This post is bought to you by the letter W, for water. There’s been no shortage of it lately, both falling from the sky and tumbling down a cliff. As I drove the fifty-something kilometres from Bicheno to St Helens with the windscreen wipers on, the local’s assurances that the weather was likely to clear seemed somehow a little optimistic. St Helens is near the start of the Bay of Fires, apparently rated one of the world’s greatest beach areas. Probably not that day, however …
After locating one of the hostels in town (St Helens Backpackers – you wouldn’t think it’d be hard, being on the main street, but I still drove past it three times…), I carried on westwards through the countryside for another 35km or so to St Columba Falls. Nestled in the rain forest (kinda appropriate given the weather) about 10 minutes walk from the road, this place is what I imagined Tasmania to look like when thinking about this trip. Huge ferns, rushing rivers and one of the highest waterfalls in the state. I don’t know whether it’s usually this majestic or if the precipitation had something to do with it, but it was stunning in any case – made even more so by the fact I knew nothing about the area beyond a two line entry in the guidebook. If you’re ever up this way, make sure you take an hour or two out of your schedule to get back to nature here.
After stopping for a quick chat with a friendly echidna at the side of the road, I spent the rest of the afternoon staying dry back at the hostel before settling into doing what all good travellers do best – talking shit to other travellers. Had a great chat with Terry the Welshman who is coming to the end of his cycle trip around Tasmania. He also competes in ironmans and other such crazy pursuits. Perhaps not that big a deal, except that I’d have to estimate his age at being somewhere on the far side of 60. If I’m doing anywhere near as well as him at the same stage, I’ll be extremely impressed. And amazed, frankly.
A Kiwi, an Irishwoman, a Frenchman and a Belgian walk into a bar. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, but in this case it was an accurate description of the evening. After a couple of pints at the pub across the road – which had few redeeming features other than fact that the beer was cold and cheapish – my new Irish friend (whose name I don’t have a hope of spelling – drop me a line if you’re reading this!) adjourned to the other bar in town, Crossroads. The friendly owners Steve and Jan have only owned it for a few months, relocating here from Western Australia to revitalise the place. Live music is apparently one of their big drawcards, and tonight it included an impressive set of originals from a Dutch woman who happened to be passing through town, a pretty decent covers act from a guy that lives nearby in St Mary, and an impromptu set of several duets by the both of them. I drank too much, danced a bit (due undoubtedly to the drinking too much), met a bunch of cool new people, stumbled in around 3am and generally had a great night. Strangely enough, despite being in a 12 bed dorm, I slept like a log. I wonder why…