Stolen Fruit Vol. II
“Hi.” No response. “Hi, I’m Asher.” Still no response. I’m standing in my dorm room in Port Arthur. I’ve just arrived in the Peninsula after travelling for most of the day by bus from Launceston via Hobart. It is early evening and I'm staring at a man in his mid-thirties and in his socks sitting on his bunk watching the news while sucking on his Jim Bean like a calf at her mother’s teat. He is unresponsive and too engaged in his news-watching to say hello right away but his reluctance soon runs out and he eventually greets me.
My arrival in the Tasman Peninsula had not been the most welcoming. After walking two kilometres up the road from the bus stop, a slowly decaying pademelon (small wallaby) at the entrance to the place I’m staying at welcomed me. The unconventional welcome mat did bring about a feeling of cold feet - I questioned what I was about to engage in. The flies feasting on the animal acted as ceremonial rice being thrown my way as I walked down the aisle towards my now unavoidable fate. But it was not to be. Like any marriage, I would soon get over my jitters and learn to love my temptress (called Port Arthur) - for a short while - before leaving in the early hours without so much as leaving a note. But for now I could start making my bed with my mute dorm-buddy watching on. Other backpackers would arrive soon and would sever the inexistent connection that me and my alcohol-sucking friend shared. He will spend the rest of the night not saying much and smoking a little before retiring early, watching a Hollywood action film on his phone, falling asleep in the first fifteen minutes and snoring in conjunction with the sounds coming from his phone for most of the night.
In the day following, my first day in Port Arthur, I walked around the historic site now synonymous with the port itself. Whilst I did enjoy learning about convict history and exploring heritage buildings, like a kid enjoying the box his birthday present came in rather than the present itself, my attention was drawn elsewhere. After passing through one of the old cottages, ensuring I read every signpost that was presented to me in order to get my money's worth from the entry ticket, I reached the back garden. The garden was not a garden but more of an orchard with apple, pear and plum trees. If the fruit was in season, said the signpost at the front of the orchard, I was encouraged to take some. And so I did take some. Arguably too much. But I like fruit. And so this became my new objective for the day - harvesting as much fruit as I could from the trees throughout the historic site. What the vendors had displayed as a side attraction I saw as the main event. My endeavour was mostly unsuccessful (some might even say fruitless) but I did manage to eat a couple of plums and take home some pears. At one point I risked injury by leaning over a trough four feet high in order to grab a fig from the fig tree (I was successful in obtaining the fruit, thankfully).
My second day involved a day hike, of sorts. That is, I hiked during the day but, since my accommodation was in an area almost entirely frequented by car-drivers, I had to hike to get to the hike. I set off in the morning walking eight kilometres down the road towards Remarkable Cave - a cave that is, at most, markable. Don't get me wrong, it's a nice cave. It's in the top five hundred caves I have ever seen this year. But, in order to have such an exciting name, one would assume the cave itself would have matching credentials. When I saw the cave I did not remark about anything, let alone the cave itself. I am sure people have made remarks (be them positive or negative) upon entering the cave in the past, but does this, and this alone, suffice the use of such a superlative as the defining adjective of a natural feature? I am sure this was discussed at length by the naming committee when the name was decided upon.
After the cave I continued along the walking trail to the more adequately named and less subjectively titled, Crescent Bay. I climbed to the top of the mountain overlooking the bay and the Souther Ocean (again, good naming there). After reaching the top of the mountain I headed down into the bay and headed along the beach. I was hoping that there would be a path in the middle of the bay connecting back to the main road, saving me the trouble of walking along the path back to the cave and instead cutting back to the other side of the cape. It was a hope, though. There were no maps nor signposts indicating that there would be a path. I nevertheless thought that there should be one. However, as one might presume, thoughts alone about where paths should be do not dictate path-building decisions made by National Parks. I climbed up the sand dunes hoping there would be a path, knowing there would not be one and knowing that I had made the walk back even longer than it needed to be. But, surprisingly, there was a path and so I followed it.
I continued along the path until I reached a road and then a house. Instantly, four guard dogs started jumping at me and growling and barking from the dilapidated tin shed they were tied to. Fearful that their strength might pull down the small structure, I continued hastily along the road. Soon after I reached the end and looked up at the street name - Dog Bark Road. It’s good to know that the naming committee have be doing something right.
My arrival in the Tasman Peninsula had not been the most welcoming. After walking two kilometres up the road from the bus stop, a slowly decaying pademelon (small wallaby) at the entrance to the place I’m staying at welcomed me. The unconventional welcome mat did bring about a feeling of cold feet - I questioned what I was about to engage in. The flies feasting on the animal acted as ceremonial rice being thrown my way as I walked down the aisle towards my now unavoidable fate. But it was not to be. Like any marriage, I would soon get over my jitters and learn to love my temptress (called Port Arthur) - for a short while - before leaving in the early hours without so much as leaving a note. But for now I could start making my bed with my mute dorm-buddy watching on. Other backpackers would arrive soon and would sever the inexistent connection that me and my alcohol-sucking friend shared. He will spend the rest of the night not saying much and smoking a little before retiring early, watching a Hollywood action film on his phone, falling asleep in the first fifteen minutes and snoring in conjunction with the sounds coming from his phone for most of the night.
In the day following, my first day in Port Arthur, I walked around the historic site now synonymous with the port itself. Whilst I did enjoy learning about convict history and exploring heritage buildings, like a kid enjoying the box his birthday present came in rather than the present itself, my attention was drawn elsewhere. After passing through one of the old cottages, ensuring I read every signpost that was presented to me in order to get my money's worth from the entry ticket, I reached the back garden. The garden was not a garden but more of an orchard with apple, pear and plum trees. If the fruit was in season, said the signpost at the front of the orchard, I was encouraged to take some. And so I did take some. Arguably too much. But I like fruit. And so this became my new objective for the day - harvesting as much fruit as I could from the trees throughout the historic site. What the vendors had displayed as a side attraction I saw as the main event. My endeavour was mostly unsuccessful (some might even say fruitless) but I did manage to eat a couple of plums and take home some pears. At one point I risked injury by leaning over a trough four feet high in order to grab a fig from the fig tree (I was successful in obtaining the fruit, thankfully).
 |
| An American couple discuss changing phone providers |
My second day involved a day hike, of sorts. That is, I hiked during the day but, since my accommodation was in an area almost entirely frequented by car-drivers, I had to hike to get to the hike. I set off in the morning walking eight kilometres down the road towards Remarkable Cave - a cave that is, at most, markable. Don't get me wrong, it's a nice cave. It's in the top five hundred caves I have ever seen this year. But, in order to have such an exciting name, one would assume the cave itself would have matching credentials. When I saw the cave I did not remark about anything, let alone the cave itself. I am sure people have made remarks (be them positive or negative) upon entering the cave in the past, but does this, and this alone, suffice the use of such a superlative as the defining adjective of a natural feature? I am sure this was discussed at length by the naming committee when the name was decided upon.
 |
| A woman suggests that installing downlights would "really open up the space" |
After the cave I continued along the walking trail to the more adequately named and less subjectively titled, Crescent Bay. I climbed to the top of the mountain overlooking the bay and the Souther Ocean (again, good naming there). After reaching the top of the mountain I headed down into the bay and headed along the beach. I was hoping that there would be a path in the middle of the bay connecting back to the main road, saving me the trouble of walking along the path back to the cave and instead cutting back to the other side of the cape. It was a hope, though. There were no maps nor signposts indicating that there would be a path. I nevertheless thought that there should be one. However, as one might presume, thoughts alone about where paths should be do not dictate path-building decisions made by National Parks. I climbed up the sand dunes hoping there would be a path, knowing there would not be one and knowing that I had made the walk back even longer than it needed to be. But, surprisingly, there was a path and so I followed it.
