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.
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| 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.
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| 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?
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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 …
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