As with everything on this trip, it happens unexpectedly. We tack into the wind, our boom swings violently, the main sail catches a gust and I suddenly find myself standing in the wrong spot.
The timber handrail which was there moments earlier has done a disappearing act and I’m now clutching at the air with an obvious look of panic in my eyes.
Without missing a beat, I’m quickly hoisted back into the safety of the cabin by the experienced crew of the Helsal IV – our 62-foot cruising yacht – just as the wind and Southern Ocean whips up again so ferociously it stings my face before I can sit down.
“You didn’t go in and that’s definitely something to be happy about,” our captain, Mark Stranger says to me as he navigates the wheel with just a couple fingers while peering up at his sails.
I can’t tell if it’s the lack of blood in my head or the towering dolerite pillars of Cape Raoul behind me, but right now I feel small and vulnerable.
“Let’s trim that main, guys,” Mark barks his orders over the noise of the wind and waves.
We’re finally clear of the angry, claw-shaped cape and Mark’s crew scatter across the deck like worker ants pulling lines and grinding winches and doing it all with an effortless grace that makes my near overboard tumble all the more embarrassing.
As we set out across the notorious Storm Bay in southeast Tasmania at about 10 knots, it’s not lost on me that we’re in a spot well known for chewing up and spitting out timber boats.
We tear across the bay and our yacht heels at 45 degrees in the water and unexpectedly (here we go again) we go from sailboat to semi-submersible. Water pours over the deck of the yacht and Jimmy Emms, our first mate/chef/photographer, exclaims to the rest of the crew, “Now we’re really burying the rail!”
But with no engine noise, the sun on my face and our sails full of wind, my vulnerability shifts to excitement. Underneath the hood of my Mountain Designs jacket, I can’t wipe the smile from my face.
The funny thing is I’m not even supposed to be on this boat. Instead, I’d planned to be gently sailing down the east coast of Tasmania in a predictable and slow vintage tall ship. That was until I received a call the day I arrived in Tasmania to say an engineering fault had rendered that particular boat unsafe.
A few hours (and frantic phone calls) later I stumbled upon Mark Stranger from Hobart Yachts, who said he was willing to take me on a similar itinerary – albeit on a smaller boat – but with the promise of a much more exhilarating adventure.
The one-time forest ranger, surfer and former government PR man bought the Helsal IV with wife Marsha a decade ago when a university grant (and subsequent job) fell through. The couple rented out their home, moved on board and decided they would use their love of sailing to start a charter business.
They now take groups on gentle River Derwent breakfast cruises as well as multi-day charters along the wildest sections of Australia’s coastline.
I meet the Strangers at Kings Pier Marina in Hobart before my trip and there’s an uneasy calmness about their demeanor. Just looking at their boat I already know this isn’t going to be anything like I had planned, but I would learn over the next few days that steadfast calmness from a sailor is the only antidote to a roaring and unpredictable Southern Ocean.
As we push out of Hobart and into the D’Entrecasteaux Channel, alongside our motley crew of sailors and expert fisherman there are four other guests on board yet our yacht and its common areas still feel spacious and luxurious with its restored timber finishes. The dozen bottles of Tasmanian pinot noir being shovelled into the galley by Jimmy certainly adds an aura of regalness and sophistication.
The Helsal IV is a famous cruising yacht that has competed in three Sydney to Hobart races in its lifetime and is well accustomed to navigating these waters. But our transition out of the channel’s brief calmness is sudden and violent. Here we go again.
Within an instant the backs of dolphins playing off our bow are replaced with sea spray and rapid-fire wind gusts that Mark calls ‘bullets’.
I’m learning an entirely new language on this trip: bullets, windage, jibs, port, starboard, cunninghams, headsails and travellers.
That’s the beauty of being on a working sail boat like the Helsal IV. You don’t just sit and sail with a glass of pinot noir because when the weather changes you literally become entangled in the drama.
The gusts force us to change course and we seek refuge for the night in Mark’s favourite safe moorage on Bruny Island. As we motor the final stretch to his secret spot, he ominously points out a nearby reef and calmly tells the tale of a convict ship that became wrecked here on its way to Port Arthur in 1835. The 133 people confined to the ship’s hold were left by their commanding officers to die.
Moments later, I’m coincidently sitting below deck when I hear a crackle over the radio: “Pan pan, Pan pan – this is Tas Marine,” the voice says. “We have two POB [persons over board] from a capsized boat off north Bruny Island, are there any vessels in the vicinity?”
According to Mark we’re too far away to help and a Pan pan is not a mayday. He assures us they’ll be okay but that doesn’t stop my eyes scanning for my nearest escape hatch and it’s yet another reminder of the unpredictability of these waters.
After a dinner of freshly caught fish and a bottle of pinot, we settle into our cabins for the evening. A day earlier, orcas had been spotted in the channel not far from here and as I drift off to sleep I press my ear against the timber hull, picturing them frolicking just on the other side.
The next morning we make our way to a spot called the Friars, a well-known seal colony and playground in the Actaeon Island Group. The Friars are four steep dolerite rocks that punch angrily out of the sea and act as the perfect basking spot for big bull seals; the more playful females wave at us from the water as they circle our dinghy.
This is the same dinghy which is slowly taking on water. It suffered a cosmetic tear in the poor weather and I’m now holding onto the fuel tank in shin-deep water.
“Risk taking is a catalyst for living in the moment and that’s what sailors and surfers are so good at,” Mark says to me with a smile once we’re back safely on board.
His innate ability to throw caution to the wind had actually been his PhD topic at the University of Tasmania, where he wrote a thesis on risk taking in surfing culture.
We settle in for another night in one of the fairytale coves of Recherche Bay and drop a craypot over the edge and hope for the best. These waters are teeming with fresh lobster.
Morning arrives and we bathe in the icy tannin-tinged waters by swinging from a tether off the mast. I pull myself up the swing ladder and Jimmy hands me a steaming cup of coffee, but before I dry off properly I take one of the kayaks ashore.
Finally on dry land, I look back at the boat. There’s nothing but thick scrub behind me and it’s as if I’ve been completely swallowed by the Tasmanian wilderness and my only tether back to civilisation is the Helsal IV, now a white dot in the distance.
On our final evening we motor into Port Arthur at dusk. There’s a stillness in the air I haven’t felt for several days, which exacerbates the chill down my spine as we move past Point Puer – the notorious child prison where nine and ten-year-old boys were separated from the older male criminals.
As we round the corner and the sun drops further, the Penitentiary ruins come into focus. The colour of the sandstone building changes by the second, but that’s not even the most magical part.
I should’ve guessed it, but the magic comes from the complete unexpected yet again – as it has done this entire journey.
I’m here walking the ruins of Port Arthur all alone.
On any normal visit I might actually enjoy a middle-aged tour guide showing me around while telling generic stories, but this visit with Hobart Yachts means tonight I have the place all to myself.
As I wander around the site, I come to terms with how I’ve just arrived here by boat. The very same way thousands of convicts had arrived here hundreds of years earlier.
The prison grounds and asylum are equal parts harrowing and beautiful in complete silence. And like those thousands of convicts marooned here before me, I feel a yearning to get back onto the boat.
Except unlike those convicts, I can see Jimmy’s silhouette in a porthole of the Helsal IV and I know I’ve got fresh lobster and a pinot noir waiting for me.
You rarely see the little varmints, such is their quality of camouflage, but their mating calls indicate warmer days have finally arrived in the southern hemisphere.
Scientists think they gather together and sing to avoid predators – the collective decibels produced are both painful and confusing for birds, spiders and bats who would otherwise feast on their crunchy carcasses.
As we pedal through a gully not far from Beechworth, the noise from the cicadas is almost deafening. They are, after all, the loudest insect on Earth.
There’s no need for the cicadas’ call, however, to know summer has well and truly arrived. It is still relatively early in the morning but the temperature has already spiked into the mid-30s.
Normally, the Tour de Vines crew travelling through Victoria’s High Country for a weekend of rail trail exploration would partake in a leisurely lie-in and breakfast. Not this morning. When we’d gathered the previous evening at Bridge Road Brewers for a meet-and-greet fuelled by pizza and beer, a group decision had been made: we’d leave early in an attempt to get a decent chunk of the day’s 43 kilometres done before the mercury reached 40ºC.
Our other concession to the heat is four of our group of six, including Tour de Vines owner and the weekend’s guide Damian Cerini, have decided less pedalling and more cruising might be the order of the day.
We’d gathered at the Old Beechworth Gaol, adjusted the seats and taken our e-bikes for a test ride around the car park. After all, this weekend isn’t about how fast you ride or who makes it to the next destination first; it’s about enjoying the landscape, meeting new people, eating well, tasting the local wines and breathing in the fresh air. Even more so on this weekend, just weeks after Melbourne finally came out of another lockdown.
As we depart, cruising slowly through the still-waking town, cockatoos feasting on ripe cherry plums form a screeching guard of honour overhead. This first stretch, once we pass the old Beechworth railway station, is all downhill, with the King Valley spread out all around us. Golden fields are dotted with huge cylindrical straw bales. Cows lift their heads as we pass. The group soon spreads out, each person travelling at a speed to suit their fitness.
At a drink stop at Everton Station, a group of MAMILs – middle-aged men in lycra -– breezes past in a peloton. A few minutes later, a young guy on a bike laden with what seems like all his earthly possessions rolls slowly towards us. He stops to ask how much further till Beechworth.
“It’s not that far but it’s all uphill,” one of the guys answers with a shrug.
Our lone traveller has come from Wangaratta, some 27 kilometres down the track. He looks wrecked, and there’s still another 15 kilometres – all of them in full sunshine – to go before he reaches his destination. He takes a swig from a water bottle and lifts his hand in a limp wave. We’ve only got water and essentials in our panniers (our luggage has gone on to Myrtleford in a minibus), but I’m already grateful for the e-bike decision.
There’s a map on the wall, showing all the directions you could explore. This particular trail, Damian explains, opened in the early 2000s, following the routes of a number of past train lines that moved everything from humans and gold to other precious resources.
The section between Myrtleford and Bright – the part we’ll be riding tomorrow – once transported timber, while it was a tourist train that rolled between Bright and Mount Buffalo; both closed in the 1980s.
This is already Australia’s longest sealed rail trail, but an extension from Beechworth to Yackandandah is due to open at the end of 2021.
“Before we head off, I need to tell you about the wildlife,” says Damian, as we’re sticking bottles back into bags. “There are lots of echidnas in the next section.” This piece of information elicits a few oohs and ahhs.
“Once we cross over into the Alpine Valleys there’s an explosion in the numbers of kangaroos.” He pauses for a moment: “But one thing to watch out for is snakes.”
After a long winter, the reptiles love the heat that comes off the sealed trail and often lie across it, soaking up the sun.
“You won’t see them till you’re on top of them so don’t brake and don’t swerve,” he warns. “Just go straight over the top of them.”
As we ride on, down through Tiger Alley, it takes me a moment to realise that the person who knocked up the sign on a tree probably wasn’t warning about roving Richmond football fans.
The leg from Everton contains the one and only proper hill of the journey. It’s a long climb up a gradual hill then a steep final push to Taylors Gap. We’ve been told to go at our own pace, to stop for water if needed and to stay at the top under the shelter until everyone regroups.
I’ve tucked myself in behind Rick, one of the men who’s chosen to do the hard work on a proper bike. He’s going at quite a pace, so I push a button and add a little more grunt to the e-bike’s muscle. Then we hit the big hill, so I turn the bike up to full power. Rick’s up off his seat and putting in the big ones; I rotate the pedals about seven times to reach the top. Easy does it.
Taylors Gap has quite a history. There was once a hotel here where stage coaches would stop to change horses on the way to Beechworth. In 1878, Ned Kelly and his gang escaped through the gap after they’d ambushed the police camp at Stringybark Creek. All we’re escaping today is the heat and, as the group reassembles, we take to the shade.
Of course, one of the greatest aspects of the Murray to Mountains trail is the feeling of freedom, as the wind rus… Just kidding. It’s actually that this is a wine region and dotted along your path, whichever town you’re heading towards, are a number of cellar doors.
We finally meet a tiny echidna – she ignores us and heads to a burrow – just before pulling into Gapsted Wines, home of a cheeky little prosecco and an array of other Italian varietals I can’t wait to try.
The staff have saved us a table on the edge of the terrace, overlooking the vines and in front of an enormous misting fan. We’re far from the only ones here. There are groups lying on the lawn, people with kids and dogs, and others seeking out respite from the heat.
A little wine tasting is rolled out, including a glass of the limited-release saperavi, as well as a grazing plate of local cheese, dips, olive, pickles, chicken and bread. It’s enough to get us back on the bike, but thankfully not enough to impair riding skills.
The roll into Myrtleford is short and sweet. We drop the bikes at the motel and wander into town to taste what’s on offer at Billy Button. Winemaker Jo Marsh uses grapes from across the Alpine Valleys, but to keep things simple this cellar door has opened on the edge of town. We’re welcomed into the air-conditioned space and are soon sipping on arneis, tempranillo and an interesting chardonnay mistelle that was created using the only grapes that could be salvaged after the previous summer’s bushfires.
The next day dawns bright – appropriate since that is the name of where we’re heading – and not nearly as hot. The mercury is going to max out at just 25ºC, which is far more civilised.
Today there are also plenty of places to visit along the way. Just out of Myrtleford we stop at Pepo Farms, where Sharan and Jay Rivett grow styrian pumpkins, an heirloom variety from Austria and Slovenia, whose seeds can be eaten without being processed. We taste roasted pumpkin seeds, along with ones that have been smoked, dipped in Cajun spices or coated in chocolate.
Which is a shame because we’ve only pedalled on for a few minutes before arriving at Buffalo Berry Farm, where the berry cup has tayberries, boysenberries and blueberries, with soft serve and berry syrup. Like complete troopers we reluctantly force them down.
If you’ve never visited this part of northeast Victoria, it is beautiful. The landscape is lush, there are old tobacco drying sheds near olive groves, and the trail follows the fast-flowing Ovens River as it weaves through the countryside. And, at decent intervals along the whole route, there are excellent wineries.
At the Ringer Reef cellar door, high on a hill outside Porepunkah, I ask Damian if that’s why he chose this particular trail to launch Tour de Vines about 15 years ago. The company has since added winery routes in South Australia, NSW’s Mudgee region and Hawke’s Bay in New Zealand, among others. “It’s really about the trails,” he says. “It’s just fortuitous that they also tend to be places with wineries.”
After lunch, we stop on the river’s edge in Porepunkah among the picnickers and watch what seems to be half the townsfolk splashing in a huge waterhole. We’ve only just got on the bikes again when we arrive at the big ‘Welcome to Bright’ sign. We weave through the traffic and down to Howitt Park, where the minibus awaits to ferry us back to Beechworth.
Beneath the trees, ice cream in hand and surrounded by kids roller skating and family groups congregating, it’s hard to believe that just a few weeks earlier I had only been able to travel five kilometres from my home.
The sun is dipping in the sky and its rays filter through high branches. There’s no sound of cicadas; instead their song is being drowned out by a band playing outside Bright Brewery. It’s the perfect ending for our long ride, and a great start for the summer to come.
The small town of Raglan is one of the coolest little spots in New Zealand’s North Island and one of the country’s best kept secrets for foodies and adventure lovers.
Only two-hours from big city Auckland, Raglan is a great option for those looking for a little bit of bohemian luxury in rugged, natural surroundings while also being a haven for surf enthusiasts.
With a population of less than 4,000, Raglan retains a strong community feel, while openly welcoming the surfers, backpackers and tourists who come seeking a more unique New Zealand experience.
Before arriving in Raglan, the magic begins by taking a little detour on the way to Waireinga, otherwise known as Bridal Veil falls. The 55-metre waterfall is only a ten-minute walk through lush native bush and the view from the bottom is worth every step.
But once you’re in town, there is no shortage of delicious cafes and coffee spots to keep you fuelled for the day. The Shack is a sunny café on the main street corner offering a wide variety of classic Kiwi brunch options with a modern twist. Or you can head to the hole in the wall café, Raglan Roast which has now become famous in Aotearoa for its deliciously smooth coffee.
No Raglan visit is complete without popping into Jet, an institution in the town which has been operating as an artist collective for roughly 20 years. The small, funky store has an array of artworks, souvenirs and clothing, made by local designers and artists who take turns running the shop selling their wares.
Meandering on down to Te Kopua beach you will find Raglan’s much loved foot bridge, which at high tide during summertime will be filled with Raglanites, hurling themselves over the railings to see who can make the biggest splash into the water below.
If you’re not feeling brave enough to do as the locals do and take the plunge, head to Raglan Backpackers and pick up a kayak for the day to explore the town’s highly underrated Pancake Rocks on the opposite side of the harbour. From there you can paddle your way to lunch down the stream to Rock-It Kitchen, a popular café in a renovated barn with designated spots for kayakers to come ashore.
The food here is fresh with a variety of options to suit either the health conscious or those wanting to indulge in a gourmet burger and chips. With an enclosed backyard it is the perfect place to let kids run wild while the grown-ups relax.
When it’s time for a rest, Three Streams Retreat located a short drive outside of the town centre, is the perfect spot to check-in and chill-out. Ideal for either families or those looking for a romantic getaway, the self-contained, stylishly designed accommodation provides all the comforts of home with the luxuries of a glamourous BnB. With a wide-open living plan, two bedrooms, a fully equipped kitchen and a romantic outdoor bath, Three Streams Retreat is the kind of place you could easily stay for a week and not get homesick or restless.
When the sun is shining, it’s worth heading to Raglan’s famous beaches. Manu Bay is a popular spot for surfers, while Ngarunui is more swimmer-friendly and provides a stunning west coast sunset in the evening.
For even more epic views, take a slow drive on a gravel road to the Te Toto Gorge lookout.
A must do for foodies is new kid on the block Ulo’s Kitchen. This funky, family-run Japanese restaurant is undoubtedly the trendiest place to eat in the region, with a DJ deck, eclectic décor, fresh food, local craft beer and a diverse team of friendly wait staff. Although it has only been open a year, it’s fast becoming a favourite spot for locals looking for fresh, international food.
La La Land is a must visit for sweet tooths and dessert lovers. Digging into one of their heavenly homemade mellow puffs should be your first priority, but the boutique chocolate café has an array of European style sweet treats and pastries that will keep you coming back for more.
If you’re looking for all the best things that Aotearoa has to offer in one tiny town, make sure you add Raglan to your list of must-see destinations.
He won’t break a sweat hunting crocodiles, freediving among hammerheads or wielding a machete. He’s also totally nonplussed recalling the time he escaped the tsunami that struck the Solomon Islands in 2007.
But the memory of his first week in the modest, one-room kitchen of Oravae Cottage, (a family resort in the Western Province), still gets his tummy turning.
“I wanted the opportunity,” the self-taught chef explains. “But cooking for four or five people with so little experience on my part was probably one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.”
It was 2015, when Junior’s Australian-born aunty and resort owner, Naomi Baea, had to return home at the same time as Oravae’s head chef, which left Junior in charge of the kitchen.
He can’t have been too bad in their absence, because the guests kept coming and just three-years later he beat 14 other contestants to win the Solomon Islands’ first-ever cooking competition, the Lagoon Cookoff, in Munda.
The win boosted his confidence and put prize money in his pocket.
Better yet, Junior scored a month’s work experience cooking under the head chef of Honiara’s Heritage Hotel, learning the basics of Western and Asian cuisines.
“It was a really busy kitchen. I worked all the stations, including the buffet. I talked to guests from all over the world; people from all kinds of backgrounds. I learned about food preparation, recipe planning, plating up and the importance of presentation,” he says.
A cooking scholarship to New Zealand soon followed and it was here where Junior learned about harnessing the best from local ingredients.
“There’s very little red meat in the Solomons’ diet,” he says. “Basic items such as spices can be really hard to find. We rely on fresh fish straight from the ocean. It’s our staple — I’m talking fish like trevally, Spanish mackerel, sweet lips, tuna and parrot fish.
“But I’m learning that’s a strength in our cuisine. People travel from around the world to enjoy fish straight out of the ocean in a unique island environment like ours,” he adds.
“Food plays a particular role in Solomon life. You have to work hard for it, but once you have it, it’s to be shared.
“It also forms the basis of so many of our stories. I love mangrove crab. But to eat crab you need to know how to get it safely. It’s also the food of the crocodile. To be a crabber is to move between a crocodile and his food source. Here, crabs and crocodiles live side-by-side in the mangroves. So, we’ve all got crocodile stories.
“Talk to my uncle Patson, who’s from Malaita, and he’ll give you practical tips on how to actually wrestle a crocodile with your bare hands and stay alive.”
Usually, tourists come to Oravae Cottage from all over the world to enjoy Junior’s food, but visitors have been rare due to the COVID-19 pandemic.
Junior has his finger’s crossed that global travel will return again soon — and with a stronger-than-ever focus on supporting small-scale, family-run operators.
“We look after guests differently here. We’re not your everyday resort. We want people to feel connected to this place by getting to know us, hearing our stories and enjoying Solomon Island hospitality. I like to think my food is an important part of that.”
Directions
1. Fill a large pot with water and boil the crab for 20 minutes.
2. Lower heat to medium and add onions and garlic.
3. Add to the pot curry powder, salt, sugar, finely chopped chillies, roughly chopped peppers and the milk of a fresh coconut. Stir it all together and bring to a boil.
4. Reduce heat to low, cover and simmer for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
5. Add fresh lime juice 10 minutes before serving.
Japan is one of those destinations that everyone wants to visit but deciding where to start can be overwhelming. Where to begin? Do you explore the high-tech cities, head for the mountains and National Parks, or delve into its fascinating culture and traditions?
This 15 day tour is like the buffet of travel and lets you sample some of Japan’s most popular, and off-the-beaten track destinations including Gifu Prefecture’s vibrant Takayama City and the stunning UNESCO Heritage Site, Shirakawa-gō where you’ll enjoy delicious local delicacies, meander quant markets and laneways, and experience long-standing Japanese traditions and culture.
In Tokyo you’ll visit Tokyo’s Sensō-ji Temple and the cypress wood and copper Meiji Shrine, located within a 170 acre forest in the centre of the city commemorating Emperor Meiji, Japan’s 122nd emperor. The option of a sushi class, shodo (calligraphy) or getting to know the locals in the Izakaya night tour to experience a traditional Japanese pub.
The old town of Takayama is one of the highlights of the trip and is famous for its beautifully preserved buildings, including whole streets of houses that date back to the Edo Period (1600-1868). As well as the charming architecture, there are several quaint cafés and a number of old saké breweries to explore. Tasting is compulsory.
Shirakawa-gō Village, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site that has more than 100 ‘Gassho-style’ houses, which feature steeply-pitched roofs. Built many hundreds of years ago, these historic houses stand together in a beautiful natural setting. Enjoy exploring this area and soaking up the rich history.
Your accommodation will be a combination of three to four star centrally located digs with one night in a traditional Japanese Ryokin. Ryokin were used as highway rest stop in the Edo period, from the 17th to the 19th century, traditionally built from wood and featuring tatami-mat flooring, communal bathing and dining areas.
The traverse of the Grand High Tops in Warrumbungle National Park has long been one of the best day hikes in New South Wales. The craggy remnants of this 17-million-year-old shield volcano command respect, awe and a lot of leg work.
The climb to overlook the jagged edges of Breadknife will leave you hungry for Vegemite toast, and begin to gnaw at your appetite for adventure, but will it satisfy? Perhaps not. The Warrumbungles warrant more than a mere day trip. It’s likely you’ve driven hours to be here – surely you don’t want to rush beneath the granite tors and whiz past every vista as you sneak a peek at your watch. This is one of the most scenic tracks in the state. Best to pack a tent.
With multiple bush-camp options along the way, plus the chance to catch sunrise from the summit of Bluff Mountain, an overnight hike is the only way to trek the Grand High Tops trail. Geology’s been at work for millions of years here – you can spare an extra day.
The first few kilometres are a tease. Wandering through the shade of the surrounding forest, with only fleeting views of the erupting tors overhead and streams trickling and twisting below the elevated path, this is by far the easiest section of the hike. Savour it while it lasts.
As you begin to ascend, the dirt trail turns to pavers and the canopy overhead starts to dissipate. With eyes to the ground and one foot in front of the other, climbing the pavers is a toil, especially when carrying all your gear.
As you gain altitude, Belougery Spire begins to rear its head above the trees. Soon, staircases replace pavers and you realise you’re ascending straight up the guts of the grandest of high tops. Breadknife is on your right, Belougery Spire to the left. With each step up, another inch of them is revealed.
You’ll land right by the base of the Breadknife, so scramble up to its perfectly etched teeth to peer through to the vistas on the other side.
Round the corner and clamber up onto a rocky outcrop positioned between the Breadknife and Belougery Spire for a lunchtime view you’ll never forget. Find yourself a flat spot between the sloping rock to carefully balance your pack and aching body a while.
There’s one last ascent to the ridgeline, with a side of bouldering thrown in, and you’re delivered a panorama of the entire park – and the first sighting of Crater Bluff, a gobsmacking monolith with a plummeting sheer wall.
Take a breather, sit back and soak in the surroundings. This is what you came here for, after all. Crunch on an apple, but don’t let the sun punch you too hard – there’s no shade to hide in up here.
Although the Grand High Tops walk is a loop, few people follow the path the entire way around, choosing instead to retrace their steps back to the finish line. As the day trippers turn back to descend the stairs they just climbed, you’ll head down the opposite side of the ridge along fresh terrain.
Don’t miss catching the opposing face of Breadknife before you slip back under the forest canopy and out of the sun. The crowds who pour in to see the Grand High Tops vistas are gone and you’re left with the twittering of superb fairy wrens and the satisfying thud of your own footsteps.
After a few kilometres of forest wandering, you’ll arrive at your home for the night, Dows campgrounds. This small clearing at the base of Bluff Mountain teems with native birdlife. Although small, it’s a serene spot with firepits and a narrow creek.
The last stragglers pass the campground well before dark, and the distinct lack of human noise cements your immersion into the wilderness. This remote campground has only three pitches, so if you’re sharing the space it’s going to be tight. As you find a flat patch of green to raise your tent, gaze up through the twisting gums at Bluff Mountain. That’s your morning mission.
If you can will yourself to stay up late enough, wander back onto the path where the trees are more sparse and drink in the Milky Way. Warrumbungle National Park is Australia’s only Dark Sky Park, where starry night skies are exceptionally bright and there’s a concerted effort to protect it. Nightly stargazing is mandatory here.
Today, you need to be up before the birds. While it’s still dark, tighten your laces and grab your drink bottle. Even better, grab some brekkie and kit to brew yourself a cuppa. The hike to the peak of Bluff Mountain is only 1.3 kilometres, but as you’re already at the base of this beauty, it’s all uphill from here.
The freedom from your pack will make it feel like you’re flying. Hike up giant sandstone steps and count the colours of the native orchids sprouting around your feet. Zig-zag your way up the mountain as the darkness begins to lift.
As you emerge onto the rocky ridgeline, the trees will fall away and the sun will send its first beams across the path you forged the day before. Bluff Mountain gives you a whole new perspective of the surrounding farmlands that hide in shadow, waiting for the sun to thaw them out.
Sit a while. You’re in no hurry. Make yourself a coffee and watch for wedge-tailed eagles circling the skies. When you’re ready, saunter back down to camp.
From Dows campgrounds, there’s six kilometres of the loop to complete with no elevation left to gain. Admire wax-lip orchids and paper daisies before turning back to see Bluff Mountain in its entirety, knowing that, not long ago, you sat atop its epic crown. The downhill track here is a bit rocky and unstable, which can be tricky to navigate when you’re carrying an almost full pack.
Once back on flat ground, breeze your way through the tall grasses that line the final stretch of trail and rock hop across the streams. It won’t be long before you’re back in familiar territory, with the last kilometre of the hike the same as the first. Proudly stride into the car park, as the day hikers begin their journey up the Grand High Tops trail, knowing you’ve just completed an epic 17-kilometre hike.
We Are Explorers is an online magazine featuring Aussie adventures and backed by a community of explorers. Head to weareexplorers.co to start planning
your next wild adventure.
Fair warning has been given. The trail, I’m told, is tough. In this moment, though, I’m doubtful. There are no mountains on the island. Just how hard can it be?
“You have to walk across the top of it,” Ben Isaia tells me as we set out. The ‘it’ he is referring to is makatea, razor-sharp fossilised coral that has turned this particular trail into a pathway of booby traps. It’s everywhere on Atiu, a tiny outpost in the Cook Islands 190 kilometres from Rarotonga. The makatea forms a ring around most of the island, rising in places to six metres. Elsewhere, like here, it’s exposed at ground level. A single wrong step can spell disaster.
Ben and I are heading out on his tour of Anatakitaki Cave. When we arrive we’ll be looking for the rare kopeka bird, a type of swiftlet that is only found on Atiu and nests in the darkness of the caverns.
Despite being armed with a walking stick, crossing the makatea is far from easy. Ben is telling me an ancient story about Inutoto, who hid in the caves from her husband Pararo, and Tangaroa who eventually found her again, but sweat is dripping into my eyes, and I begin to unconsciously search out spots where I can ease my feet onto solid ground.
Seeing what are essentially blades of stone rushing up to meet you is a none-too-pleasant experience. Neither is the aftermath. I pick myself up, but there are cuts on my left knee and right hand. Ben inspects my hairline because he’s had the unfortunate experience of watching my head meet rock. Luckily there’s no damage, apart from the start of a shiner.
“Do you want to turn back?” he asks, crushing up leaves from a nearby bush and popping them on the cut on my knee. I like to think I’m made of tougher stuff, so we continue on, only this time I’m completely focused on averting another disaster.
Finally we arrive at the ladder that descends into the cave. Tree roots growing through the rock above create an entry tunnel. Soon the full magnificence of the system is revealed. There are grottos of greenery where the light pours in. Stalactites and stalagmites create impressive columns in the towering cavern. Some sparkle when hit by torchlight.
As we delve further into the darkness, the air cools.
In the quiet, there’s clicking and fluttering. Above us one of our rare feathered friends flits off a ledge. “You know they never land when they’re out in the rainforest,” Ben tells me, explaining the birds use those clicks as a type of sonar to find their way in the dark when they’re here in the cave.
We explore a bit more – I pass on the option of a swim by candlelight – and head back. “You put something on that,” Ben says, pointing at the dried blood on my knee as he drops me back at Atiu Villas.
There’s no one around, but manager Jackey Tanga has already told me to check the office if I need anything. The first-aid kit is easy to find and I slather antiseptic cream across the cuts.
This relaxed attitude to security is one of Atiu’s charming idiosyncrasies. It starts at the airport – really just an open-sided shed at the edge of the runway – where a sign reads: “Would passengers please hand their AK47s, bazookas, grenades, explosives and nukes to the pilot on boarding the aircraft.” There are jeeps and scooters parked out the front of the hotel, all with the keys in the ignition ready to go. Want to borrow one?
It’s yours, just let someone know so you can pay for the fuel. There is no key at all to my villa. There’s really no point since the best way to cool off at night is to leave both the front and balcony doors wide open. Plus, if I locked them how could cats Frazzle and Ginger drop by for a visit?
There’s another reason locks are the last thing on my mind: I am the only one here.
Atiu has a population of just 400, and when I get off the plane I am the only passenger not related to someone on the island.
It makes me easy to find, and Jackey strides across the tarmac with eagle-eyed focus and a garland of tropical flowers.
“Now don’t freak out,” she says when we jump in the car.
“You’re the only tourist on the island. That’s right, isn’t it?”
she asks, consulting her nephew Tutapu who’s in the back.
“OK, so there’s one other tourist on the island.” Turns out an American guy has been living in someone’s cottage for a few weeks.
We do a whistlestop tour, Jackey explaining Atiu is unlike the two big crowd-pleasers in the Cooks – Rarotonga and Aitutaki – because there’s no postcard-perfect lagoon just off the shore. Here, too, most of the locals live in the island’s interior rather than by the sea.
“I’m not sure why,” she says. “When the Christians came they pushed us all up here. Someone once told me they thought it was to get us out of our old ways.”
We stop by the harbour, built in 1975 using funds provided by the New Zealand Government. It allows fishermen to launch their boats without having to navigate the fringing reef. It’s also where the cargo boat docks and offloads the island’s supplies – air freight is far too expensive.
“We used to call it the checkout pool because we’d come here to check out who was hot,” says Jackey. “Do they still do that?” she asks Tutapu, who laughs and replies: “Just about everyone.”
We pass through the five villages, all linked by one main road, with Jackey pointing out the main points of interest: the church, the Super Brown store, a few government offices.
Back at the villas as I’m recovering from my makatea gutser, I meet owner Roger Malcolm. “Have you been to a tumunu yet?” he asks, before we set out to see if one is open. Tumunus – there are about six on the island – are the Atiu equivalent of a bar. Traditionally men’s places, they’re now less strict on who can drink there. They all operate different hours but bear other similarities. They’re places to talk it out over a drink or two. The drink in question is a homebrew that came into fashion about two centuries ago when European whalers stopped here and, none too keen on kava, showed the locals how to ferment local fruit into something that is drinkable if not altogether refined.
“There’s only one cup so you can’t take too long,” Roger tells me as we get out of the car. Consider my interest piqued.
Introductions are made and we take a seat in the semicircle. One man is in charge of drinks. He has a barrel of ‘beer’ between his knees. He fills the cup and hands it over to the first person who drinks it in one hit. The cup is handed back, refilled and passed to the next person. In between, there’s chat about what’s going on, people’s families and, not on this occasion but quite often, island business. You are simply one of the group and handed the cup until you bow out. We end up having about six cups. I wouldn’t say I was drunk – perhaps buzzed is the correct term.
The next day I get up early and, despite atheistic leanings, decide to spend Sunday morning at the Cook Islands Christian Church.
As I wait outside, a man comes over to welcome me, going straight in for a hug rather than a handshake. His name is Mu and he’s an assistant minister, a high honour for a layperson.
“Sit anywhere you like,” he tells me as we walk inside. This advice isn’t quite accurate. The women and children sit at the front of the church, the men at the back. I find a spot somewhere between the two.
The minister has a handsome, expressive face and commanding cadence and enunciation. If he hadn’t answered a higher calling he’d have made an excellent character actor in Hollywood. The entire service is carried out in the local language, but that I don’t understand doesn’t matter because the singing is sublime. The rich voices harmonise and resonate through the building. This is the imene tuki, a traditional hymn. Time stands still as the women, dressed in splendid white dresses and immaculate flowered hats, lead the congregation.
Still energised from the morning’s service, I meet up with George Mateariki or, as most people call him, Birdman George. Those cave-dwelling kopekas aren’t Atiu’s only avian attractions. This is a paradise for birdwatchers, and George is the man who can spot them from afar.
He works for the Takitumu Conservation Area, and was initially employed to protect 30 Rarotonga flycatchers that were released here between 2001 and 2003. Due to predation by rats (a pest not found on Atiu), they’d almost been wiped out. Now there are 750. Then there is the Rimatara lorikeet, almost extinct when 27 of them were introduced. The last time they were counted, in 2016, there were about 400 of them.
I stand in the back of George’s ute as he drives through forest and farmland, stopping in different places to look into the branches. We see plump Pacific pigeons and a chattering kingfisher that, despite its name, feeds only on insects.
“All the birds are now abundant,” George tells me, during one of our stops. “We eradicated myna birds [they take over nests and kill other birds’ chicks] between 2009 and 2015 by trading dead birds for money.”
George spots a golden plover on the school oval: “It should have flown off to Alaska by now, but the cyclone has kept it here.”
The cyclone in question is Timo, which has hit Fiji and Tonga hard, but hasn’t threatened Atiu. Until now, when black clouds fill the sky over the ocean. To avoid the weather, we set off towards the harbour. George has prepared a traditional umu (earth oven) meal – chicken, pork, taro, creamed spinach – and we take shelter in one of the quarantine sheds while the rain pelts down.
When it clears, we head off to where huge waves crash over the breakwater. George looks out to the horizon, searching for great frigatebirds. “Normally they are far out to sea, but the weather can make them come closer to shore,” he says. Unfortunately we can’t spot any.
On my final morning, I decide to walk down the hill to Matai Beach. One of the guys from the tumunu passes by on his scooter, but there’s no one else around.
Crossing a narrow ridge of makatea, I hit the white sand and look east, spying a couple of people fishing with nets in the distance. Then I turn in the other direction and there they are – about 20 great frigatebirds swooping and diving towards the sea. As I watch them they come closer and closer, until they are soaring around me, just metres above my head. I’ve never been so glad to be of larger stature. These birds are imposing, and it feels as though they are sizing me up as their next meal.
Deciding I am of no interest, they continue on their way, circling over the people with their nets, who’ve already discovered the motherlode of small fish. I could watch them all day, but the plane is taking off in a few hours. I silently wish the birds good fishing and turn back towards the villas, thankful for this final moment of island magic.
The wave approaches like a menacing, mobile speed hump from the depths of the Indian Ocean. It warps around Red Bluff, where I stand on a craggy ancient reef platform. The turquoise wave rears up to double-overhead size before the spray from the whitewater sparkles in the sun and collapses over the lip.
With shocking speed, a surfer rockets down the monster’s face into the jaws of its barrel. The wave peels and roars, and when the surfer emerges again, he’s yelling, high on the thrill.
It’s a unique place, and I feel lucky to be here. Looking back along this platform behind the arc of beach, I see our campground and the rusty ridge towering behind it. There’s a tiny cafe, a few permanent tents and my family’s camper.
It’s not the usual infrastructure for a sheep station, but diversification into surf tourism has helped Tim and Sara Meecham, owners of Western Australia’s Quobba Station, to stay on their pastoral lease through good times and bad. For tourists like me, outback station stays provide a connection to a grittier Australia and experiences far removed from my suburban life.
Diversification is a hot topic for pastoralists. Many are managing land that has been historically degraded, and highly variable and changing climate patterns make conditions tougher than ever. The Western Australian Government now allows pastoralists to apply for a permit to diversify into low-key tourism in order to supplement farming activities.
In this year of domestic-only travel, station stays are booming. It’s a chance to make connections with the people who produce our food in this vast state. Hitching up a rented camper, I hit the long road north.
Red Bluff at Quobba Station is my first station stop, some thousand kilometres north of Perth. Campsites stretch up the hill with uninterrupted views of swell lines and that spectacular headland.
This old-school surf base is a place for committed campers. You have to bring everything. Except mango smoothies – the cafe has those nailed.
Despite the wilderness, or perhaps because of it, this place is popular. The impressive waves make Red Bluff a surf holy grail – even movie stars are drawn here. Sara tells me about the time Chris Hemsworth and Matt Damon, both keen surfers, dropped into Quobba with their families. “It’s the surf, the isolation, and the kids just played on the beach all day,” she says. “They’re craving that getaway as much as everyone else.”
We hike along the ridge of Red Bluff, enjoy sundowners on the beach and dig our toes into the sand to catch a feed of pippies. On a calm day, I snorkel out over the coral and rocky reef and catch glimpses of turtles and reef sharks that I assume are well fed.
This station provides other wild connections too, and 50 kilometres south along Quobba’s rugged coast we set up at the Quobba station campground, with the help of Elsie, Sara’s pet Damara-cross ewe who thinks she’s a human. My first task here is to savour an unexpected luxury: a hot bore-water shower.
Cleansed, I chat with Tim about the challenges of droughts and diversification. “This year we had a massive destock, because it’s been eight years of well below average rain,” Tim says. In extreme droughts, he’s been forced to cull the flock.
Tourism has provided a supplementary income at Quobba for decades, and started from a surprising place – land-based game fishing. The coast here flanks very deep water and, from the cliffs, fishers cast out using balloon floats to carry bait even further out to sea. “Tourism kept my folks alive through a couple of droughts too,” Tim says. “In the 1970s they were charging a dollar a night for a shower and a camp.”
We try fishing from a sheltered spot and manage to catch a modest dinner. Heading a few kilometres south, we explore the blowholes, where the ocean surges 20 metres up through gaps in the limestone. There’s shrieking as we’re drenched in salty mist. Nearby, we surf the beginner-friendly break of Black Rock, before snorkelling ‘the aquarium’, with its kaleidoscope of tropical fish.
The pandemic and a closed WA border have given Tim and Sara their busiest tourist season ever, and they believe demand will stay high for some time. Tim jokingly wonders how he accidentally came to manage a busy tourist business. “It can be hard work compared to dealing with a mob of a thousand sheep,” he says. “Give me the livestock any day!”
Sara is from New South Wales and, despite moving to remote WA, has a family connection here. One relatively close neighbour happens to be her sister, who also moved west with a Gascoyne pastoralist. Rachael and Justin Steadman are the owners of Wooramel Station, and their tourism diversification is Wooramel River Retreat, 200 kilometres south of Quobba.
Rachael’s smiling face belies the hardships of running a 143,000-hectare property through drought. The station no longer runs sheep, preferring cattle. Rachael tells me they tend to graze on top of the bushes, instead of uprooting the vegetation. But the drought has persisted and even the cattle have been destocked.
I glance up at ominously black clouds, but even they are no guarantee. “It’s like we’ve got an umbrella over us,” Rachael adds.
The station is situated on the mostly dry Wooramel River, and striking white-trunked river red gums line the banks. With these ready-made shaded campsites, moving into tourism seemed natural. But the Steadmans have another tourist drawcard: hot artesian baths.
“If we hadn’t gone into tourism, we probably would have gone belly up,” she says. The costs of running a station are largely fixed, even during drought when there’s no stock to sell. “The diversity has made it a lot easier to make better decisions, rather than forced decisions.”
One of these conscious decisions is to conduct rehabilitation. As I’d turned off the highway to Wooramel, I’d noticed red dust spiralling skywards in a mini whirlwind. Rachael says that despite excluding stock from that area for around 15 years it hasn’t recovered. “That’s the mouth of the river, and that area is really fragile,” she says. Culverts under the highway have led to erosion.
Using old tyres, Rachael has made ponding banks, designed to slow running water and allow it to seep into the ground. Still, the vegetation needs more help.
“I’ve been making seed bombs,” she continues. “I’ll go out on the horse and seed bomb all the ponding banks.” The bombs contain clay, organic matter, seeds and charcoal, which protects the seeds from bacteria, and Rachael makes them in a cement mixer. After significant rain, she hopes these seeds will successfully germinate.
Despite the drought, this has been a mammoth tourist season – on some nights Wooramel has had 180 caravans in its camping area, and all accommodation units fully booked. Many people no longer seek out caravan parks. They have their own solar panels for power, and station stays often allow campfires. Rachael says her visitors are seeking another connection, too. “Everyone’s interested to know what it’s like to live on a station – our day-to-day lives, how big it is, what we run, how the kids are educated, how often we get to town,” she explains.
Aside from the artesian baths, Wooramel offers guests a 70-kilometre self-guided 4WD trail and twice-weekly hosted camp dinners. “People come and sit on the grass or at the big tables, we have a bit of music, and I cook and chat with people,” Rachael says.
The quirkiest attraction here is an outdoor gallery of wacky sculptures made from a hundred years of station waste. “There are cars, there’s refrigerators, and there are lawn mowers and lots of little bits I can’t even recognise,” she says.
As the day ends, I test Wooramel’s artesian baths for myself. Set in landscaped decking, the four circular hot tubs contain happy travellers, all soaking and chatting in the magnesium-rich, 33-degree waters. I take a seat between some grey nomads and we chat about various outback station stays, swapping stories about the experiences on offer. Sinking lower in the hot tub, I fancy I can feel the minerals seeping into my bones.
A pale moon is rising into the purple twilight sky as corellas and galahs make their evening ruckus in the river red gums. Poddy calves are being fed and camp meals prepared. Behind the scenes, the station work goes on.
Connecting with tourists is helping these stations stabilise their income, allowing the pastoralists to run a sustainable grazing business, now and into the future.
For the traveller, staying at stations like Quobba and Wooramel provides a unique experience available nowhere else. I’m grateful for this deeper connection to outback life. And if soaking in this bath under an outback evening sky helps an Aussie pastoralist then sign me up again for next year.
After more than an hour of monotonous, tangled and frustrating failure, my fly finally soars into the air above me and, just as it begins its delicate descent, a secondary subtle flick of the wrist makes it dance through the sky horizontally before dropping into the icy water just 20 metres away.
I glance over at legendary Tasmanian fly-fisherman Peter Hayes for approval. He looks back at me with a nod and a grin – the sort of acceptance you could expect if you’d just joined a secret Masonic society.
I am standing on the edge of Hayes’ boat, which rocks gently against the tannin-tinged waters of a Lake St Clair tributary in Tasmania’s high country, two-and-a-half hours from Hobart and just west of Derwent Bridge.
We’re midway through my first fly-fishing lesson, and the world champion and I happily share a few sips of whiskey from an old leather-wrapped hip flask Peter rummages to find at the bottom of a tackle box.
“cis a real hunting activity,” he says to me. “And I still think there is a certain percentage of the population who are hunter-gatherer types. It’s not okay to go out with a gun any more and just kill stuff. But there are people who want to mountain bike and ski, and there are also people who want to fish.”
The water on Lake St Clair is so clear I can see the shimmering backs of very cunning trout dance around the boat and toward underwater logs. They pick off ripples on the surface, but avoid my line as if knowingly delaying their fate.
With my impatience growing, Hayes unlocks a box of his handmade flies and runs each of them through his thumb and forefinger while looking menacingly towards the horizon. He has the eyes and furrowed brow of a hunter who knows something I don’t.
As soon as he refashions his line and turns the boat upwind, he waves his rod in the air and is almost instantly hauling in his first fish.
Personally I don’t catch a thing, but it doesn’t matter. Hayes’ dedication to his craft is infectious and, in his company, I feel a strange urge to hold a Bowie knife or start a fire once we finally return to shore. Perhaps it is a combination of the cold air and the whiskey, or maybe I’m simply realising I’m more hunter-gatherer than I thought.
Herbert Hoover, America’s thirty-first President and avid angler, once said, “To go fishing is the chance to wash one’s soul with pure air.” Maybe that’s what’s happening to me on my first fly-fishing adventure. After all, the air of Tasmania’s wilderness is about as pure as it comes.
And in this wedge of lakes and buttongrass moorland sandwiched between two of Australia’s most picturesque national parks – Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair and Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers – there’s an abundance of soul-scrubbing experiences.
If you do opt to visit Tasmania’s wild west during winter, there’s no need to lower your expectations in the same way you might need to if heading to the beach. As you emerge from Hobart’s tangle of outer suburbs by car – really the only way to get out here – you enter a part of Australia that isn’t dissimilar to the Scottish Highlands or the dense rolling forests on the outskirts of Vancouver. The Apple Isle has the capacity to capture the imagination of the reformed traveller looking for private log fires, empty roads, wineries you’ve never heard of and wide, open spaces.
This part of Tasmania in the wintertime is akin to a post-pandemic therapy session. If ever there was a place where you never again need to worry about taking a wide berth around people in public or covering your face in the supermarket, this is it. In fact, the new-found hunter-gatherer in me says I must urgently pack up my life on mainland Australia, build a tin shed and move to this naturally isolated landscape, just in case.
Thankfully, perennial Tasmanian tourism entrepreneur Simon Currant has already done most of the requisite doomsday prepping for us. Rather than a tin shed, in 2015 he transformed a diminutive hydro-electric station on Lake St Clair into an award-winning, 19-room boutique hotel called Pumphouse Point.
Today the Pumphouse and its surrounding buildings, including the exclusive Retreat cabin, pay homage to the wilderness and its deep local roots. The honesty bars (probably my new favourite thing in the world) are well stocked with local beer, cider, wine and spirits. Days outside often end with a neat whiskey by the open fires, which roar to life in front of an almost endless horizon of choppy Lake St Clair.
Guests are also provided with a canvas backpack to stock from their room’s larder, but be sure to get your sourdough order in the night before. It will be handed to you, still warm and wrapped in a paper bag, as you make your way out for a day of exploring the nearby hiking trails.
It was not long ago Australia nearly lost a great swathe of this pristine wilderness in southwestern Tasmania. Instead, a High Court decision blocked the damming of a once little-known river that had become one of our greatest environmental political wedges.
Until my recent visit I couldn’t fully appreciate what made the Franklin River so significant. For those of us not old enough to understand what would’ve been lost, I suggest taking a drive up the Lyell Highway, followed by a brief stop at a rickety swing bridge that dangles over a roaring torrent of water. It’s at this point the Franklin appears to let out an exhaustive gasp, a reminder of the land- and life-altering power this river exudes upstream.
A little further up the windy road closer to Strahan, you’ll also find the Instagram-worthy Nelson Falls. During my visit, the falls are so powerful the usual viewing platform had almost disappeared.
If you are seeking something a little more primordial than Pumphouse Point, take the three-hour drive to the frontier town of Corinna. Here, Corinna Wilderness Experience, deeply ensconced in the mystical Tarkine rainforest, has a number of basic accommodation options, including the old Roadman’s Cottage, which is perfect for couples.
No trip here is complete without an obligatory paddle down the Pieman River. Adventure seekers can hire kayaks in the misty mornings and run their hands through the icy waters while floating by the wreck of the SS Croydon, which sunk here in 1919.
Food and wine personify Tasmania. Speaking to locals, it’s almost as if you can chuck something in the ground and watch it spring roots within seconds. Everyone is a farmer of some sort.
There is a connection to food and its provenance in every restaurant you visit. No more so than at the Agrarian Kitchen Eatery in New Norfolk. Owners Rodney Dunn and Severine Demanet originally opened a cooking school and started a farm here in 2008, but the eatery now takes pride of place in a converted asylum. Smoke wafts from an open log stove in the kitchen that guests can visit to watch their meal being cooked. Stop here on your way back to Hobart Airport.
A little further down the road is Stefano Lubiana, where grapes have been grown the old-fashioned way for five generations and some of the state’s best pinot noir and chardonnay is produced. Since 2010, the vignerons here have used biodynamic principles. For the uninitiated, this involves burying manure-filled cow horns at certain points on the lunar calendar. It’s an unconventional technique that seems perfectly suited to my new hunter-gatherer persona. Now pass me a glass of pinot and my Bowie knife.
These futuristic pods set on the edge of a forest and overlooking farmland take camping up a notch. Apart from the spacious, light-filled interiors – there’s a four-poster bed, living space and kitchenette – each of the geodesic domes has its own barbecue area and two-person hot tub on the deck.
Wake to the view of kangaroos in the paddocks, then get exploring – the farm you’re staying on is located in the heart of the Margaret River region. Most people spend a bit of time tasting the area’s excellent wine and produce, but you’ll also discover craft breweries and some of the best surfing on the west coast.
(
