Seeking refuge from the "Roaring 40s"

In the updated Lonely Planet guide to Tasmania the state’s third largest town, Devonport, copped a huge amount of flak predominantly for its booze fuelled brawling and intimidating biker gangs. Such were the strength of the comments the guide book was taken to task by the local paper – The Mercury – which strongly criticised LP for its one-sided view based on little more than poorly sourced conjecture. Either way, it was our next stop, albeit to top up the supplies before hitting the north coast. Devonport was neither charming nor memorable, but neither did it seem overrun by bogans and bikers. If anything, it has more promise than Launceston, which in the main is a slowly dying dump! As for us, the town will be best remembered for Kris’ mechanical mishap which resulted in William undergoing an unnecessary oil change! Driving down the main highway shortly after topping up on oil, Kris suggested out loud that he might not have replaced the oil cap, and so it bloody well proved! Oil flew everywhere when Kris popped the bonnet covering him from head to toe much to the amusement of passing motorists. Marit, meanwhile, paced up and down the streets of Devonport in search of the missing cap; much to our relief it was eventually spotted wedged down the side of the engine. It was a good 50kms before the overpowering odour of burning oil subsided, replaced by the strong smell of sea salt whipping off the Bass Straight. At the quaint seaside town of Penguin – the focal point of which is a towering concrete copy of the flightless bird – we paused for a coffee at the wonderful Groovy Penguin café – a “must do” recommendation from Top Camp’s Toni, who spent her youth in the town. Here a lovely lady suggested we call in at the Hellyers Road Distillery, the largest single malt whisky distillery in Australia. How could we say “no”?

Parked next door to the disappointing Lactos Tasmania cheese centre (the cheeses on offer really were disappointing and, in the main tasteless) the distillery offers a decent variety of bourbon casked malts (and one experiment with Pinot Noir cask) all of which failed to deliver; the Scots have nothing to worry about on this showing, with all of those tasted proving harsh on the palate, probably because they are too young.

The north west is a complete contrast to the north east, its beaches and bays very rugged, as you’d expect from a coastline battered and bruised by the treacherous Bass Straight. Here the notorious Roaring 40s (the name given to the howling westerly winds that besiege latitudes 40 to 50) prevail, bringing with them more than 2000mm of rain each year. The region is remote at best, with coastal heaths and wetlands whose history stretches back over 35,000 years when Aboriginal tribes sought shelter in caves along the coast, where they left a remarkable legacy of rock engravings.

When we rolled into tiny Boat Harbour we were greeted by the Roaring 40s in all their glory, but it didn’t stop us stripping off and running into the ferocious Bass Straight for a dip! After all, you only get the chance to body surf the Bass once, so that’s exactly what we did. A refreshing beer in the delightful Jolly Swagger café helped us forget our bruises and scrapes, but at no stage did the howling wind want to relent.

Onto Stanley, a small fishing village sat in the shadow of a 152m monolithic rock form, aptly nicknamed “the nut”. This striking formation is said to date back more than 13 million years, and a steep 20 minute climb provides amazing views across the Bass, east and to the west. That is, when the region is not under attack from gale force winds, and after struggling to the top we were forced to quickly retreat.

With the storm raging we continued our hasty retreat inland where we encountered uninspiring farmland but no where to camp. On to Marrawah, a surfing mecca with some stunning sweeping bays and internationally renowned breaks. Still the wind raged and our attempt to pitch the tent at the impressive Green Point proved futile and once again we were forced to retreat.

With daylight fast running out we had to act fast. Driving on Tassie roads between dusk and dawn is not clever – it’s when the wildlife come out to play and that means running a gauntlet of wallabies, devils, and armour plated wombats! We made the remote township of Arthur River just as the sun bid us farewell, but there was no sign of the wind abating. Such was its ferocity that it was necessary to tie the tent to the car and we crawled into our sleeping bags with fingers crossed we, and our tent, would survive the night!