Only 85 kilometres. Not far at all. True enough, but today's drive from Weldborough to our next destination at Myrtle Bank, about 35 kms north-east of Launceston, was to prove one of the more trying of our trip.
Previously, when making our way to Rosevears for Xmas we had chosen to make the run into Lonnie from Scottsdale by looping northwards on the B81 and making our way down through Lilydale. We had done this on the advice of our Rosevears friends who warned that the main road between the two towns, the A3, took travellers over 'The Sideling', a section of highway where it crosses the massive mountain ridge which stands smack in the middle of the 65 kms stretch between the two towns.
"The views are marvellous, but the road is a bit of a challenge, particularly if towing a caravan", was the message.
Now, with three more months of Tassie highway experience under our belts, including the run into Queenstown and beyond, we figured we could handle this. We did, but I was bloody busy for some time!
I've circled the section in question on this Google Earth shot which also shows the road we took previously.
We were actually making our way to Deloraine, but had decided to make an overnight stop at Myrtle Bank for a very good reason.....in all the time we had been in Tasmania I had not done the one thing which many visit the Apple Isle to achieve....catch a trout.
Let me make it quite clear from the outset, there was to be no donning of waders and casting of flies in a rushing mountain rivulet. I was taking the easy way out, at the Mountain Stream trout farm, a couple of kilometres from our chosen park.
Now given that I've previously brought you the run from St Helens (well, Pyangana actually) through to Launceston, I've decided to begin this missive with our arrival in Scottsdale, because it was from here on that we were on new highway.
We had barely entered this quite large town when the turn off onto the A3 took us south out of it again,
and we soon found ourselves rolling along through the undulating farmlands between Scottsdale and the distant ridges we were soon to cross.
This is a pretty part of Tassie,
where small farm holdings are dotted across the landscape.
I was less impressed with the cloud build up over the mountains. Another thick fog or driving rain was the last thing we needed today.
Fortunately, despite the covering of upper level mist on the ridge tops, as we began our ascent of the range, the weather remained reasonably clear.
In no time flat the open grasslands of the plains below had given way to tall mountain timber
and, in the more open spots, massed tree ferns and creepers.
I was far too busy to be enjoying the views, but Liz did manage to snap away through the passenger's window from time to time.
Frankly, the images she managed of the worst of this section through The Sideling were unusable. And, as has been the case so often in the past during this adventure, the photos did nothing to convey the real state of the road in terms of the narrow blacktop, sharpness of the curves and the degrees of inclines, both up and down.
But as this shot shows, for one not engaged in keeping the entire show on the road (literally) the scenery was spectacular.
For the better part of over twenty minutes we edged our way up and over the peak of the range at no more than 20 kph at best. In many sections we were down to less than ten. I was more than happy to finally reach the bottom,
and again give the Cruiser its head. There was no doubt that my previous experience on the more demanding of the Tasmanian roads had proved to be useful during this morning's run. This was anything but a 'beginner's highway', and we came through unscathed and just a little pleased with ourselves.
And the weather had at last lifted. By the time we had reached our destination bright sunlight had replaced the misty gloom of the mountains.
We had read varying reports about this park, or more accurately, some of its permanent inhabitants who were renowned for a distinct lack of social grace, good manners and refined language.
We edged through the narrow entrance gateway
and pulled up at the park office, which also acts as the local kiosk and store (this photo was taken later during our stay). At the time of our arrival there was quite a congregation of interesting looking characters milling about the front of the office. We could have been heaving to at a Centrelink office!
I decided to go on the front foot. "You sit tight, Lizzie. I'll pay our dues this time." As I approached the motley throng a very loud "Good morning all" parted the waters and set the tone. I did enquire of the very obliging lass in the office if all we had heard had any foundation and she was very quick to tell me that 'the problems had been sorted'!
That was good news, and in all fairness, we did not have a jot of trouble here apart from a flying visit by a group of Sons of Satan bikies, obviously on 'a run'. But they came and went (Liz had me very tightly haltered) and all was again sweetness and light.
Once we had announced our arrival and paid our dues, we were directed to drive in past the park hall,
stay to the left of this large tree (pretty obvious one would have thought!)
and settle in on the far side of this open area.
Myrtle Bank is a beautiful but basic camp ground. Here there is no power or water, but the surrounds more than made up for this. The clear skies above us were of considerable relief. We would to be relying on our solar panels for the entirely of this stay.
This shot from another angle shows just how much room we had (in the far distance).
We were just a tad concerned about the family group who had made camp amongst the trees under a large blue tarp not too far from us, but they were no bother. In fact the two youngsters were more than chirpy and friendly, and on the morrow, as you will see later, we could not help but feel really sorry for this lot.
As if to confirm that we were well and truly in the country, we even had afternoon visitors, a hen
and four chicks. They clucked and squawked their way back and forth under our chairs until the boss called them all to order.
And you didn't mess with the boss!
Myrtle Bank is a large park, and subsequently there is a lot of space between the various amenities provided here. It was a bit of a hoof to the heads, but they were new and more than fit for purpose.
The same could be said for the camp kitchen,
although during our stay this had been taken over by a caravan club group which did put the dampeners on a few photos. They were all very welcoming, but frankly we had no desire to sit and listen to their Club chatter.
In another part of the park this shed provides shelter for any wishing to sit and picnic
whilst not too far from here we came across a BBQ facility which could only be described as 'a first', for us at least.
Apart from the wide open spaces, and pretty good grass (all things being considered), the real highlight of this park is the river.
Whilst vans were dotted here and there throughout,
there was a real concentration of them at the end opposite to where we had pulled up. As we wandered about we soon discovered that this lot were 'in the know'.
The St Patricks River runs right around the park boundary,
and those quick enough are able to collar a site right on its banks. What an idyllic spot this would be in which to spend a few balmy summer days.
Large well shaded areas
and wide open spaces in which picnic tables were liberally dotted about meant that here there was something for everyone. We have certainly well noted this park for any return visit (weather dependent of course!)
But I had another mission in life here at Myrtle Bank...a visit to the Mountain Stream trout hatchery and fish ponds at nearby Targa.
Here, for a fee of course, one calculated on the weight of the fish caught, a rod and lure are provided and off you go.
Trout of varying species abound in the artificial lakes and ponds. The rule here is once a fish is landed, it is yours. Throwing any back was strictly prohibited. This did create a problem. I was after a modest fish, well two in fact. I had dug out a recipe for trout amandine, one I have used before, but this does demand a plate sized trout for each diner.
There was no shortage of punters along the banks of this large pond,
and I duly lined up with them (when I wasn't taking photos). No-one was having much luck it seemed, and I was somewhat concerned about my chances. And for the first time in my entire fishing life I didn't want a biggie!
And then bloody Murphy visited. On my second cast I landed a serious fish. My immediate neighbours were clearly impressed with my prowess, and for a moment I thought I may have been able to pass off my whopper to one less skilled (read lucky!). Sadly they were not interested, so my plans for two smallish trout were thwarted.....I certainly didn't want another of the same size at the prices per kilo they were going for.
But at least I'd caught a trout, and what a fine finny fellow he was with his bright pink stripe and spot.
Ah, but what did it taste like I hear you cry. Rarely will Chef Pierre admit to a disaster in the galley, but this was one. Large trout are the devil's own to fillet well and I now know that the recipe on which I was relying to treat The Bride to something different does not work unless the fish is whole. Despite a liberal use of butter (essential), beautifully toasted almond flakes and all the other requirements, the result was a fine boned failure.
But for all that at least I'd caught my Tassie trout and we had enjoyed a lovely autumn day. That was all about to change.
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