Cockle Creek

Its funny when you look at maps of little places like Tasmania. On paper they’re small, particularly in comparison with its two nearest neighbours, mainland Australia and Antarctica. But in reality its not small at all, particularly when your ride is a 110cc postie bike; fast isn’t an option so you don’t get anywhere quickly.

And  the best bit about its stately pace?  Not only can you can take in the surroundings as you potter past, but people wave at you, they chat at lights and in shops, and tell you they saw you yesterday, or that somebody who saw you a couple of days ago tweeted about you. Its all very personalable and rather endearing, particularly as we’re invariably covered in dust and probably not the sort of people they would normally engage in conversation.

Today we made our way from Snug down to Cockle Creek, the furthest place you can reach by road in Australia. We got waved at, chatted to, informed, recognised, and covered in more dust. 

From Snug, we nipped up through Margate and turned left towards the dubiously named Sandfly, which looked like it sounded and as if it had seen better days, before taking the A6 south towards Huonville. 

Huonville sits at the head of the Huon Valley, the latter of which is a big apple growing area. The town was buzzing as we passed through, but ironically, it only developed accidentally. Nearby Ranelagh was planned as the major town and laid out as the town of Victoria, but Huonville took off and became the place to be. Something to do with it being nearer the main bridge over the Huon River.

Franklin, just a bit further south looked like it too had once been prosperous, but many of the buildings were boarded up. 

Nice place though, and still sporting a two person lockup, although its now a historical artifact rather than a place to park undesirables. However, it was in use right up until 1980.

One of the things that has struck me all over Tasmania is the community spirit and the way people look after the place where they live. There is no rubbish, no grafitti and each place appears looked after. Sheffield was like this, as was Railton and Latrobe, and today, Geeveston. 

Geeveston is a little place south of Franklin, founded by John Geeves of Cambridge, UK. He settled there with his family in the 1840s, and became a pillar of the place, starting the saw mill that got the timber industry off the ground locally, and being an all round top dude in local matters. 

Like Railton and Sheffield, Geeveston has its own tag, this time in the form of sculpted wooden statues of local people who helped build the town. 

There is John Geeves, a doctor, and Bill Tevaskis, the swearing pharmacist, a man known as much for his colourful language as his helpful personality.

John Geeves

The Doctor

Bill, the swearing chemist

I wonder what the people represented would make of being picked out as significant people who shaped Geeveston. Would they be surprised, embarrassed or perhaps bemused? Who knows, but it definitely adds interest for those of us who casually pass through.

These routes  pass through some wonderful terrain. Lush pastureland and wooded areas, hills and rivers; its all there. But the Australian countryside is deceptive. It looks gentle and established, in a sort of ‘butter wouldnt melt’ type of way. But then just as its about to be taken for granted, bam, a fire rampages through it or a flood destroys what people have worked for years to establish. This fire was a back burning job but control of the land is uncertain, the man versus nature battle  never being too far away.

It was mandatory to stop at Stockport for lunch; the pub there is the most southerly in Australia, so its wares had to be sampled. 

Unfortunately, the only food on offer was dead - meat or fish - so the lady in the cafe next door knocked up something for me and brought it to the pub so that I could eat it there, alongside Gordon and Nadine who were  already scoffing away.

Until then, the roads had been sealed and good, but just after Stockport we hit gravel again. It was OK until we encountered trucks thundering towards us, followed by a huge loud of brown murk that enveloped each of us in turn in a sort of personal sandstorm. 

I was at the back, and by the time it reached me, it was so thick that I couldnt even see my handlebars. I just kept riding at the same steady speed, hoping that Gordon hadnt fallen off in front as I would never have seen him if he had and would have ridden right over him. And that might have dented my wheels.

When vehicles come at you head on on rough roads, it is unnerving. They can maintain their speed and although they don’t have as much grip as on a sealed road, they wont tumble over because they have at least four points of contact with the ground, all evenly spaced. We dont. So there is no doing anything quickly or suddenly - no  sewrving, braking, turning or accelerating - without major slippage. That’s what’s scary - not being able to react, and not reacting as you would on a sealed road. And definitely no front brake. But the trucks don’t care and the 4x4 drivers don’t know, so they just keep on driving  assuming they wont hit us. They haven’t so far, and lets hope it stays that way.

But the 20 kms of rough track to Cockle Creek was rewarded by what lay at the end; the most peaceful and beautiful bay in a cove, with clear aquamarine water lapping quietly onto the shore. 

And a population of three. Yes three. Not thirty or three hundred, but three.

This is the furthest south you can access by road in Australia, and it ends just past the sign, literally at the edge of the world. 

Yet this quiet location was once a hub of gore, being a whaling station employing two hundred people in the immediate vicinity of the beach, butchering whales, boiling their blubber or sawing timber. That’s all gone now of course, but whale oil for interior lighting - with the biggest market being Britain -  was once a mainstay of the Tasmanian economy.

Cockle Creek was chanced upon by Frenchman Bruni D’Entrecasteaux, the same bloke after whom they named Bruny Island. He had been despatched by the French government to travel the world and find  a missing explorer called La Perouse. Bruni’s ship Recherche got caught on a sandbank in the bay but floated off harmlessly after being stuck for a few hours. But it all ended happily, and the crew landed, replenished water stocks, fished, dried out the sails and generally fixed it up good and proper for the onward journey. 

Old Perouse´ was never found but his wrecked expedition ships were discovered some while later in 1828, off Vanikora Island, one of the Solomon islands. But he did get a mountain named after him here, plus other stuff round the world.

Perouse Mountain, left

It was warm down at Cockle Creek and a few snakes were about, sunning themselves. They can't regulate body heat so they lie on roads and rocks to soak up the rays. There are three types indigenous to Tasmania, the Tiger, the White Lipped Snake - also known as the Whip snake, and the Copperhead. They all give birth to live young as opposed to eggs, and all are venomous, even this baby Tiger Snake which took refuge under a rock when it saw us coming.