To Southport I say!

There have been numerous memorable moments during these past days, such as my helping to prepare the 1957 Fordson tractor and then watching it bounce down the bush driveway in a hail of white diesel smoke; or moving a large water tank only to discover two copperhead snakes at our feet; or sitting in Dad's outdoor spa and watching the night close in and the satellites move, as the wallabies surrounded us to feed on the lawn.    

Continuing the theme of exploring roads that I had been driven along, passively, as a child, yesterday by means now of my own machine I rode the other side of the channel: from Huonville to Southport.  As always I explored certain tarred nooks and crannies along the way, such as a single lane of black stuff wending along the coast and in between diary farms, which was Police Point.  People here live in wooden shacks that overhang the tide.

My aim was to explore the towns of Franklin (where Dad lived for a time), Geeveston, Dover and Southport.

Geeveston is a logging town with, in recent years, a polish to the place to draw the tourists.  Sculptures litter the central district.

Outside of Geeveston I joined in behind a couple of Harley riders for a distance, enjoying both their mellow pace and the act  riding along with others.  They were not particularly skillful riders however and at a certain point, tired of having to brake in every corner, I opened up my throttle and took to piloting my wonderful bike through the twists and sweeps, alone, at a pace that thrilled.

Eventually I made it to Southport, the southern-most town in Australia.

 

   

I rode along the shoreline and beheld this beauty, an island that one could inhabit.  Notice the shallow water in between.

A place to dream of being.

This wonderful place continued to draw me as I explored it.  Such was the beauty that, in the middle of the day, I had that feeling which you have experienced on a hot summer night, on a beach or island under a full moon over glittering water and a visible scene: that the world about you is alive, open and magical. 

Do not be fooled when you watch this video: the breeze is kind, the air warm, the water clear and inviting:

I went further and saw other interesting things, but let this suffice.

Tasmania - exploring the surrounds

Yesterday and today I spent my time exploring roads along the bays surrounding Cygnet.  Yesterday it was the western side: Lymington, Wattles Grove, Glaziers Bay and up to Huonville, then back to Cygnet for lunch.  Below is Port Cygnet.  Later in the day we took out a new plywood boat that Dad's father-in-law has just finished building.

Today I travelled the other side: down via Verona Sands and up to Woodbridge.  I rode slowly and stopped frequently.  

 

 The best part, to my mind, was Randalls Bay and Eggs and Bacon Bay, bodies of water that were pure and calm.  Not even the lap of quiet waves could be perceived at Randalls Bay.

 

 

Further along and I saw this island sat out in the middle, with a great hole through the centre:

 

I enjoyed lunch near Woodbridge, then turned around and travelled back the way I had come, albeit at a spirited pace, overtaking cars in a joyful cry of high revs and great speed.  I had coffee in Cygnet across from my old school, watching the parents pick up their children and wondering whether any of these people were old classmates of mine.  I then returned to the road again and this time travelled the route on the other side of the hills to Nicholls Rivulett - Woodbridge Hill Road - which was fantastic.  A combination of England and Australia.  These roads were all, yesterday and today, empty for the most part.  From Woodbridge I travelled my now favourite road - Nicholls Rivulett Road - back home.

As I arrived into Nicholls Rivulett I was surrounded by a thick smoke and it emerged that there were several bush fires about.  My Dad's wife arrived home half an hour later to tell how she had just evacuated her friend's house at Franklin with the flames only 100 meters away.

Tasmania - the first days

I have just begun a two week holiday in Tasmania.  I spent my teenage years there, attending the local high school in Cygnet until Year 10, and my father still lives here on a mountain in the bush at Nicholls Rivulett.  I have always traveled by plane when visiting, but have longed to one time bring a bike over and ride through the State, and now I am fulfilling that desire. 

I took a cheap 'day sailing' ticket which had me leaving Melbourne at 9AM into Port Phillip Bay. 

The journey through the narrow channels of the bay was hours long.  The time was made easier by the fact that my wife's grandfather and great-grandfather were tugboat captains on this bay and I have recently done some research, pulling up old newspaper articles about them (they had some real adventures that spanned the first half of the twentieth century).  These stories were in my mind as I looked over the water.

Then we passed through the heads and I thought of my motorcycle, below decks, domino-like in row with other unstable bikes, on this tossing ship.  

But once outside the heads the day was increasingly calm and eventually stunning.

The boat arrived in Tasmania at 6PM and I spent the first night camping in Devonport.  When I camp I find my body clock switches to hunter-gatherer mode.  And so the next morning I was up very early with a simple mission: to reach Nicholls Rivulett by a leisurely but interesting route.  This meant that the Midland Highway - Tasmania's Hume - was out.

So I headed south from Devonport along a single-lane road along a lake's edge.  Then I passed through towns centering around bridges with English trees and ponds and ducks.  I took a route through Railton to Longford.  The morning was overcast and cool, with a light scattering of rain, and my first impression was of how English the landscape seemed (to an Anglo-Australian who has often dreamed of, but never been to, England).  There was a real sense of comfort in the landscape.

But this sense became complicated as I travelled.  I was also struck by how limited one's options might be for work in various places, or even how hard it might be to find work at all.  And as I passed natural bush abutting the road I was also stuck that beyond the thin veneer of European houses and flora the bush itself was a place that would happily kill you - it appeared cold and inhospitable, or perhaps a place for native creatures only, the mist only increasing the sense of it being otherwise a place for struggling and dying, not for warm human living.

South of Longford I rode across an incredible valley of soaked green grasses, despite it being the height of summer.  Often on this trip I did not - and will not - take photos of the wonderful things I saw, as I mostly want to experience being here rather than recording it.  From this valley I rose and rose up an excellent, tightly winding mountain.  Gradually the valley from whence I came spread out below like a map, and then disappeared behind the fog.    

It was chilly up in the heights, and dense with fog.  But how freely I could breathe; and how serenely everything lay about me.

The place was silent, mystical.  If it could speak, and I could understand, it would have said: "It is not how the world is...but that it is".

I detoured along alpine waters: the awesome Great Lake, via Cramps Bay on a gravel road.

Further on a fire had recently passed through in this place where the earth touches the sky.  The pure air was suffused with ash.     

I passed Arthur's Lake with an increasing feeling of exuberance that translated itself into speed.  Despite having a deer jump out in front of me (deadly on a motorcycle) I found my throttle light and the high speeds came easy as I spun along like a whirlwind through descending straights and massive curves.  The sun shone increasingly: I was descending into a valley where the bush was hot and the grass golden for summer.  Something caught my eye and I stopped and walked through the trees to find these sculptures.

 

 

 

Onwards I rode, through Bothwell and down to Hobart.  Toward the end of my day I tore along Nicholls Rivulett Road - the best motorcycling road in Tasmania? - which leads me right past my father's property.  I am now riding that road daily and it is incredible.  But such tales are for further posts.  Indeed I had a wonderful ride today but will write about it tomorrow, as it is now time for bed in preparation for another day on my road-burning twin. 

The Bullet to Gembrook

I spent a pleasant 300km on the Bullet last Sunday, riding through King Lake, Healesville, down to Gembrook and then back by the same route.  What a wonderful motor cycle!  I have wanted to take it on the road to Gembrook for a while, where it is well suited to the constant curves and lack of traffic.  You can see what the road was like: I was winding along, upright and with my machine beating away under me, through dappled sunlight and constant curves.

I am preparing my W650 for a fortnight of riding through Tasmania which commences two weeks from now.    There will be lots of photos when that happens.

Bullets to Bendigo

Today I took a ride with a few fellow members of the Royal Enfield Club of Australia, to Bendigo and back.

The Bullet to Maldon

I rode the Bullet out to Maldon today.  I was accompanied by my friend Rosy.

At 60 or 70 kph we rolled along flanked by wiry gums and golden grasses.  It is the height of summer and hot air ran over our skin; shafts of sunlight broke through the trees; and butterflies swarmed and mixed with the clouds of dust which our machines kicked up.