Corinna

My recent trip to Corinna was the first time I'd been there since the mid seventies. As a moody thirteen or fourteen year old, back in the day, it wasn't my preference of a family holiday, but it was a place my dad loved and he went there many times.

 Reluctant as I was, I knew it was a fascinating place even then. Even in the 70's it was a final frontier. You'd turn off from Waratah and head 30 k's or so to Savage River and then on 20 more down a rain forested gravel road till the little hamlet on the banks of the still, dark Pieman River opened up. There were half a dozen or so old miner's cottages still standing and also an old place called The Guest House, which was to be our salubrious accommodation. We were pretty tough kids in the 70's and used to roughing it, but that place even by our standards was  dive. The main living area was okay, a big stone open fireplace and some comfy old chairs. A long hallway led off to ten or so bedrooms. The further down the hall, the worse the conditions, seemed to be the the way the system worked. My sister and I chose the best room, it had two beds (with mattresses) and although it had no glass in the windows, this was a small price to pay for the best room of the house. My brother and dad got next choice. Second best room had no windows at all, a black hole of a room. There were no bathroom or toilet facilities in the house, you used the camp ground long drop. Star ratings weren't the go.
 That evening a hippy/backpacker joined us at the Guest House too. He opted for a room down the end of the hall. I can't remember if he saw the night out, presumably he did.

The Guest House today(on the left).

photo by James Ostinga www.australianphotography.com

Despite this we had a great time. We walked, explored and our dad rented a dingy. We found the two old graves and huon pine headstones on the south bank of the river, found old mine works and putted down to the Pieman Heads and the Conical Rocks on the coast.

You do wonder, even today, what would compel anyone to carve out a township here in this completely inhospitable place. Even by today's standards, it's the end of the earth, let alone in the last decades of the 1800's when it was established. The simple answer is gold. Corinna has had a few heydays, but in the early 1880's alluvial gold was being found. In 1883 Tasmania's biggest ever nugget was dug out, 6.8 kg. By 1890 the Tasmanian Post Office Directory listed a population of 29 men and one woman, Mrs Jessie Devlyn the Post Mistress. Brave woman. In 1893, the count was at 800. There were two pubs, one on either side of the river, store, Post Office, and by all accounts a town with all the drinking, roudiness and brawls that you'd expect from a gold town on the final frontier. The pub on the south side of the river was quite a grand affair, snugly built into the rain forest. It could only be reached by ferry.

Star Hotel. www.waratah.vpweb.com.au

In the 1930's Bill Thorne and photographer Jack Robinson drove along the old cart track and found the long since abandoned town and the old hotel still standing on the other side of the river. After that tourism began.

1958 Jim Day touring on his Velocette

This fantastic picture is titled "at the end of the earth" Corinna, Tasmania.

From velobanjogent.blogspot.com.au

Back to 2014, and Corinna is still an amazing destination. Accommodation cabins have been built sympathetically using upcycled roofing and the Tarkine Hotel has a great pub feel and fantastic food.
Even though these buildings are quite new, you get the feeling that the wilderness still quietly wins herself over and that in a few years you'll be struggling to find Corinna again in the forest growth. Lichen grows on the fences and it can be hard to pick the new places from the old. There is now a ferry to take you to a link road on the south side of the river, but this was out of action due to maintenance on our trip. In keeping with the old times, we had to back track our way out again and take the long road to our destination the next day which was Zeehan.

The lovely girl who checked us in opened up the old Guest House for us to have a sentimental sticky beak inside. It's been done up and larger parties can book it out. The rooms have improved quite dramatically, glass in all the windows, bedding, mattresses, toilet, shower, complete luxury really........why back in our day all we 'ad was an 'ession bag on floor.......

Boat Harbour:childhood memories

I recently had a wonderful one night stay at Boat Harbour with my brother and sister on a quick sentimental Tassie road trip before my brother was to relocate to the UK.
We stayed in the shack which was right next door to our old family shack. Our accommodation is one of the very few "shacks" still owned by the original family.

Boat Harbour beach taken from The Point; circa 1967

Boat Harbour is like a little sapphire embedded  in the rocky capes, cliffs and outcrops of the far Northwest coast. It's a small pocket with gorgeous aquamarine waters, clean, white squeaky sand and black volcanic rocks. The sea is different and the sand is different.

Back in the 1960's our Grandad's shack was like all the others, constructed in the 30's or 40's, roughly, from second hand materials and filled with old cast offs from their parents.
Back then the journey was a long one and that final corner that twisted down the steep, narrow gravel road into the Harbour was always exciting. The road was flanked by huge pine trees providing a tunnel and added that dimension of entering a special, magical place.
Upon entering the shack there'd be that funny smell of an old place that had been shut up for some time and the old magazines that had been left behind by the previous lot of relatives who had stayed there.

It was a tiny building. My sister and I slept in the covered in verandah end to end on a divan under the window. At night I'd lie in the dark with the moonlight streaming in and listen to the muffled voice of my dad playing crib: "fifteen two, fifteen four and the rest won't score" with the gentle constant breaking of the waves on the beach a few metres below. A beautiful lullaby.

There was a steep little path leading down to the beach below. We'd stop and pick the bright orange nasturtiums, nip off the ends and suck out the sweet nectar. A huge boulder sat on the sand below upon which many an imaginative urban development was constructed involving my brother's matchbox cars, sand roads, bridges and dams. Icy pole sticks made excellent bridge girders. With the shop directly opposite and two cents a day allowance, we kids were in constant possession of treats. My sister would save her money over several days, but I would blow mine daily.

We'd often walk to the far eastern end of the beach past where all the shacks had stopped. At low tide amoung the craggy rocks formed a perfect swimming pool, a sandy bottom at one end, seaweed the other and deep enough to dive into and explore with a mask and snorkel. Nearby was an exact bath tub size pool that got so warm on the black rocks you'd just lie in it. The trek to the pool was long but along the way you'd explore rock pools containing a variety of life. Scurrying crabs, little orange starfish, fish darting about like arrows and anemones that looked like they were filled with blood. Occasionally an octopus and once I remember a shoal of garfish, shiny and metallic all trapped by the fallen tide.

Of an evening (I don't recall how often) we'd hear the ringing of a bell and all run excitedly outside. It was King Harris walking up the road announcing his tent church. All the kids would stream out and follow him. I'm not sure why this excited us so. Back home Sunday School was The Most Dreaded affair which we all hated. Perhaps my mind has blanked out any hours of boredom at our shack, we had no tv, radio, music, just games and colouring in once inside for the evening. Maybe Tent Church was a welcome distraction, but whatever it was we enjoyed it. A huge tent, a pedal organ and that ubiquitous tool for the religious instruction of children- the felt board!

Sometimes I think memories are like fish in the ocean. The waters have long taken many of them away, but sometimes you cast your line in and some are there to be retrieved. Grandad sold his shack in the 70's when his health declined and I didn't go back there for many years. Over the years the demise of the trees, the shacks and now the final insult of hot seal and concrete curbing have left the Boat Harbour of my childhood only a memory. Aside from day visits Boat Harbour is no longer the domain of mums and dads and kiddies with their buckets and spades. Now you see the Alfas and Mercs parked in the driveways and the upmarket beach houses belong to the city surgeons and accountants. But there is still a few special things that never change and it is good fishing for memories of a time when all was right in the world of a child and in my dreams I'm still often taken there.

                Boat Harbour beach taken from The Point; circa 1967

Two Hobbits, a Dinosaur and a War Plane.

I have my two year old grandson staying. From time to time during the day he needs a little "quiet bed time" (as you do). His dad ratted about in the closets for some toys and I discovered I was sadly lacking in the toy department.
Two hobbit figurines, a plastic T-rex and a model war plane.
Hmm, bit sad. But actually, I got to thinking a great story could be made from that combination.
A bed is a fantastic place for playtime. A bedspread can become a whole land with roads and fields, put you knee up and instantly you have a mountain, valleys and cliff faces.
A patchwork quilt gives you a farm and the old chenille covers from back in the day give you labyrinthine paths.

So, as a creative writing exercise:

Two Hobbits, A Dinosaur and a War Plane. 

As everyone knows, hobbits are a gentle, meek folk, but true of heart and courageous.

One day one of the great overlords of the land, William of Hodgeman, came to two such hobbits.

He had heard of their great deeds and their great valour.

"I have a mighty quest for you" he told the lads, "a foully dangerous thing must be destroyed and banished from our fair land forever. You must journey to the Edge of the World and cast this object from us" he entreated to them as he handed them a scroll.

The brave hobbits set out on their unknown journey. The first days were pleasant. They passed through the  bouroughs of Paradise, the Promised Land and the delightful land of Belauh, where all is always lovely. When they stopped for elevensies they found that the rock cakes their mother had made them rattled about in the tin and became gravel cakes. This was the only difficulty on the journey.

As they journeyed west, they encountered perils. This was a wild and dangerous land, with strange and unknown inhabitants. They passed through Murderer's Gulley and emerged breathless but alive.

The land of Flowerdale, which belied it's name and bore no flowers had strange , silent figures watching the hobbits as they passed. Occasionally great and violent wheeled monsters roared past them. Once one of these monsters died and spewed it's evil load out. The young hobbits hid and watched.

They passed by the infamous Misery Mountain and to the dreaded Dismal Swamp.

 That night as they lay down they had the feeling they were being watched.

Their journey end was drawing closer. They were weary and afraid as the land grew hostile and perilous. They knew they were being followed.

"Did you hear that Mr Frodo?" asked Sam, as they heard a rustling of vegetation.

They turned around to see a great monster just behind them.

"Run Mr Frodo, run"

After many dangers. toils and snares they reached the Edge of the World.

They knew they were there because there is a sign. They unfurled the scroll.

"I must take a peep" said Sam

He read the title of the document. "The Forest Peace Agreement"

The brave hobbits wrapped it with a stone and threw it off the Edge of the World never to be seen again.

They heard a noise above them and a plane circled and landed behind them. Another of the Great Land Overlords disembarked and approached them. It was Sir Clive of Palmer.

"Good job boys, just checking you did the deed. Now I will begin mining and logging your fair isle."

"Have you met my associate?" 

He gestured to the great dinosaur. "Nice to meet you boys, I nearly caught up to you on the way" he said 

The hobbits, never a folk to take avid interest in politics, had not realised they were pawns in a political power play. They accepted Sir Clive's offer of a flight back to the Shire and so the two ugly dinosaurs and the two hobbits were returned to their respective lifestyles to live happily ever after.

P.S. I will be investing in some decent toys shortly.

The Countdown Years

On ABC talkback radio this week, the subject was Countdown memories, those moments, songs and mad crushes you remember.
To anyone my age, Countdown will never be forgotten. Even when we're senile and demented in age care, we'll probably still be babbling about Countdown amongst ourselves. The current Sunday night doco is incredibly evocative and it feels like yesterday we'd sit on the lounge room floor every Sunday evening and watch our heart throbs crooning at us.

I was thirteen when it started. The perfect age. Countdown came at the right time for me.
To view it now, I realise it was incredibly unsophisticated and fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants television. Very, very Australian. Molly was a particularly bad and unconsummate presenter, but his passion and skill as a music guru was undeniable.

It brought us lots of new and exciting Australian bands. Skyhooks, Sherbert, Dragon and the like were all skyrocketted to fame and teenage girl dreamboat status very quickly. I remember the Friday night that Hush came to little old Devonport. I wasn't enough of a fan to have procured a ticket, but I was outside the Town Hall listening to the pounding bass and screams of the ecstatic girls inside. That night the pounding throng smashed through the old timber floor of the hall, probably precipitating the complete refurbishment of the Town Hall not long after. It was exciting stuff, even if it was from the dark lane down the side of the Town Hall.

My personal Countdown defining moment came in 1975. I knew my life would never be the same again the moment I saw Freddy Mercury playing the opening piano riff to Bohemian Rhapsody.
There he was, black fingernails, kohl eyeliner and tight, white satin ( how much white satin was sold in those few years?). He just made the Mark Holdens and JPYs look so ....boring!  He delivered a six minute song with the first ever "video clip". Essentially a ballad, it told us a strange and tragic story. I had no idea what that story was but it was all immersing. And what Galileo and Scaramouch had to do with anything, I have no idea, but it was deep, theatrical and romantic. It followed no pattern. It wasn't the usual verse 1, verse2, chorus, bridge, upkey, final chorus. It had operatic passages, hard rock section, soaring guitar solos and ended with the striking of a huge gong. It had visual effects as layered and overlayed as the vocals.
It was ground breaking, new and like nothing we'd seen before.

I loved Freddy. That's the thing with fourteen year old love. It's real, true love and you know that if your paths could just somehow cross and his eyes could just meet yours, he'd immediately recognise that you were The True And Only One meant for him. Starcrossed. Sadly, he is in London and you live in Latrobe, so he'll never be with his truest love. Condemned to a life of searching for true love but never finding it.
 Poor guy.

Old Roads: Tullah

My husband teed up a weekend in Tullah.
Many people's reaction, including my own, was "what on earth can you do for two days in Tullah"?

Tullah is a tiny,old town on Tasmania's West Coast. It sits on a beautiful lake and is hemmed in by the two slumbering giants Mt Farrell and Mt Murchinson.

There are many Tasmanian towns, particularly West Coast towns, born of the two great forces: mining and Hydro. Tullah has had both these. The discovery of silver lead in 1900, and the dam building era more recently from the 70's to the 90's.

The Tasmanian landscape keeps her secrets. She takes back her history and hides her stories. There are many places that once were thriving townships, with streets and houses and huge mine workings, that now, unless you knew where you were looking, you would never dream anything once existed there.

Tasmania doesn't have ghost towns, even the ghosts leave and the landscape moves back in as if she never left.

But there is still plenty left at Tullah. However if you walk the streets you see the tell-tale signs of what used to be. Rows of streets and footpaths going nowhere and disappearing, larger open areas where there was once a school, pubs or other public facilities.

Hidden away on the edge of town is the old pioneer cemetery. You walk for five minutes down a very pretty little, well maintained gravel track to get to it.

The track opens up to reveal a spectacular landscape but also an immediate sense of sadness.

It was hard to tell how many plots were at the cemetery, but the most obvious one was this, of a six year old girl.

I've read quite a bit of West Coast history. It's well documented and it is fairly easy to find out about the men who pioneered the area, how many tons of minerals were hauled out of the mountains, or who the mine manager was. But this made me wonder about the history you can never read about. Particularly about the women who are rarely mentioned in the historical accounts. How did they cope in this hostile environment? How did they cope with the stress and how did they grieve their losses? What were their expectations? Was depression an issue? Men used alcohol as a coping mechanism, what did the women use?

And how on earth did they cope with children and babies and washing with all that rainfall?

Because women weren't the ones who constructed the roads, carved out the railways or built the dams, we'll never know their stories, but they'd have to be every bit as brave, tough and heroic as the men who did.

So Many Books, so Little Time

Trouble is, I'm not a book nerd. I want to read more but I have a few other things which have priority too.
Like watching a good movie, mind you, if I see it's from a book, I'll think 'I must read that book'.
Or patchworking, embroidery, listening to music or walking. Some of these things can be done simultaneous, especially if you use audio books.

Recently three books I'd ordered from the library came all at once. All memoirs.
By the time I got through Steve Bisleys, then Peter Fitzsimons (both aussie guys retelling 50's/ 60's childhoods) I couldn't finish the third one. Too much of a good genre gets a bit much.
Like too much cake.

Our Book Club has just joined the library. We get six books a year to discuss. We tried to choose six different genres to widen our reading experience. Its made me realise my reading genre list is small.
Have I read.......
A Classic?
tried Wuthering Heights as a teenage, didn't finish.
Crime?
one only, a friend loaned me one  few years ago.
Sci Fi?
um, no
Romance?
um, no
Thriller?
no
Fantasy?
not really

So, what exactly do I read?
I'll say what I don't read. I have the pile of books waiting by my bed. The pile in the corner near the dining room table, the pile on a shelf in the bedroom waiting to move to the pile next to the bed, the bookshelf ones waiting to move to a pile somewhere. Its worse than a hospital waiting list!

Here's a few from the piles.

  

 

There's a bit of history, bit of art, bit of romance, a classic and not a memoir in sight.

Some of these are borrowed, so I'd better get cracking.

That Gratitude Thing

The three things I'm grateful for over five days (or is that five things I'm grateful for over three days?) has been doing the rounds on facebook for a while now. It's well known that the act of writing things of gratitude down helps us to actually be more thankful and gracious. More so than ever as we live in such abundance our default is to take so much for granted and complain about many things.

Here's what I complain about (usually just in mumblings and rants to myself) but that I'm still incredibly grateful for.

Clothes:

Every morning I dread it. That never-ending question- what will I wear today? I dread it. And it's worse because you know you need to lose a few (at least) kilos and all the clothes are uncomfortably tight but you refuse to go up a size.

I'm really grateful that I have this problem. I don't belong in a time or to a culture or religion that leaves me with no choices or insists I wear a difficult item of apparel. I can wear trousers freely, makeup, get my hair done, choose any colour and am pretty free to wear what I like.

Food:

Every evening I dread it. What to cook tonight. I hate it and after over thirty years of cooking for a family I think I've finally run out of ideas.

The cookery books sit unused, the pantry is bare and Jamie Oliver is telling me I can whip up a superb looking and highly nutritious meal in fifteen minutes. I'm supposed to have a global kitchen with voatsiperiferp pepper and chipotle morita paste on hand and know what they are for.

I'm really grateful I have these options should I wish to avail myself of them. We are very lucky. I am grateful I can still make the occasional Shepherd's Pie using Gravox and Worcestershire sauce as the most exotic ingredients and my husband really likes it!

Shopping:

Which brings me to my next topic. Supermarkets. Hate, hate hate, supermarket shopping.
I am not a list maker and I go in there dazed, confused waiting for inspiration for the domestic needs to hit me, which it never does.

I'm grateful that I can though. I'm grateful that my life is so much easier than my grandmothers before me. I don't have to churn my butter and if a wild fancy takes me I can make my own tomato sauce, but if I don't I know I can always pop down to Coles and buy some.

Exercise.

You are supposed to do an exercise you enjoy and that is sustainable for you. I hate gyms, I hate tv exercise. 

I love walking, so that's all good. But most days it's a bit of a chore. I know I (and the dog) MUST do it. There's a bit of a moan under the breath and out I go.

I'm grateful I can. I know there will probably come a time in my life when I am no longer able to keep up the border collie speed needed for our dog. Once I'm out there, it clears my heads and gives me thinking time. I'm so grateful I have the physical ability and freedom to do this.

Ageing and negative attitudes.

I love the BBC show "Grumpy Old Women" and I agree with everything they say!

There's plenty to be grumpy about as one ages, and I do my fair share of grumping. Weight gain, failing eyesight, aches and pains, menopausal symptoms, what's happening to my skin and hair...... oh I'd better stop. It is very easy to be negative.

I'm grateful that I'm getting there though. Those of us who have made it this far are the lucky ones. I might make 101 years like my grandmother, I might not make another week. I'm so grateful for what I've had to date. I've seen my children's children. We have a life of abundance and privilege. So many have none of it. My hair is greying and difficult to manage and my skin is wrinkling and sagging. I'm grateful for this, it means I've lived a life and am now "past my physical peak" haha. I'm struggling to lose weight and I can't understand the lives of teenagers today. I'm grateful. This is what's meant to happen. I can commiserate with all my friends of the same age and they all understand. I'm grateful. I'm turning into my grandmother and I'm grateful.