering through Venice for all you’d know. That’s the flat bit.

The ripples in the distance look like they’ll be just fine, and they are. Except that these were caused by the gentle breeze, not a sudden fall, that’s up ahead.

There’s a fundamentally strange factor in rafting: the faster the river, the faster you paddle. I realise it works, but it seems strange. Surely you’d try to slow things down a bit? But no, apparently that makes you unstable.

So into the breach we head, holding on for support. We get bounced around a bit, but I feel like I’m starting to get the hang of things. We track wide on the river, swept along by the current, then paddle furiously towards the chasm that lies between two rocks. Tearing through this sluice gate I suddenly realise that the fallen tree in our way, is not about to move. Thankfully our intrepid guides are in control of the boat and we career around it with more grace than I anticipated.

By this time I’ve been sprayed with the mist and splash, but I’m basically dry. Not bad going if you ask me. Brimming over with confidence now, I loosen my grip and strike up a conversation with my fellow paddlers. In the classic comic style this is, of course, then exact moment at which we strike our first rock. And as physics will tell you, a moving object retains its forward momentum after impact. Ah inertia, you’re no friend of mine!

The river looks different from underneath.

I find myself hurtling along bouncing off rocks and logs, unable to battle the force of the river. I am now clearly aware of my relative significance: small, very small.

Bu of course ‘small’ is not what I’m usually called. At 200cm I’m often the biggest in the room. Helpful in the supermarket? Yes. On a raft? No. You see my centre of gravity makes me far less stable when the real bumps come along.

At least, that’s what I’m putting my dumping down to.

So I’d made the transition from damp to wet, and in doing so taken my first steps towards raftsmanship. It’d be a long trek, I reckon, before I’m be in one of those kayaks, freewheeling amongst the rapids and eddies. But when you need ballast, hey, I’m your guy!!!

Ed

Piners and Miners

Toughness is a difficult thing to measure, mostly because it’s a highly contextual value statement.

Everest mountaineers are tough, that a given. I’ll be heading up when the escalator goes in, for what it’s worth.

Our special forces soldiers are tough. Olympians are tough. Footy players are tough. Well, maybe not Essendon, but the point still stands.

Yet none of these groups have a patch on the early Tasmanian west coast pioneers. Their lot was absurdly difficult, and they persevered in spite of it. In the end the challenge was insurmountable, and this poses an interesting question. When adverse circumstance prevails, what does that mean of the combatants?

Perhaps it matters what those circumstances were. We began discovering the life of the early piners and miners as we left Strahan Village. I ambled down to the waterfront, digesting my victuals, and launched myself into a radically-modified Landrover Defender.

While my mode of transport might not have matched that of the settlers, I had ground to cover if I was going to get a sense of it all. But then the strangest thing happened. This car suddenly wasn’t. It was there, but it wasn’t a car. It was a train! Like Clark Kent ducking into a nearby phonebooth, our driver effected an even more radical makeover and we set off up the track.

It’s an awkward trip, in some ways. You marvel at the ingenuity and bravery of the souls who first came this way, but the echo of their presence has torn some coarse scars into the landscape. This is a balancing act that will always feel out of kilter to one group or another. There are political views surrounding logging and mining that cannot be reconciled, so I can only distil the obvious truth: the men and women who worked here must have been desperate, determined or plain mad. In truth there was probably a combination of factors.

I’m not sure if there is a correct term for the act of taking a road car of a train track. If there is, it’s not in common usage, you’ll no doubt be surprised to learn. We de-tracked, that’ll do for now.

The next stage of the trip took us through the mountains and valleys that were home to the copper, zinc and tin miners of the 19th and early 20th centuries. Steep, exposed and bitterly windblown, this is not the natural environment of our species. At the base of the peaks lies the Bird River and here was the track that would lake us to Pillinger, the one-time commercial hub of Macquarie Harbour. It’s a pleasant enough walk these days. Our guides explained how the track came to be, and its role in maintaining the one-time community. But while we were laden down with picnics hampers and cameras, the original speculators carried their lives through this forest. I was sufficiently unsteady in several stretches that I could not imagine lugging my worldly possessions along as well. What about the kids, or the wife in her many-layered dresses?

Pillinger is a town’s cadaver, slowly being re-consumed by the encroaching bush. The boilers have nearly rusted through, and exposed cement shows clearly that bricks have recently fallen from the aging walls of the forgotten buildings. It would have taken a community of purpose to create a thriving town here. Desperately isolated, I still can’t fathom the desire that motivated the pioneers.

But as I said, it eventually proved to much even for the committed mine owners and prosperous tree-fellers. They simply melted back into the wider world.

I’ve heard another story like this. In fact I hear it every year. It’s a tale of brave Australians who were determined to succeed in the face of impossible odds and who, when defeat came, remained stout and proud. Their legacy changed our country as too did these early colonial settlers. They were our Anzacs who fought to tame the world at large, while others fought to tame our land.

So what then of the combatants, what then of the piners and miners. While the walls they built on the shores of Macquarie Harbour may be crumbling into memory, they and their kind remain the foundation stones of our modern nation.

Ed

Par Avion Wilderness Tours

Some people don’t like little planes. The shaking-shuddering-jolting-jarring-surging-falling-sideways kind of turbulent flying you sometimes get can put them off. No motion sickness for me though, it’s usually sandwich time.

Personally I reckon that if a pilot is prepared to fly, then I will too. Unless of course the pilot is wearing a rising sun headband in which case I might skip that particular Divine Wind.

But our pilot to Bathurst Harbour was no kamikaze, in fact he was one of our own Air Force specialists. In the media detachment, but a fighter none the less. He’s a warrior streaking through the sky to go pound for pound in witty barbs, facing the enemy with a loaded biro.

The flight to Tasmania’s great South-West is almost as remarkable as the destination itself. Being a small aircraft you fly low over the peaks, up close and personal with the fractured shards of rock that make up the skyline. As someone who has travelled throughout the world, I can assure you, it’s a unique spectacle. In part it’s the sheer scale of this place, but there’s a bigger emotional component. Isolation, splendid isolation.

You see virtually nobody ever comes here. I mean there’s tourists, sure, but as a function of the space itself it’s negligible at best. You quickly realise that the concept of one’s own patch is a very real commodity.

There was a lone miner who made his way in this barren scrap of land, Deny King, whose house still stands as a last stark monument in the wilderness. His tin mine was never about the money – he’d scratch out the barest volume permitted to keep his prospecting licence. For him it was the only valid way to have the life of which he’d dreamt. Surviving on the edge of nowhere meant a house in the national park, and there were rules for that.

A careful boat ride up the river took us to the massive Bathurst Harbour. You can continue out to Port Davey - the last stop before the world ends – but we were content to park ourselves on an island beach and while away a few hours staring down a place bigger than ourselves.

Your best reason with coming to Bathurst Harbour is a full system rest. Your system. Even some of the best-known peaks and sites throughout Tassie, while impressively beautiful, lack the paleolithic tone of this place. It is a step back into a world now lost, somewhere between fantasy and sculpture. But always intensely beautiful.

Ed

Maria Island Walk

Maria Island would have to be my favorite part of the series. For such a small island it had so much to offer. An extraordinary topography from the variable coast line to the amazing heights of Bishop and Clerk mountain.

We were featuring the Maria Island Walk, a 5 star, 4 day walk through this beautiful island in style. You spend 2 nights on the southern end of the island in “Wilderness camps” which have everything to offer, and you trek back to Darlington the only town on Maria for the final night, where you stay in a magnificently restored cottage.

The people were as friendly as ever and the many walks or treks were second to none. The water was beautiful, the prehistoric fossils along the coast were mind blowing, the climb to the top of Bishop and Clerk was something I’ll never forget with views that simply take your breath away. In fact the Discover Tasmania crew were perhaps the first film crew to walk a full High Def kit to the top of the mountain, Cameraman, sound recordest, producer and all the gear all carried to the top, what a feat and what an experience.

Maria Island is just a quick boat ride and you are simply on the ultimate get away. For peace and tranquility, with a lot of adventure - I highly recommend the award winning Maria Island Walk.

Jack

Stanley Seal Cruises

Who doesn’t love floppy, fluffy, frolicking Fur Seals? Stanley is most definitely the best place to go if you want to see them, and certainly one of the easiest. The water is so clear and the boat ride out to see the seals is an adventure in itself, with dolphins and whales along the way. Stanley Seal Cruises is run by an ol sea salt named Darryl and he captains his trusty 12 metre vessel the “Silvia C” out to Bull Rock the local home of the Australian Fur Seals. There hundreds if not thousands of seals on this haul out rock and they all just want to play. The other great thing about this tour is you get to see Stanley from the water, which is simply stunning!

Stanley itself is a very beautiful place having won Australia’s tidiest town. It’s full of characters and I highly recommend it as a place to truly Discover Tasmania. Famous for it’s beautiful landscape and of course it’s mighty headland affectionately known as the “NUT”. I’ll be back to Stanley for sure!

Jack