I had forgotten how remote much of Tassie is. No wonder they thought it was a great place to dump my convict relatives. Now I get a little stressed when I can’t find a shop to get water (so have to drink tonic minus gin instead), get halfway across a thick forest and realise the Miriam machine churns through fuel, and am not sure where in the hell I am, as there is no mobile coverage. Spare a thought for fair skinned, brown haired, hazel eyed seventeen-year-old Harriet. She arrived on Christmas day 1843 aboard a hellhole of a convict ship and was pushed through the streets with 203 other women to the Cascades Factory.
My biggest stress was finding a park at the Woollies in Sorell for more tonic and fig and olive artisan crackers. My grandmother Harriet’s stress would have been – OMG, where am I and will I die?
I headed up the convict trail through the beautiful towns of Richmond, Oatlands, and Ross. I am sure Harriet was lucky to get bread and water, but I am modeling myself on Miriam. Of course, I stopped at the wood-fired convict bakery in the lovely town of Ross and stuffed a scallop pie in my mouth.
Turned the Miriam machine to the East Coast via Rocky Hills to stomp on the grounds of the badly behaved Henry. The drive took me through the most beautiful but remote landscape. I have no idea how grandfather Henry managed to walk it, as it took me hours in a fuel-guzzling beast. Romantically, I imagine Henry building the stunning colonial bridges dotting the landscape. However, I think he was much more likely out in leg irons cutting roads through the forests that the Miriam machine now travels.
As I watched the fuel gauge drift lower and lower, I had a moment, as no fuel stations for hours. As I edged into the little fuel station in Scamander, I breathed a sigh of relief. I did a turnaround back to the south along the coast. Then another turnaround to the lovely St Helen’s where gin got added to the tonic, and I slept amongst the crashing waves dreaming of my convict past.
Sleeping under the stars 