As the algorithms of our digital existence conspire to steer us towards the constant barrage of media make up and retail conditioning, you cannot help but wonder where all this is leading. Standing on a bluff overlooking the Great Southern Ocean, next to an outdoor fire, at sunset, with a Cloudy Bay India Pale Ale in hand and a guitar nearby, is a good place to forget all that other bollocks for a while.
If I was an omnipresent entity that, despite all the books and opinions written about me, was only really interested in creating a place where the beauty of my creation could be absorbed by all the senses, then Bruny Island would be the place I would keep as an example of what it should be. There is an energy that washes over the island brought in by the ocean. The sky is a constantly changing canvas of colour, the ocean breathes blue and green pigments dreamed of by painters, the air is like a rare whisky, mellowed by the sea with nuanced tones of wedge-tailed eagles riding the thermals.
A toughness of existence is battled out here. Evolution has been harsh on the last land fall from line of sight to the great frozen continent of Antarctica. Boundaries have been established with the flora defined like the sea and land – no millimetre surrendered without a battle of will. Each layer of land, from the ocean to the mountains, is defined by the ability to conform to the elements. A drop in the wind is a moment to be savoured for the precious time given before the next front from whatever our closest star and celestial circling rock decides to formulate for us on our floating oasis of majestic chaos.
Here is a place where you just exist, and feel lucky to witness.
Upright apes, being what we are with some handy thumbs, have the ability to change landscapes at our desire. This means that we can ensure that those who have not already made the decision to exist here for the duration (we hatched a four-year plan to do just that), have the ability to come to Bruny Island and witness for themselves what those already there already know.
A quick shot of caffeine from the terminal shop and our fully laden chariot glides onto the ferry that sits at the end of a dutifully arranged flotilla of motor boats and yachts that, enviously, have the ability to explore Bruny Island from many angles. We talk to a well-weathered gentleman in tracksuit pants and Ugg boots who is listening to a blues harp from his car stereo. He lives on Bruny Island and was once a rocker who now has turned his attention to making and fixing guitars as well as playing blues harp. His eyes close to the sound of the tunes as we meander towards the shores of Bruny Island where a ramp awaits like a drawbridge to connect land to ferry and access to all we are about to see, feel, taste and be for four nights down at Cloudy Bay.
If I was to say to you that we feasted on the most amazing oysters ever, followed by exotic cheeses with a selection of finely crafted beers, you would probably conjure a landscape of a restaurant overlooking Sydney Harbour – after having made a booking a month in advance, visited the hairdresser, bought a new shirt and mortgaged your home to experience what all of your friends and colleagues have been telling you for months, “You have to go to this restaurant.”
But the reality is that I haven’t had a haircut for 10 months, I was wearing a Billabong shirt bought in 1994, it was 10.30 in the morning, and no booking was required. We’d been on the island for 10 minutes when we passed a sign that said, “Open, oysters”. Moments later we sitting down at Get Shucked eating plump filters of the sea with an inability to speak due to the explosion of flavour and respect for the ability of our species to capture and manipulate nature and then refine it to bring such pleasure.
I pause writing this now to conjure memories of those oysters.
We set off again, satisfied and elated, only for a fresh burst of desire five minutes later when the magnet of cheese produced another seismic pull. Bruny Island Cheese, baby! A paddle of hops and barley in various configurations mixed with a plate of cheeses and condiments contributed to another assault on the sensory synapses that contribute to the forever eroding genetics of hunter and gatherer genes that are slowly disappearing due to the culinary artists that are so gifted and create these wonders of taste and nourishment.
Our final destination is Cloudy Bay so it seemed more than obligatory to acquire a carton of Cloudy Bay IPA (outstanding by the way) as well as a selection of cheeses to ensure that we could replicate this fleeting experience at will.
. . .
Our shelter from the elements over the next four days was Cloudy Bay Vila. After meandering our way down the island, over the sandbar (or The Neck as it is otherwise known) that separates North from South, taking in the sometimes-refined, sometimes- eccentric dwellings of the local, we hit dirt roads carved into the landscape. Nothing can prepare you for cresting a gap in the foliage and emerging onto an elevated point that has nothing in front of it but 4,600km of ocean and Antarctica. Throw in a wedge-tailed eagle riding the thermals over the roaring shoreline, and you could not script a welcome any better than this.
The villa is a dream location, with a hot gas fire, large and inviting kitchen and couches that look out over Cloudy Bay that beg for you to pour a wee dram and stare for hours.
After the obligatory establishment of order in transferring our precious commodities and creating our world so that our existence was complemented by ease of access to cheese, oysters, whisky, beer and some other stuff that is probably equally as important but was unceremoniously dropped on a floor in a room, we wandered down to Whalebone Point and walked between mutton bird homes currently vacant due to their residents being, at this time of year, in Alaska or Russia. You cannot help but be awed by the journey undertaken by the mutton bird of about 15,000km every year to return to the same hole in the ground.
We had been to Bruny Island lighthouse some time ago on our only other “try and see it all in one day” visit some years ago. On that occasion the wind was so strong that I had concerns for my then 10-year old offspring being swept up by the wind gusts and taken to New Zealand. On this occasion we had no offspring to contend with and, whilst the wind was at Armageddon-strength, we were determined to sit next to the lighthouse again and witness the beauty of this part of the planet from up high. We arrived at the lighthouse at exactly five minutes to 5 pm to be greeted by a sign on the open gate that read “gate closes at 5pm”. Undeterred we made our way to the lighthouse keeper’s house and had a chat with the couple that had volunteered to stay there for five weeks (bucket list addition), and with a “no worries mate, take as long as you like, don’t worry about the sign” we parked and made our way to the top and marvelled at the Southern Ocean and watched the sun between swirling clouds.
Close to the top of the list of “humans of Tasmania” that I admire is a man who has his face stitched on the only beanie that I have ever owned. The only time I have ever worn a beanie is on one of Rob Pennicott’s Tasman Island cruises. The day had come for a Pennicott Bruny Island cruise.
After bacon, eggs and caffeine as the sun rose over Cloudy Bay, we rugged up and prepared to leave for Adventure Bay.
“Are there any geologists on board today,” was the question raised by the skipper of our ocean-going machine. No hands raised was met with the well-used line, “Well that’s a relief, we can make up stuff now.”
We sped into Adventure Bay before turning south along the rugged east coast of Bruny Island. Nothing can prepare you for what you experience and see out there. These words are not adequate, nor is there a photo or video that captures the essence of this adventure. You just have to do it. Do it.
We rocketed over large rolling swells and ducked into bays and rock formations that present to you evidence absolute that we are all nothing compared to the ocean that we all crawled out off. Caves and breathing rocks, seals and sea birds, cliffs and kelp mixed with history are all explained by the two men on board who have obviously grown up here and made this their life. “We usually wander out to see a colony of seals, but it looks a little rough out there at the moment. Let’s just poke our nose into the Southern Ocean and see how we go.”
The line that separates the Tasman Sea and the Southern Ocean was crossed, and immediately we dropped about five metres into the swell. Greens and blues with white sea foam swirled around us. We powered up the edge of a wave, and we smashed back down again. The rocks that were being pounded seemed to grow larger as we spun in what appeared to be an uncontrolled mistake save for the casual conversation that came from the skipper and his mate. “Pfft, this is a four out of 10 ocean at best,” they shrugged.
Coming back to the relatively calm Tasman Sea again, we powered some distance from shore in the direction of a splash seen by the mate. He thought the splash may have been made by a humpback whale, and we circled for a while looking for it. We got no humpback, but did get a shy albatross consolation prize.
On the return to Adventure Bay I channeled my inner Tibetan monk and inhaled as much of the ocean-washed air as I could before disembarking with a glow of amazingness that only could come from an experience such as this.
Do it.
. . .
The Armageddon westerlies decided that we should be rewarded with a break and the world at Cloudy Bay became still. The skies opened up for full sun and a deep blue sky that seemed to beg for an open pit fire to be lit and the beers to be opened. We were joined by good friends for and a platter of cheese, oysters and pate was paired with pale ales. Chairs were moved and guitars tuned for an evening of laughter, food and music that only stopped occasionally for un-awkward silences of deep contemplation of the view in front of us.
Back into the villa for a wee dram of Overreem Whisky (a bottle saved from their first release for a special occasion), there was more contemplation in in front of the gas fire, before retiring to the sounds of the ocean keeping rhythm till morning.
One perfect day.
The friends that had joined us are gypsies of the planet and have adventure in their souls. A wetsuit and a knife with a license, and the order of the new day was abalone for lunch. A drive to Adventure Bay with a wander down to the rocks with a quick change and leap of faith into the kelp, and 10 minutes later five large black-lipped abalone were the reward. Sliced thinly, cooked in butter with some lemon, we are feasting on what most people could only dream of. Bliss.
The wind has picked up slightly, but the allure of the fire and the view begged for more attention, so it was India Pale Ale and conversation and music around the fire pit.
The morning came with avocado cheese, fresh sourdough and dreamy (and, yes, slightly hung over), stares into the ocean, reminiscing on what had been a most excellent adventure at Bruny Island. As all good humans should do, we left Cloudy Bay Vila with the only evidence of us being there an artistic and descriptive stamp in the guest book. We took in one last look of the view before making our way back towards the drawbridge, to cross over to big island, and to prepare for the algorithms once again.
Brett Charlton spends his days navigating international shipping requirements for some of Tasmania’s biggest importers and exporters, as well as holding several local and national board roles. He is a regular contributor of thought piece articles in state, national international trade media. To balance the commercial and corporate world, he turns his hand to his guitar firstly and from time to time will write about adventures that have nothing to do with ships or trade, what he thinks of as his zen places.
