According to our recently acquired Irish guide to free camps – we were prepared for the unexpected – the creaking hamlet of Hamilton had a small section of public grass on which we could pitch a tent. The plan had been to pick up some meat to bbq along the way, but the only supermarket (village f**king shop) we could find was in Ouse, where all the labels read: “2009”. Marooned and doomed to a night in the village pub we reached into our rucksacks to locate the fake smiles.
Not that they were needed as the pub, The Hamilton Inn, was bustling with life. Not a bogan to be seen, rather the place was awash with thirsty fire fighters and forestry workers keen to sink a few stubbies after a long day locked in battle with fires. Not unlike the mainland, Tasmania is constantly ravaged by fire, the searing temperatures and tinder dry bush a recipe for disaster.
More than 20 fires were raging across the state at one stage during our trip causing chaos, although fortunately no one was killed. On most days smoke bellowed high into the sky, all the while small teams worked relentlessly to bulldoze and shift trees. In the evening, shifts change, and the day time crews come together to plan tomorrow’s tactics and vent their spleens at the “twisted f**ks” who get a kick out of striking a match and setting fire to the bush.
Our night at the Hamilton Inn (www.hamiltoninn.com.au) couldn’t have been better. Dinner was served outside as the sunset, fresh squid and chicken washed down with ice cold beer. The service was excellent, the food great, and then came the hours of laughter and banter with some of the fire and forestry service’s best! And a special mention must go out to the pub’s fine landlady Gina, who single-handedly pulled every pint while at the same time preparing every plate.
Sat outside with Jarrod and Bobby, the laughing only stopped when it started raining solid black bugs. The scene was like something from the Bible as tens of thousands of the little critters pounded into the pub’s lights. Everywhere we turned it was raining bugs: street lights, public toilet, even the local phone box! No one seemed to have an explanation even though this happens every night. By morning, however, there was no sign of the night’s tormentors as if the village employed a special person charged with hovering up the bugs.
According to our recently acquired Irish guide to free camps – we were prepared for the unexpected – the creaking hamlet of Hamilton had a small section of public grass on which we could pitch a tent. The plan had been to pick up some meat to bbq along the way, but the only supermarket (village f**king shop) we could find was in Ouse, where all the labels read: “2009”. Marooned and doomed to a night in the village pub we reached into our rucksacks to locate the fake smiles.
Not that they were needed as the pub, The Hamilton Inn, was bustling with life. Not a bogan to be seen, rather the place was awash with thirsty fire fighters and forestry workers keen to sink a few stubbies after a long day locked in battle with fires. Not unlike the mainland, Tasmania is constantly ravaged by fire, the searing temperatures and tinder dry bush a recipe for disaster.
More than 20 fires were raging across the state at one stage during our trip causing chaos, although fortunately no one was killed. On most days smoke bellowed high into the sky, all the while small teams worked relentlessly to bulldoze and shift trees. In the evening, shifts change, and the day time crews come together to plan tomorrow’s tactics and vent their spleens at the “twisted f**ks” who get a kick out of striking a match and setting fire to the bush.
Our night at the Hamilton Inn (www.hamiltoninn.com.au) couldn’t have been better. Dinner was served outside as the sunset, fresh squid and chicken washed down with ice cold beer. The service was excellent, the food great, and then came the hours of laughter and banter with some of the fire and forestry service’s best! And a special mention must go out to the pub’s fine landlady Gina, who single-handedly pulled every pint while at the same time preparing every plate.
Sat outside with Jarrod and Bobby, the laughing only stopped when it started raining solid black bugs. The scene was like something from the Bible as tens of thousands of the little critters pounded into the pub’s lights. Everywhere we turned it was raining bugs: street lights, public toilet, even the local phone box! No one seemed to have an explanation even though this happens every night. By morning, however, there was no sign of the night’s tormentors as if the village employed a special person charged with hovering up the bugs.
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