thump of passing pademelons lulled me back into a wavering sleep .
I had checked with the park wardens the day before , and they told me that although the weather looked good right then , with sparkling sun and fluffy clouds , rain was predicted to start mid-morning tomorrow and to stay all day . As a result , I ’ d set my alarm to 5.30am ; no way did I want to be riding 35kms of slimy rain-soaked gravel track on road bike tyres . I woke , eyed the next-door tent site replete with dead beer cans , empty pizza trays and a distinct lack of dinghy captains , and packed up my gear under a cloudy sky .
Once ready I started the faithful bike , backed up against the abusers ’ awning , and gave a few hearty tugs on the throttle . In the quiet of the campsite , the noise was pleasingly directional and staccato . I like to imagine I heard the sound of hangovers clashing against each other , but maybe it was just the young ' fella ' trying to unzip his sleeping bag again . Nobody emerged . I rode off with a smug look inside my helmet having , I felt , redressed the balance slightly .
I ’ d done Cockle Creek . I didn ’ t eat any cockles , but the trip was a memorable one . I ’ d experienced the farthest point South , the deepest remote bushland tranquillity , and even been treated to an expression of the finest traditional , earlysettler style Tasmanian love . As d ’ Entrecasteaux so presciently noted back in 1792 , “… it will be difficult to describe my feelings at the sight of this solitary harbour . Situated at the extremities of the world , so perfectly enclosed , one feels separated from the rest of the universe .” Quite so .
JT
TRAVERSE 66