skip to content
primary navigation

Begin content:

Cycling in Tasmania

< P.1       P.2      P.3 >

(Continued from page 2)

The following day we accepted Harry's invitation to fish. It was a cool day with an overcast sky. The river was choppy and a rare breeze was blowing. Dressed warmly we rowed out into the river, which at this point is over a mile wide. We dropped the anchor and a great amount or rope went out, for the Derwent is tremendously deep and the largest ships in the world may surely move in it. We waited half an hour with not a nibble. We changed our position and my line jumped. I hauled in and as the fish, a flathead, came out or the water he jumped off the hook.

After that we sat for two hours. Harry caught a couple or flathead. I caught lumbago and poor Ivor didn't even catch a cold though the weather was cold enough. Round about this time Christmas and Boxing Day took place. I only recall it for the inconvenience it caused. Most of the shops were closed and I think that it was only by good luck that we managed to procure a tin or sardines for our Christmas Dinner.

From what I remember Boxing Day was the day we cycled up Mt. Wellington. At least we cycled a mile or so past the Springs Hotel and pushed the bikes the further thousand feet up the road to the summit. We were somewhat disappointed by the view from the summit. The view eastwards is at course magnificent. The full reach of the Derwent can be seen on a clear day, but this is all, views or any other direction being blocked by the undulating shrub covered plain that is the mountain's top. We walked for a mile or more on this plateau climbing projecting rocks hoping for a better view but round none.

On returning to the summ1t we found the place invaded by tourist buses, motor bikes and cars. Colourful dresses, enamel and chrome vibrated in the drab grey green scrub and lichen covered rocks. Four thousand feet below Hobart lay sleepy and the Derwent waters mirrored the blue sky that cloudless domed the mountain.

We freewheeled down the gravel road that is known as the Pinnacle Road. Travelling slowly for the grade is steep and the sides at times precipitous. We reached the main highway after passing under the frowning cliffs above the Pinnacle Road and freewheeled' to ,Hobart in a very few minutes down the smooth bitumen.

 

The Tasman Peninsula

Hobart, apart from its magnificent setting held little for us, and so we set off for Port Arthur. We crossed the Derwent over the long rather unique bridge made of concrete pontoons. We passed the airport at Cambridge where a great twin engine Convair was spilling its cargo of tourists and their luggage on to the tarmac to await their busses Across the causeways over Pittwater and there we ran out of bitumen, for at Forcett the road changes quite suddenly from a good highway to what I can only describe as a wide track This is extremely corrugated and being of gravel very dusty.

To add to our discomfort of being shaken, cars, and there were many or them passing at speed would leave a perpetual cloud of fine gravel dust which got in our hair and eyes and entered our mouths so that we were constantly tasting the not pleasant flavour of gravel. In none too good temper we cycled on.

At Coping we tried to obtain a meal at the pub but on finding they were only serving cold lunches, decided to go on to Dunaley where we hoped to find a store open Just after Coping I was unfortunate enough to have a puncture There was no nail or any sharp object sticking in the tyre, but two slits close to each other suggested that the tube had been trapped. There was a lot of weight on the back of the bike 35lbs of gear besides my own weight. This and the corrugated road must have caused it Shortly after I had another puncture with the same symptoms As there was little I could do about the load on the road I should just have to keep on having punctures Trying my best to keep to the smoothest part of the road.

After my second puncture as we were travelling into Dunaley a car passed us we ignored it reeling in a mood that we could have killed a motorist and buried him in gravel dust The hooting persisted and we looked round to find to our surprise and pleasure a car full of our friends from the YHA Melbourne. They were also travelling to Port Arthur and had just come down the east coast They extolled the virtues of the chain of Hostels along this coast and the spots they were set in We picked a spot for lunch and as we could get no provisions in Dunaley, they shared their lunch with us. We made some porridge but only Rosemary would have any of it, and so by a supreme effort we managed to eat what was left ourselves.

They went on their way after lunch and we followed them along the coast of Foristier Peninsula where large expanses of tidal flats lay uncovered with curious wave patterns on them. The road turned inland, and we began to climb over timber covered hills till we care to the breathtaking view of Eagle Hawk Neck and the Tasman Peninsula beyond.

The view is as unexpected as it is breathtaking; quite suddenly one comes round a bend in the timbered tunnel of the road and there it is some thousand foot below a narrow strip of land some hundred yards wide, a splendid surf beach on one side and a sheltered beach the other side. It was on this strip of land that dogs were chained at intervals so that no prisoner from the penal establishment at Port Arthur could escape without swimming across a Channel of water in full view of the guards.

It is because of this natural barrier that Port Arthur was selected as a penal settlement. Beyond the Neck Tasman Peninsula stretched into the blue distance. Her ocean coast battered by the surf was jagged like a bombed building. Projections jutting out to the sea, high cliffs, low promontories and tumbled wreckage of surf blasted cliffs.

We free wheeled down to the neck, rode across it and on to the road which runs round the sheltered side of the Peninsula there we met our friends coming back from Port Arthur. They told us what they had seen and went their way back to Hobart. Port Arthur as I have mentioned earlier is a nineteenth Century penal settlement near the tip of the Tasman Peninsula.

Here prisoners transported for life received very harsh treatment and the ruins of the prison contain apparatus for many forms of barbarous punishment. All the buildings are convict built of local freestone. This is mellowed by age and in its ruined state blends well with the English Oaks and Elms planted when the prison was built. These trees which have now reached maturity have lived through a time of great reform. They may still be living when Port Arthur even as a tourist resort is no more.

We pitched our tent by the old penitentiary and began to cook our tea. Whilst we were engaged on this process a couple of girl hitch hikers whom we had passed earlier in the day came up and asked us if we had seen any members of the Kameruka Bush-walkers. We had seen a couple walk in to Port Arthur and told the girls about them.

We offered them a cup of tea and some bread and jam for which they seemed extremely grateful. Afterwards in a soft twilight we walked around the ruins. The old roofless church held most of our attention. It was here so the story runs that a murder was committed whilst the church was still under construction. One prisoner beating another's brains out with a hammer. For this reason the church was never consecrated.

The girls tried to find their friends but after a fruitless search in which we helped they gave it up and pitched their tent beside ours. They were from Sydney and were at college there, training to be school teachers. We exchanged experiences and future plans and then retired. Tasmania is undoubtedly a fisherman's paradise and Port Arthur is no exception to this. An amateur fisherman living in a caravan nearby offered us some fish for breakfast. He sent us with his son to pick ourselves some fish. In the well of his boat there was an amazing assortment of fish. There were, cod, brim, trumpeters, perch and some I could not name.

Having been told to scale and clean the fish we set about doing so. Now this may sound ridiculous, but throughout the whole of our lives we had never had cause to clean a fish, up to this date. What happened, between the sea and the frying pan was to us an uninitiated mystery. I had some vague recollections of my Mother chopping off fish heads and scales flying, but we realised that somewhere in this animal was a stomach that had to be disembowelled. Where this was we hadn't the foggiest.

It was with trepidation therefore that we plunged a hand into t he well of the boat and hauled out, with directions from the lad, by the gills a couple of cod. Looking towards the lad and trying to look not too ignorant we ventured a "What's the best thing to do first?" "Oh! Scale them" said the lad. He had by this time I sorted him out a perch and was scraping at it with a knife against the grain. We did likewise and seized our fish by the tail and began scrapping. I do not know whether Ivor's fish was particularly ticklish but it didn't seem to like it and squirmed so that Ivor could not get on with the scrapping. "Hit it over the head" were the lad's directions. Whereupon Ivor seized a brick and gave it a mighty woof.

I somehow don't think that this was quite the right procedure, and from the look in his eyes neither did the fish. However after a few more bangs the fish settled down to a steady rigormortis. Most of the scale being off and casting an eye in the lad's direction we saw him cut the head off. We did the same, doing our best not to look the fish straight in the eye. A slit up the belly and the guts followed automatically. We took the fish back and had them fried. Perhaps we are becoming hardened for without any squeamishness we thoroughly enjoyed that fish. Later we were promised some crayfish and looked forward with interest to preparing them.

Having too much fish to consume ourselves, we invited the girls to breakfast. Later we set off for a walk to the Remarkable Caves. On the way there we came upon a small bushfire by the side of the road. Moses not being in the vicinity we presumed that this one had been started by a cigarette butt flung from a car. We began to beat it out and then we had a brainwave. The sea was close at hand and Ivor had brought his groundsheet. We filled this with sea water at a time and soon had the fire doused. passing Safety Beach, a fine stretch of white beach, translucent green edged by the sea.

We reached the Remarkable Cave, the entrance to which is remarkable in that it has the shape of a map of Tasmania. This entrance lead out onto a fine hand sand beach, great combers were collapsing and we had to talk loudly to be heard over the roar of the surf in the confined rocky cove. South-westwards we could see the fluted dolerite cliffs of Cape Raoul.

To the east Tasman Island rose sheer out of blue tormented seas. Her 900 ft. cliffs receiving the resounding buffets of Antarctic waters. The white washed walls of the lighthouse looked like a distant solitary white candle stuck centrally in a huge grey slab of cake. The keepers live a solitary life and many were the tales we heard of reliefs in particularly stormy weather, there being no anchorage. A boat has to lie in an inlet while the keeper is precariously lowered into the plunging boat.

We walked back to Port Arthur and as promised picked up three crays. To be cooked properly they have to be plunged into boiling water while still alive, so we borrowed a large boiler, filled it with seawater and put it on the fire. The crays oblivious to all this were gently waving, interlocking and disentangling their legs and antennae in a box nearby.

The moment came when the surface of the water was broken with bubbles and I quickly lifted the crays and popped them into the boiling water and put the lid firmly on. A furious knocking on the tin lid began and I slowly lifted it to see what had happened. Six reproachful black eyes on six red stalks looked at me and Dace scarlet bodies had turned an angry bright vermilion. A voice seemed to say "Murder most foul" and I slammed the lid down quickly. The girls had bought loganberries and cream and we had peas and potatoes. Astrid made a pie crust and we had a scrumptious meal.

The next day the girls were on their way. They only had a short holiday and were off to see the Scenic Reserve. After we had seen them get a lift we cycled round to where we had been told that a track led to Cape Raoul. Having no decent map of the area this was a harder task than we thought, t here being a network of roads where only one was marked on our map.

The road we chose turned into a track so we left the bikes and put on our boots and began walking. The track stopped at a farm from which we could see the sea. We walked towards it but found we were on a Cape but not Cape Raoul. Cape Raoul we could see close at hand, but its base was obscured by the intervening bush. We had hoped to have a view of the sea pounding these cliffs and were therefore disappointed.We tried to reach the point of the Cape we were on by bashing through the scrub.

This at one spot was burnt out so we soon became filthy from the charcoal. Later it became so heavy going that we gave up the idea of reaching the end of the Cape and turned round and went back. The day was not entirely wasted, for we had fresh views of Tasman Island and the eastern seaboard which were impressive.

On our way to Port Arthur we had flashed through Eagle Hawk Neck and so on our way back we stopped there. A gentle drizzle was falling as we reached the Neck. We lunched under a fir tree which gave us good shelter, and afterwards left our packs there and cycled round the eastern seaboard.

It is here that some of the highest cliffs in Tasmania are to be found. Along a reasonable good track we managed to cycle along to Waterfall Bay, where I believe the cliffs are 600 feet high. The scale of the whole of this coastline is breathtaking and I real1y do mean that one finds a strange tightening round the lungs with awe for the immensity of the scene. The view down the coast made us wish we could do a trip that way to Port Arthur but at Waterfall Bay the track petered out, So we shall save that trip for some other time.

As the weather was still far from good we went along to the Youth Hostel at Eagle Hawk Neck and asked if they could accommodate us. The warders, the two Miss Fletchers said we were lucky and so that night we stayed in what must be the smallest of Youth Hostels for it has only room for two. That night it rained quite heavily and we were extremely glad we were in a hostel and not a tent.

 

(Article Ends)

 

< P.1       P.2      P.3 >