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The airport was full of people when we arrived at Launceston, all waiting to halloo arrivals. They were out in the open air -- it looked most strange, used as I am to bigger terminals, all closed in. The luggage came out on a bunch of carriages behind a little vehicle. No continuous belt! How quaint, how strange! There were our luggage, two big boxes on the last carriage. We waited until everyone had finished the mad rush for their bag before dragging them off and outside.

Propping the boxes against the wall, I dug into mine and pulled out my trusty swiss Army knife, tore into the box, and so began assembly of our bicycles. It wasn't long until dark, and our night's destination still was some distance away.

I toddled off to fill our water bottles and came back to find Ben talking to a cabbie.

"Nothing at Evandale," said the cabbie. "You can camp there -- at the primary school. Take the first left when you hit the post office and keep going. You'll see it."

Bikes set, we headed on to historic town Evandale of the penny farthing races -- our first night's camp.

We got lost. Followed the guy's directions -- but while they took us through town, we didn't find a primary school.

There were lots of people around at that time of evening, dark at nine. Walking, jogging, cycling -- talking. All on the main street of the town, and it was one of those people I asked for clearer directions. Even with those directions we got lost, but finally, place found, we pitched the tent and settled in for the night. For hours we heard motorcycles zooming along the streets and people walking along nearby.

Morning came -- and it was freezing. I piled on the clothes, but as soon as the sun came it warmed things up. Too warm for that many clothes -- beanie, gloves, jumpers.

As we'd gone around the town the night before we'd seen a Ye Olde Bakerie. Ben and his croissant obsession had that as the next stop -- coffee and croissant, hooray! Tasmania has a reputation for good baked goods.

They had soy milk, thankfully, but none of his favourite munchie, so he had to make do. I tried to get a postcard from the nearby general store and something for me to eat -- and while I succeeded at the latter, the former was to no avail; the penny farthing races had only occurred the week before, and people had cleared them out of postcards.

"Buying them by the handful!" said the proprietor.

I returned to find Ben grumpy -- the baker had come out and put the coffees down, snarking that we were lucky to be served out there. But they'd asked me if I was outside!

Coffees finished, we took our bikes from where they were leaned against a pole, and away we went. Ben had been sitting near them, and I couldn't help but think that it would have been an excellent photo of him against the Olde Style buildings.

"I'm just going to fill my tyres at the servo," he said, and we stopped before the edge of town at an old looking service station.

He fiddled with the hose, trying to get it working. He wasn't getting very far. While he worked it out I petted the sleepy dog beneath the air hose.

Ben figured out the problem -- the hose wasn't connected to the air compressor. He went over to it and waited for the servo guy's attention. The chap had been inside talking to a customer.

"Do you want to use the air?" asked the guy.

"Yes, I want to pump up my pushbike."

"We do things differently down here. We ask before we use people's things.'

"I thought this was a service station?"

"It closed down a long time ago. Next time, ask before you start using." The guy went over to look at his customer's car.

"Keep your stupid air," said Ben, and used my pump to finish the job.

I rode off to get a head start and Ben wheeled alongside before long.

"I said 'see you later, arsehole', and he slammed the bonnet closed," he said, amused but still cranky.

Our introduction to Tasmania. And then it was onwards to Launceston -- with me slow and trailing behind, not even managing 18kph on a dead flat (for Tassie) stretch of road.

First stop was the post office; I'd left my cycling shorts behind and had wanted them, so had gotten my father to send them by express post. Not there. We collected gas canisters and victualled before Ben directed us towards Cataract Gorge.

"Hey, let's take this little squiggly road!" said I after perusing the map. "It looks shorter than the other way."

"Squiggly roads usually mean a steep hill," said Ben, but agreed.

It was a steep grade -- and we weren't at the squiggly road yet. I stopped for a feed, fuel running low, and then on ... and my god, it was nearly vertical. Even cars were having a hard time. Ben rode all the way up, but the best I could do was one squiggle -- then pushed the rest. That was hard enough.

Downwards, an easy freewheel to Cataract Gorge, which we needed after that hellish climb. There were oodles of people and we were treated to Tasmanian hospitality once again.

"Can we leave our bikes here?" asked Ben of the lady selling tickets to the chairlift.

"No, you realise I can't be responsible for them."

Sheesh.

I had been looking forward to the suspension bridge, but it was disappointingly sturdy. I suppose it has to be if you have hundreds of people walking over it every day, the likes of the pregnant lady or the elderly folk I saw. I had expected it, wanted it, to be rickety. The bridge swung a little if you bounced up and down, but it wasn't the same. From it you could see the first basin, full of swimming people, and then the neon blue pool next to it, with yet even more in it. Why you would want to swim in a chlorinated cesspit when you could swim safely in a gorge is beyond me -- perhaps that would be too much nature for some.

Our legs wobbled on the way down to the bridge, making it hard to take each step down, and then on the way up. Unused to physical activity, that squiggly road hill was just too much. Took it all out of me. It was jump back on the bikes and go back up the hill we'd freewheeled down.

"Let's get out of Launceston today," said Ben. He was tired of the rush of traffic, the maze of streets, and the town environment you can get anywhere in Australia. Suburbia looks the same everywhere.

Leaving Cataract Gorge I would pedal ten metres up the hill, stop, breathe and rest, and then continue on. This was on the very first hill, too, and Ben was managing to pedal to the top of it with ease. He watched from the top, laughing at my frowns of effort -- and then took a photo to compound all insult.

"Why don't you push up the hill?"

And so began the rest of my Tasmanian journey on a bike: pushing up hills.

I was so knackered that I threatened Ben with all kinds of evil. The route out of town he chose was thought to be downhill, but it was up, up, up, and being tired and sore I'd had quite enough.

"Let's camp the first place we can," said I, brooking no argument.

Lo and behold -- the hill came to an end, and Ben was there waiting for me. It looked a bit too open to camp, but all right if one didn't mind one's visibility from the road. Ben suggested we move on, away from public eye.

Whee! What a downhill freewheel that was, steep and winding. I applied my brakes a lot, whereas Ben was taking it for all he was worth. That man speeds even on a bicycle.

Only at the end of it there was no camp spot -- only suburbia. We continued on up another hill ... and found a suburban park, with toilets and football field and swing sets.

The tent went up, as hidden from the road as best we could, but not hidden from those on foot, and certainly not from dogs. People walk their dogs at all hours of the day down there, and the dogs ran up snuffling the tent on a regular basis. During the evening we heard people commenting upon our looniness.

Morning came with rain, and it was my decision day -- Ben decided that his day had gone to pot the day before, and so it was my turn for decision making and if it went wrong -- my fault this time. We could choose to go to a caravan park and wait out the rain, or continue on to our destination: Deloraine.

Getting lost through the mass of suburbs, we eventually came to the main road, where, even though it was pelting down, I decided that we should continue. At this main road the precariously balanced dried tomatoes on the back of Ben's bike fell off. They were horrible and were intended for the bin, but the cars didn't know that and every driver went carefully around them.

Out of Launceston and on the road I found an apple tree. We picked them off -- choosing the non-wormy ones -- and ate them, but they were just that little bit green. Not too bad; I've certainly eaten worse store-bought ones. Just an apple tree along the side of the road! I'd thought apple trees only really grew from grafting these days, but what do I know, layperson to farming that I am. All the while on our bike ride Ben would point out agricultural things which he thought was dry and boring but to me were of immense interest. How a farmer tilled his soil, for example.

One little town had a building with a big sign on it. An old stone building, obviously quite old. "Building restored no thanks to the National Trust and Mrs (such-and-such)." Meow! Claws!

For lunch we stopped at some self-endorsed famous Andy's place. Ben chowed on the bakery offerings while I had an array of unpalatable fruit and vegetables at their stores, mould on them if not with rot already. I guess ice-cream and bakery puffs are considered nicer than grapes or stonefruit. It's a good place if any; their toilets had a man and a woman painted on them, and when I parked my bike outside of the loo I'd done so beneath the woman's outstretched arms, making it look like she was holding the bike. The same place had free campervan parking area, with free parking. Free anything in Tasmania is extremely notable.

Mid afternoon we wheeled into Deloraine, over the bridge and into town. There was a caravan park here, and we aimed to be in it. Hot showers, yay! We pitched the tent and fell asleep right away, an afternoon nap.

When we woke it was time to do some shopping; our food supplies were depleted.

"Maybe they'll have a Coles or something," said I.

"Coles? Here? Not likely!" said Ben, and then we went around the corner into the bright neon lights of a brand spanking new Woolworths. Their Woolies down there are odd. Every time I bought went into one in a small town they would ask for my frequent shoppers card. I assumed this was because they would charge locals less for stuff -- finding things an average of a dollar more expensive than on the mainland was a shock. But no; the frequent shoppers card entitles you to $20 worth of food once you spend $2,000. They rip off the locals, too.

It was a very nice caravan park, on the river's edge with a bridge and a little shack for campers right by where we were. We commandeered one of the picnic tables with our junk and then migrated over to another table to sit on top of; can't sit on our gear, after all. A noisy family pitched their tent right next to ours and we got to hear all sorts of details of their unhappy lives we could have dealt without.

It's always a hill first thing in the morning, and this time was no different. It petered out soon enough, and we rolled along through little towns and up to Chudleigh.

"Hey, let's stop here, Ben," said I. "Chudleigh honey, it's famous." I'd just seen an advertisement for the honey farm and that it was free entry with free tastings.

"Famous?" His snort said it all.

There were honeys of all kinds; blends, whipped, of different sources, and just plain weird stuff. Lavender honey -- tasted like someone dumped lavender oil in honey, whereas strawberry honey was rather ordinary and apple honey was not; orange blossom honey lovely indeed while I bypassed the manukas with a shudder after the first unfortunate taste. They had small containers of every honey for sale except for the one I liked and wanted!

Mole Creek was our next stop, where we stopped for a greasy lunch and to reconnoitre. We were planning to head for King Solomon's Cave, and the last tour was at 4:30pm. Would we make it?

Along the way Ben noticed blackberry bushes everywhere. We stopped and ate lots -- me especially, with Ben picking plump juicy ones and proffering them. I had to tear myself away, helped by how I managed to touch every thorn within range.

From there on it was uphill all the way to the caves. Every little bit of it, and no matter how you think it's going to be the last one ... it isn't. My thighs were in discomfort, my back especially sore, and my butt was starting to show the sort of wear you get when you are not in padded shorts. I felt thoroughly demoralised by how slow I was, felt like I was letting Ben down when he was managing to speed along quite nicely, and the discomfort was wearing me quite thin.

"Let's get a car at Devonport," I put to Ben when I got to where he was waiting for me at one hill, fairly serious about it.

We arrived at the caves just as the last tour went in, so we hung around and made note of the picnic hut to camp in -- despite the no camping signs. A campervan was already settling in for the night, and a motorhome appeared in the dusk. All ready for the morning, much like us but probably warmer. The shade was cold, the wind going through you. We sat on the tar, absorbing what sun we could before sundown. It was going to get very cold.

National Parks left for the day, locking the toilets.

Ben and I rolled out our mats on the cold, hard concrete, then I climbed into my sleeping bag wearing every stitch in my panniers. I even had my beanie on my feet to try to keep them warm, but it didn't work. So cold. It seeped into my bones and the ground was so very hard it wore away at my hipbone and I had a bruise for days.

I found out why I shouldn't have eaten so many blackberries when I woke. And they'd locked the toilets! It was a mad dash for the bushes behind the picnic hut; I feel sincerely for anyone who decides to go exploring there.

Just as I came back a Parks guy came about, but despite the fact it was perfectly obvious we'd camped the night he said nothing, merely asked where we'd come from and to move our things so that he could wipe all the surfaces clean. There were electric barbeques in there, and during the night we'd turned them on from time to time in an attempt to keep our hands and rear ends warm.

The ambient cave temperature was 9°C.

"It'll be warmer in the cave than out here!" cracked our guide, who turned out to be an avid caver. His enthusiasm was catching.

It was warmer in the cave, though not by much.

So magnificent! The greatest concentration of formations than in a lot of caves, he said, and if that is so I am glad I went to that one. So many stalagmites, stalactites, straws, and other formations I've now forgotten the names of. Everywhere we looked there was another thing to admire.

Originally what now comprises King Solomon's Cave were two -- back when the limestone caves were discovered in the area, anyone who had them on their property began doing tours.

The original entrance to the cave was found by a couple of hunters when their dog and quarry disappeared into the earth. Hearing the dog bark, they went investigating.

At that point the guide turned off the lights so we could see what the natural light state was in there -- dark, but if you were there for a while you know that your eyes would have adjust it to a dim grey.

There was a small hole, a tunnel, which no adult could go through, so they sent an eight year old girl. That's how they found the entrance to the cave now used -- once they found it not to be a dead end they made the tunnel bigger and made a thoroughfare.

The cave does have some damage -- the cut-out floor where there used to be formations, smoothed-down stalagmites where people touched them, soot from the old-style lighting, broken-off bits. The guide told us of a break-in last time they closed for maintenance, with thieves taking formations -- for some rich dude's lounge room, presumably.

The walkways were narrow and low; I wouldn't want to be a tall fat person in there. You just couldn't get in. I wonder how they break the news to people whose girth wouldn't allow them to get in. What a horrible part of their job.

As we were leaving he made out that there are usually cave spiders at the entrance -- only one form of the cave-dwelling creatures, all adapted to dark and to live on very little, with each cave having unique creatures. With caves open to the public, however, too much nutrient makes it easier for those who usually live at the cave mouth to work their way further in, and those who are in that far normally are dying out.

The ride from the caves was to take us through a short-cut -- through a little place called Liena and a road unmarked on most maps to get to the main highway.

From the caves to Liena was the most excellent freewheel. A steep, long, twisty hill. Not suitable for caravans indeed!

Liena, what we saw on our ride through, was made of a few houses and a bridge over a little stream, which had two women mucking around in it. Lovely place.

Beyond it, the tarmac gave way to gravel, and not only that -- uphill. The rest of the day was going uphill, and as I couldn't be bothered riding up gravel, I pushed. Ben did, too, for a while, until I told him he should maybe stop talking after he optimistically pronounced one too many hills to be the last. Then he rode on ahead.

We came across lots of blackberries here, and I ate a lot again, not having learned my lesson that morning. Or choosing to forget, for when the ripe ones in the summer sun were heated they gave off the most succulent smell and I just could not resist. Ben would pick me some and hand them over, too; I would come to the top of a hill and find a handful awaiting me. Mmmm.

Water was always trickling around us, and once there was a bridge over a brook. We filled our water bottles with icy cold water, eating more berries as we went. Lovely water -- especially since I wasn't carrying more than 1.5L at any one time and the next town wasn't for a very, very long time.

Gravel roads come to an end, but not hills; it merely became tar, which I could then ride a little upon. Uphill was getting old fast. One uphill gave us a lookout, and when I got there Ben was peering around the back of it.

"Look, someone's been shooting this sign. They filled it with bog." Time and again throughout Tasmania we would see signs filled with shotgun pellet, but not often them filled with bog and painted over!

The area we were going through was a working forest, one of the many in Tasmania, of all that lovely old growth becoming paper for you to wipe your arse upon. Working forest, where they poison the earth to stop weeds from growing back -- and we'd been drinking water directly downhill from there.

It felt like years later at the end of that last hill, and a lookout exposed granite mountains, all above the treeline. So pretty. There were two motorcyclists there. So many touring motorbikes, for Tasmania is a motorcycle rider's heaven, all twists and turns. Ben was in a heaven all of his own in imagining riding his motorbike around Tassie.

The freewheel from there was great. I determined not to be a wimp and brake on the way down, although I took this back when a sign came up suggesting cars go 15kph; any sign with that on it meant a hell of a curve! And I was lucky I slowed down, for it was a 180° curve, only down. Faster, faster!

And then I looked at the wrong place and crashed.

The thing with riding is that the bike goes where you look, and the faster you are the more important it is that you don't glance away from your wanted direction. I flicked my eyes to the side.

I hit the dirt and Ben went flying past, nearly crashing himself in his attempt to stop.

The bike went down and somehow I was off it, further down the hill. I sat up and cradled my right arm, for it hurt. I'd used it to protect my face, and luckily I was wearing gloves and sleeves and trousers or I would have lost a lot of skin. My helmet now sports an impressive dint.

"Are you all right?" asked Ben. "Your arm?"

"No, it's fine."

"Broken?"

"No."

He picked up my bike and moved it to the other side, then fixed it up -- the handlebar had bent backwards and a spoke broke. I apologised all the while.

When he came back to help me put a plaster on his hands shook. He'd been scared when he'd seen me sit up and cradle my arm that I'd broken it. I'd fallen in a big cloud of dust, tyres leaving great big marks in the gravel. An impressive fall, he said. Too bad I didn't see it from another angle.

I was all right, so we headed on to our original destination. Gowrie's Park. The restaurant closed as we rolled up, and when we decided to stay the night at the backpacker's the manager was nowhere to be found. A local caravan hippie told us there was a free campground nearby, but instead we continued on to Sheffield, otherwise known as the town of murals. No town is just a town in Tasmania.

The front when on my bike was out of true, and so it was touching the brake pads where the spoke was broken. It squeaked depending upon how fast I was going and how much effort I was putting in. Eee-ur-ee-ur, slow or fast downhill. Ben laughed at me and imitated the sound of my bike as I went up hills.

Along the way we saw an echidna, a furry one. It dugs its head into the ground to get away with us. So much fauna down in that state! Most of it we saw as roadkill, but the echidna and the little baby tasmanian devil we saw a while later were fine. Due to become roadkill if they stay that close to the road -- hardly did an hour go by without seeing a cloud of flies lift from some dark slick on the road.

That night we stayed in a motel, Ben pampering me after my little exciting afternoon; he was to ride to Devonport the next day to get a car while I stayed in Sheffield, for I couldn't ride anywhere with my bike so out of true and no spoke to fix it with.

I almost became a local that day. I spoke to the people there, used their free internet, found out why they disapproved of the local chap making money by charging folk to take a photo of him and his alpaca. I saw him around.

Afternoon was wearing into evening when a car came up and there was Ben -- with his dad, Dan, whom I'd met before in Airlie Beach but wouldn't have remembered. When I'd ordered him over to help me with my dinghy he'd been wearing a big funny hat, and in my head he was "chap with little girl who had a weird hat on" but that was about that. They were laughing, which I found out later was due to Ben's saying that I would be entertaining myself by writing in my journal, and when they pulled up that's exactly what I was doing.

The drive to Scottsdale, where Ben's paternal family mostly resides, I spent looking out the window and amusing myself with the various shapes the trees were taking due to the prevailing westerlies. Even wee shrubs barely a metre off the ground had a decided tilt.

Long before I met Ben's aunt he'd told me she was a fan. I was in conversation with her when she mentioned going to a convention in the United States every so often.

"Oh? Which?"

"You wouldn't know it."

"I probably would."

"MediaWest."

"Oh, I know MediaWest." And so we went off to her room and -- fanzines. Fanart. A true media fan indeed, producing fanzines by the truckload and writing that much too. We yakked on and on until Dan pointedly came in and wished us a good night.

While we were there Ben was roped into dig ditching for the irrigation, and so it was in our best interests to get a car and get moving ... most especially since it looked like I was about to get handed a shovel and pushed out the door as well. Off to Launceston we returned, getting a gold Europcar vehicle for the week, and me an SAS book to entertain myself with when the landscape was particularly without inspiration.

Approaching Deloraine once more we saw a sign pointing to Liffey Falls ... and because we could, being in a car, we turned off towards it. A 20km detour is no longer an hour (or more) away.

The falls were so pretty, although little. The stream bed looked paved with stone, and I went out on it, wading in the icy clear water. The walk wasn't overpopulated, and the trickle of running water soothed. An old man walked along with a stick, which was nice to see. Then, later on, another man, also with a stick -- but not so old, and a guy travelling around Tasmania on foot.

Liffey Falls was Ben's favourite place in all of Tasmania.

We camped at the free place outside of Gowrie Park, being as it was on the way to the next day's agenda: Cradle Mountain. The campsite was filled with people, many with fires going. What is it with people camping and fires?

The whole point of going to Tasmania was Cradle Mountain. Ben had wanted to climb the mountain, if not do the whole Overland Track.

We got hit with another fee as soon as there -- $50 for a two month car access to all National Parks in Tasmania. Or $20 for the day, but we were going to go to another couple. The money they must be raking in! So many people there, and I found out later that the Overland Track itself requires booking and $100.

Off to Cradle Mountain we went, a bottle of water each and wearing our shoes.

It was hot. That was the thing about most of Tasmania -- except King Solomon's. It was warm in the sun, but the wind bit. The was no wind, so we sweltered.

For some reason we took the "steep, difficult track" up to the mountain. That it was; at first it was the easy Dove Lake timber walkway, then becoming steep and narrow staircases and then steep rocky paths.

Along the way there were a couple of streams, so we refilled our water bottles. I had read in the SAS book not to breathe through your mouth or you would lose moisture. I did my best to only breathe through my nose and only take sips of water, nor eat much (barring a sweet, juicy peach), for eating requires water for digestion.

Just when you climbed the rocks -- literally jumping from one to another and pulling yourself up -- you saw it was not the top, but you had to go down, up, down, and up those bloody rocks again. The marked trail, while easier to pull yourself up on, was also slippery because of the worn stone beneath the constant trample of feet.

Henry Hellyer was the first European up there in the 1840s; so many more since then. It was airless, still up there, and very sunny,. We could see an eagle soaring high above ... and the view went for many miles. Visibility wasn't the best, but I bet you could see all angles of Tasmania on a clear day.

On the way down -- as he was on the way up -- Ben was far ahead, making good time.

"Is that your friend?" asked an ascending guy.

"Yep."

"You'll never catch him; he's a mountain goat!"

And watching, I could see that. He boinged from rock to rock easily, without hesitation, whereas say I was careful about my steps and managed to slip every so often anyway!

The way back down as hard; descending a slope, while easier on the heart, kills the legs, for one has to balance on one leg while making sure the next step is secure.

Again, on the way down we took a "steep, difficult track", although a different one. I jarred my spine on a misstep when I couldn't see my feet due to flora.

Funny how many people we saw with hiking sticks. What a waste of money! One guy we saw going up had one and a bunch of shiny, crisp camping gear. For a day walk! Hiking sticks are not cheap, and yet we saw a couple abandoned at the top of Cradle Mountain. Obviously some saw them for the idiocy they are.

Back in the car, we zipped off to Devonport, where we considered a place to stay but got a dinner instead.

"Mild," I asked for from this Indian place, but "extra fiery hot" was what we got! I couldn't eat anything but the starters. Waste of money that was.

We camped that night at Turner's Beach, between two caravan parks and five million "no camping" signs. First thing in the morning, to make sure nobody saw us flaunting the law, we were on our way along the coast and the many little towns along it. An unfriendly coast to cruise upon.

It was along one of these towns we met our second friendly Tasmanian, working in an information centre and laughing with me as I hobbled along like an old person, so stiff were my legs.

Even though we went to Stanley and were at the bottom of the Nut, we lazily decided not to climb it. The Nut was a volcano's hard plug, the soft surrounds eroded away long ago.

The coast deemed monotonous and boring, we headed off for Strahan, down the west coast, intending to go on the desolate Arthur Pieman highway.

I was navigator for the trip, and although I annoyed Ben by telling him he was supposed to turn after we went past the turnoff, this time I directed us towards the Milkshake hills with no melodrama. It was ever so pretty. Rainforest indeed with fallen logs everywhere, lichen and moss all over them, leaf litter underfoot springy. So quiet, too. Nobody else there. We took the short walk meander through, and then went on our way to the next place, a sunken limestone lake.

There were people there, a lot more, although it was nowhere near as nice as the Milkshakes. The leaf litter was still springy, and as we walked along I confided in Ben my personal entertainment manner: turning life events into a comic strip in my head, making it all funny, and the probable reason for me giggling for no apparent reason.

We spent the rest of the time imagining bits of comic, such as our hire car going out all clean with sparkles and then coming back with half the state's mud and bits and pieces hanging off it. As it was there was a thick layer of fine dust all over it, and later in the journey Ben would draw eyes on the rear lights in the dust. There was that much of it that even the metallic gold colour of the car wasn't obscuring its condition.

On the way to Strahan was the Arthur River, which is advertised as a running river you can go kayaking upon. We went over it on a bridge, which had parking spots. Ben pulled over. A sign mocked any who stopped: mentioned the nearest toilet, which was a long long way away. "Suckers", someone graffitied upon it, and "Don't waste the Tarkine" by some zealous greenie. I suppose they meant the hoard of toilet paper thrown into the bushes by desperate travellers feeling the urge made all the more apparent by the mean sign.

The Arthur Pieman road is a great stretch of nothing, just gravel road and denuded landscape. Protection area -- now that they took all the trees. I suppose that makes sense in some person's weird mind. The turn-off warned that you couldn't get mobile signal for miles and that there was no fuel.

Corinne was the town we had to get to for the river crossing on a barge. The price was a clear rip-off: $20 for a tiny crossing. Ben got the shits, turned around, and went the long way instead. I twiddled my fingers and mentally whistled tunes until Ben's driving slowed down a bit.

Strahan was a rip-off, too. Corinne was merely a taste of what was to come. Every accommodation place, including campgrounds, cost a small fortune. All that time seeking, and finding nothing cheap. We were wanting a shower.

We pitched the tent near a caravan park again, on the foreshore in a public park. No camping signs abounded again, but two other vehicles were very obviously camping. Surely no-one would only pick on us. We could have had a shower, we found later, by sneaking into the unlocked caravan premises, but it was so cold when we realised this that we decided being dirty wasn't so bad after all.

Ben made dinner, and once I finished putting up the tent I ran around with a cattledog, throwing sticks into Macquarie Harbour for it, then being punished by a wet dog bouncing over on me and freezing my legs off.

Morning we headed to the entrance of Macquarie Harbour, Hell's Gates, named so when the convict gaol on Sarah Island was still operational. Back when Tasmania was Van Diemen's Land. You could see why; the Westerly swell was surfing there, and there wasn't even a gale. If there was? Kiss your arse goodbye!

I'd planned our next stop to be Kelly's Basin, an abandoned town overgrown by nature, which would take a 3 hour return walk. To get there we went via Queenstown, a place reputed to be a scar on the face of the earth. As we approached a sign telling us how far Queenstown was, some wag had stencilled "MORDOR" next to "Queenstown".

Around the bend, and my god, such an accurate description. The scars of mining are so blatant. The land poisoned so that no plants grow, no animals live. Just charming.

I read the pamphlets for the walk as we went past the blemish that is Queenstown, and noticed something new.

"The last 5km is for 4WD only." I looked at Ben. "What does that mean?" Knowing full well what it meant.

He was not impressed.

When we got there we turned on the 4WD only road -- and it was beautiful rainforest, trees closing in on us and the cut-away hillside a carpet of green mosses. The road wasn't the best, but we made it all the same. Later, leaving, we found a 4WD parked outside -- a car which could have made that last stretch, a hire car at that, choosing not to.

The walk followed the old railway line, mostly dismantled when the town was abandoned, except for a couple of sleepers and bridging structures, all overgrown. It was a green road for us to follow, like something out of a fairy tale.

The old town itself was a disappointment. Not much there at all. Most had been taken away or rotted away long ago.

There were two brick kilns, an old wooden railway carriage, a couple of boilers, and a chimney. It had been a brick-building place as a rival to Strahan, but went bust and the last few inhabitants left in the 1940s. Everything there was a tangle of vegetation.

We had been intending to take our time and do a lot of stuff, but I'd pointed out to Ben that we needed a rigorous schedule to keep up to scratch with time if we wanted to do everything on our menu. So we carried on through the day, past Hobart and Huonville to park in a little town on the southern end of Tasmania and stayed in the car that night, wrapped in our sleeping bags. Sleep was cramped, cold, and hard to reach.

Morning was grey, and we braved the gravel for Catamaran, about as far south as you can go by road. (Only Cockle Creek, population 4, is further down). Ben wanted to go to Catamaran, because, well, he's a multihull sort of guy. How can you resist?

Along the way were little bays and inlets. In Recherche Bay we stopped and got out of the car to read information about the landing of D'Entrecasteaux to look for water in the area. I only just noticed Ben racing back to the car to lock me out, and despite his head start I still got there in time.

At the south there is a walk, four hours return, you can take to reach the southernmost end of Australia. Being lazy, we instead walked to a whale sculpture dedicated to the whalers from yore. Hardly had we stepped from behind the windbreak than were we just about blown into Recherche Bay! Truly the Roaring Forties sort of area!

Down there are lots of free campgrounds. You could stay for 4 weeks! A sight different from everywhere else and their "no camping". It seemed like a number of the campers there had been there a long, long time.

Off we went, with plans to look at several places. Wooden Boats, timberworks, alpaca farm. We did none of these.

At Geeveston we stopped to see how much the Tahune Airwalk was -- over $20 each! -- and looked at their pro-logging display. Everything in Tasmania is pro-logging; even the "Forest Eco-Centre" in Scottsdale! An eco-centre which said that people need not worry about unsightly plantation forests, as they only comprise 5% of logged forest. Sheesh!

The woodturning was ordinary and things -- most boring, easily made things -- were highly priced merely because it was huon. Which is a very boring timber to look at. Perfect of boatbuilding -- straight grain, no knots, hard, light. Boring for everything else.

When we got to the boat centre we didn't enter because of the $6 entry fee -- not as much as everywhere else, but by that time we were thoroughly tired of the Tasmanian penchant for fleecing you of money, and people unfriendly to boot. They might as well have people at ferry and airport terminals on the mainland -- give us all your money, now piss off! We don't want you in Tasmania.

Rather than bleed any more into the Tasmanian economy, we went on to Mount Wellington. We had -- okay, I had -- mentioned riding up it when we were still on the bikes. Instead we drove -- Ben drove -- and we saw an endless stream of bicycle riders going up and going down. It's not a small mountain.

The summit is above the cloud line, the road markers with reflectors on them a metre high for when it snows! I felt like I was in another land.

We parked and looked at the faded tv tower; cloud obscured everything. Out of the heated car -- and ran to the top of the rock cairn, barefoot, wind icy, and then down to the observation building. We ran, our feet cold from the wet tar and our bodies from the lack of clothing.

The first white woman up there climbed up to look down at the Derwent River, where her fiancé had drowned. Some aristo lady went up a week later and is usually quoted as first instead.

It cleared a bit and we could see out. So lovely, so much to see. A couple of backpacker types were in there with us, and I wondered how the girl, with her hippie clothes, was faring in ultra-conservative Tassie.

This time -- of all times! -- I did not run back to the car fast enough, and Ben locked me out. The wind wrapped itself around me before breaking free, and there was Ben, warming his hands and feet under the heater. I hopped about and pleaded through the glass. He relented.

We escaped Hobart and -- because I hadn't showered in days -- I bought glaringly orange shirt to change into, just as the store was about to close and the charity kick me out. What the hell. $1. People could hardly get unfriendlier.

On the way to Swansea -- a possible backpacker's there -- I had an idea. I had always wanted to test out having lots of little braids. In the car, I had nothing but time! I could do it if I wanted!

Seventeen braids later and I wondered what kind of hare-brained scheme I was set about. I hadn't realised how bored one could get doing one's own hair.

The thing about that hairstyle is that it is very annoying. You have not one annoying braid, but many -- all tangling in zippers, earrings, necklaces, doors, and clothing; and worse yet, soon after completion little hairs start escaping and you have what amounts to seventeen pipe cleaners attached to your head. Taking them out is almost worse -- the static leaves you with an afro.

Arms hard at work on hair strands, I got out of the car to look at Swansea's sailor's memorial, then dived for the warmth of the car. Onwards we went to Freycinet National Park, where there was camping to be hand. It was set up for vehicles, all little park spots with convenient tent places behind them.

I, stupidly, forgot to fill our water (must be the hair), so we were on rations. Pots were cleaned on the beach, and I whipped up dinner (heated up cans). A pademelon, like a little kangaroo or wallaby, a marsupial, came up when I wasn't looking and made for the pot once we were done. Cheeky buggers! They were everywhere, turgid from scavenging off tourists. During the night we heard them scuffling about the tent, looking for food they didn't need.

Wineglass Bay was calling to us, and we headed on that way, with a stop at Coles Bay -- time for a soy cappuccino and a bottle of water. It was an all-in-one store you get in small places; Post Office, general store, café.

"You can't drink that in here," said the woman, pointing at my water after I paid for the most expensive coffees in existence. Water. From the same store.

I'd forgotten how different I looked -- purple jumper, orange shirt, Medusa's hairdo, bare feet.

Ben found it funny.

We didn't actually walk to Wineglass Bay, just to the lookout, which gives an excellent view. Especially if you perch atop a big rock like we were. Both of us barefoot, it was commented upon by every second walker. So much more easier on the feet than shoes; toes don't try to escape out the front of your shoe. You know what the surface you are walking on is like straight away. You can grip with toes. All that sort of thing.

I raced Ben down, but he got there first, part the van in a state of pigsty which only just outdid our vehicle's. Considering that we only had what had been packed into the panniers on our bikes, it was quite an accomplishment of mess. It collects volume in a car.

Ben wanted to see the convict-built bridge at Ross, and I wanted to see the Female Factory there. I had been reading about the Female Factory where female convicts had been shipped to in The Fatal Shore. Only after we got there did I realise the one he had been talking about is located in Hobart.

Ross is a tourist town. It tries to be Ye Olde but -- tourist. We walked up to the bridge from the "wrong" side, had a good look --- and saw the throng of people in the carpark on the other side.

A horrid town, really. Expensive to all hell and full of "antiques" -- junk.

Next stop was St Helen's, along the coast ... where I saw a free shower sign!

I was not quite quick enough, and so had to wait half an hour for a silly little teenager who just had to have a bloody long shower. Was not happy. I ducked in right after her, just before her sister got the squeeze in too.

Ben wandered towards me in the town, leaflet in hand. He'd been talking to an old guy on a bike, touring and collecting money for charity. He'd been doing it for 25 years.

I looked at the itinerary -- Devonport to Sheffield, 1.5hr? It took Ben twice that! I felt like a loser idiot that this older chap could do it 25 years running and yet I folded in a few days.

All around Tasmania wee saw tourers, laden with front and rear panniers. Front? Where do they get them from? I have yet to see a store with front panniers. One guy we saw asleep in a park along a road, map of Australia on his trailer marked with where had had been to date. An inspiration to us all. Kill him now, I say.

We went driving for a campground, and found one at Eddystone point, near the lighthouse. All around the lighthouse we found dead birds, as if a shower of them pelted just that one corner of the earth. The campground was a shanty town for fisherfolk, buildings of brick, iron, motorhomes, and tents. Some had been there for a good, long while. They all stopped and turned to look at us as we came in.

"Like Deliverance," said Ben, and shuddered.

More pademelons came about -- fatter ones than at the last place. Obviously people not paying sufficient attention to their foodstuffs.

We left as unobtrusively as possible. Fisherfolk, with the campfires everyone seems to need. Camping releases one's pyro within.

At Gladstone (Tasmania) we found we could not go the way we wanted, to see a very tall waterfall. Road closed due to forest fire. Our detour took us to Derby, where we spotted a rock formation on the side of a mountain which looked like a groper but was painted like a trout. There was one "attraction" not listed anywhere -- maybe because it was free, like the "whimsical" letterboxes of motorbikes, houses, people, etc, all along Wilmot.

It was our last night in Tasmania, and to be spent in Scottsdale again, where we'd collect our bicycles to return home. Ben packed his in the morning, and did a very good job ... whereas mine looked like a pile of rubbish. No, really, like a rubbish heap. Ben and I stood looking at it and we could hear the tape job falling apart. He took over engineering duties and put his boxing skills to work. When he finished he figured out that both boxes were not going to fit in the rear seat and got grumpy. I hid under the house and pretended to back things -- and then it was time to say goodbye.

In Brisbane we stepped off the plane and were hit with the palpableness heaviness of the air. Moisture. The sweet smell of home.