Car Boots

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Freycinet is beautiful. Busy. But beautiful.

Lots of granite in Freycinet. Winnebago’s and granite are in abundance.

For sure



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I was listening to Zeppelin. I walked past a dusty plateau. It fit.

A crazy basalt gorge. They’re just hanging there. Falling in slow motion.

Tried to get brave and hang over the edge to have a look down.

It was a long way down to the briny blue.

An old wooden boat sailed past the headland at a safe distance.




Goon & Hipster Trees.

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I’d been there before on a failed surf trip. A brief trip. Tasman Peninsula. It’s a beauty. Tidal flats, pine farms, pear orchids, summer homes and one of the most fucked up waves ridden.

Sipped goon at the campsite as the sun dipped behind the hipster tree with a couple of French lads. A high roller card dealer and a Pall-bearer. Funny pairing. I told them so, and they agreed.

We drank a few more cups from the silver sack and the sky lit up.

Truganini and The Neck

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‘Who the fucks he sposed to be” said the rakey pockfaced man as he saw the monument atop the Neck on Bruny Island.

And he didn’t really care to know. Otherwise he would have read the plaque at the base of the steps. The one that outlined a whole lot of misery.

At the hands of people who never cared to learn, and cared nothing for what they didn’t know.



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Rough days. Headaches. In the sinus.

It’s the smoke. The wine.

The beauty was all but lost on me. The glass like sea when I crossed to the island. The empty beaches all to myself. Wonderful seascapes. I felt like shit. And when you feel like shit, you see the shit in everything.

It seemed a dry, cold and windy place. Overfarmed and overloaded with grey nomads poking their silly saggy necks into every nook. They stunk of split pea soup and stale piss. Filling every rest area and campground with their retirement plans. Bulky Winebagos and sandflies, man.

I tell you I don’t know what I am on about.

Smile and the world will give you a shit-eating grins stacked high as Mauna Kea.

The end.