Up The Hill, Down The Hill.

The clouds lifted as we left the cabin in Lemana and made our way across the Tamar Valley towards the mountains. Along the way we stopped in Perth just because we could and because it wasn't Perth, WA.

A quick hello to some rather wooden friends in Perth.

Clouds rolled over the tops of the mountains we were heading towards, causing debate as to whether we would actually be able to see anything from up there.  There was only one way to find out, so onwards we went.

As the road began to climb I saw the results of yesterday's inclement weather. Drifts of gravel, rocks, and occasional small logs showed where water had overflowed the gutters and taken the easiest path across the road. Water still tumbled in rivulets down the rocks, poured out of crevices in cuttings, formed impromptu cataracts down the hillside, and pooled in every available depression.

Half way up the hill we stopped in to Poatina, another once-was Hydro town now a shell of its former self, clinging to precarious life on a ridge with stunning views back to the valleys on either side.  A small population inhabited old Hydro houses, patronised the general store, and advertised community progress events.

The town swimming pools had seen better days.

Up above Poatina and just below a heavy ceiling of cloud, the Poatina Headrace Adit Lookout gave fantastic views out over the Tamar valley where elusive sunlight splashed patterns across cultivated paddocks. A fellow tourist generously loaned his binoculars to allow a better look out across the valley.

The Headrace also had a waterfall with appropriate warning signs,

along with the remnant foundations of former Hydro buildings.

The clouds retreated as we gained altitude, so we still had visibility as we made our way onto the central plateau and along to Miena. We were very excited about this as Miena was Australia's coldest non-alpine town, reportedly having an unusual (for Australia) altitude-influenced subpolar oceanic climate similar to towns such as Punta Arenas in Chile and, to some degree, Reykjavík in Iceland.  Not that there was much to Miena: two lackadaisical pubs and a plethora of shacks ranging from the ramshackle to the resplendent, similar to but I assume better insulated than the fishing shacks along the Murray.

But here for the same reason: fish. Miena is apparently quite the spot to go fishing, particularly for trout.

At the Miena Dam lookout I followed a path to the grave of John Beamont. If you hadn't heard of him don't worry, neither had I. He was a public servant in Van Diemen's Land for most of his life, his most remembered contribution being his exploration of the central plateau. He was buried on the hill which would later overlook the dam. The inscriptions on his tomb suggest that he was well liked by his friends, however those same friends did not have a talent for poetry.

"This John, historians relate
Gave signal service to the State
In many fields. He was the first
To cast his eye and slake his thirst
Upon this noble inland sea
Where now he spends eternity.". Hmmmm.

It was cold at Miena. We ate our sad lunch of all the leftovers that we couldn't take on the plane tomorrow and dreamed about the hot thermos coffee that we had so carelessly consumed at sea level several hours ago.

I'm not planning to move to Iceland any time soon.

The downhill from Miena went on forever, sweeping through cold open plains, rocky scree, forest, and down to gentle green valleys. I daydreamed about riding my bicycle down this beautiful road, conveniently forgetting about the uphill that would necessarily precede the descent.

We stopped in Bothwell to satisfy Roger's desperate craving for coffee. Bothwell was full of pretty buildings. The old school house and school masters residence housed tourist information and a small golf museum. The attendant gladly answered my museum-related questions, rattling of names of golf royalty none of whom were known to my ignorant self. Turns out Bothwell has the longest continually running golf course/club in the Asia-Pacific, plus a connection to important historical golfing persons. The things you learn.

Killing time, we stopped in Richmond to visit the 201 year old bridge, as you do.

Still standing.

And then there was nothing left to do but scoot down the highway, across the lagoon,

and the next lagoon,

and find somewhere to stay as close to the airport as possible, given we anticipated a very early start in the morning.

Home for the night: no, we didn't sleep on the fire escape, we had a room. Travelodge, Hobart Airport.