Stunning Beauty, In A Brutal Past - Tasmania part 3

Morning dawned resplendent. The sun rose above the ocean drying the remnants of last night’s rain. The view from the room in the Blue Waters Motel was stunning. I’d like to have spent more time exploring Orford.

 

Blue Waters Motel ... brilliant views

Ignoring warnings that this was only for the most adventurous 4x4 enthusiasts we ventured into the Three Thumbs State Reserve. Smooth and wide, there was no way this was a track just suited to 4x4 vehicles. This has become a theme across Australia, people buy ‘softroaders’ and then think that a well maintained country road is something to only be tackled by the most extreme of vehicles. We laughed about it and continued on.
 

The bushland within the forest was inspiring, the higher we climbed the more beautiful it became however, like most things in Tasmania the distance wasn’t great and we soon found ourselves on the other side and into farm land. This too had its appeal. We came off the dirt and were soon joining onto the Arthur Highway, one of Tasmania’s main roads. It was an opportunity to refuel, albeit at a service station that was 100% self-serve – you put your card into the bowser, fill your bike, then remove the card. It all seemed a little too much like the future.
 

The Arthur Highway (A9) took us south, through rolling green hills until we reached a small town called Dunalley, stealing a chance to get something to eat at the local bakery. We were surrounded by the unique view of the swing bridge that allows traffic across a hand built canal, providing a passage for boats to move between two bays. It was here that we were struck by the realisation that this was one of the towns ravaged by the January 2013 bushfires. Sixty five buildings in the town had been destroyed, considerable when you consider the population is only 300. It was a stark realisation just how severe the Australian landscape can be.
 

The bridge and canal at Dunalley are an engineering marvel; it certainly made scoffing a huge wagon wheel worthwhile. We crossed the isthmus that connects the Forestier and Tasman peninsulas from the rest of Tasmania and headed towards one of the world’s most unique modern historical sites. It came not before a visit to a very unique natural site – the Tessellated Pavement at Eagle Hawk Neck.
 

Looking from the bikes we could see the rugged and spectacular coastline. Looking over the steep cliff we saw the amazing site of the ‘pavement’. Appearing almost manmade the relatively flat rock surface is broken (or seems to be) into smaller rectangular shapes, all created by the forces of nature. The perfect geometry of the surface was stunning. I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder on the way back to the bikes to make sure that it was real.
 

Tessellated Pavement, a wonder of nature

A horrified realisation struck me halfway up the path. A group of international tourists were prodding sticks into a hole about the size of a football. Closer inspection revealed they were literally trying to beat an echidna from its burrow. Appalled I was about to step in when they realised that I was watching and abruptly stopped. They walked down the path muttering something; I watched to ensure they were well away. I could no longer see the creature, I hoped it had got away safely.
 

The Arthur Highway took us into Port Arthur and our accommodation for the night, Stewarts Bay Lodge. Nestled in amongst the natural beauty of Stewarts Bay and surrounding bushland it seemed like a perfect place to base ourselves to explore the history and tyranny of what is now a UNESCO World Heritage site – the Port Arthur Historical Sites.
 

The site is often referred to as the Port Arthur Convict Settlement, and while this is partly true, the history of the area is much more than that. Originally founded in 1830 as a timber camp its importance quickly grew as the authorities realised how it could benefit the penal colonies. During the 1840’s industry was quickly added to the area, with a convict population of over 1100 being reached.

Port Arthur ... its beauty hides the brutal past

 

Buildings were constructed and the area started to resemble a town of sorts. 1848 saw a separate prison begin construction and it was at this time that the form of punishment went from physical to mental, a much crueller form of torture.

 

Now well established, the population were mostly men who had been transported from other settlements around the colonies, one in five were women, and many were children who had been transported with their parents – by this very nature they would never see freedom.

Although a profitable settlement by the 1860’s many of the convicts were now old and sick, a decline in productivity occurred to the point where the authorities were forced to sell to private enterprise. Upon until this point in 1877, the area was a hive of industrial activity.

 

Logging was the main concern while numerous satellite industries supported the whole complex. More than 50 large size ships were built in Port Arthur. The last convict was moved from the area in 1877, at its peak the whole complex housed 3500 convicts at once. Conditions at Port Arthur were considered some of the toughest in the whole of the British penal system, it was said that if you were sent to Port Arthur you were considered the worst of the worst. Often these convicts were just trying to survive.
 

Nightfall brings a ghostly feel to Port Arthur

The 1890’s saw the area become a ‘free’ settlement and the population tried to make it as homely as possible. Struggling to survive the locals realised that they could eek a living by relying on tourism. Many people came to the area to see what a real penal settlement looked like. This continued in one form or another until the 1970’s when the authorities tried to interpret the history and occurrences of the site. To preserve the integrity of the area, all working (and lived in) facets were removed, essentially it became a mid-1800’s site again. Archaeological work revealed a number of other key sites including the Point Puer boys prison and the Island of the Dead ‘cemetery’. 
 

In 2010, the whole area was awarded World Heritage Listing and with it came hordes of tourists. Yes, there is a need for tourists to maintain and preserve a site such as Port Arthur however, when there’s a large cruise ship anchored just off shore it ruins a little of the mystique. The bellowing, obnoxious demands of swathes of people not interested in the significance of the area but rather just to say they have been there is appalling. Like swarming ants they scurried from one building to the next, snapping a photo, then onto the next building. I was just about to give in when the heavens opened, the rain fell heavily and washed the tourist aspect away. They ran for their buses and tender boats and soon the area was almost void of all life, a cleansing of sorts. It was cold, wet and miserable – the Port Arthur Penal Colony began to shine through. This is what life must’ve been like for most living here … bloody miserable!
 

Island of the Dead ... seemed fitting that a cruise ship was
close by.

Rain continued until nightfall, perfect timing as the ghost tour began. Yes, this was 100% tourist but I’m a sucker for a good ghost tour and it’s the perfect way to learn a lot about the real people of an area without the history book fluff. The tour came with a dinner, a nice touch. The tour took us into areas we hadn’t been during the day adding to the mystic, it made one realise just how tough and cruel a place Port Arthur really was. At the end of it all a lady working the administration reception offered to drive us to our accommodation. A lovely gesture. Only small but again demonstrating the kindness of strangers.

I fell asleep immediately. There were no visitors in the night, not real or in my dreams.

Morning dawned to the most magnificent blue skies and a warmth that would quickly dry the rain of the day before. It bode well. We quickly ate breakfast, the plan being to take in a few sights before we headed to the Tasmanian capital city of Hobart. Packing the bikes I was greeted by a man from Victoria. We chatted about Tasmania and bikes. He was a casual rider and seemed quite envious of what we were all up to. We discussed the merits of different bikes, he quickly realised I currently or previously had owned many and varied machines and not surprisingly he agreed that the BMW F800GS is one of the best all round travelling machines. We parted company, I continued packing.

The morning’s destination was Lime Bay State Reserve on the western side of Norfolk Bay. I was determined to see more ruins. The coal mine historic site.

The Coal Mine Convict Settlement ruins, more impressive
than Port Arthur.

Like the larger Port Arthur this site is entrenched in a brutal past. At any one time up to 600 convicts were housed here. If the ‘worst’ in the colonies were sent to Port Arthur then the worst of those were sent to the coal mines. The year 1833 saw coal discovered in the area and by 1839 the first mine in Tasmania was opened here. Buildings had already been built for the 150 prisoners and 29 officers. In many ways it became a fully operational town with a bakery, chapel, surgery and quarters for all of the men living there.

The prisoner’s cells were constructed underground. They were extremely dark and damp. As a further way of punishment those breaking the rules were sentenced to cells even further underground. It must’ve been bloody awful, like Port Arthur the mental punishment being the worst. The prison mine reached its peak in 1847 when 25 tonnes of coal were being extracted each day by two shifts of eight hours. Amazingly, just a year later the prison was closed due to ‘moral and financial’ reasons.

Today the area is protected for its rich contribution to Tasmanian and Australian historic, scientific, aesthetic, and social values. For me, these ruins are much more impressive than those at Port Arthur, and away from the tourist masses you get a much greater appreciation of the impact that convict (slave) labour had on early European Australian history. 

Riding the road to the Lime Bay coal mines I had noticed a sign for a distillery, William McHenry & Sons. A detour had to be made on the way back, after all whisky is one of the things Tasmania is famous for. We found the turn off and took to the dirt. It soon turned into a small one lane track, winding its way through tall gum trees. I couldn’t help think that perhaps we had stumbled across a moonshiner’s camp, it added to the mystic.

Wiliam McHenry Distillery, a great place to make whisky ...
and gin.

Pulling up at two large sheds the place seemed deserted. Was it closed? We stood and looked, it seemed odd, a little disconcerting.

"Hey," boomed a voiced. We turned and saw a man walking from the closest shed. "Are you guys lost?"

Perhaps we weren’t supposed to be here. I’m sure the sign on the main road had said ‘open’.

"Ah, sorry," I exclaimed. "We saw an open sign down on the road, I couldn’t give up the chance for a whisky."
 

"Good man," the man beamed. "Come this way, my name’s John." We introduced ourselves and soon discovered that the distillery wasn’t currently in the process of producing whisky. They only had gin. It wasn’t a disaster, I’ve been known to enjoy a gin or three.

We were taken through the whole gamut of products. It taste like gin I had never experienced before, each one different to the last and yet all completely satisfying. When asked what made this gin so good I was told to get on my bike and follow John up one of the steepest tracks I have ever been on. We wound our way to the top of a mountain. As soon as I was off the bike I was directed to a path in amongst the ferns and there it was, a spring bubbling the clearest of water from well within the mountain. Enriched with minerals from deep within the mountain I was enjoying the purest, sweetest water I had ever had. I felt I had reached spiritual enlightenment by a sacred elixir.

We left the mountain, bikes loaded with the finest gin and continued on to Hobart, vowing to return and sample the whisky and take in one of the workshops.

Richmond bridge ... the oldest used bridge in Australia

Following the waters of Frederick Henry Bay we soon found ourselves in the town of Richmond. Instantly we were transported back to the 1800’s. The buildings, the streets, the atmosphere was all ‘old world’. It was delightful. Famous for the stone arch bridge that more or less sits in the centre of town and is the oldest bridge still in use in Australia. I marvelled at the engineering that keeps such an old and simple construction upright under modern loads. We enjoyed a simple lunch of fresh oysters from a roadside vendor with a German couple we’d befriended the previous day. They were on their way to Melbourne and Victoria, we gave them our details. Sadly, we never heard from them again.
 

Our last stop before reaching our destination for the day was Sullivan’s Cove Distillery on the outskirts of Hobart. It was perfect timing as the rains had returned and this time seemed set for the day. Sullivan’s Cove, if you enjoy a whisky, is well worth a visit, despite being set in an industrial estate however, be prepared to spend money, lots of money.
 

Surprisingly, you are given three options of how much you want to spend just for a tasting. This turned me off a little, as it did a small group that had followed us in. They immediately turned around and when elsewhere. I remained, enjoyed a few sips then left with an expensive bottle of Single Cask Whisky. I hate being ripped off and tried to convince myself that it was a small batch and something to be savoured. It was worth it, it was worth it …　

 

Fires On The Beach & Devils In The Dark - Tasmania part 2



'Charlie' Boorman got a beer at the Pub in the Paddock

The Pub in the Paddock gradually disappeared in the mirror. Heading east towards the seaside town of St Helens I was marvelling at the fact that ‘Charlie’ Boorman had been able to get a beer at the pub and I couldn’t. It kept me amused for a few kilometres.
 

The Tasman Highway was an easy ride. The road, like most in Tasmania, was in great condition, winding its way through ancient eucalypt forests and picturesque farm lands. In no time we were in St Helens, I was still struggling to get my head around how close everything is in Tasmania.



The largest town on the north-east coast of Tasmania, St Helens is a Mecca for tourists of all sorts, especially those interested in fishing and seafood, apparently the surfing is good too. On this occasion it was just a quick stop for us as we ventured a little further north, a chance to see one of the most unique coastlines that I have seen for a while.

A beach on fire ... Vibrant colours of the Bay of Fires

The coast road north led us to an area known as The Gardens. Dismounting at the end of the bitumen I wondered if we could continue further north, deeper into the area known as the Bay of Fires. We could, we didn’t, there was no need. A quick glimpse over the dunes gave some indication as to what was in store.
 

The sand was so fine, so white. It didn’t look real. It squeaked when walked on. I had no doubt that this was where the sand for hour glasses was sourced. Contrasting against the brilliant white was the richest orange. The rocks protruding from the sand looked ablaze. I looked south and was stunned to see the whole coast on fire. We made a decision to return south and explore the brilliant site.
 

What we had found was essentially the middle point of the Bay of Fires, or Larapuna in the local indigenous language. The most amazing oranges and reds framed by the brilliant white sand, it stretched for miles to Binalong Bay in the south and Eddystone Point in the north.

 Viewed from out in the perfect blue waters of the bay it would be easy to see why the area had been named the Bay of Fires however, I quickly learnt that it was named in 1773 by Tobias Furneaux in the ship Adventure who apparently saw the coastline dotted by fires set by the local Aboriginal people. I couldn’t help but think had he actually mistaken the orange stones for fires.
 

The stones, of all sizes, that line the beaches are granite and in fact get their brilliant orange colour from the lichen that adorns them. There were tourists here but not enough to be annoying, it felt remote, secluded, and inviting – had the weather been a little warmer I would’ve stripped out of my sweaty adventure gear and gone for a dip in the turquoise waters. I wanted to pitch the tent in one of the many beachside areas set aside for camping. Impossible! They were all taken. 
 

We continued south to Binalong Bay. A photographers dream, this small coastal town was voted by Lonely Planet in 2008 as the number one global holiday destination. I could see why, yet it wasn’t spoilt by over development or tourism, in fact I felt that it was very similar to the Town of 1770 in Queensland. I felt I’d like to spend my last days in a place like this.
 

Completing a loop of the town we decided we would head further south. We again passed through St Helens and joined back on to the coast road. I’d been warned that while it was quite a good ride there wasn’t a lot to look at. Rubbish! As with all coastal roads you need to know what to look for, enjoy the natural beauty, the history. There was plenty to see here, at times too much to take in.

Iron Horse Brewery ... great beers!

Passing through a small settlement called Four Mile Creek we were soon upon an impressive, modern looking building in the middle of fields. I slowed to get a better look and was almost knocked off my bike by the most beautiful of billboards. Iron Horse Brewery. Beer! Just what the mid-afternoon was calling for. We pulled in. I was off my bike and through the doors in no time. The place came as a shock. It didn’t feel like a brewery. Sterile and lacking atmosphere. Thankfully the tasting paddle was just what was needed, and the beers on sample were all of the highest quality. I was able to cram a six pack into one of my panniers.
 

Back on the road we were determined to make it to Bicheno, the so called jewel of the east coast, to see the Tasmanian Devils. We were in luck, we were able to join a night time feeding session of these endangered marsupials, but before that we had bikes to see … and lots of them.

$80,000 bike ...

The Bicheno Motorcycle Museum is considered one of Australia’s best. A private collection of over 50 bikes of all eras, styles and makes. This is a great collection. Walking through the door I stood in stunned silence as a HRD Vincent was the first bike on display - $80,000 worth and just sitting there, unbelievable.
 

Dinner was had at Pisini’s Italian Restaurant. My god, did we eat. The food was brilliant and service was great. That was the amazing thing about Bicheno. It’s a tiny town yet has worked well to cater to the tourists, plenty of restaurants and bars, and a great atmosphere.

Got to love the Italian style ... Bicheno bike museum

Filled to brim with great food we waited for the tourist bus to pick us up and take us to the ‘secret’ location where the Tasmania Devils are fed. Although in the dark it was an enjoyable 30 minute drive. A family of Americans were amazed that we were riding motorbikes around the island; they were even more amazed when we told them this was a short ride. We all laughed when one of them spotted a small kangaroo by the roadside and we told them that the things often jump straight out at you – it makes riding a bike a little more exciting.



We soon arrived at the location designated by Devils In The Dark. Night provides an opportunity to see the carnivorous marsupials feeding in their natural habitat, the humans enjoyed wine and cheese. It was a chance to learn about them and the issues that could force them into extinction. Many think of the Tassie Devil as the crazy Looney Tunes character spinning wildly into the scene yet they face a very serious problem of facial tumours that are threatening their very being. A number of Tasmanian institutions are trying to combat the problem through isolation and genetics, Devils In The Dark is one such organisation doing a great job.

Devilish little characters

 

The experience ended after a few hours. I felt humbled; to see these noisy little creatures at their best and knowing that my little time with them might help them survive. It was gratifying. Touristy, yes! Important, very much so!

The following morning started early. The plan was to get to the Freycinet National Park and walk some of the wilderness trails. We were early, in fact early enough to be the first people there. It didn’t help, we went the wrong way, headed down the western side of the peninsula, at this time of the morning it didn’t matter, later in the day it would be murderous.

We headed off, with some good sense to ditch all of the riding gear, although Kevlar jeans did make it for a hot walk. Fourteen kilometres of climbing and scrambling was great and the scenery amazing. It became apparent quite early that this was still a tourist walk, and littered with all sorts of human waste – the amount of dumped tissues and toilet paper was appalling. I was told it was a cultural thing. We kept up a cracking pace and after around 2 hours found ourselves crossing the thin neck of the peninsula towards the east. In this small area there had already been so many scenery changes brought on by the varying landscape and environments – everything from rugged cliffs, to lush rainforest, sandy beaches, swampland and even an area that looked like it was from a nuclear holocaust – obviously a fierce storm had been through here.

Wine Glass Bay, without the tourists

The eastern side revealed the ‘magnificence’ of Wine Glass Bay. Often said to be one of the world’s most beautiful and ideal beaches, I was underwhelmed, perhaps jaded by the now hundreds of tourists that were spoiling the natural beauty. The climb up and over the mountain that protects the beach was torturous, yet rewarding, especially when a friendly little wallaby came over to look at our bikes at the end of it.

You can never have enough seafood

We continued on around Coles Bay. I knew there were oyster farms around here yet what appeared next was pure joy. Freycinet Marine Farm. As much fresh seafood as you can image. It didn’t matter that I’m allergic to crustaceans there was plenty of everything else. We sat with a couple from Tasmania while eating oysters, mussels and drinking beer. Heaven! The couple were envious of what we were doing and pointed out a few things that were ‘musts’.

Venturing around Moulting Lagoon we were soon heading south again. No real plans of where to stay, mindful that it was getting late. I was happy to pitch the tent in the wilderness, it didn’t happen. Heading towards the village of Orford we came across one of the ‘must’ sees, the Spiky Bridge.

 

The bridge used to be a part of the main road, now it sits adjacent, almost looking ridiculous as it appears to be in the middle of a paddock. Built in 1843 by convicts, no one can really explain why it has spikes built into it. The entire main span of the bridge is mortar free, constructed from field stones laid on top of each other in much the same way that drystone walls are built. The spikes too are field stones that have been placed upright into mortar on the parapets. It’s believed that the spikes are there to prevent cattle from walking over the edge, no one can confirm this, and it does seem a little farfetched. The uniqueness of the bridge is reason enough to stop and have a look.

Spiky Bridge

Orford, just another 50km down the road was a welcome site, by now we were becoming exhausted. With a population of just over 500 accommodation was limited, we plumped for a 1960’s looking motel adjoining the pub. At least the walk home wouldn’t be too far. The rooms were surprisingly good, very spacious and certainly comfortable. We settled in.

The Blue Waters Motel, looked like it was going through a major renovation. Perhaps more resort style is what the owners are looking for. It would take considerable work to achieve the desired, the pub part of the alterations was certainly working. We ventured inside for dinner. A few patrons and guests were already seated. The huge dining area didn’t look like anything special. With orders placed we sat with a few beers and started talking about the history of Orford …

Sudden darkness was accentuated by the Hollywood sound effect of power going off. The bar staff scrambled around trying to work out what had happened. The restaurant manager was quickly on the phone. It turned out there had been a nasty accident down the road which had taken out a power-pole, we sat and waited and continued to discuss the history.

The town was settled in 1831 to service the nearby Maria Island penal colony. The jetties still remain despite the water being too shallow for larger vessels. A quarry which is still in use today provided many stones for buildings in nearby Hobart as well as those in a number of prominent Melbourne constructions. Today the area service tourists with its pristine beaches.

Power came back on; we ate and then made the short walk to bed. Tomorrow would be, for me, one of the highlights of exploring Tasmania …

Looking For That Elusive Pub - Tasmania part 1

As day broke we knew we were close to the coast of Australia’s island state, there were no visible signs just the pungent smell of burning eucalyptus. With a quarter of the state burning in summer bushfires the smoke cast an eerie pall over the coast, we knew we were close we just couldn’t see it.

The Spirit of Tasmania sailed down the Mersey River to our departure point of Devonport in the north of the state, eight days had been planned to see the state, at least the east coast. No set plan. Just ride. See what adventure would be thrown our way. Tasmania, the size of Ireland or West Virginia in the USA surely a week would be enough.

Riding the bikes from the bowels of the red and white overnight ferry we were greeted by what looked like a large country town. It was a Saturday and strangely quiet. It didn’t matter the plan wasn’t to spend time here, just head south down the Bass Highway to the town of Longford, a former home of the Australian Grand Prix, and for a Formula 1 fan, such as myself, this was a must.

The original Longford motor racing circuit.

In the 1950’s and 60’s the best motor racers from around the world would visit the unassuming town to take on its 7.2km roughly triangular track. This was the home of not only the Australian Grand Prix but also the Tasman Cup and numerous motorcycle races.

The remains of the track, if you can find them, are a sad reflection of what was once Australia’s fastest racing circuits. It now lies in ruins, and for the most part is no longer visible. A highlight is the Country Club Hotel with its Lex Davison bar. Located on one of the circuits more famous corners it houses a great photographic history of the racing and the many champions, Davison being just one of the local champions.

After a beer it was time to head north to the larger town of Launceston. This wouldn’t be a stop just waypoint as we headed towards the town of Beaconsfield.

Launceston came as a surprise. It was much larger than I anticipated, littered with many colonial buildings, some in pristine condition. I felt a pang of sadness that we had decided to pass through … it meant we would need to come back at some stage.

Beaconsfield. A great history in social and industrial Tasmania

Heading north, Beaconsfield is just 43km along the Tamar River but might as well be another world. Although the roads were good, very good, the landscape changed to a collection of craggy outcrops amongst the thick eucalypt forests. It was rugged, hard country yet something drew the early Tasmanians to this area. Gold! And lots of it.

The area was first settled over 200 years ago, and while limestone mining was the staple it was the discovery of gold in 1862 that lead to the population increase. The town flourished, the population grew, Beaconsfield was on the map yet it was events many years later that keep the town forever in the minds of many people.

At around 9:30pm on the night of April 25, 2006 a small earthquake struck the area around Beaconsfield and triggered a rock slip within the mine, which now spread beneath the town like the roots of a giant gum tree. The collapse buried three miners, killing one instantly, Larry Knight was 44. The two others were saved by the vehicle they were working in and although buried under tonnes of stone they were able to free themselves and hope that help would soon arrive.

In a rescue that held the attention of the entire world the two miners were freed 14 days after the initial collapse, amazingly both were in quite good health and walked from the elevator that had brought them to the surface. They punched the air, switched their mine tags to ‘safe’ before embracing their families. Yes, it was a little staged however, had the effect that the town would now need.

The mine was soon closed due to safety concerns; Beaconsfield transformed itself into a tourist hub. People interested by the story come from far and wide, and those with an interest in the band Foo Fighters, like I, also visit to put a place to the song Ballard of the Beaconsfield Miners.



Spending almost an entire day here it was now time to move on and find accommodation before it got too late. George Town, 44km around and on the other side of the Tamar River was the destination. The ride was fantastic, again on great roads and through picturesque bushland. With a population 7 times the size of Beaconsfield we expected more of George Town, apparently large by Tasmanian standards. Settled in 1802, George Town is also one of Australia’s oldest European settlements.

The history in the area, both human and natural, is spectacular but you do need to go looking for it. This was to be our last night with a chance of some extravagant civility for a while so we lapped it up and booked into the impressive Peppers York Cove. A multi roomed apartment overlooking the cove and nearby town was just the thing. Were we getting soft?



George Town.  Full of history.

We awoke to a fantastic view across the cove with its many small yachts and fishing vessels. Over breakfast a plan was formulated that we would head east through the high country to a town called Pyengana and its famous ‘Pub in the Paddock’.

 

Initially we followed a number of ‘B’ roads through farmlands of varying types. The mid-summer sun was warm and inviting, not too hot, cooling in the higher the altitude. The roads led us to a number of attractions that this area is famous for; food, wine and beer. Berry farms seemed to be everywhere and who could resist? Wineries too, my god, this was dangerous … wine and bikes … not ideal. We did stop at one and soon decided we weren’t feeling welcomed, we were looked up and down by the young lady conducting the tastings. Dirty adventure bike gear not being to her liking.

One of her customers followed us out and soon began discussing our ‘adventure’ he made it clear he was envious and would rather be joining us than spitting out good wine. We laughed and continued on.

Great tracks abound in the wilderness of Tasmania

The road east continued and soon we found ourselves confronted with gravel. The stuff looked glorious, and on roads that were far too daunting for many, if not most, tourists we knew we would be on our own. Tight, twisty and in some places slippery, it was the heaven we had heard so much about in Tasmania.

This land was sculptured by many creeks and rivers and it seemed that no matter where we looked, there was another one providing greater views. Many of the watercourses would culminate at areas such as St Columba Falls. After a short stop it was time to continue on, by now the weather had started to look a little dark, it was possible we would get some rain. This would’ve been a great place to camp.

Riding out of the forest we were greeted by the inspiring site of picturesque dairy farms nestled amongst a beautiful valley. It had that smell, the smell of fertile land and happy animals. It felt welcoming. It was home to the Pub in the Paddock.

Entering the driveway we were amazed by the site of caravans and motorhomes. "Bloody hell," I thought. "Please don’t let this be a favourite with grey nomads."

Pulling up to where the vehicles were parked I couldn’t wait to enjoy a beer. Dismounting the bike, a couple, perhaps in their 60s, quickly pointed out that the pub was closed. What? How could this be? One of the most iconic pubs in Tasmania and it was closed at 4:15 on a Sunday afternoon. This was a problem, not only did I want a beer, we wanted accommodation and now both were denied.

Slapped with this news we stood around unsure of what to do, the town was just down the road, surely we could get accommodation there.

"Hey mate, do you have a tent?" one of the caravaners questioned. Of course we did, but I didn’t really feel like pitching it, by now it had started to rain. We had food, cook in the bag stuff, and water too. I really wanted a beer and a good cooked meal. I continued to make. I was keen to move on.

"Well get it set up," demanded the man’s wife.

"You are having dinner with us tonight."

"What’s going on?" I thought. We’d been here for just a few minutes and we were already being invited to dinner, we hadn’t even introduced ourselves. It was hard to refuse such generosity and while we sat on our bikes looking at each other we felt compelled to stay and enjoy the hospitality.

Despite our mud covered riding gear we were invited into one of the ‘vans and enjoyed a perfectly cooked roast dinner. A man in the van opposite even provided a cold beer. The XXXX, not my favourite, was gone in seconds. I wanted another but was ashamed to ask.

It rained most of the night at the Pub in the Paddock

Slipping into my sleeping bag and drifting off to sleep much earlier than I normally would I woke up well before daybreak. The rain had stopped, a steamy fog hung above the ground. I couldn’t resist grabbing the camera and walking into the fog laden valley. The rich smell of farming hung in the air; cows watched me with interest, undoubtedly wondering why I was interrupting their ideal morning.

Returning back to camp, I was greeted with a breakfast of cook in the bag porridge. It wasn’t too bad. Then was given a tour of the pub by the owner. We were told that she heard that a few bikes had come in and then left, and if she’d known that we’d stayed she would’ve opened up for us. Bugger!

The history of the place is quite unique; I hope to god I’ve got this right. Back in the old days, the pub has been licenced since 1880, a traveller was helped by the patrons of the pub. Suffering from a big night he left early the next morning promising to repay the publican for his generosity, the only promise was he couldn’t remember the name or location of the pub. He simply addressed his repayment to "The Pub in the Paddock", Tasmania. Amazingly, the postal workers of the day knew what he was talking about (St Columba Falls Hotel) and were able to deliver the package … and so the Pub in the Paddock was named. The pub is literally in the middle of a paddock, you see, in its original form it was the homestead for the local farm.
 

Marvelling at the history of the place and vowing to return, we packed, thanked our new friends for their generosity, and continued on into the Tasmanian wilderness …