Nights 341 - 358 Tassie's east coast and Launceston.

NIGHTS  341  &  342  -  MAYFIELD BAY CONSERVATION AREA, SWANSEA.

We’re leaving Hobart, driving towards Tasmania’s east coast.  Shana is in the passenger seat, looking at her phone.  She says “We might be lucky to get a camping spot at Mayfield Bay.  A post on Wikicamps yesterday says it was so crowded that these people couldn’t find a spot”. 

I continue driving, singing along with my brand new Paul Weller retrospective CD. 

Shan’ continues talking, but her tone of voice has suddenly changed.  Her words now ring with conviction.

“I’m not worried” she says, “We always get a spot”.  She looks over at me, looks emphatically into my eyes, “we just do”.

I’m one of those people who doesn’t like to tempt fate.  “Mostly”, I counter, “we mostly get a spot”.

I tend to say ‘possibly’ rather than ‘definitely’. 

Shana is on a roll though, positive thought expanding.

“In fact”, she says, “we’re going to get the best spot in the place”.

Paul Weller is in Style Council mode.  He’s singing “I really like it when you speak like a child”.  It’s a song about a woman, and how the narrator loves it when she ‘s being naïve.  I sing along again, finding it impossible not to transpose the tenor of the song onto us in that moment.  I smile inwardly, snatch a peek at Shan’ looking out the window, keep driving.

40 minutes later we arrive at the Mayfield Bay Conservation Area.  5 minutes after that we are setting up our campsite.  It’s right at the back, beneath the main road as it winds down the hill, next to a smouldering woodfire that belongs to three tents clustered nearby. 

“it’s better than nothing’ I say to Shana optimistically, “at least we got a spot.”

It’s a crappy spot though, if I’m being honest. 

Scroll 5 minutes further again in time and now we’re setting up camp on the best spot in the camping ground.   I kid you not.  If you were given the choice of any spot in the area, this is the spot you’d choose. 

Shana spotted it just before we put the awning out.  It was just sitting there, on the waterfront, so perfect that we assumed it must have been part of the day-picnic area.  It was flat and away from the toilets and looked straight out over the water with no chance of obstruction.  We couldn’t believe it was vacant.

After we’d spotted it, and after we’d rushed down there to check it actually existed, I had to go back and get the ‘bago.  Shan and Moz remained, resolute, minding or guarding depending on your interpretation.  “This is our spot” Shana said, cheeky smile girl, “I predicted it and Moz and I will lay here and fake being dead before we’ll let anyone else take it”.

 

Walking back to the ‘bago, I wondered whether Paul Weller had written any songs about a guy being proved wrong by a more open-minded girl.   There’s a band called Humble Pie.  Perhaps I should start listening to them.

We give the Mayfield Bay Conservation Area 4 stars out of 5.  It rained during the second day so the water didn’t sparkle and dance whenever we glanced out a window. We had to take a point off for that.

NIGHT  343  -  RIVER & ROCKS CAMPGROUND, COLES BAY.

There are no rules against bogans owning caravans.

We think those that do all congregate here.

 

 

½ out of 5.  See above.

NIGHTS  344 & 345  -  BICHENO EAST COAST CARAVAN PARK, BICHENO.

Beautiful Bicheno.

 

We could live here for a while.  I’m  serious.  In fact, we were so serious about the place we did the rounds of the local Real Estates -  renting and buying.  Shana even trawled the net for teaching jobs in the area and together we read the ‘Employment’ column in the local paper.  (1 job available – a junior for the local supermarket).

Nothing came of it all, of course.  Does anybody ever really uproot their lives on the strength of a pretty new town and a couple of sunny days?  Maybe they do.  But we couldn’t.

Well not yet anyway.

It still exists as possibility though - Bicheno, a place to remain aware of.  This time we found no jobs nearby, we saw no house for sale or for rent that we could visualise ourselves living in.  Shana has picked out her favourite house in town though.  So have I.  If either of those became available then…who knows?

Maybe one day we’ll be walking with Moz along Bicheno’s crisp white sand, throwing a stick into the crisp blue ocean, strolling unhurriedly home; or maybe I’ll be riding my bike toward a surf at Redbill beach before or after work; or maybe we’ll rug up one evening, leaving the warmth of our woodfire to join in on a school function at the community hall.

We did like it a lot.  Watch this space.

The Bicheno East Coast Caravan Park gets 2 ½ stars out of 5.  It had everything we needed, none of it remarkable.

NIGHT  346  -  SHELLEY POINT CARPARK, SCOMANDER.

Shelley Point is one of the most consistent surf breaks along the east coast and it offered a wave while I was there.  I paddled out in my steamer, sharing a couple of hours with just 1 other surfer, a local guy in boardies and a rashie because for him it was summer.  We talked more than we rode waves but we each got a few fun little peaks.

Shelley Point carpark is carved into the side of a hill.  It’s gravel and scrub and has a pretty grotty long drop toilet.  Overnight camping is not permitted.  Several signs ram this point home.  But I wanted to check the surf in the morning.  What would happen if, as nightime arrived, we forgot to leave?

 

So we stayed, and had an adventure.  (see separate story).

We give the Shelley Point Carpark one star for the grotty but better than nothing long drop toilet, and 1 ½ stars for the red wine. (I’ve already told you – see separate story).

NIGHTS  347 – 349   COSY CORNER (SOUTH) CAMPGROUND, BAY OF FIRES.

There are five free camps along the Bay of Fires, each beside a different beach, each beach in a different little mini-bay.  We knew little about the campgrounds other than they apparently had similar toilets and all contained a combination of under-tree or open space camping areas.  We chose Cosy Corner, again based solely on the feel generated by the name (as compared to, for example, Swimcart Beach or Jeanneret Beach).  We chose the south end because it was the first one we came to.

Given that we were to stay here for a week or so, my face lit up when I saw 2mtr plus waves thumping into the beach.  They weren’t holding up brilliantly but there were four guys out and they were getting some good rides.  You had to choose the right wave though. The close-out shore-break was unforgiving. But my wetsuit was still wet and that, combined with old man apathy after driving for hours, was enough to stop me paddling out. Instead  I anticipated the morning.  The surf’s always cleaner in the morning. 

I should have paddled out.

The previous evening was the best it got, despite the trusty ‘willy weather’ site predicting a continuing 2mtr swell and light offshore winds.  Instead the morning offered 1.2 mtr peaks with a cross wind taking the top off them.  That was disappointing.  I’d rushed the 20mtr to the beach full of excitement and expectation.

 I paddled out this time though.  It was a lesson learned – paddle out when the surf beckons because ‘later’ can be a cantankerous bastard.

It was okay.  Occasional little runners would wall up and throw out a lip - the game became trying to get inside one.  There were four of us out – two locals and two of us blow-ins.  We all chatted together happily.  I’ve yet to experience any localism in Tassie.  It seems the locals are just happy to have somebody else in the water with them.

By the afternoon the swell had gone, swallowed by the incoming tide.  It didn’t come back for days, and when it did it lacked intensity.

So we spent the time lazing in the sun, going for walks along the rocks and around to the other bays, swimming, reading, eating.  The sun shone hot most of the time and the East Coast of Tassie resembled a tropical island (without palm trees).  Ahhh, summer!

 

I give Cosy Corner (South) 3 stars out of 5.  We didn’t have a great spot, wedged between two tracks that led to under-tree camping.  We don’t camp under trees much.  We need sunlight to hit the solar panels on our roof.  We did get to witness lots of people as they came and went though.  And they all gawped back at us.

NIGHTS  350  -  354  COSY CORNER (NORTH) CAMPGROUND, BAY OF FIRES.

The town of St Helens is only about 12km from the Bay of Fires, close enough to offer temptation.  We needed some supplies…well…we didn’t actually need them, we’d have survived quite well without them, but we wanted them, and want turned to need as we tried to convince each other. We debated…maybe someone could go into town on the Vespa?  That would be fun.  Didn’t that sound like fun?  Of course the other could continue lounging and have their food desires delivered back to them.  It almost got down to scissors-paper-rock.

More pressing, however, was the need for a shower.  For both of us.  And this time it was need - beyond contestation - because it’s true that swimming in salt water strips much of ‘the unclean’ away, but it never satisfactorily removes dirt from the body’s ‘hard to get places’.

St Helens has a pay-as-you-go shower near the harbour boatramp.  It charges $2 for 3 minutes.  We looked at it on the way in.  We’ve been warned to wear rubber thongs in communal showers to prevent catching fungal disease.  Well, in these showers, you’d need the protection of a full-length rubber wetsuit - there was a ring of muck around the floor and an almost iridescent ooze clinging to the walls.  Outside a ring of backpackers in Jucy vans sat awaiting their turn.  We declined.

Instead, we reasoned, we’d use the shower in the ‘bago.  It’s a good shower.  It uses heaps of water though, which isn’t really a problem because there are several fresh water taps in St Helens, installed especially for we RVers to fill our tanks. 

So a possible solo ride on the Vespa for someone became an excursion for us all as we showered, soaped and headed to town.

We didn’t go back to the same campground.  Instead we expanded our horizons, but only by a few hundred metres.

 The first new bay (Jeanneret) we tried didn’t accept dogs. The second new bay (Swimcart) just didn’t appeal.  We drove past the third bay (where we’d just been) and entered Cosy Corners North (as opposed to South).  It’s the same beach as where we’d been but the two campgrounds are divided by a creek.

It was the afternoon by the time we got back and all the good spots had been taken.  We found an okay spot, flat at least, and big enough for us to clutter with a clothesline, mat and folding chairs.

 

We stayed in the spot for the whole time, being outstayed by those in the better spots, who were there when we arrived and still there when we left.

Bastards.

We give Cosy Corner North 4 stars out of 5.  The toilets were newer than at south, less stinky, more welcoming. But we never did get one of the spots we wanted.

 

NIGHT  355  -  BRANXHOLM COMMUNITY CAMPING GROUND

If you saw a sign declaring ‘No dogs allowed’ how would you interpret it?  We, following conventional logic, took it to mean that dogs weren’t allowed.

I guess it’s a simple enough mistake.

“Don’t worry about the signs” the young woman in the IGA supermarket told Shana, “nobody cares about them”. 

We trusted her because she said what we wanted to hear, happy that this young woman was the booking agent for the community campground across the road.  We’d seen the sign but hoped we could sweet-talk somebody into letting us stay anyway, having travelled two hours to get here and there really being no plan B. 

“So it’s okay to have a dog?” Shana asked again.  We’ve found it in our best interests to get those in ‘authority’ to restate their position. 

“No probs at all” the IGA woman re-iterated, “we do it all the time”.

Still smiling, we pulled in where she told us to, between the BBQ shed and the kid’s playground.  We thought it unusual that a dog was allowed close to a playground.  We didn’t question it though.

 

Branxholm is really just a dot on the highway.  It was a timber getters town that has had to re-invent itself, now farming hops as its main cash crop.  The community caravan park was set up to attract RVers like us - $14 bucks for a powered site, hot water a dollar extra.  The amenities block is brand spanking new.

We washed ourselves clean and fresh, snuggled in under the doona, slept soundly.

The morning arrived sunny but cool.  Morrissey sought direct sunlight, claiming a warm spot out on the grass.  He was there for about an hour, sleeping, before a large man approached Shana.  He was dressed in a uniform and holding out a business card by way of introduction. He wasn’t smiling.

According to the card, Brian was the local ‘animal management officer’.  He’d seen Morrissey lounging in the sun, blatantly contravening local council by-laws in his sleep.  Brian’s manner and officiousness indicated that we were up for a stern talking to, and probably a fine.

Except we got in first. 

“We were told he’s allowed to be here” Shana said defensively.

“Maybe you should check with the IGA girls” I said defiantly

“Which girl said dogs are okay?” Brian asked determinedly.

We shrugged.

Shana - “Don’t know, she was blond, young”.

Brian - “Have you got the receipt?”

Shana got the receipt.  Brian studied the signature at the bottom.  I went back to sweeping the floor.

Morrissey lay asleep in the sun.

Brian softened, or at least his anger oscillated away from us and toward the girls in the IGA.

“I’ve warned them before about doing this” he said.

Shana shrugged.  I swept.  Morrissey, you may be surprised to read, continued sleeping in the sun.

Brian meandered off muttering. 

On the way out we called into the IGA.  Shana thought she’d give the girls a ‘heads up’, concerned that Brian might come in looking to bawl someone out.  No-one was concerned.

“Brian’s like the signs”, one of them said, “nobody pays any attention to him either”.

Ouch.

We give the Branxholm Community Caravan Park 3 ½ stars out of 5.  Brian was only doing his job, and we did question the legality of a dog near a playground, but for a while there we thought we’d be fined.  And that’s a stressful occurrence on a sunshiney morning.

NIGHT  355  GRAVELLY BEACH BOAT RAMP CARPARK.

If we’d have just lucked upon the carpark at the Gravelly Beach boat ramp then I’d have been rapt.  It’d be a pretty good spot to score a dodgy free camp.  It’s alongside a pretty bay set in a valley surrounded by wooded hills, the parking area is flat and spacious, there are flushing toilets nearby. There’s even a tap providing potable water for all.

Yet I feel uncomfortable here, and so acknowledge that I’m either a hypocrite or a brat, (or possibly both). I should like it here, but I don’t, and I think it’s mostly due to it being a sanctioned place to stay.  There’s something ill-fitting about being permitted to camp in what is really a tarred carpark wedged between a road and a boat filled bay.

 The brat in me wants to say “you cheapo bastards.  Really!  That’s the best you could do!  Allot a few spaces in an existing car park and call yourselves RV friendly”.  I know the nearby toilets are clean and there’s a pleasant grassed area beside it, but being bratty doesn’t involve logic.  It’s too busy being petulant about the aesthetic indignity of being welcomed to an asphalt carpark.

I realise the hypocrisy of my discomfort is blatantly obvious.  I’d be comfortable if it was dodgy, but, even though it is exactly the same space, at exactly the same time, I feel discomfort at being permitted to stay. The discomfort is real though.  I’m not happy being here. 

Maybe it was a carry-over from the day in general.

We’d spent the day in the North-East corner.  Tasmania has many gorgeous places but we saw none today.  Scottsdale, Bridport, Low Head and George Town may be attractive to some but we found little to enthuse about in any of them.  We’d contemplated all of them as a possible overnight destination but happily drove away from each one.

So we ended up here, in a carpark made to service a boat ramp.

 

I give not a toss about scoring this carpark.

NIGHT  357  -  OLD MACS FARM, LAUNCESTON.

We had a great day in Launceston.  We love the place.

First up was the farmer’s market, which turned out to be one of the best markets we’ve been to.  Farmer’s markets are supposed to be about local produce and this one didn’t disappoint with everything on sale being grown in Tasmania, most around Launceston.  There was a lot of heirloom veggies (grown from seeds saved from traditional varieties).  Most of them appear weird to a supermarket trained shopper like myself.  We came away with a bag filled with yellow and black tomatoes, purple, white and red carrots, yellow and white beans and orange and green striped zucchini. (If the sky was of an heirloom variety it would be turquoise or magenta or bizarrely striped mauve rather than blue).

Next up, and this was totally unexpected by both of us, we went to the Tasmanian Automobile Museum.  That is, we actually paid $15 each to wander around a shed looking at old cars and motorbikes.  The cars were brilliantly looked after or restored though, and most of them were more expensive and exotic than your average Hyundai.  I loved it, but was a tad put out that you really couldn’t get close enough to most of them to peer through the window.  Maybe the owners were trying to stop drool dripping onto the upholstery because most were definitely drool-worthy.

I fell in love with a 1964 Daimler sports car, a car I’d never seen before.  It was a strange looking beast – the front end looked like a google-eyed groper fish with a jutting lower jaw.  The back end was pure magic though, with high-kicking blunt-ended fins so that it looked bloody fast while sitting still.  Of course it was worth about 60 grand.

Shan’ fell in love with a lawn green Morris Minor.  Speed and exotica aren’t her things.

We then had a picnic alongside the river.  Morrissey frolicked and salivated while we ate sandwiches and fruit and watched the local skateboarders do their thing at the skate park.  I love watching the skills on display at a skatepark.  Not only do the ‘young ‘uns of today’ rarely fall of or break bones, they deliberately jump off their board in mid-air, attempting to remount it  as they land.  And mostly they make it.  It ‘s spectacular to watch as long as you don’t mind the odd f-bomb or 30.

We ended up at Old Macs Farm (Eeyi, eeyi, oh).  Whoever ‘old mac’ is, he’s got his head screwed on right.  The ‘farm’ is about 10kms out of Launceston, at the bottom of a valley.  There’s nothing there but a dam landscaped with curves, a little wooded island and rampaging waterfowl.  There’s a toilet at the café up the hill.  You can use it but it’s a long walk away.  Oh, and there’s a few garbage bins.  For this you pay $10 a night.

 

There were 18 vehicles there on this night, all clinging to the side of the dam, each paying our ten dollars to rent a patch of grass.

I give Old Mac’s Farm 2 stars out of 5.  This is possibly a bit unfair as the place was relaxed and felt as if you were in the country, but the facilities were just too far away given that they charge to stay.  It certainly doesn’t allow for any middle of the night visits – which is a crucial point when paying for amenities. 

NIGHT  358  -  DELORAINE CARAVAN PARK

Deloraine Caravan Park sits along the northern bank of the Meander River.  (What a poetic and accurate name for a river).  It’s a relaxing space once you work out how to book in.

There is a sign as you cross over the railway line and enter the park that tells you to check in at the house across the road – but it doesn’t say which house.  Given that ’across the road’ is a residential street, there are a few possibilities.  One looked most likely, although it had no sign to advertise itself as the caretaker’s residence.  It was here that Shana knocked on the flyscreen door.

An elderly woman eventually appeared, not happy that she had to do so.  Yes, this was the correct place, but she didn’t have her receipt book.  She shuffled off grumpily to find it. Maybe she was in the middle of dinner, or maybe there was something she was watching on TV, but, while being polite with her words, her tone dripped annoyance.  Maybe Shana looked to her like the partying type because her parting salvo, before disappearing back through the hallway door, was to stipulate the importance of no noise after 10pm.  We just laughed, wondering whether snoring was allowable.

The railway line you cross to enter the park, we discovered too early in the morning, is used by freight trains – long clattering whining freight-trains.  And because there’s a vehicle crossing involved, the driver of said train let out a long warning blow on the whistle/horn/whatever the fuck it’s called.  We assume that regulations require him to do so.  Well, we bloody hope so.  Otherwise he was a smart arse, possibly giving himself a chuckle by attempting to wake as many sleeping campers as he could.  There was only one train, but it sure ruptured any deep sleep.

 

I give the Deloraine Caravan Park 2 stars out of 5. There was a cool arched bridge across the river that I walked over several times.  The waters below weren’t troubled, but it made me sing Simon and Garfunkel anyway.