intentions , slipped over us and the days hostilities were firmly pushed aside . Left to our own devices we had an adult conversation , middle aged men without alcohol . Friendships repaired .
A ride on through to Campbelltown had us wiping the fog from our visors , it was heavy and still , riding was slow yet a joy to partake .
Refuelled , both bikes and bodies , a café cooked bacon and egg breakfast , a wonderful way to start the day .
“ Fuck the masks ,” a reply to my apology for not putting a mask on in his café . Scruffy , round , black t-shirt , white apron . The owner of the café was an extra from a 1960 ’ s American roadside diner scene . “ You can stick those masks . Covid is a creation of a socialist world government determined to control the masses with a regime of fear and tyranny .”
I looked to my travelling companion , he stared on incredulously , I sensed that perhaps something was brewing , something burbling to the surface .
“ The New World Order will one day take control and prove that the ‘ sheeple ’ have been had and free those that want to be freed , from the tyrants that seek to control planet Earth ,” continued the café owner without taking a breath . “ And I see you ’ re from Melbourne , more fool you for not acting against that Stalinistic puppeteer that you call a leader . FUCK HIM !”
My travelling companion had switched off , obvious that the previous day had sapped the retort . I was disappointed .
“ And that religious zealot that sits upon the thrown in Canberra , this is Gods will . FUCK HIM !”, our café owner was doing well , I tried not to laugh . I didn ’ t entirely disagree , but the absurdity of the outburst was comedic . “ And that fuckwit in Russia , who has their arm up his arse ?
“ Which way are you going ?” without taking a breath the conversation took a turn . I threw my chin in the direction of a large green sign . “ Well , you take care , there ’ s a lot of fuckwits on our roads .”
That was our cue , an escape route to somewhere passive . A café owner that was threatening in his surmising of the current world situation dared to wish us well and safe travels . An odd little discovery amongst the best of Tasmania .
More twists , more turns , a road named for a pachyderm , this was riding at its best . I ’ d sought dirt but with a road going Yamaha in mind , I took what I could , enjoying this road . Bushland giving way to fields , abandoned farm buildings and aging graveyards paying homage to a Chinese past . How could a landscape , a history , a culture , be so varied in such a short distance . I wanted nothing more than for this day to extend into an eternity .
A pub , a paddock , a pig demanding a beer . The Saint Colombia Falls Hotel , as close to a mainland roadhouse that you ’ ll ever find in Tasmania .
“ Hargh ,” burbled a patron , a beer , a leather jacket , a leather hat . I nodded climbing from the BMW .
“ Wha … argh … “ he struggled to extract the words . “ Shit … urgh … ‘ ucken … blahurgh … life .”
A smile , a nod , I walked inside . The place hadn ’ t changed in the past five years , the ownership had . Obvious ! It was now open beyond 4pm on a Sunday afternoon .
Accommodation sorted , a beer by the fire . Despite the height of an Australian summer , it was cold enough for jeans , jumper , and a fireside pew . The hospitality of publicans who want to chat , tell their story , and immerse in yours .
“ Urgh … fuckin ’ … run this place ,” last drinks called angering my lubricated welcoming committee . The leather clad man grabbed his
TRAVERSE 174