Approximately 119 days ago I was transported to a distant land – a land where wombats roam, a land surrounded by a sea where sedentary molluscs are plucked from their home and loving families and placed into my mouth in a number of delicious varieties. Ironically chasing the doomed bivalves down my gullet was the “water of life” or whisky. So. Much. Whisky. This was my honeymoon as told in the style of Peter Jackson (split up into unnecessary parts and with Andy Serkis wearing a skintight suit covered in ping pong balls eating raw fish).
I guess it all started waaay back at the Big Bang. I remember it clearly, I was sitting on the couch not laughing and my now wife groaned “No, I’m not watching the Big Bang Theory”. This was one of the reasons I married her, so we decided to talk about our bridal tour and quickly decided that we would go to Tasmania. It seemed logical as I enjoyed a few other Mania’s – most notably Wrestlemania, but unlike my misspent childhood this would not be an oiled-up, underpants laden grapple-fest. Or would it?
As soon as my +1 and I stepped off the plane we realized something was different. People were polite and accommodating, even at the airport. This immediately put me on guard, “why are they being so friendly” I asked myself out loud and in a deliberate American accent. Nobody answered.
Soon the niceties were over as my +1 and I were fangin’ it to Freycinet to see a bay in the shape of a wineglass and become acquainted with its real-life namesake. We stopped to take some pictographs and vowed that if we saw somewhere advertising the best ‘insert food here’ we would stop and make that decision for ourselves. Unfortunately, it seems Tasmanians are a humble bunch and we arrived at the lodge, hungry.
After inspecting our room (spreading our clothes all over it and drinking the welcome champagne) we decided on dinner and more drinks. I took a full memory card worth of photos of a Wallaby named Walter and we became best friends. After creating a secret human/macropod handshake we said goodbye and skipped down to the restaurant in anticipation of everything. Drinks were had, the sunset was watched and we discussed married couple topics such as our zombie escape plan and which physical attributes we would want our future children to have. A tough choice considering my androgynous appearance, it was at that moment I decided to grow some facial hair.
As dinner started it was obvious that everything about the meal was delightful – the service, wine and food. I realized that this was the meaning of life and began a relentless, week-long consumption of all oyster-kind. My day had consisted of a long drive, a stunning sunset, tasty wine and a dozens of oysters. I’d had enough of that shit and went to bed. Day 1 was complete. Oh and whisky was involved, but it always is.
The next 2 days were a song from Blur, I remember yelling Woohoo and pretended I knew what was going on for the rest of the time. There was good weather, not so good weather, beautiful scenery and old people a plenty. It seemed like the kind of place God would visit on holidays when he wasn’t smiting. He could go kayaking instead. With a belly full of oysters and smile on our face we said goodbye to Walter and decided to fang it to our next destination – Cradle Mountain. There may have been some oysters smuggled in a handbag. In hindsight, not a great road trip snack. This concludes the first part of my memoir. Stay vigilantly tuned for the next enthralling episode. Or not.