With a watery screech and a thud (not really, but a smooth docking doesn't sound as exciting) the ferry pulled into Davenport at a blearily early 6:30 am. After declaring we had not brought ashore a boot-load of fruit salad or had disease-ridden livestock strapped to our roof, we were waved through quarantine and into Tasmania proper.
We took the scenic route (ie. hit the wrong button on the GPS) to Latrobe, and arrived just in time for breakfast at the (cue angelic music) House of Anvers. Clearly, we were not going to order Weet-Bix at the cafe adjoining a Belgian-style chocolate factory. Jen, Lily and Hamish opted for waffles (which apparently come in A4-size in Tassie), while Josh somehow got through a couple of croissants. I opted for Eggs Benedict, but admit to ordering a large jug mug of hot chocolate.
We passed through field after field of lush green pastures, framed by the impenetrable undergrowth of Tasmanian wilderness, until we came upon Ashgrove Farm. Still wrestling with digesting the immensity of a breakfast D'Anvers, it made perfect sense to front up at a cheese factory. For reasons unknown to us, the surrounds were dotted with cows. Not the milk-able variety (which would make sense), but rather a fibre-glass and painted type.
We made our way south through the Midlands, which consisted of rolling hills, and sweeping plains. We were somewhat surprised to pass through Perth, and even more surprised to see one creative home-owner having fashioned their residence into a DIY amalgam of castle and windmill. Classy.
Campbell Town offered a decent coffee, a really old bridge, a playground for the kids (the lushness of the grass later discovered to be as a result of some enthusiastic fertilising of the resident ducks), as well as pavers recording the history of some pretty hard-done by convicts. One poor lady received life for purloining a curtain of all things. I hear she just wanted to make some daggy clothes for some Von Trappe kiddies and go twirling about on the mountain-side.
Yes - 7 years for a fork.
Ross boasted the third oldest bridge in Australia, as well as some fairly picturesque streets. Every second house seemed to have a For Sale sign up, which I will wildly speculate is either the result of either extra-terrestrial abductions, or locals growing tired of people taking photos of their bridge.
I can almost hear another For Sale sign going up.
We eventually came to Oatlands, a stand-out amongst the many very pretty townships along the Heritage Highway. The main street was teeming with Georgian architecture, with a fully-operational (and fairly photogenic) mill visible from most places in town. We stopped at the Companion Bakery (with organic everything) for lunch, before pressing on for our final leg to Hobart - which led us through the township of Bagdad (I am not making this up).
Hobart appears to be a sprawling township, rather than a city per se (a relief after the 17-lane uber-expressways of Melbourne). We were able to locate our accommodation for the next few days, and even managed to squeeze our car down the laneway to our designated parking (I always wanted racing stripes anyway).
Depending on the weather, tomorrow may see us visit the controversial Museum of Old and New Art (MONA), I am interpreting this descriptor to mean a steady stream of awkward questions from the kiddies about the art on display.
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