Well, it’s like day three of my Tasmanian trip, and I’ve got a lot to blog, but as I’m on a piece of wet string I wont bother. Much.
There will be photos added when I get back, but for now, you’re going to have to use the power of imagination to fill in the blanks.
On Saturday, it came as a shock to various friends and family that I was going to Tasmania, so sorry to all and sundry if I managed to overlook this minor detail. 
The main thing is that I’m here now. But like most decent stories, let’s start at the beginning.
On Saturday, Luke, Inger and Plaugue Boy (aka Brendan) came over for a few minutes to exchange the crackWest Wing editions. This it turns out is A Very Good Thing, and A Very Bad Thing. My addiction is now such that I have a strong desire to leave Tasmania immediately and see the beginning of Season 2 at Luke and Inger’s. However, I also know that although they might use thousands of hamsters in little generating wheels for electricity here in Tasmania, they also have a supply of the most addictive series I’ve seen for a while. Not even a backlit Willow in a translucent summer dress in a fond lesbian embrace compares. Hmm my secret shame.
Anyway, so I get on the boat, armed with Season 1.5. I watch Season 1.5. I go to bed. A drunk guy turns up and is apparently sharing my cabin. So much for secret plan titled “naked Andrew moons Devonport”. He’s not having a good time of it, and decides to go “brurrrrp … eewwww”. Well, I’m going ewwww as the beery burps are getting more intestinal as time goes on. Luckily, the dude doesn’t barf, as I’m known to want a sympathy barf if someone else doing it nearby and the fragrence d’barf wafts near me.
Come 5.45 am, muzak starts. I could kill Spirit FM, but I think karma would probably accrue negatively my way. Apparently the (male) DJ moons as the latte bitch at the Spirit FM coffee house (they do pancakes, too). I almost went there, but decided that without weapons it would be messy and I would still be decaffinated at the end of it.
Bought a road map instead and immediately used it to find the nearest McDonald’s and sort out where I needed to go. So I went on my little hoon down to the first of many waterfalls. When you see the images, there’s like waterfalls. And gardens. It was good, and I got a little sunburnt in the car as I had the roof open as it was a glorious Sunday morning.
After seeing Leven gorge, I found the nearest devonshire tea place and had a not quite Devonshire tea. It was these little pastry things with caramel, and for some unknown reason, they didn’t have Earl Grey. I thought that would be illegal in Tasmania, but apparently not.
So anyway, drove off in the general direction of the Wrong Way, and promptly had to back track. It’s not as if premium petrol is easy to find or anything. Luckily, the C roads in Tasmania are gorgeous and empty. I hate to have an accident cos cows can’t dial 000. Lots of cows and sheep.
Got some beautiful shots of pylons. Don’t ask. Paul will be excited.
Eventually got through to Burnie, and promptly decided to check out the paper factory. Closed. Checked out the cheese factory. Open. They had this great smoked cheddar I can get at my supermarket, but they had run out. Oh well. Denied.
Moved on the Annleigh Gardens, and had a great lunch there. After gorging myself stupid on a salady thing (plus a small shepherd’s pie), I checked out the garden. Photos here soon, promise. Let’s just say that the garden is very nice and proof that you too can have a major garden if you have five acres.
Zoomed along the C roads again until essentially forced to take a B and then an A road to get to Cradle Mountain. Being a sort of ski field some part of the year, I felt it a good idea to get there before dark as I don’t have chains. It turned out I didn’t need any, but I needed good eyesight just in case a cow or two was across the road, as it’s that part of Tasmania where there’s no fences, just griddles to stop the cows walking to freedom. Cows must be dumb.
Cradle mountain was good, but I had crap service at the devonshire tea place. Almost walked out before my scones came, but they came in the nick of time, and plus the time was passing quite quickly as no longer had any West Wing to watch, so I was reading “Salmon of Doubt” by well, Douglas Adams. I had bought this book some time ago in a 3 for 2 sale at Borders, and hadn’t gotten around to reading it.
<- kick self
Get this book – it’s excellent. The only bizarre – and I mean bizarre – thing is the service order at the back of the book. Douglas Adams was a raving, enthusiastic, proselytizing atheist. If atheists had such a position, we’d vote him Pope. After the little white puff of smoke, we’d have to … anyway, that’s not the point. He had a memorial service. In a church – St Martin in the Fields to be precise. I wonder who thought it be a mighty fine idea to bring the priests along? Obviously no one who actually knew him. I’d hate to be the priest writing that eulogy…
Anyway, finished the book tonight after the SAGE free beer thing, and feeling a bit down. Not only because “Salmon of Doubt” is essentially missing an ending, and an author, but there was no lesbian action in the Bill. Apparently I missed that on Saturday night’s episode. Always the way.
I find it extraordinary that someone like Douglas Adams turns out to be a bigger procrastinator than myself. He had a real fear of writing, and would often need people to put him up in hotels and stand guard to ensure he met deadlines. I wonder if they were good hotels in sunny locations.
Then again, reading the draft of the three books tied together for the beginning of the Salmon of Doubt, sometimes I get the impression that I could theoretically write better than that, given enough time.
bwwahahahhahahahahaha!
I wish.
