|The heathland around our cottage|
|The back of our cottage|
|More of the heathland around us|
All of which probably explains what happened last night.
Strahan, for those who don’t know, is on the west coast of Tasmania, in the path of the Roaring Forties, the westerly winds that sweep around the world interrupted only by the tip of South America, New Zealand’s south island — and Tasmania.
Winds arrive in Strahan uninterrupted from Tierra del Fuego, or thereabouts.
Which probably explains why, in the middle of the night, I awoke to feel my bed shaking. Literally shaking. The thunder banged, the rain battered the walls and bushes hammered at the house. The walls moved. They shuddered and the floor shuddered with them, shaking the bed. Shaking me awake.
I was petrified…
However, the house prevailed, and all was well come morning. If cold. Minimum 4 degrees, maximum 10c. The wind straight from the Roaring Forties. Hail and sunshine, both. Glorious rainforest. One of the world’s most glorious wilderness areas.
Oh, and I bumped into a friend from my home town and Worldcon… in a sawmill. And then again at a totally deserted airport where we went to find a (mythical?) ground parrot. Helen, don’t tell me you were also there to track down the elusive parrot?