The ominous weather didn’t stop us.  Didn’t even cause us pause.  We parked up near’t mill and got ourselves ready in a howling gale.  The walk started well with a small hill and tarmac.  Eventually we ended up near some old lead mining houses and passed onwards into a dark wood.

The main issue seemed to be that it was muddy.  Then J started howling.

He was sat in a kiddie backpack thing behind me.  Turns out I was passing under tree branches but he wasn’t managing to avoid the odd snagging.  Poor thing got very upset.

Then we headed upwards to a ridge and exposure to the wind (which had been nicely minimal under the cover of the woods).  The gusts nearly blew N off a ledge at one point and then J just kept howling every time a heavy gust came his way.

Would you believe that we picked now to have our lovingly prepared picnic?  Well we did.  Exposed to the wind and rain.  Was great fun.

But should we return and carry on.  Carrying on meant miles further in the exposed wind and rain.  Returning meant getting J through the thorney trees.  We went back in the end but it wasn’t without incident involving mud and loss of balance.  But we all got back in one piece.

Might do it again on a better day.

It’s a case in what happens when the outside world intrudes into a cloistered life.  We have a bunch of monks (I think that’s the correct collective noun) living in Algeria doing their helping the community stuff and living in complete harmony with the locals.  The difference in religions mean little to either party and they all mingle happily.  At one point the monks are invited to someone’s son’s party (sort of a religious coming of age thing) and are welcomed warmly and they, in turn, are happy to be there.  In other words the monks are locals just like anyone else.

But then the civil war kicks off and foreigners are being killed and girls without veils are stabbed on buses etc.  All very unpleasant.

The monks themselves are a mixed bunch and very well drawn characters.  Some are old and fatalistic but happy with whatever happens, the youngest monk is terrified more than any.  The trials of the group form the second half of the fillum.  Tis lovely.

A wonderfully warm and poignant study of faith, brotherhood, neighbourliness and duty.  I shan’t divulge the ending though.

Yesterday we went to a monkey place.  We were expecting a bunch of different monkeys but instead there were lots of 1 particular type.  In fact they were from North Africa, indeed the same place as the fillum was set.  Barbary Macaques they were.

J wasn’t too impressed but everyone else was.  Nice place.

Camping on Skye at the fag end of summer was always going to be a bit of a rough trip but the rewards of the place seemed to compensate handsomely.

We took 2 days to get here after a brief diversion to Rebecca and Matt’s wedding in London (most inconsiderately 100-odd miles in the wrong direction I might add).  We split the drive so we didn’t have to do 10 hours plus of driving and then have to pitch a large tent.

Our chosen overnight spot was Fort William where we kipped over at a lovely B&B run by a mad old bat who never so much asked for a deposit. Nicer and cheaper than a Travelodge type place (not that they’re particularly abundant once you get north of the M8 anyhoo).  The next day was a dash to Mallaig to get the ferry and then further to the campsite at Glen Brittle.

I’d never been to Skye before but ooh what a lovely place!

The campsite is situated at the end of a 7 mile single track road, between the black and grey beach and the Cuillan mountains.  Tame birds flit around the tents picking up scraps and local rabbits hoppity around too.  Didn’t see any eagles though.  Most of the tents there were of the 2 man variety.  Our 6 man job was amongst the bigger ones there.  No matter, on arrival the weather was benign and calm.  Set-up was easy and then the holiday can begin.  After signing in at the campsite shop (“You can’t get refunds on camping but you can pay night by night if you want to” said the about 12 year old boy who seemed to be in charge) I needed the loo.  We’d been given the code when we paid but it didn’t seem to work on the men’s loos.  This was a problemfor a couple of days.  At first it was a pain but eventually the air of cameraderie it engendered was excellent.  Standing with a bunch of men outside the door figuring something out, commonly ways to block the door closing, became a regular event for me.  After about 4 days the campsite buckled and took the lock away to be mended.

Our first full day was one of walking.  We’d decided to head along the peninsula walk.  Again the weather held but on the way back the clouds gathered over the Cuillans and it looked like there’d be some storms heading our way.

Well it rained that night but not for long.  We spent the next day driving around and finding nice places to eat and do the tourist thing at.  Top most was The Old Inn at Carbost.  Very welcoming place with excellent food and local beer.  Not only that but a high chair and a children’s menu too.  Highly recommended.

That evening we did have to break out some of my anti-midge arsenal as I got bitten quite a lot (as per usual wherever there are bitey flying things) but it wasn’t too bad.

Next day was another walk day.  This time up the hills to a natural bowl nestling between a couple of Cuillans.  I couldn’t get J up (and more to the point, down) safely at the top end of the walk so I sat and waited in what was gloriously hot and sunny weather.  I was wondering whether I should have packed the suncream at this point.  As it happened the midges came out and I was bitten quite badly having rather stupidly left my weaponry back at the tent.  I managed to keep J reasonably clear of bites though.  By the time the girls had come back my legs had taken on the appearance of a smallpox sufferer’s.  Once back at the tent the full arsenal came out and we suffered little more hassle from the bitey wotsits that night.

It should be pointed out that the campsite folk had told us that this day was going to be rough weather.  There was hardly any wind, and no rain, and it was quite warm.  Hmm hardly rough unless you were particularly sun-averse.

The next day started with higher winds but hardly anything to write home about.  We spent it out and about in Portree, the only town of note on the island, eating in nice restaurants and poking around shops and that.  We did try and get N some new school shoes only to discover that there’s no shoe shop on the island.  Madness!  Schools are back up here and we were at the bus station area when there were pupils waiting for buses back to wherever they lived on the island (Portree has the only secondary school here).  Risking being put on some sort of a register I asked a group of schoolgirls where they got their school shoes.  The answer was “On the internet or in Inverness”.  Madness again!

Apparently there hasn’t been a shoe shop here for ages.  Business op for someone?  Oh yes there’s no private physio here neither.  Hmmm…

Back to the camp to find that the wind was picking up somewhat.  Still normal levels but at the higher end.  One family from Manchester arrived at that point and struggled to pitch their tunnel tent for a while before sorting themselves out.

Later that night our tent started bending somewhat with us in it.  And the wind really picked up.  Blimey it was noisy inside the tent.  We didn’t sleep at all for that night.  Well me nor R did.  The kids slept on, oblivious.  I was up a couple of times making sure that guyropes and pegs were holding.  One peg bent quite a lot and we heard one rope slacken suddenly as its peg gave up the ghost.  Oh well it’ll be over by morning.

It wasn’t.  The next day was just as bad.  I bought more pegs from the camp shop and doubled up on pegs to the windward side.  We decided not to bother cooking breakfast and headed to the Old Inn for brekkie.  They stopped serving breakfast at 9.30.  We got there at 9.33 and they wouldn’t even serve us toast and a slice of bacon.  Major blot on our positive view of the place that was.

That night the wind was as bad at times as the night before.  We were happy that our tent could cope now so actually got some sleep.  The Manc family told us later that they’d given up and gone to sleep in their car instead worried that the tent would collapse.

They were a lovely family and they had a couple of young daughters one of whom is now officially N’s pen pal.  They got on famously for a couple of days before they gave up and shipped out elsewhere.

We still stayed.  The wind slackened and it looked brighter.  Yay!  Got up to make breakfast only to be confronted with what could only be described as a cloud of midges.  As I battled to dose myself with whichever anti-midge stuff came to hand, whilst flailing pathetically, I managed to spray 50% DEET straight into my left eye.  Bad day.

Not long after this we decided to de-camp whenever the weather was good enough.  Then we’d move around via B&B’s.  We had dinner at the local (local=15 miles round trip) pub again and got chatting with a pair of outdoorsy types.  They gave us kudos for camping (IE they expressed astonishment) as they were in lodges.  Then when we told them which site we were on they said “Oh are you in the green tent?”  Yes, yes we are.  Wow, our tent was noted by other walkers and remembered as a point of interest.  Slightly startling.

Once decamped we moved further round the island.  We’d had a good evening at a place called The Edinbane Inn.  Excellent local pub with musicians playing.  Very good guitarist and singer, very good percussionist (despite clear inebriation) and a superb fiddle player.  Guy looked like an extra from Trainspotting but good heavens can that man play a mean fiddle! I’m almost certain he’ll have serious shoulder problems at some point (if he hasn’t already) but frankly I wouldn’t want to change how he plays at all.

We went back a couple of nights later and there were more musicians including a total of 4 other fiddlers.  One was nearly up with him but the others were clearly not in his league and they knew it.  I felt a bit sorry for a flautist there as her instrument wasn’t audible over the fiddles.  And there was a woman with a guitar which just seemed out of place.  Oh yes and a man turned up with a set of pipes with which he performed a couple of numbers unaccompanied by the others (mainly as his sound totally drowned out the others).  He was good but it was a bit out of kilter with the rest of the evening’s bring and share (or in super-fiddle bloke’s mind – come and beat the skills of everyone else).

Our first B&B was a bit out of the way near Edinbane, nice enough but we were happy enough to move on the following day.  After a day’s scenic driving we ended up at Seabound B&B in Flodigarry.  This was excellent, particularly clean for any hardcore OCD types around.  We ended up staying for 3 nights.

And then a shocking long drive home.

Skye – highly recommended.

So looking for a better family tent now.  We zoomed off down to Go Outdoors to have a look.

We’re now torn between 2 of their tents.  Any opinions or alternatives?

Number 1: “The Sahara“.  Positives: huge, separate bedrooms, basic dome so stable.  Negatives: heavy, longish pitch time.

Number 2: “The Athena“. Huge and v large “living” area for bad weather days, quick pitch time.  But not sure re tunnel tents and high winds.

Cheers.

We had 8 nights this May starting with the rest of the family’s first BBU.

The drive was a complete mare.  Something like 5 hours with many stops involved.  Once there though a few lovely people helped with baby-sitting and/or tent upping.  We did only have one request along the lines of “How many days have you packed for?” as we dumped a house worth’s of stuff into the tent.  Mildly surprised at that.

Bloomin’ cold it was at first.  That first night was a bit of a nippy one.  But we all survived that one well enough and the next 3 days were just relaxed and happy.  Very nice people, lovely location and decent weather. Oh and the friendliest juggling convention took place around us too.

On the Monday we had to decamp, re-pack the car, drive north, unpack the car and re-camp.  That was a long day.

The new site was just outside of Cromer.  We’d packed up in 22 degree sunshine and were dressed for summer.  As we got nearer Cromer the weather turned; we lost 8 degrees and gained rain and wind a plenty.  It heaved it down with rain that night which gave us a rather rough view of Cromer as we went out for fish and chips.  Not the best first impression.

After that though the weather was pretty darn nice and so was Cromer.  At least it wasn’t bad for an English seaside town.  Proper pier with theatre too.

We zoomed over to Hunstanton for a day with my folks and niece and nephews which was fun despite Hunstanton being a dump and losing 2 children at one point.  The following day my folks came to Cromer for a rather lovely day of lazing and walking and beach sitting.  And that was about it.

Things of note were that the businessmen of Norfolk seem to be untrustworthy dodgy types.  There was a children’s fair thing on the seafront at Cromer where you had to buy tickets from a central place and signs up all around to insist that you don’t give cash to the staff!  Nice way to treat your staff – “hi thanks for working for us, we don’t trust you.”  In Hunstanton too the refrain “No refunds” was apparent on a goodly number of signs.

We went at one point to a crazy golf course only to find another “no refunds” sign, a price of a fiver each and another sign that said “No followers”.  The group in front of us were debating this as they had a very young member of their family but the rather dodgy looking people in the hut were not shifting on their no follower rule.  This kid was no way old enough to play the game so they were being total arses.  We decided not to spend that much money when it involved giving it these shysters.

Oh the town should be renamed “Hunstanto’n” as no-one there seems able to use apostrophes correctly.

After Cromer we packed up and headed to Manchester as R had rather sweetly bought us tickets to see The Fall live in their home town that Friday.  Hellish journey!  Getting northwest from Cromer isn’t easy.  In the end it took us 6 hours of slow and tedious roads.  The show was fun whilst it lasted but it didn’t last very long at all so a long day’s drive for about 60 minutes of entertainment (including support poet “a low rent John Cooper Clarke” and band).  Officious bouncer helped to annoy many, R couldn’t see anything and it was awfy hot.  Luckily R’s sister is lovely and looked after the young folk for us (with the excellent help of her daughter) whilst we were out.  And finally home on the Saturday.

All in all a lovely week.  I think we need less stuff and a wilder trip next time.  Maybe Glen Brittle?

Have fun.

When I was a little person my folks used to use one particular company to book a week or two’s holiday.  I booked this week with that very same company.  Cheap half term deal n’all.  The site we picked was really cheap and had 2 indoor heated swimming pools and free gym and etc etc etc…

It is a caravan park but the accom was surprisingly good quality.  An occasional niggle (bedroom door needed shaving to avoid sticking on the carpet, one bit of bust sofa) aside it was grand.

Yet again the food in Scotland left something to be desired (only had great food in Scotland on 1 trip, to Edinburgh a couple of years ago).  Over our week there we had some spectacular meals.   The faux Italian place we ate at was passable for me.  R was far from impressed though.  I did have the most-overfilled Calzone in history.  I could hardly waddle out of the building.  However no meals were quite as spectacular as the deep-fried battered pizza with chips, salt, vinegar AND gravy that some lad got from a a chippy we used.  And that was the “children’s special”! Good work up there for a cardiac surgeon I’m sure.

Away from the site the area is a gorgeous place for walking.  The local forestry dept has implemented a stack of different walks of a decent length for both adults and children.  Over the week we walked about 10 miles (which I’m allowed to double as I was carrying J for pretty much all of that).  One walk didn’t live up to much but the rest were excellent.  Highlights were the waterfall walk at Glenbranter (starting at the most unfriendly forestry commission office ever), and the High Gorge Walk at Puck’s Glen (very Lord of the Rings).

Considering it was February in Scotland the weather wasn’t too bad.  It snowed on our first day and there was snow on the hills.  The mist was a pain though and blocked some of the nicer views for most of the week.  On our last day we parked up at the site’s reception to have an unbroken view across the firth topped with a complete rainbow.  Very nice.

Away from the site we made it across to the mainland once to go to see the Science Centre in Glasgow, not incidentally meeting up with Az and teh Biskups too.

The way home was broken up by a lovely visit to an old friend of mine in Dumfries.  I last met up with her a couple of years ago.  At that time neither of us had children but at this visit we both seemed to have acquired 6 year olds.  Quite unexpected.

And yet again I go somewhere nice and am left wondering just why I live in quite such an unattractive bit of the country.  Itchy feet time.

Our flight in was cramped beyond comfort.  They kept us passengers stuck in our seats for ages despite a number of folk desperate for the loo.  So we couldn’t use the loos but the staff were happy enough to be serving us over-priced snacks and trinkets.  Not sure that is quite within the spirit of aircraft safety rules.  The flight ended badly with us landing so hard some oxygen masks came down.

The return flight wasn’t much better as it seemed to nearly land sideways, but at least we got some more room.

Once in Crete the coach transfer was equally spectacular.  My word! Tight squeezes galore, Crete roads not really designed for full size coaches, and even at one point a spontaneous round of applause from me for a particularly fine piece of fitting the coach somewhere I didn’t think was possible.

There some superb human specimens on the coach.  One group comprised 4 men, 2 adults, 2 young teens. They were very clearly of the same family.  They all had tiny heads. Really tiny heads.

We got to Sissi late and were dumped by the side of the road.  The apartments were just up a side road.  Nice enough and we were met by a man who would come to be known as “BILLY!” (as yelled by most of the guests).

Our days were mainly spent between pool and eating.  N loved it all and swam like a trouper, didn’t stop smiling even through the near drownings that seem to crop up regularly.  Only stopped smiling when time to leave the pool.

The people were generally lovely.  The locals anyway.  Unfortunately they were rather outnumbered.  Many of the rest were pissed up brits. Lovely indeed.

“BILLY!” and Manos ran the place. “BILLY!” was notable for his tight, very tight, swimming shorts and laid-back demeanour.  Clearly playing the part of love-interest to the female guests.  I did see one about 13 year old girl spending ages ogling him.  Manos I guessed was his dad. They didn’t seem to do a huge amount.  Maria, on the other hand, did the lion’s share of the work.  As a chambermaid she worked herself all day probably for a fraction of the money that Manos was raking in.

Tourists of note included “Mr Yabberman” a guy who sounded very Essex and took great pleasure in befriending everyone and anyone.  You’ve rarely seen someone talk about so little with so many.  His daughter was also notable – “DAIS!” was a 6yr old who looked like a good playmate for N but turned out to be a bit too precocious and clearly felt playing with a 5 yr old was beneath her. At a barbecue they were playing a game of tag which ended with N going flying as she was bodily shoved instead of merely tagged.

The local fooderies were rather good. No chain places as far as we could see so good local food done well in the main.  The menus were all in English before Greek tho and everywhere did full English breakfasts as their standard morning fare.  How wonderful to be a citizen of a country whose tourists go places to experience the same things as they do at home.

We only headed out from the town for 1 trip.  The port had loads of boat trips, we picked a short one on a glass-bottomed boat.  It wasn’t the nicest trip.  We were pretty tight for time as we’d stupidly ordered food at the apartments late and they seemed to take an age supplying it.  We ended up rushing down to the port to make sure we got the boat.  Luckily the skipper was running on “GMT” or “Greek Maybe Time” so we were there in ample time.   Then we discovered that we were the only people from this port getting on but there were loads of folk from down the way having their “Day trip to Sissi”.  Once they shuffled on and we zoomed off at top speed down the coast it felt like we were on a bus just ferrying between stops.  First stop was some hideous hole filled to the brim with tourist-hole horrors like “fun pubs” and cheap booze offers galore.  There was a sizeable crowd waiting for us.  But we were allowed 20 whole minutes to go and explore.  R took N to the loo and I stayed on board keeping our seats (much to the chagrin of one of the boat’s staff).  The thing filled up to bursting with folk.  Off we zoomed again to just off a dirty beach.  Here we could swim for a bit.  That was ok but N was a bit unsure of sea water compared with the safety and non-saltiness of the pool though so the swim was a little shorter than it could have been.

Getting back on the boat was a bit harder than expected.  The swell had the ladder pitching up and down, R noticed that the ladder was hinged and both me and N nearly had our fingers taken off by the thing snapping closed.  Once out we had to zoom all the way back to Sissi.  The boat was full of people getting slowly greener.  No talking, no banter, no joy; just barely held back vomit.  A major waste of money.  The only time the glass-bottom bit was available (because we travelled too fast the rest of the time) we could see seaweed and rocks.  Can you say “ripped off”?

Eventually it was time to leave so back to the airport via the “45 minute transfer bus”.  It took 2 hours!  But it was during the day so we saw some more of the tourist hell from the coach, much had been hidden by night on the way first time: a prime sight was MaccyD’s with fat and burned stupid people stuffing their faces on familiar shite instead of cheaper and lovelier “actual food” from local places.

Once back in Manchester we’re in the familiar again. Rain, plane’s jetty not working, moving walkways not working, cold. The first sight past passport control was an ad for free Chlamydia testing – they know the types of folk coming back off charter flights that’s for sure.

It was a rather nice week.  I’d have liked to climb the local hills but it was far too hot to do so.  Might just have to get back there again in cooler months.

We’d done a run-through of using the stuff in Derbyshire but this time we headed into the depths of the New Forest in Hampshire.  Campsite was called Hollands Wood.  Nice place with clear rules and decent facilities (in the main).

We arrived and were told the rules.  The main one of note was “no camping closer than 6m from other campers”.  Now groups could obviously all gather together but they wanted to give strangers some space.  We spent a good while driving around trying to live within the rule.  Eventually we found ourselves a pretty nice spot at the furthest end of the site.  It was away from the main road, near a huge field and had unfeasibly hard ground.

After setting up and scouting around a bit we headed out to the local village.  We were probably away for an hour or 2.  On our return there was a tent being put up about 2m away from us.  We decided to be nice and let them get on with it.

Later we looked again and their tent had grown immensely.  It was huge.  And the nearest bit pretty much was up to our guy ropes.  Never mind they might still be pleasant enough and it was at the back of us rather than in our face.

Well the night was fun.  Woken by fireworks and a “scared of fireworks” child at 9pm (it’d been a long day with an early start ok!)  The rest of the late evening was spent listening to the woman in the next tent struggling with her 3 boys and dog.  The conversation was the sort you always love to overhear.

“Stop doing that, he doesn’t like it…I said stop doing it…STOP IT NOW OR I’LL %*%&ING SMACK YA!”

Repeat ad absurdum.

The management were on the case sharp enough though and they asked them to shift.  They did but only to their 6m limit.  I wasn’t expecting a massive change but the extra distance improved things loads.

The field was a godsend for N.  Loads of kids around all playing together.  Friends were made and lost as people left on different days.  Logs crossing ditches were crossed and occasionally fallen off.  Generally there were plenty of smiles with occasional tears.  Fantastic fun all round.  And days were long.

In the week we went to a few places and did the tourist thing.

Highlights were “Bucklers Hard” (snigger) where the ice-cream was gorgeous and I got a free sample which was as large as the ice-cream I eventually bought.  A local kids’ theme park was rather good too.  Not many scary rides and it cost a lot but did give me a chance to go on some rides with N including her first proper roller-coaster.  So scared but yet so determined to stick it out.  Grand.  And there were horses and cows on site.  Wild New Forest (and Shetland) ponies just coming and going as they pleased.  And lots of people with dogs but no piles of dog poo anywhere that we saw.

Lowlight was Bournemouth.  Actually Boscombe as we failed to get to Bournemouth because of the frankly ludicrous amounts of traffic.  Anyway Dorset county council please sort out your road signing.

At one point we saw a sign to somewhere called “Qinetiq”.  No idea what it is (and I can’t be bothered to google it neither) but it was an obvious sign.  Later we saw a sign to Boscombe beach.  20 mins later after driving for ages we saw a sign to “Qinetiq”.  We’d gone in a huge circle with no sign of the sea, no directions to get us there and no hint that they wanted anyone to spend any time out of their cars.  Once we ended up there we weren’t in the best of moods so it didn’t end up as a day to celebrate.

We tried again later in the week in the vain hope of finding decent fish and chips.  More misery this time as we arrived late after more avoiding traffic jams.  There is no fish and chip place in Boscombe (at least not on the beach).  This is ludicrous!

There was a kiosk. They do fish and chips! Woo! Actually they heated us up a “cod portion” and some fast food fries.  Was horrible food.  Made all the worse by the stress of getting there to “enjoy” it.

Oh and part of my plastic fork came off.  I think I ate it.

And the weather was excellent.  We had about 20mins of rain one day, but it was very light.  In fact we thought we’d get through the lot without much disruption.  Unfortunately on our last morning we woke to heavy rain.  It slackened a bit but then tipped it down more as we neared fully decamped.  So we had a sodden tent to cart home.  Any other time the rain wouldn’t have been an issue. Ah well.

Photos may well be along at some point.

When I arrived the tent was already spread out ready for me.  The thing claims a 45 minute pitch time.  It took us over an hour but I reckon this will be much reduced next time round.

I then discovered that I needed a spanner for the gas connection.  But apart from that things went quite well.

Saturday saw me driving into Ashbourne for a photo-shoot of all things.  The new clinic I’m at is moving into swish new premises and the owner wanted as many staff to show up for the mandatory staff group photo in front of said new swish premises.

Got there to find a huge skip in front of the building and a fretting boss.  Luckily the photographer was a dab hand at this sort of thing and managed a decent few pics whilst avoiding dodgy skips and various other building remnants.

After the group photo (where I unfortunately got to stand right in the middle at the back cos I was tallest) we all had to do individual face shots.

Not a great thing for me is having portraits done immediately after getting up at a campsite after a reasonably unrestful night’s sleep.

But hopefully this points to me being a bit more than maternity cover (as I currently officially am).

I briefly shopped in the town discovering such delights as “Vampire Relish” and a Waitrose.  It’s quite a wealthy place.  At the local car park I parked behind an Aston DBS and a v swanky Jag.  My 03 Avensis really bringing the tone down.

Later that day P, C, D and d showed up for chats and games and barbie and beer in the campsite.  Fun was had.  We also discovered that kites don’t fly when it’s not windy. And I burnt, badly.

Sunday was rainy.  I woke up to rain and spent the morning worrying about decamping with a wet tent.  Luckily the rain stopped for long enough to get the thing down dry.  Pretty much as soon as it was down the rain started again and then didn’t let up.

This was a great shame as 2 family’s worth of friends showed up to join us for fun and frolics.  Ah well.  I did discover that kites do fly when it’s windy tho.

The campsite itself was ok.  Decent enough showers, a bit close to the road mind (and the on-site shop was appalling – v limited and not best friendly) but worth the entrance money.  Lovely views.

At least we figured out what to take and what doesn’t need to come with.  Next time will be a longer, more distant trip.  Maybe Norfolk would be nice.

Have fun.

But first I had to get there from Melbourne.

Tanya had booked us on a ferry so we could take her car over and have easy transport for the time there.  Nice idea.

Shame she’s a bad traveller.  Not that she dislikes travel.  More that she doesn’t manage to keep her lunch down when moving on a boat or plane.

And the weather forecasts were not looking good for the crossing.  (The day of the crossing was the Aussie rules final day)

“An Antarctic blast is set to hit today’s AFL Grand Final, making it the coldest premiership decider in history.  Hail as well as heavy rain and thunder are expected.”

Nice.  The isobars were squeezing ever closer together over the Bass Straits as well.

At one point R texted me with the words:

“I’ve just looked at the weather for your crossing.  Are you sure it’s a good idea? It just smacks of Northumberland again but more dangerous.”

The seats we had (yes seats, not even a cabin) had not 1, not 2 but no fewer than 3 vomit bags each.  All the loos had a huge stash of them too.

And then the captain comes on.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen.  As you know the weather’s quite bad today.  The swell on the crossing tonight is expected to be 3-5 metres on average so it should be a little bouncy out there.”

Thankfully he didn’t say “fingers crossed” or some such at the end.

Now miraculously I managed to get through the journey with no vom from me.  Unfortunately I was surrounded by people of all ages, creeds and nationalities projectile vomming from about 10 minutes into the trip.  And we didn’t even hit open rough water until about 2 hours through.

Not the comfiest night I’ve ever had.

We made it into Tas at about 7am on a Sunday so there wasn’t even much open to see.  No cafes to get breakfast.  Pah.

That day was spent travelling along the north coast as far as “Table Cape” through such metropoli as “Penguin”.

On the way back to the hostel we stopped at a place where the Little penguins come ashore for the night.  There are a bunch of volunteers show up most nights to tell tourists what they are seeing.  In our case we saw absolutely nothing.  Until a feral cat showed up.  Hence the lack of penguins.  Poor show.  Apparently they’re not even allowed to shoot the cats.  What is the world coming to?

The next day we drove over the river Don to the dinky town of Sheffield.  This place had a mural painting thing going on where many of the buildings had murals on and they market this as a thing to come and see.  Wasn’t really worth it as far as I could tell.

So from there to the longest and most disappointing tangent ever as we drove miles and miles to a place called the “Devil’s Gullet”.  This was a view point with a rather nice view and it was perched precariously on a high and sheer cliff but it was just too far for the hit.  A shame.

From there we headed to the Marakoopa cave.  Our guide was a bloke called Brian (this seems to be a common name in cave guides).  Nice caves with lots of glow worms.

Eventually got to the Cradle Mountain national park and found that they had been hit by some pretty awful storms which had left them without power.  This meant no card payments (a problem) and free frozen food ‘cos their freezers had switched off (a nice bonus).

But before settling in for the night we had a bit of a scout out of the local area.  One place “Waldheim” was an ancient (in Aus terms) wooden house where some mad Austrian lived many years ago with his family.  They seemed to have been the founders of getting Cradle Mountain its National Park status.  His kids were the ones who set up the Overland Trail.  It’s also where I saw a stack of small kangaroo type things.  They turned out to be called “Pademelons”.  Never heard of them.

We were in a bunkhouse next to a couple of germans and a young aussie bloke.  Dinner was spent with them in the communal kitchen.  It was here that we figured out a route for the planned hike tomorrow and chatted a lot.  I also discovered that the german girl was of the same mind as me re Tim-Tams.  IE that they’re massively over-rated and nowhere near as nice as Penguins.  And that was it for the day until we were woken by a bunch of annoying Mercans who seemed to think that shouting and banging around late into the night in thin sided wooden huts was the thing to do.  Tan went over and did her “Oi shut up” thing with the learned authority of being a law enforcement officer.

Next day was big hike day.  I’d have loved to have done the overland trail but we didn’t have the 6 days necessary, nor the equipment.  So instead we headed up towards the Cradle Mountain summit.  It wasn’t the plan to make it to the top but we did have a decent long hike planned around a couple of lakes with a few steep climbs thrown in for good measure.

Started at a car park and walked through rain forest complete with waterfalls and then into alpine territory.  Marion’s Lookout was the main target and the views of Cradle Mountain from there were stunning.  At this point we were above the snow line (which I’d really not expected).  From here it was down to Dove Lake via an unfeasibly steep descent route.  At the bottom of this we met a small but bickering family.  The kids were complaining about the walking at this point but the dad was keen for them to make it to the lookout.  Somehow I think the kids and wife would have over-ruled him well before they made it.

And back to the car park.  A good few hours hike.  Completely loved it.  We were extremely lucky with the weather too, apparently they only get about 30 days of clear, sunny weather there a year.  Nice.

And on to “Strahan” on the west coast.  More wandering through the evening and back to the hostel.  At this point I was sat and started to scratch my leg.  And there was blood!  Loads of it.  I found a small hole in my leg which had bled copiously and the clotting had gone weird.  I think I’ve gone and got myself leeched!  Whoot!  Shame one of my socks got rather badly manked up with matted blood.

Strahan was nice but nothing very exciting going on so we spent a day driving to Hobart via Lake St Clair (the other end of the 6 day hike).  We ended up in a quiet hostel in north Hobart where we spent about an hour being talked at by the receptionist.  We heard tales of wanting to leave Tas and seeing photos of her new house on the mainland and why the new place is better than Tas and that the crime here is getting worse and how the Tassers are small-minded colloquial idiots and on and on and on….   This was odd but not quite as odd as her habit of saying “Air air” to signal her agreement with you when you were talking.  Very strange indeed.  But she was a hive of info and pointed us at a very decent Indian restaurant.

The next day’s travel was Hobart – Huonville – Franklin – Kettering – Margate – Hobart.  Best bits were drive up Mount Wellington into unfeasible gales and a town called Geeveston where we ate in a little place called “The Bears Went Over the Mountain” which was stuffed full with cuddly toys.  This while region felt very American.  When we put the local radio on they even had country and western playing.

Next day to the Cadbury factory in Hobart where they make far more varieties of chocolate than they make at Bournville.  Most disappointing that I can’t get hold of these varieties here.  Much nicer than boring old “Fruit and Nut”.

And then to Port Arthur.  This is the site of two rather depressing things.  One is the old penal colony – now people thought Tasmania was hell on Earth at the time and Port Arthur was where they sent you if you didn’t behave.  It was cold and mournful.  But still quite pretty and you can imagine rather liking it if you came here voluntarily and there were nice things around.  As it was though almost everyone feared it and hated it and the work was horrific even on good days.

The second event was sadder more through being more recent.  In 1996 a gunman killed 35 people at the site.  Today there’s a memorial garden for the victims both tourists and staff.  And a portion in the visitor guide asking people not to ask the current staff about it as many lost friends and were there that day.

After a sombre sort of day we headed north to Swansea and the most prison like of the hostels we stayed at.  There were loads of tedious house rules starting with “no shoes” and a stern woman enforcing things.  Nice new place tho.  Would have been a great place to stop if it hadn’t been for the excessive rule giving.

Everything in Swansea was shut.  Except one restaurant.  So we ended up there and it was sort of ok.  Nicer food than expected but expensive.

The following morning’s brekkie was in a nearby bakery that seemed to be attached to the local tourist spot “Tasmania’s only working bark mill” museum.  We didn’t stay to see if it was worth a look.  But they were very proud of it.  They even had a certificate they’d won.  “1983 Museum of the Year”.

The day’s trip was to Wineglass Bay in the Freycinet national park.  This beach was beautiful (high praise from me considering I firmly believe that sand adds nothing of value to any form of endeavour except maybe sand castle building).  A hard walk to get to it though.  Something they don’t bother to mention in most of the tourist articles.

That night we stopped in another hostel, this time in St Helens.  After yesterday’s clean but miserable hostel this was much more relaxed but it had the filthiest floors and surfaces, the worst beds and coldest rooms of any in the state.  Minging it was.  I got bitten loads by crawly things.

And that was about it.  Tasmania was bloody marvellous.  If it wasn’t so far I’d be back there with no hesitation.

The mainland has a strange relationship with Tassie tho.  It’s a bit like England’s view of East Anglia.  They’re all seen to be inbred and mutant in some way.  I had no preconceptions but then I saw an advert for a local event that I’d loved to have seen but we weren’t going to be there.

Here’s the advert in full:

The Ulverstone Show

Many great attractions including

• Performing ducks direct from Queensland
• Chopping
• Beaut Ute display
• Alpaca judging
• Ferret display and races

Sounds utterly brilliant but really doesn’t favour the “they aren’t rural hicks” view of the locals.

Tasmania – bloody lovely, beautiful, cold and welcoming.  Go there if you get the time on an Aus trip.