Stanley to Penguin, another big day, all 95 kms of it east along the north coast of Tassie with all but a skerrick on the Bass Highway. Just how do we manage? We've had some tough travelling days, but this was not to be one of them.
Today we had no need to rise with the sparrows, and our return to the good highway through the rolling hills of this part of the island was at an unusually civilized hour.
As I said previously, this was not to be a long haul,
although as we made our way yet again into 'The City of Makers'
and on towards the port of Bernie, the later hour of the morning did mean that along this particular stretch of the highway
we engaged in a continual joust with some pretty large timber trucks, all heading off to the local wood chipping mill.....at speed. Twenty-five to thirty tonnes?......you win!
The familiar highways and byways of Burnie came and went,
as we eased through the main part of the town, farewelled our last timber jinker
and made our way back out onto the relatively uncluttered open spaces of the highway east of the town.
The Bass Highway, which connects Launceston to the west coast just beyond Smithton at Murrawah, is one of the State's better major thoroughfares (note the railway line running right alongside the road...more of this later),
and in what seemed no time at all the roadside sign beckoned us off the main road and into the quaintly named Penguin,
where we soon found our next turn off,
and the sign we had been seeking.
The Penguin Caravan Park is right on the water, and the road to it took us along the seafront, past Stubbs Point
and a beach side car park. We could now spot caravans in front of us,
and as usual we duly pulled up at the manager's office which also served as her home. We could already see that this park appeared a little rustic, and so it proved to be.
We were ushered in along a rather potholed park roadway,
which took us between the ablution block
and a few of the park permanents, around the western end of the park
and thence to our site, which as you can see, was all grass, and good grass at that. So far so good.
which took us between the ablution block
and a few of the park permanents, around the western end of the park
and thence to our site, which as you can see, was all grass, and good grass at that. So far so good.
We were more than content. The 'head' was a mere twenty metres away,
and in the other direction the sea was not much further. With a permanent cabin on one side and plenty of room on the other, this was indeed a good spot.
The 'rustic' nature of this park was evident in the amenities block, complete with front veggie garden (or what was now left of it), but the showers where hot and strong, which is all we ask.
Most of the permanent residents were clearly 'house proud', or at least keen to ensure that the park 'garden' theme was maintained.
Some were a little more adventurous in their endeavours
than others, but it was clear that all who made this park their home were keen to ensure that their surrounds did not appear bare and barren.
The western end of the park ended at this rocky bluff,
where a jumble of large rocks seemed to have been dumped as ready reinforcements for the cliff face if needed.
And as you can see here, although there was a good beach at the eastern end of the park, there was no access along the front, where large rocks protected the shore from the ravages of Bass Strait. We were to learn just how important they were.
A few smallish cabins graced the eastern section of the park near the entrance, but in an odd facilities omission, there was no camp kitchen to be found......not that that bothered us any. In fact this can be a blessing......no backpackers!
Max was right at home almost immediately, and went on the prowl as soon as we were settled,
until something startled him and then it was off home at the gallop!
With everything set up and the Black Panther exercised, it was time for our first Penguin happy hour, so whilst Liz took position on the clifftop,
Chef Pierre busied himself in the galley preparing a plate of crayfish canapes with some Stanley leftovers.
With sea views out over the rocky pool below us, a glass of bubbles and a plate of grand nibbles, what an ideal start this was to our Penguin adventures.
And we were not alone. The pool below us, where many of the rocks were exposed on this low tide,
was an ideal hunting ground for a white faced heron which stalked and propped before darting downwards with it sharp beak to snare an unfortunate tiddler.
Further out to sea, the isolated rock which protruded from the water like the top of a large thumb, was also home to sea birds.
'Shags on a rock'....literally, with the evidence of their habitation clearly showing in the white frosting of guano.
and in the other direction the sea was not much further. With a permanent cabin on one side and plenty of room on the other, this was indeed a good spot.
The 'rustic' nature of this park was evident in the amenities block, complete with front veggie garden (or what was now left of it), but the showers where hot and strong, which is all we ask.
Most of the permanent residents were clearly 'house proud', or at least keen to ensure that the park 'garden' theme was maintained.
Some were a little more adventurous in their endeavours
than others, but it was clear that all who made this park their home were keen to ensure that their surrounds did not appear bare and barren.
The western end of the park ended at this rocky bluff,
where a jumble of large rocks seemed to have been dumped as ready reinforcements for the cliff face if needed.
And as you can see here, although there was a good beach at the eastern end of the park, there was no access along the front, where large rocks protected the shore from the ravages of Bass Strait. We were to learn just how important they were.
A few smallish cabins graced the eastern section of the park near the entrance, but in an odd facilities omission, there was no camp kitchen to be found......not that that bothered us any. In fact this can be a blessing......no backpackers!
Max was right at home almost immediately, and went on the prowl as soon as we were settled,
until something startled him and then it was off home at the gallop!
With everything set up and the Black Panther exercised, it was time for our first Penguin happy hour, so whilst Liz took position on the clifftop,
Chef Pierre busied himself in the galley preparing a plate of crayfish canapes with some Stanley leftovers.
With sea views out over the rocky pool below us, a glass of bubbles and a plate of grand nibbles, what an ideal start this was to our Penguin adventures.
And we were not alone. The pool below us, where many of the rocks were exposed on this low tide,
was an ideal hunting ground for a white faced heron which stalked and propped before darting downwards with it sharp beak to snare an unfortunate tiddler.
Further out to sea, the isolated rock which protruded from the water like the top of a large thumb, was also home to sea birds.
'Shags on a rock'....literally, with the evidence of their habitation clearly showing in the white frosting of guano.
The park seafront at Penguin was a great vantage point to watch the passing parade of shipping. Much of it was bound for Bernie, but in this case, this large bulk carrier was obviously en route to the long loading wharf at Port Latta.
With happy hour over it was time for tea and on this most pleasant of evenings a BBQ seemed just the ticket.
After all the snags and chevapcici were grilled to juicy perfection, on went a huge 'tomahawk' I had been saving for such an occasion.
It is with meat like this that the Baby Q really comes into its own. Cheers!
What a feed this was, and for your scribe at least, the perfect way to end our first day in Penguin.
It was probably just as well that we had arrived and settled in on a fine Tasmanian day, because the pleasures of the Penguin seafront and its exposure to the waters of Bass Strait soon turned on us.
Fortunately I am an avid follower of the weather forecasts. I find it staggering that so many who live on the road do not do so, and often this can be to their detriment as unanchored awnings are torn skywards over their vans and shredded in howling winds.
Within a day of our arrival the predictions were ominous. We hauled everything in and stowed all our kit in preparation. In yatching terms, we were sailing under bare poles.
Just as well. The morning brought increasingly darkening skies. The surf was pounding against the rocky barrier in front of us as the wind began to shriek with fury.
As I scurried outside for this final shot of the brewing storm, things were getting blacker and blacker, and our previously placid rocky pool was now a surging maelstrom.
And then it hit us. This shot through our dining window was all I could get of the mayhem which surrounded us for a good two hours. The van was shaking and shuddering with each massive gust. The noise of the rain on the roof was deafening.
Even if I had been inclined to try and manage an outside shot of the weather's fury, it would have been foolhardy in the extreme to have attempted to open the caravan door....it would have been torn off its hinges.
This was the wildest weather we had experienced for quite some time. We just sat tight and rode it out. Even poor old Max, who completely ignores thunder and lighting and all but the heaviest of rain, sat looking around with very big black eyes.
And then it was over. As the trailing edge of this extreme and fast moving system slipped past us,
Mother Nature announced the 'all clear' in brilliant fashion. Although relatively brief, this storm had been a doozy, a typical Bass Strait 'westerly buster'. Thank goodness for good forecasting, and the sense to keep an eye on it.
Before I leave our new park, there was one more feature which we were to experience later in other Tassie parks, but this was our first.
Trains.......almost in our laps.
You will recall I noted the line running alongside the Bass Highway previously. Well this line, which serves much of the north-west, hugs the coast from about Wynyard on as it travels east to Devonport. And where were we now? Right on the coast!
I had spotted the line shortly after our arrival, but the approaching rumble of our first train had us out and about in short order.
The rolling stock dwarfed the vans and cabins as the train rattled and creaked past the park
and eventually, with a diminishing rumble, disappeared out of sight past the park entrance roadway. Fortunately the instances were few, but every passing train certainly made an impression!
As did the little town of Penguin itself which we'll set off to explore in my next offering.
With happy hour over it was time for tea and on this most pleasant of evenings a BBQ seemed just the ticket.
After all the snags and chevapcici were grilled to juicy perfection, on went a huge 'tomahawk' I had been saving for such an occasion.
It is with meat like this that the Baby Q really comes into its own. Cheers!
What a feed this was, and for your scribe at least, the perfect way to end our first day in Penguin.
It was probably just as well that we had arrived and settled in on a fine Tasmanian day, because the pleasures of the Penguin seafront and its exposure to the waters of Bass Strait soon turned on us.
Fortunately I am an avid follower of the weather forecasts. I find it staggering that so many who live on the road do not do so, and often this can be to their detriment as unanchored awnings are torn skywards over their vans and shredded in howling winds.
Within a day of our arrival the predictions were ominous. We hauled everything in and stowed all our kit in preparation. In yatching terms, we were sailing under bare poles.
Just as well. The morning brought increasingly darkening skies. The surf was pounding against the rocky barrier in front of us as the wind began to shriek with fury.
As I scurried outside for this final shot of the brewing storm, things were getting blacker and blacker, and our previously placid rocky pool was now a surging maelstrom.
And then it hit us. This shot through our dining window was all I could get of the mayhem which surrounded us for a good two hours. The van was shaking and shuddering with each massive gust. The noise of the rain on the roof was deafening.
Even if I had been inclined to try and manage an outside shot of the weather's fury, it would have been foolhardy in the extreme to have attempted to open the caravan door....it would have been torn off its hinges.
This was the wildest weather we had experienced for quite some time. We just sat tight and rode it out. Even poor old Max, who completely ignores thunder and lighting and all but the heaviest of rain, sat looking around with very big black eyes.
And then it was over. As the trailing edge of this extreme and fast moving system slipped past us,
Mother Nature announced the 'all clear' in brilliant fashion. Although relatively brief, this storm had been a doozy, a typical Bass Strait 'westerly buster'. Thank goodness for good forecasting, and the sense to keep an eye on it.
Before I leave our new park, there was one more feature which we were to experience later in other Tassie parks, but this was our first.
Trains.......almost in our laps.
You will recall I noted the line running alongside the Bass Highway previously. Well this line, which serves much of the north-west, hugs the coast from about Wynyard on as it travels east to Devonport. And where were we now? Right on the coast!
I had spotted the line shortly after our arrival, but the approaching rumble of our first train had us out and about in short order.
The rolling stock dwarfed the vans and cabins as the train rattled and creaked past the park
and eventually, with a diminishing rumble, disappeared out of sight past the park entrance roadway. Fortunately the instances were few, but every passing train certainly made an impression!
As did the little town of Penguin itself which we'll set off to explore in my next offering.
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