We’re back from a beautiful spring holiday in Tasmania and there is so much to tell you, I’m quite overwhelmed by how many posts I have planned and how many photos I have to wade through! I have so much to tell you!

We worked to a deadline, and then in a flurry of papers bid a cheery sayonara to our colleagues and took off to meet the Spirit of Tasmania. As we hummed and whirred across the Strait the nautical novelty began wore off and we bundled ourselves upstairs with the ghosts. We just had to escape the layer of modern tackiness of poker machines and overpriced, greasy food. The way up to the top deck is hidden away and only a dozen people out of hundreds found their way up there. The little empty stage and wooden benches were from another era, the flickering soundless TVs adding to the forsaken feel.

The water raged against the ship, cold, dark and scary until morning.

The sun rose behind grey skies and we drove and drove, away from the city, past farms and tree stumps, to a wild and windswept campsite by Lake St Clair, walking distance from a not so wild cultural centre with all the amenities one could wish. Darling Paddymelons were our neighbours, so fat and furry, and cute cute cute. A baby quoll ran across our path by torch light as the fire in the hut crackled. Tomorrow would be an epic bush walk…