Bruny Island, Orford and short-term memory loss.

We farewelled our little place in Melville Street and said hello to peak-hour in Hobart. Cutting our run to the Bruny Island Ferry a teeny bit fine, we of course hit every school zone and road works in this part of Tasmania. Somehow, we made it to Kettering (the pretty coastal village the Bruny Island Ferry berths at) with half an hour to spare. Once on board, we kicked back and relaxed to the melifluous tones of the Martin children.

A warbling medley of Lorde tracks and
Nickelodeon cartoon theme-songs.

Once on Bruny Island, we called in to the famous Bruny Island Cheese Company. An aloof/earthy lady with a mop of wiry hair took our order (cheese plate and drinks) in a distracted fashion. We were soon sipping our hot chocolates and coffees, but noticed others were being brought meals while we waited for our plate of cheese. Eventually, we went to the counter to pay - and the lady asked whether we enjoyed our cheese plate. When we indicated that we were sans-cheese, she seemed confused - but then insisted making a platter-to-go. We left with a box of cheese, some sour dough and some relishes - as well as a concern for the lady's neurological welfare. 

Sadly, interpretive dance did not
speed up the cheese-platter preparation.

Before long we came to The Neck, an isthmus (try saying that 5 times fast) between the northern and southern parts of Bruny Island. At the top of leg-trembling amount of stairs was a memorial to Truganini - the daughter of the Chief of the Bruny Island people. Her story is horrific, with the Europeans demonstrating at length the darker side of humanity.

Memorial to Truganini.

The Neck

There was no way we were sneaking past the Bruny Island Providore with the kiddies in the car. A delightfully pleasant (and cognitively intact) lady provided samples of the fudge and chocolate on display. We caved and purchased significant quantities of each.

Fully stocked, we continued on to Adventure Bay, a small village named after a French sailing vessel rather than a water-based theme park (much to Lily's disappointment). We took the opportunity to dine on our platter-to-go, on a stretch of grass overlooking the white sands of the bay itself. The pick of the cheeses included the Saint - a soft white mould cheese, the O.D.O. - a 'one day old' cheese that was fresh-tasting and marinated in olive oil, and finally the 1792 - which was a soft washed rind cheese that is described as 'very pungent'. The sour dough was awesome.

Lily was more than a little impressed to find this on the beach.

Full of fromage, we set out on a 1.5 hour walk to Grass Point, past more trip-hazards than you can poke a rolled ankle at. Fortunately, due to our genetically-superior coordination (ie luck), we remained injury-free and came across some interesting rock piles as well as some spectacular ocean-scapes.

Mysterious rock formations -
nothing at all to do with bored backpackers.

Penguin Island

We made our way back to the Ferry, calling into the Cheese Company to pick up a selection of our favourite cheeses. Somewhat frighteningly, the mop-haired lady appeared to have no recollection of us passing through a matter of hours before.

We added to our Bruny Island haul with some Pomegranate Syrup (of course) from the Bruny Island Smoke House (BISH), and then waited for the ferry back to Kettering.

We made our way through Hobart for the final time, over the Tasman Bridge and onto Sorrel as darkness fell. We then experienced about 50 kilometers of delightfully narrow, winding roads that appeared to follow a steep-sided river bank. Wary of suicidal marsupials of an evening, we were pleased to make it to Orford without so much as a rabbit scooting across our path. Naturally, as we made our way down Orford's main street, we were forced to stop for a couple of wallabies and a rabbit. Urban drift appears to impact the native fauna as well.

Weary, we gratefully typed in the access code to our front door key by the light of our iPhones once, twice, several times without success. Jen contacted the owner, who guessed that the cleaner had not updated the code, and gave us the previous code. Once inside, the mounds of unwashed towels and rooms of unmade beds solved the mystery. The cleaner had not shown up at all. Fortunately, the prior guests appeared to be remarkably clean, and the mortified owner advised us where the master keys to the house were, enabling us to access fresh linen and bath towels. While on the phone, we also advised the owner that the payment from the previous guests was still sitting on the kitchen bench if they were interested in that. I wonder if the lady from the Cheese Company moonlights as a cleaner.

On the upside, the place is huge, with the sound of waves crashing just beyond our back fence (sure hope we don't get a high tide). 

Tomorrow sees us head back through the winding goat-track to the Tasman Peninsular, including Port Arthur. With the addition of sunlight, I am hopeful it won't be such a white-knuckled journey the second time around.