The night before leaving Port Arthur, I had prayed to the God of Tasmanian, who I call Tasmanor (he has the body of a tree, and the face of a ram. When he cries it rains red wine, and his breath smells of hops) for safe travels. It was to be another day of mad-dashery, heading North to Launceston to return the bike – my last day of independence in Tasmania.

Tasmanor heard my prayers, but seemingly he was deaf in one ear. It did not rain, but from his lips leapt a wicked westernly wind that throughout the day threatened to push me off the road, or into oncoming travel.

The fastest way back was the highway (probably why they built it). The Royal Enfield and I did not like the highway, in the past tolerating no more than five minutes on it’s back. But travel is about growth, so I pushed myself, and was able to tolerate closer to 30 minutes (in a fierce cross wind that consistently threatened to throw the bike into a speed wobble), before pulling into the town of Ross for a bacon sandwich.

In preparation for today’s post, which I expected to suck (mainly dealing with the logistics of returning a rental bike, and then socially co-ordinating the wedding party’s trip to Devonport, with little reference to the state of Tasmania or the process of holidaying) over the tenure of my journey I wrote small pieces on various aspects of lone travelling for the tactical deployment within droll daily summaries, some examples include “On Accomodation”, “On Trees”, “On Travelling Alone”, “On the Ocean”, etc. As today’s post is droll (hang around though, later on there’s a great photo of a horse) here are a few tidbits:

On Motorcycling: There are all sorts of motorcycle rider, but they all fall within a scale. To the West we have “I enjoy riding a bike/scooter because it’s cost efficient, and I am also I deliver pizzas”. In the middle, “I enjoy the smell of the air”. And to the far east “I ride a motorcycle because in life, there are two lanes, and I filter between them. I spit in the face of authority and death. Strap an engine between my legs and push it to 300hp. There’s no room for any one else on my bike, all I need is the clothes on my back. Society? Pfft”. In reality the decision to buy a motorcycle, is really just an obligation placed on your loved ones, as you’ll find yourself borrowing their car much more.

On Riding In the Wind: There are two sorts of dangerous winds when riding a motorcycle; the sort that pushes forward, and the sort that pushes sidewards. The front one is bad, the sideways one is worst; you’ll have to counter-steer to go straight, until then wind stops, then you’ll just be counter-steering (so you’ll briefly career perpendicular). Your bike won’t like this and will try to throw you off.

In an attempt to get off the highway, I decided I would return to Longford through the agri-back channels of this great and prosperous states – the gravel roads. But before going to Longford I would go to Cressy, where I was three days earlier by accident. I’d seen a pretty horse there, and I wanted to get a photo. That’s right. Here’s a photo of the pretty horse.

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Then to back Longford, where I stopped by Ernest and Ernesto again, for more conversation with Phil, to complete the idea that my final day of riding was an after-school special.

Then finally Launceston, where I:

• Returned my bike – and was allowed to keep the mirror I snapped off as a momento, and probably a reminder to snap less mirrors off;
• Had a burger – At Burger Joint, the same place I’d had a burger four days early. I didn’t take a photo though, a sign of definite personal growth;
• Met the wedding party at Launceston airport – and pretended like the cold and wind didn’t bother me because I was a naturalised citizen of the south.

We rented a car and head off to Devonport. I saw this tree:

And so the hard bit, or maybe the fun bit, of Tasmania was behind me. Regrets? Yeah I had a few. I had really wanted to go to Bacon and Eggs Bay (a real name of a real place!). I would have preferred to not snap a mirror off my bike. I wish I had eaten a fruit over the course of the last four days – my kidney’s hurt.

There was also a place north of Port Arthur called “Boomer Bay”. I could have done a whole post about Boomer Bay. It would be such good topical commentary. But we’ll never know.

But this was just one chapter, in the two chapter novella of travelling Tasmania. I expected the next chapter wouldn’t be called “Fear and Loathing”, and more “Politely Agreeing With Slightly Problematic Remarks From Older Members of the Wedding Party to Avoid Upsetting the Bride”.

Alternate title: “MONA!? I hardly knew her!”

Something is only truly beautiful if it makes you feel lonely. Sitting outside the MONA cafe, looking out over the working class-suburbs of Hobart from across the Derwent River, I had that feeling I felt from the season finale of BBC’s Flowers, or the Transformers ride at Universal Studio’s, the deeply human need to share experiences. I hadn’t even submerged into the subterranean depths of the MONA collection, but already I was effected by the magnitude of the place.

MONA is the Museum of Old and New Art. It’s basically the Batcave, if instead of gadgets the Batcave was filled with art, and instead of Bruce Wayne, it was built by professional gambler David Walsh, and if instead of being killed by a Gotham mugger, Walsh’s parents were killed in such a way that inspired him to accumulate massive amounts of wealth, dig an enormous series of tunnels through Hobartian triassic sandstorm, and create an Art-Maze, unlike anything else in the world, in an abstract and brutal style focusing on explicit lighting and unconventional freedoms (the metaphor falls apart a bit there).

I am not an art critic and I’m not going to pretend to be one (unlike being a travel writer, which I am perfectly comfortable pretending to be). My highest qualification would be the occasional incorrect usage of the term post-modern. My approach to art is non-conventional and has been criticised; while the traditional, effective, and correct approach is to stand and observe, internalize, and deconstruct each individual art piece, I like to walk (or if allowed, run) passed as many pieces as possible, seeing how quickly I can absorb as much art as possible.

Regardless, if I had to describe MONA in just one sentence, it would be:

“It is not an art gallery, it is a museum, much like a history museum, except it is the museum of the future”

If you asked me to expand on that, I could not.

In one darkened room, I was surrounded by computer monitors typing out paragraphed gibberish, whilst speaking this gibberish, with high frequency ringing and flashing lights dispersed throughout at random intervals. This art disturbed me.

In another room, I was challenged to draw a bicycle from memory. I was then shown other peoples drawings, and real bicycles made following these laymen’s blueprints. This art mocked me.

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Each attendee is give an “O” Device, a custom iPod which uses internal geolocation to provide information about each piece, disregarding the need for traditional text on walls, and providing more freedom in terms of the tactical deployment of light and also non-conventional navigation.

The “O” Device also employs a “Gonzo” feature. Gonzo is a journalistic style invented by Hunter S. Thompson (in this context referring to Walsh’s approachable personal thoughts of pieces. This is in contrast to the genuine analysis of the pieces, which the device labels “Art Wank”). Thompson wrote Fearing and Loathing in Las Vegas, which is where I got the name for this blog from. So that just ties everything together really nicely! Thanks David!

Very few museums do as fine a job at hiding their art as MONA. This maze-quality; seemingly shifting staircases, pitch black hallways, minimal signage, invokes a sense of adventure, like each piece viewed is an accomplishment. Perhaps, it’s a deliberate decision in order to transcend the traditional linear narratives that define aspects of the Western art world (okay, so I am crushing this art critique thing).

Further, exposed sandstone and concrete give each piece a heightened sense of fragility, the endearingly petite surrounded by, buried even, by the crushing and impersonal corporate. (I am crushing this art critique thing!)

The seemingly invariable yet eclectic nature of the pieces, mirror the randomness of reality, and further, provide jarring juxtapositions. It is as if a history of art has cumulated in this building, that the relationships between the exhibits, and the halls that hold them, are in of itself the art (I. AM. CRUSHING. THIS. ART. CRITIQUE. THING.)

Genuinely, MONA is really the ultimate mark of decadent wealth, but consider how much decadent wealth has left no mark, and you at very least gain respect for David Walsh’s vision. Admittance is free with proof of Tasmanian residency, and it’s easy to imagine the museum as the perfect date for Hobart high-schoolers. It’s much more difficult to imagine MONA as anything besides the pièce de résistance of Tasmanian’s travel industry.

If I could say only one more thing about MONA, it would probably be that it’s considerably better, in it’s mass-millions spent exacting a unique personable vision, than the Hobart Maritime Museum 20 minutes up the road, which I would recommend only if you hate whales.

There are few things I hate more than the obligation associated with travel – the places that have to be seen to justify the airfares. My cabin for the night was only 20 minutes North from Port Arthur, a historically significant something, but content that I’d survived the coastal winds trying to push me off the road all afternoon as I rode from Hobart south, I decided I’d spend the evening inside.

My AirBnB came equipped with Cluedo & Battleships, presumably to emphasize how alone I was, as well as a copy of Rachael Treasure’s Don’t Fence Me In: Grassroots Wisdom From a Country Girl.

After a few very, very quick games of Cluedo, I decided I’d spend some time on the beach, probably mocking Rachael Treasure’s Don’t Fence Me In.

Maybe it was the heatstroke, or maybe all the folk music I’d be listening too, but I was struggling to be too critical of Miss Treasure. I was starting to think that maybe a motorcycle wasn’t the best way to travel. That there was no point in all this gorgeous countryside, and coastal views, if I couldn’t show it to someone else. It was a feeling I’d had last night in Roseberry, it was the feeling I had in MONA, and it was a feeling I had sitting on the beach in Port Arthur. I was feeling lonely.

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Bazzle the Echidna from yesterday told me that travelling is only worth as much as you learn. Despite my pride in my resentment of dependency on other people, what was ostensibly only a long weekend without constant Facebook access, had left me feeling a way I didn’t enjoy, and hadn’t felt for a longtime. There had been no shortage of enigmatic espresso makers, or hospitable hikers, but it was hard to push passed my physical isolation. I spent the evening reading the guest book for some sort of human insight, and connection. Which let’s be honest; super tragic.

Here are some of my favourite extracts from Rachael Treasure’s Don’t Fence Me In.

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(I read through the entire book to find some funny ones, but for the most part it’s genuinely good advice. I’d really recommend the book if you ever see a copy.)

My time in Roseberry was unsettling – since picking my keys up from a letter box fourteen hours ago, and subsequently returning them to the same letter box, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen or smelled or heard another soul in that entire time.

What was especially strange, was the poster hanging outside the closed reception, a wide black and white aerial shot of a B&S ball from the past, with all attendees facing the camera. And there, just towards the middle, in a singlet and footy shorts, someone who looked just like me…

The ride from Roseberry to Queenstown was not fun. It had rained all night and was still raining. I checked the forecast, it would also be raining tomorrow. The higher I climbed a mountain the harder the wind and rain pierced my jacket, and the lower I climbed the thicker the soup of mist pouring from the apex gathered before my visor. I was a horrible combination of cold and on the wrong side of the state.

The Motorcycle Fallacy:

Even a light drizzle can feel like a storm if you go fast enough, but the slower you go, the longer it will take you to arrive at the Sizzlers Family Restaurant ft. roaring fire place that you’ve assured yourself is in Queenstown.

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I stopped in Queenstown for a change of socks and a bacon sandwich (not Sizzler, still good). It took me three minutes to regain the power of speech, and fifteen to gather the hand dexterity to remove my phone from my pocket. After placing every item of clothing I owned on my body, I knew there was only one way I was getting to my AirBnB in Hobart, and it wasn’t some secret tunnel that I thought might be a good idea, no, it was through the downfall.

I felt like a reincarnate version of Radar from M*A*S*H – a lessor man like that bum Hawkeye would have found shelter and waited out the rain, but I was a man with a mission. Plus, I was on a military-style motorbike, so you can see how it wasn’t a hard connection to make.

And so I pushed on… clearly pretty proud of myself for facing some adversity for once.

A fun tidbit about motorcyclists that only motorcyclists (and now you!) know:

1. Biker, whenever you see a fellow biker, you shall give them a small upward head nod;
   1A. Unless they are on a Harley-Davidson, because Harley-Davidson riders are
   too cool for the nonsense.

The head nodding aspect of bike riding is my favourite part, and more than justifies the disproportionate reality of being involved in a road fatality. However, on this cold and slick roads, as fellow bike-men trailed past me, no head nodding was had. None of us would endorse this slippery freezing madness. I could even tell that the cars and trucks were overtaking me in an empathetic way.

Between Queenstown and Mount Derwent Bridge, a particular motorist, who had been following me quite closely, almost too closely, definitely too closely actually, grabbed my attention. It seemed he wanted to get passed, so as a citizen of the world I decided I would pull off to the side for him.

I pulled onto some wet gravel to the side of the road, and squeezed my front brake while down-shifting.

The bike shifted from under me, I went over the handlebars, and in my mind, did a backflip. In reality, in my transit from bike to ground, my hip-bone snapped off my left mirror. The bike’s still spinning back wheel reminded me of Lawrence of Arabia, and would have made a great Boomerang, if there wasn’t fuel leaking everywhere.

Fortunately the driver who, lets be honest, pushed me off the road, saw this, and pulled over in front of me. He ran back to where I was laying, wiped the dust from my brow, and helped me repair and refuel. We starting talking about podcasts, he gave me his business card, and then we went our separate ways.

Only none of that happened. Getting the bike up was easy, but removing it from the ditch it had landed in was a calculating and gruelling process of brute force and brake-control, set to a backdrop of continuing rainfall.

I rode for about fifteen minutes, before I reached Frenchman’s Cap, a small wooden hut like a bus stop, in a car park. It was still raining here too. I took off my helmet, and sat in foetal position in the corner of the hut, telling myself there was only so much water in the world, and by that logic it would have to stop raining soon, and I could probably make it to Hobart without checking my left lane.

Suddenly a hiking party interrupted my pity party. A Tasmania, a Frenchman, and Two Brazillians walked into my hut. They’d gone 20 kilometres into the forest the day before, and were now returning.

We debated whose hobby was dumber, and given mine had landed me on my ass, I lost. They then explained that the tingling feeling in my extremities was actually not normal, and perhaps I should change my socks again. Finally, they made me a coffee, offered me some whiskey (which I declined), and just like that, they were gone.

And then it stopped raining. I think those people might actually have been angels.

The rest of the day was pretty good. I rode through the misty remnants of post-bushfire forests, along mountain sheer ranges , and even saw an echidna who I named Bazzle! As has been the common theme of this blog, I didn’t take any photos of any of these ineffable sceneries. I finally arrived in Hobart.

Tasmania tried to break me today. Something can be said for a beautiful state sometimes turning harsh, but it should be said by volunteer firefighters or flood survivors, not bloggers adorned in three soaked jumpers.

I will say this though, I reserve the right to reinstate my victim status when I post photos of my bruises tomorrow.

Since 1907 Royal Enfield, the oldest motorcycle supplier in the world, and a supplier of rifles and reconnaissance motorcycles for the allied forces, has done basically the exact same thing. Whilst the Japanese were revolutionising motorcycles so that they could filter between traffic and brave the bold new world, and the Italians were considering the height of fashion to be the ability to turn on a dime, Royal Enfield refused to fall for these Axis tricks such as comfort or rideability. Instead, for the last one hundred years, they’ve made low-reving, high-torque stallions for carrying cartridge-boxes.

As a Honda owner (Japanese), upon picking up the Royal Enfield 500 that I was to tour around the state, and subsequently attempting to ride it, I realised I do not know how to ride an actual motorbike; a motorbike without excessive tech, like a fuel gauge, or tachomoter, or gear indicator. A motorbike you can actually stall, or that is heavy enough to drop. A motorcycle with a kickstart.

“Oh well!” I thought, attempting to indicate left out of the rental depot and instead turning on the high-beams.

With my bike under-saddle, my panniers full, my scarf secured, I was finally ready to explore the open road, to breath deep, to see the asphalt filtering below my feet, to see some horses.

But first I thought I’d see more of Launceston.

When I set off to write a blog, I decided I would deliberately refrain from genuinely recommending locations to visit, because Tasmania is really just a thinly veiled excuse for me to talk about myself. However, showing great indulgence, I’ll make an exception to that rule…

The National Automobile Museum of Tasmania is (in my opinion as someone who has spent one-and-a-bit days in the state) the best bit of Tasmania. Ignoring their audacious use of the term ‘National’ (are you the national museum, or the Tasmanian museum, cause you can’t be both). Fourteen dollars buys you a washer (something that can be found in a car!), which can be placed in a turnstile, affording you access to a gigantic white room full of really, really cool cars.

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The automobile museum is a must-see if you’re in Launceston AND (and this is important) have somewhat of an interest in cars. Otherwise, probably give it a miss.

After a really great time, I landed on the freeway out of Launceston. A1, the National Highway, truly this must be the life-blood of Tasmania. My Royal Enfield, because it is a real motorcycle, with a real engine, sends out some serious vibrations if you push it past 80kph, so I was on the highway for about three minutes before I took the first exit I could find – of course this is what the Royal Enfield wanted, for me to discover the gems off the beaten asphalt.

I landed in Longford, and after a quick once-over down the main street, where it seemed everyone knew everyone – they were all waving at each other in that country town way (or maybe they were waving at me? Is this blog way more popular than I anticipated?) I pulled into an espresso bar called Ernest and Ernesto.

The barista and owner, Phil, an ex-cuban cigar importer and fellow Brisbane ex-pat, who at the bequest of his beloved and armed only with a lifetime of regalia and a gorgeous 1950 espresso machine had converted their street-facing living room into an espresso bar and cigar parlour, told me how the name came to be:

“We called it Ernest & Ernesto. After Ernest Hemingway and..

“Ernesto Hemingwayo?” – I thought in my head, considerably later, because I’m not funny in real life, I’m only funny once I can draft and edit my content. And even then…

“Ernest Hemingway and Ernesto “Che” Guevara”

Che Guevara is probably my favourite socialist freedom fighter because he rode a motorbike like me, however I don’t like Hemingway because to my knowledge he did not ride a motorbike.

Amongst the other occupants of Ernest and Ernesto, was Tom, quickly appropriated as Tom Sr. (my name is also Tom, if you’re reading this and you’re not my mum, so I was Tom Jr.). Tom had lived in Tasmania for all of 80 years, and didn’t usually drink fancy coffee but was impressed by Ernest and Ernesto and thus more than willing to make an exception. He bought me my second doppio and told me about bushfires and floods, his deceased wife, his adult children, working across the nation and across the world. We talked about wars, Winston Churchill, Sugar Ray, and the black dog. Mostly we talked about beef and wool.

In a desperate attempt to seem knowledgeable on the topic, I tried to steer the conversation towards the one thing my dad had taught me about sheep:

A sheep’s penis is called a pizzle.

Tom Sr. : I worked in properties all across NSW. I wanted to fly spitfires, but one day Dad came home from town and told me I was going into the wool industry.

Tom Jr. : Hey Tom! You know how sheeps have penises?

After a considerable amount of caffeine and conversation, it was time to move on. My hands shaking too much to clamp my helmet, I headed south briefly, realised it was the wrong way, and headed West.

It had been almost 12 hours since I’d last had a burger, so I stopped in Deloraine, at a 50’s diner for one. I also had an affogato.

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Leaving Deloraine, I arrived at a fork in the roads. To the right “Paradise -46km”.

“If that’s the road to Paradise” I said, out loud, in a dramatic voice, to myself.

“Then where’s the other road go?”

The answer? Cradle Mountain.

To your average motorist a mountain is a large natural elevation of the earth’s surface rising abruptly from the surrounding level; a large steep hill. But to a motorcyclist, which I am remember, you can’t take that away from me, it means hair pin corners, exorbitant road camber, hard riding, and a trail of cars stuck behind you contemptuously noting that you’re doing corners at a quarter of their speed, because for some reason you’ve chosen a vehicle with half the traction control.

It was half way through Mole Creek, a fraction of the way to Cradle Mountain when the fear began to take hold. Maybe it was the six shots of coffee in Longford, plus the affogato in Deloraine, or maybe it was the realisation that I hadn’t seen another person for over an hour, that I was isolated, alone, on a temperamental beast, and no-one knew where I was.

“Jesus! Bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing, intolerable vibrations in this place“

I pulled over and realised it was truly silent, except of course for the voices in the forests beckoning me. When was the last time I fuelled the bike? How much fuel could this bike even take? What if the low-fuel indicator was broken? And if my phone died? What if I dropped the bike on myself? How long would I wait before cutting through my own legs with the ignition key?

It probably didn’t help that my Tasmania playlist had just been The Deliverance soundtrack on loop for four hours.

Then it started to rain.

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There was only one road to Roseberry; civilisation and fuel, a warm bed and a roof. Just a flat-out high speed burn through Cradle Mountain, West Coast, and Tullah. Teeth chattering, legs slapping the fuel tank, I road alone through wet gravel; my fear of scurvy replaced by a fear of frostbite.

I covered some beautiful country today – the sort of beauty that can’t be expressed in words. From a distance I saw clouds open and pour into valleys, wineries and grazing livestock upon greenery to the horizon.

I probably should have taken some photos.

I also saw this really pretty horse outside of Longford.

Again, I didn’t take a photo.

It was black and white, and shaped like a horse.

Strange memories on this nervous night in Launceston. Has it been five years? Six? It seems like a lifetime. I check my watch. It’s been 7 hours. Still, my mind wanders…

My grandfather, a hard-drinking teutcher maritime sailor with an accent like spayside-scotch used to tell me:

“Aye come here ya wee-laddy. Now, to my knowledge, the only Carl’s Jr in Australia is in the domestic terminal of the Brisbane Airport. So, if you’re ever in the domestic terminal of the Brisbane Airport, be a good lad and make sure you get Carl’s Jr, because you might not be presented that opportunity again any time soon. I pray to God that you’ll live to see a Carl’s Jr open in Logan so you may indulge in their American-style burgers without the need to pass through customs and security, but for the time being that’s not the world we live in“

Carl’s Jr might not be the best burgers in Australia, they might not even crack the top 300, but I’ll be DAMNED if I was going to betray the memory of my pop by not ordering a premium Super-Star with Cheese.

On taking off from the Brisbane Domestic Terminal (Carl’s Jr nesting uneasily in stomach), it’s slightly confronting to consider just how far the suburban neighbourhoods have seeped from the city centre all the way to the tarmacs. It’s almost as if there is some sort of population problem…

…in touching down in Launceston, the ground is littered by the absence of structure, but-for fences, and sheep stuck within these fences. The town of Launceston is not visible from Launceston Airport. I like that. The airport workers have the sort of endearing malaise of shearers in high-vis vests.

On the taxi ride from the airport to my hotel, through the winding forests and city centre, I realise I’m going to fall into a literary sinkhole in writing about Tasmania. It seems like the bulk of travel literature about the state can be surmized in two sentences.

“Well, isn’t this quaint!”

And

“Well geez mister, there sure are a lot of trees!”

My ride pulls past the Bull and Cock Pub, and into the Colonial Hotel, a quaint place of 18th-century brick and period appropriate sensibilities. I walk into my room, drop my luggage and turn on the Tree Channel.

Knolling is the art of laying out the contents of something, usually at 90 degree angles. It’s especially interesting if it is the contents of say, an ambulance, or an entire office building, and you think “gosh, how did they fit all that”. Here is the contents of the bag I’ll be riding around with:

Some items of particular note are:

• Kevlar Riding Pants – If I fall off my ribs will break, but my cuffs will be bone dry;
• T-Shirts (Various Colours) – To hide my nipples;
• A sports jacket – In case I meet royalty;
• A plaid shirt – In case I meet a lumberjack;
• Some hand towels, a toilet roll, various teas and sugars, and a lightbulbs – These are items I brought with me. If I accumulate more over the course of the trip, it’s just because I forgot to take a photo of them here.

In the late afternoon, I decided to leave the room because I am an engaged traveller, and because I needed to buy headphones.

Much can be said of Launceston that can be said about any pre-gentrification regional city – there is an EB Games on the main street, a successful Harvey Norman, and a Myer but no David Jones. The streets are full of genuinely gorgeous buildings, in beautiful cream colours, labelled as pre-20th-century “General Motor Company” or “Wool Industries” or “General Merchants Union Proprietary Limited Trading Company & Old Timey Things Etcetera”.

One thing I did notice is the compulsive usage of the word “National”. I saw the “National Theatre”, “National Library”, and “National Education Centre”, to name a few. I’m not sure if Tasmania thinks it is its own country, or if they just haven’t told anyone from the mainland about this, or if no-one from the mainland has come to check. In either event, I like their gumption.

After wandering the streets and judging the decor, I arrived at JB Hifi. I had to wait 20 minutes for someone to come help me find the headphones I wanted (as in, I was told to wait)!! Then after deciding to just try to find them on my own, they were in a locked cabinet, so I waited another fifteen minutes before just leaving the store!!!

Then I went next door to Officeworks, where I got the same headphones for two dollars less, and in a transaction that took three minutes all up. They also had one pack of tic-tacs for sale. Real bargain if you’re in the area.

In closing, this:

On my mum’s side I have a buxom great aunt who, when she wasn’t boozing or working on her impressions of Saturday Night Live Characters, would lament:

“Tom, in every regional centre in the world, there is a burger joint founded by the hipsters who never moved to the big city – now we mustn’t judge them for this, some people don’t like big cities, or have sick parents, or don’t like crowds. Anyway, these burger joints, that serve horrible craft beer and have a predilection for bad spray paint, are entirely unique to each of their respective towns. So, if you’re ever in a regional city, such as say, Launceston, make sure you go to these burger joints“

And I’d say

“But Aunty, what if I had Carl’s Jr for lunch! Two burgers in one day!?”

And then my face would sting, for she had slapped me hard.

Launceston is a beautiful city by the bay (it looks a bit like a creek, but there are seagulls, so I’m not sure). Like any city of its sized, I’m sure if I dug deep enough I would find an amphetamine problem, regional theatre, and small collects of dungeons and dragons enthusiast. But being as it is, and as an aspiring travel writer, I hesitate to judge any place by what I haven’t seen (I can do that from the comfort of home).

Launceston – come for the quaintness, leave because it’s time to see some trees.