Tag Archives: humor

The Villains of Lower Crackpot.

Read this first: Visiting T- Tazmazia & Lower Crackpot.

Then, the photos speak for themselves!

We  should’ve headed the warnings:

And then we got caught!

Yes, we definitely got so much more than we bargained for visiting Lower Crackpot, but at least the food is good.

xx Rowena

D- Doo Town, Tasmania.

Welcome to Day Four of the April Blogging A-Z April Challenge.

Today, we are leaving Campbell Town and driving South to Doo Town, located at Eaglehawk Neck. While we could have gone to Devonport where the Spirit of Tasmania comes in or to Deloraine, I chose Doo Town due to its quirky, Australian appeal.

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A Fairly Typical Doo Town Fishing Shack: “Doo Nix”.

Located 79 km southeast of Hobart, Doo Town was established in the 1830s as an unnamed timber station which eventually developed into a shack community. In 1935 a Hobart architect, Eric Round, placed the name plate Doo I 99 on his weekend shack. A neighbor, Charles Gibson, responded with a plate reading Doo Me then Bill Eldrige with Doo Us. Eric Round later renamed his shack Xanadoo.[1][2] The trend caught on and most of the homes have a plate that includes the name Doo.

I first visited Doo Town on my first trip to Tassie in 1995.   Being a procrastinator, I’ve never forgotten “Gunnerdoo”. Indeed, it would be a very apt name for our current home, which is a renovating dreamer’s homage to an endless list of unfinished projects. Indeed, it has way too many applications to mention!

Anyway, here’s a few Doo’s…and no don’ts!

Hope you’ve enjoyed our trip to Doo Town and I’ll be back to drive you to our next destination in the morning.

xx Rowena

Theme Reveal – Blogging from A to Z.

My apologies. I understand that the theme reveal for the Blogging A-Z April Challenge was some time ago. However, let ‘s  just  say, that I was thrown by the changes this year, combined with the usual mayhem on the home front, and hence my grand announcement was delayed.

This year at Beyond the Flow, my theme will be: Travelling Alphabetically Around Tasmania, colloquially known as: “Tassie”.

I don’t know whether you’ve ever tried travelling anywhere alphabetically before. I certainly haven’t. Indeed, since leaving school, which can be synonymous with alphabetical seating, my aversion to doing  things alphabetically, has even extended to my filing cabinet. Nothing is filed alphabetically in there. It’s more a case of most used at the front, and dead files at the back. This makes perfect sense to me…unlike travelling around Tasmania alphabetically, which is madness in any other realm than cyberspace.

Although I have no sense of direction, thrive on serendipity and am “creative”, the whole concept of travelling alphabetically grates on me. I don’t like waste and clearly we’re not travelling via anything approaching a direct route. Indeed, by the end of the month, I suspect our path is going to resemble something of a spider’s web and a route way beyond the famed “road less travelled”.

I wonder how Siri would cope with that??

She wouldn’t!!

Neither would an accountant.

As you might be aware, the challenge kicked off on Saturday and I started my journey at A for Ashgrove Farm in Elizabeth Town , which is located on the Bass Highway, roughly inbetween Devonport and Deloraine in Northern Tasmania.

Today, we’re moving on to the seaside town of Bridport in the North-East, and could well be picking up a few bottles of wine along the way. After all, wine and cheese are old friends. Mind you, I will point out that we won ‘t drink and drive.

You’ll find that my commentary won’t address the usual touristy blah-blah-blah and be incorporating much of what I’ve gleaned from my husband and his family and historical references. You will also find quite a few historical references and anecdotes.

After all, you can easily Google the rest.

If you are doing the Blogging A – Z April Challenge, please share your theme below along with a link to your theme reveal of A posts.

After all, the best thing about this challenge is sharing and caring  and building new connections.

Enjoy!

xx Rowena

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A – Ashgrove Farm, Tasmania.

Quite frankly, you’ve got rocks in your head if you can’t find happiness at Ashgrove Farm.

Indeed, even the cows there, are said to be the “happiest cows on earth”.

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An uber-happy Cow.

Don’t ask me how they’ve worked that out. As far as I knew, cows weren’t that good at filling out market research questionnaires, but what would I know?  I’m from the Mainland. It could well be, that after eating all that supergrass, these Ashgrove cows have developed magic superpowers,  and they’re not just smiling for the cameras anymore.

I wouldn’t know. As I said, I’m from the Mainland.

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My daughter tasting the Cheese.

So, even if you don’t eat cheese, it sounds like you might enjoy the grass and you could even  add it to your salad, if you’re that way inclined.

Now, perhaps you’re a bit sceptical about these happy cows,  and your thoughts might be drifting towards a different kind of grass. However,  if you were living in Tasmania with a year-round supply of lush green grass, you’d agree that it sure beats munching of dry chaff out on the desert fringe.

As you might be aware, we spent three week getting around Tasmania in January, showing the kids “where Daddy comes from”.  The founders of Ashgrove Farm are my Father-in-Law’s cousins, but quite aside from the family connections, Ashgrove Cheese became our home away from home as we continuously restocked our cheese supplies and even loaded up the Esky for coming home. I’ve become passionately addicted to their Lavender Cheese, which is only available on the Mainland via mail order so I had to stock up. My other favourites include the Wasabi Cheese which I was adding to everything except my Weetbix when we arrived home, and a Bacon-flavoured Havarti Cheese.

If I had to differentiate Ashgrove Cheese from other cheeses, I’d say they’re deliciously creamy. When this creaminess is partnered with the Lavender or Wasabi, for example, this creaminess is cut through by these flavours for a very well-rounded and balanced flavour.

I hope my very elementary attempts at food writing there make sense. Despite being a writer and something of a foodie, I find it very difficult to write about food in any detail. I’m much, much better at eating it!.

By the way, Ashgrove Farm’s store doesn’t simply stop at cheese and there’s a wide range of gourmet treats like coconut ice, fudge, salad dressing and…(drum roll)…ice cream to die for! I particularly loved the lemon ice cream which was as white as snow  with a strong lemon flavour cutting nicely through the exceptionally creamy, smooth texture.

Humph…I’m  starting to wonder whether this virtual tour of Ashgrove Farm has been such a good idea. I’m staring longingly at their web site and banging my head against the screen. Let me in! Let me in! Or, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and …I’m now start behaving more responsibly.  Cheese addiction can become life threatening if you don’t keep yourself in check.

So, on that note, let me turn it over to you. Are you doing the April A-Z Challenge? If so, please leave a link to your A post below and I’ll try to head over. I’ve got rather caught up lately and haven’t been blogging as much.

It’s been great to catch up!

Xx Rowena

Today is the first day of the A-Z April Challenge and my theme this year is Tasmania. My husband is a -5th generation Tasmanian and in January this year we spent three weeks travelling round around Tasmania, and this is my theme for the challenge this year.

LOCAL OUTRAGE- Friday Fictioneers

Desperate to attract passing tourists, Council voted to upgrade the local park.

While surveys confirmed locals had wanted to install a steam locomotive and have a mini railway running on weekends, they’d ended up with “Rusty” , a “pile of scrap metal”, instead. Accordingly, Rusty was only good for one thing and for more information, you’ll need to consult the local dogs, who’d voted him the best telegraph pole in town.

Then, last Sunday morning, Rusty was gone. No one had seen or heard a thing, but in his place, there was a garden gnome.

Apparently, Nigel  had come home.


This is another contribution for the Friday Fictioneers. PHOTO PROMPT © Jennifer Pendergast.

Hope you’ve had a great week!

xx Rowena

There’s Life In the Old Horse Yet!

As you might know, I love delving deep into the old newspapers online and have found some fascinating snippets and stories along the way. That includes this fabulous story about Pete the retired racehorse reflecting on his glory days. We could’ve had a wonderful chat if only he could talk and wasn’t fiction.

Indeed, I enjoyed this story so much, I decided to share it with you. There are a few bits of text I couldn’t make out and as it as written in the 1940s, the language is a bit dated but it’s still a fabulous, fast-paced tale. I hope you enjoy it!

OLD PETE By FRED GARDINER

OLD PETE was a vegetarian by Nature’s laws ordained.

And the monotony of it, the— yes, the humility of it, even, never once roused complaint in his patient soul.

But what did cause resentment was the indubitable fact that his diet was restricted to the unfermented type of vegetation.

Chaff, for instance; chaff, chaff, chaff. Crunch, crunch, crunch. No snap, crackle, and pop; just plain, crunch, crunch, crunch.

There was an element in the daily life of Pete that disturbed the old warrior muchly.

An element? Hardly. Almost it was an aura.

Everywhere he went, he smelt it, that aura; for actually, though he did not know it, yeast was the very essence of his daily life for Pete. He smelt it at his work, at rest, in his dreams—for old horses do dream.

Yeast!

And yeast has engendered a thirst in many a good man, an unquenchable thirst for—yeast. An irritating, insinuating, invigorating, inspiriting—ah, that, was it, an inspiriting desire.

For Pete in his young days had been SOMETHING.

And in those halcyon days he had quaffed the nut-brown ale, gallons of it.

As Prince – Peter, the topweight, he had gracefully cavorted to the cheers of the multitude and scornfully ignored the scowls of vengeful “barvons.” Then the smell of the tan was his aura, and beer was the nectar of Mammon, a reward for services rendered.

Later, much later, forgotten by his many spouses of the seasons that had flown by, forgotten, almost, by those for whom he had won small fortunes, his memorial merely a hyphenated allusion in sundry race-books, he had yet held his own with the others on the bakery rounds.

But nowadays the fellows at the brewery over the road from the bakehouse had taken to casting aspersions and crusts of their lunch in his direction, and referred to him as “Old Pete, the Hat Rack.”

How were they to know that, as Prince Peter, he had helped to make their industry? He had trained on barrels of beer. It had been his inspiration.

But who would buy a bucket of beer for the old chap now? He was but a pan-handler among his kind!

At the thought, resentment welled in his vast gullet to quench his thirst.

But-his cup of bitterness was replete when he saw those mudgudgeon brewers’ horses served their eight buckets of beer each day at noon. Eight buckets each. Placed in a line; and the lazy, sleek, slobbery sloths would – swab six, stamp a hoof in the middle of the seventh, bury their muzzles in the eighth, and blow it to the sky in bubbles.

Disgusting! Not the manners, but the waste.

Eight buckets of beer; and he would win the Cunnamulla Cup—had won it, in fact.

But, who remembered? He neighed in disgust, and blew the chaff out of his nosebag. So the driver, taking this as a sign that Pete had had enough, removed the nosebag before he had half finished his meal.

“Just a plug; how would he know?” thought Pete. “Never mind, it was dry tack, anyhow!”

But Pete was wrong in one particular. Bill, the driver, was not “just a plug.” He had a heart for the old horse, and never hastened to put the bit of servitude back into his mouth.

Which was indiscreet, indeed, in view of the fact that, the stables being at the bakehouse, there was always that aura, that haunting, yeasty, aura.

Came the day when the brewer’s man was late on his run and Old Pete finished early.

The ostler had placed sixteen buckets of beer, in two rows of eight, on the footpath, awaiting the return of the waggon. On the other side of the street Bill had buried Old Pete’s head in -his nosebag, and left him to crunch, crunch, crunch! Which, he did.

The brewery waggon did not arrive. The beer was going flat in the buckets – over the way. , .

Old Pete flicked a fly from his haunches, merely a matter of habit, for he had no mind for the fly; his thoughts were elsewhere…over the road.

Sixteen buckets of beer and him munching chaff! No; he must; dispel the thought. Gone were the days.

It was about the time when Bill helped the baker draw the batch. As the ovens opened, the smell rushed forth like a spirit new-released from Hades.

That aura! What tunes it played in the memory box of Old Pete as it assailed his sensitive, quivering nostrils.

The old horse staggered in the face of temptation, actually staggered at the knees; his head fell mutely, the nosebag touched, the ground and slowly fell off. Then, he was over the road in a jiffy, the bit- jangling uselessly from his jaws. Over the road and into those buckets…one, two, three,., sharp-firing; four, five, six, quick time; seven, eight, nine, ten—not out and six to go. Eleven, he was slowing up. Then, deliberately, twelve; thirteen for bakers’ luck and fourteen, fif-t-e-e-n.’ Smack went his hoof through the bottom of the sixteenth bucket to show his independence.

They called him Old Pete! Him! His mane bristled with indignation, his withers itched, his sides quivered as though at the spur. Well, he’d show them, if burst he would!

As he whirled round the corner, hanged if he didn’t hear the old cry again: “Runaway, runaway!”

That’s what they used to shout out there at. Cunnamulla—”He’s run away with the field. Good old Prince Peter! Oh, you bonzer!”

Well, he’d give ’em a go for it.

Into Parramatta-road he swung, heading west, and a motor horn tooted. Motors? Sacrilege! “Get my dust!” he snorted, tossing his old head in contempt.

Peter left the body of the baker’s cart at Lawson, and the shafts fall away at Wentworth Falls.

With one ear well back and the other forward, he crammed oh. the heat; not hard, you – know,. but just hard enough to give that motor socks.

And the crowds along the great thoroughfare roared: “Runaway, runaway!” ‘

Encouragement.That was the spice of life to an old trouper like Pete.

At Burwood a bluebird shot out from a side street and joined in the chase. Vainly the cops tried to head him off. Pete threw his head high and snorted a frothy snort of sheer contempt. Then he clapped the heat full on.

“Gosh, that old cripple’s’ doing, fifty!” gasped Constable Boot in the bluebird.

“Shut up, or you’ll have me crash!” snapped the copper at the wheel.

They flashed through Granville…first the turnout, with Pete in full command: next the bluebird, x with two grim-faced, cops wondering whether they would see their wives or the hospital that night; and. after, them an assortment of vehicles that took up the chase for awhile, and fell out as their engines ran hot.

By sheer luck Pete took the turnoff to the Mountains at Parramatta—or it may have been instinct. The traffic cop there took the rest of the day off.

On the straight to Penrith the pace became too hot for the bluebird. When the needle wavered around seventy going through St. Marys the bluebird drew out and phoned to have the runaway headed off at Penrith.

At Kingswood the first wheel came off, and at Emu Plains the second.

The message to head Pete off at Penrith reached there as he was sailing past Lapstone. (He is heading up the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney)

Pete left the body of the baker’s cart at Lawson, and the shafts fell away at Wentworth Falls. He slipped the harness at Leura.

Hasty messages had been flashed to Katoomba, where Pete’s arrival was anticipated.

Both railway gates were shut and a goods train had been drawn up on the level crossing.

Pete saw this as he came round the turn near the hospital—so clapped on speed.

“Just a brush hurdle!” he snickered. Sparks flew from his shoes as he landed in front of the Carrington and stream of Are rose: from the tar as he skidded to the foot of Katoomba-street.

Both sides of the thoroughfare were lined with people, who roared their encouragement…”Runaway, runaway !”

The old fellow, tossed the foanr to left and right of his: gallant head in sheer enjoyment; What a race! And he had oceans to .spare.

But as he turned off around the falls and headed for Narrow Neck he began to fancy another drink. Fifteen buckets more he reckoned, and he would tackle Govett’s Leap, yes.Upwards!

What Pete did not know was that it was pay day at the mine.

So when he saw Paddy O’Flynn staggering along the bush track with the boys dye-gallon on his shoulders, who was Pete to recognise the ethics that imposed upon Pat a sacred trust to deliver the goods or be damned.

And who was Paddy to know that he stood in the path of a noble soul seeking sanctuary!

“Howly Mercy!” Paddy howled as the shock-maned; wall-eyed, foam-flecked apparition pounded after him. “Glory be, if it ain’t the Bull of Bashan his very self, the craytur!”

Paddy went off at a gallop, with old Pete hard behind.

When it looked as if he were to be crushed beneath the flailing hoofs, Pat

dropped the barrel to bless himself which .was his salvation. He scooted into the bush as Pete propped hard at the obstacle in his path.

Suspiciously he eyed it; then sniffed. That aura! For a fleeting second, a crushing homesickness seized him and he thought—what matter his thoughts?

So Pete spurned the thing – that was like to soften him, stamped on it in his anger— and ‘stove in the end: Glorious, sparkling amber ale, fresh from the wood. And Govett’s Leap was ahead.

The old fellow buried his muzzle right up to – his eyebrows, and drank, drank, drank until he licked the bottom. ”

What was that about Govett’s Leap? Well, maybe—tomorrow!

The sun was setting and his sight grew dim, so he sought a sheltered spot, there, to rest until…

The bakehouse whistle, blew, and Bill, the driver sauntered out to put the bit of’ servitude into the old prad’s mouth. He found Pete, dead in the shafts.

World’s News (Sydney, NSW : 1901 – 1955), Saturday 7 March 1942, page 16