Adrenaline. As the vessel tilted to an inconceivable angle, my dainty size fours embedded themselves desperately within the depths of the craft. My fingers involuntarily shot out before me, gripping that vivacious tour guide in this unexpected territory of accelerated uncertainty. Moments on and regrettably, we were sent soaring over a seven foot waterfall. I wasn't expecting that at all.
I was soon swamped by a chorus of burly bursts of merriment. A chicken heart, perhaps? In self-defence this scene is a far cry from normality for me.
Tasmania ain’t all that cuckoo, in more far-flung, idyllic and rural areas, outlandish and tranquil villages pepper the wilds, welcoming to any pleasure-monger in quest for a interval of relief or mere relaxation. Positive, you’ll only come across the peculiar farmer and cluster of sheep.
Reality emerged and I’m yelping as a pack of lunatic Tasmanians gawk at me - somewhat bewildered I should imagine. Regardless, a modest grin broke across my face with a sense of pride and relief – mainly relief, after withstanding the mass of River Franklin. At least until we were slammed into the face of a cliff. Gee, thanks.
Nevertheless we were now floating down a soothing waterway. “Get me as far away from this damn dinghy as possible.” My target in life was apparently to encounter heart-stirring commotion, without actually moving from my settee. No question. A rendezvous with distress was never part and parcel of the plan.
Having survived this boulder-laden onslaught, with nothing less than a hairstyle that could give Alice Cooper a run for his money, water-filled boots and an irrepressible incentive to down a few cans of Fosters', surrendering to this testosterone-fuelled hysteria, I felt in touch with nature. Well, in touch in the what-the-hell-is-that-bug-on-my-arm sense.
I evaded from the horror, stalked by a swarm of peeving mozzies with a communal buzz of “blimey!” and “ya' drongo, what a ripper that was!” to stable turf.
As much as this wasn't my sphere, it took minimal effort to establish why a tremendous 200,000 tourists are scrapping the motel and shopping drill in order to flee to the electrifying sanctuary of a pint-sized Tasmania, despite being so hidden amongst the clatter of its renowned 'let's put a shrimp on the barbie' next-door neighbour.
The posterior day, we rolled along a meandering track, predominantly teemed with the glowing locality Tasmania holds so well. Sure, there are a few dillusional Japanese voyagers dotted amongst the locality, but they somehow integrate into this neck of the woods. Rapidly, I recognised they were unquestionably high on the sight of Mount Ossa, towering a 'bloody brilliant' 1617 metres above my 5'9 figure. Well, I never was tall.
The summit of this divine sculpture is where things really get bonkers: on any day of the year, globetrotters may stomach all four seasons in the period of one hour. If you're a Scotland aficionado, you'll love it up there. Ossa is a certain Mecca for those muscular, red-blooded types such as the leader of my group, Anthony, who marches alongside me, belching occassionally, and bellowing callow wind-related jokes.
We disperse to roam a kaleidoscope of zestful luminosity and grand landscapes, man-made trails steer us past a world of fertile and cultivated territories, to petite sleepy tropical lagoons, in the space of a mere three hours' ranging – with the odd stop for a few cheeky sips of cider – Tasmania's finest, of course.
Tassie's notable stretch of rugged rafting shenanigans may nauseate you to death, but its primal rainforests, reclusive shaded bays and dynamic ambience should be enough reason for you to lace up your boots and ransack this ol' cheese.
