Ungrateful spoilt brat (with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp)

“Oh! You are going to love Tasmania!” they said. “It’s beautiful!!” they said.

Daph is at risk of sounding like an ungrateful spoilt brat with the following synopsis of our time in Tasmania, but Daph tells it how it is. From a Daph and Ern perspective.

It’s all right for those in their centrally heated Winnebago[1] with all mod-cons. Or the food and wine connoisseurs in their hire cars, hopping from luxury resort to boutique bed-and-breakfast, stopping at vineyards for a spot of wine tasting, or cheese nibbling. It’s a haven for the motorcyclists who love the miles upon miles of winding, hilly roads with no residential areas to slow down for. But for Daph and Ern, who don’t often drink wine or eat cheese, and who are driving a 1976 VW Kombi van that doesn’t love going up hills and needs to stop now and again, Tasmania didn’t live up to our expectations.

We were expecting cute little heritage towns dotted along country lanes, surrounded by mountains and waterfalls. We wanted to marvel at the cuteness of federation cottages and stop in adorable cafés for home-baked goods. We wanted to see wildlife.

The wildlife is mostly roadkill. You drive for miles through the barren countryside to get to the next recommended spot with no sign of life, other than the crows pecking the eyeballs out of dead wallabies. The towns are few and far between, with run-down 1980s red brick houses and shite café/takeaways that all claim to have the best chips ever.

Now, don’t get me wrong... Yes. It IS beautiful once you reach the recommended spots...

Cradle Mountain is breathtaking.

Mount Field National Park is like living in a Ken Duncan[2] portfolio.

Port Arthur is fascinatingly sombre, yet beautiful.

The Hazards are awe-inspiring.

Hobart is adorable...

But it’s not different. Everything here we have seen before. New South Wales and Queensland have already shown us moss-covered fairy glens, undulating mountain walks, and stunning waterfalls. We’ve driven through the English countryside. We’ve visited sixteenth-century castles in Scotland. We’ve tackled the French Pyrenees.

How ungrateful do I sound?! What a knob! But we have had to work hard to be consciously grateful during our time in Tasmania. We know we are truly blessed to be able to do this. But Daph thinks the money would have been better spent on a trip to Fiji.

Tasmania was in threat of becoming just another notch on the Kombi bedpost. “Been there, done that, don’t need to do it again” ... and then we found Launceston. On our last night in Tasmania, we find the city that meets all our expectations. Row after row of federation cottages, set into the hills of the most beautiful landscape.

Daph: “We could’ve just flown into Launceston. Tasmania done.”

In retrospect, our moments of discomfort have been our fondest memories. The snowstorm in Cradle Mountain. The ghost tour in Port Arthur. And today in Launceston, the chairlift over Cataract Gorge...

Daph: “I’m not sure about this chairlift. It doesn’t look safe.”

Ern: “We don’t have to do it,” even though Ern wants to do it.

Daph remembers making Ern do the ghost tour when he didn’t want to, and the Fluted Cape walk with his vertigo, and she feels she owes him one. Daph and Ern board the chairlift as it takes off over Cataract Gorge...

Daph: “I f**king hate it! Oh my God! Get me off! I’m going to be sick! How is this safe?! How on Earth does this pass safety regulations?! I’m going to die!! Oh!!” *Barf. “Oh!!” *Double barf. “I’m going to be sick. I hate this. Urrggh.”

Ern tried to placate Daph with a gentle hand on her thigh...

Daph: “DON’T TOUCH ME!! YOU’RE ROCKING THE CHAIR!! I’m going to fall out!”

Ern: *Calmly, “You’re not going to fall out.”

Daph: “This is the worst thing EVER!!”

We made it to safety and proceeded to the ticket booth to pay for the privilege of risking Daph’s life.

Ticket booth lady: “You didn’t like it then?”

Daph: *Knees buckling, “Ummm. No.”

Ern: “Now you know how I felt on the Fluted Cape walk.”

Daph: “The chairlift was MUCH worse!!”

Ern: “You jump out of planes. You go into the third most haunted house in Australia on your own. You search out the fastest roller coasters on Earth. But you cry over a leisurely chair lift?!”

Daph: “I COULD’VE DIED!!”

***

Daph is not the nicest person when she first wakes up. She is like a bear with a sore head until she gets her first cup of tea. And it sometimes takes two cups of tea before she can converse pleasantly. Daph wakes up looking like she’s been dragged through a bush backwards, with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

Ern starts his day full of beans, like a little kid on Christmas morning, excited about what the day will bring. Ern wakes up with the cutest bed hair (with what hair he still has) and a beard that looks like an upside-down troll doll[3], but still manages to look adorable. The difference a smile can make.

Ern has become accustomed to Daph’s monster in the morning. He usually awakes before Daph, and patiently waits for her to stir, being careful not to be the reason Daph stirs...

Daph: “What are you doing?! What time is it?! Urggh.”

Ern: *In a spritely tone, “Good morning my little nest of vipers[4],” and leans in for a cuddle.

Daph: “DON’T TOUCH MY BLADDER!!”

Ern quickly puts the kettle on to tame the bulldog before it really ramps up.

Daph’s morning grumps are exacerbated by several things… the cold, a full bladder, and how much Ern snored the night before. Sleeping in the Kombi in chilly Tasmania, far from the amenity blocks, involves all three extenuating circumstances.

Ern has suffered greatly on this trip.

[1] A whizz bang caravan. [2] Ken Duncan is a fabulous Australian landscape photographer. I want to live in his photos. [3] More 1980s paraphernalia. [4] A term of endearment used by Basil Fawlty to describe his wife, Sybil, in the UK sitcom, Fawlty Towers.