Take me to Dee River

Before you ask: no, we didn't go to Cradle Mountain. And no, we didn't go to Wineglass Bay. And no, we didn't go to Port Arthur. We did go to Hobart, and what little we saw of it was spine-tinglingly lovely. I ate some pretty spectacular French toast there. So yes, my quizzically-expressioned friend, we were in Tasmania. Stop shaking your head like that for a moment and put those eyebrows down. Just listen.

"Oohh, taaake me to Dee River... The River Dee is a tributary of the Derwent River in Tasmania. It flows into the Dee Lagoon. We will stay in dodgy motels, sing songs, eat cheese, drink wine, and once there you will, as Mr Green commands, cleanse your soul (and soles) in preparation for hitting 30 and starting a whole new chapter in life."

So in other words, blame Kat.

I'm kidding, of course. It turns out that sometimes best friends need a push to actually spend some proper quality time together. It's insane that the three of us have never taken a holiday on our own before, but now we live in separate cities, with separate lives, and we see each other only on sporadic transitory weekends. This had to be the most random and wonderful excuse for a 'girly' weekend ever.

The motel was not dodgy. In fact it wasn't even a motel. It was an 1840's charming stone cottage, with large airy rooms decked out in period furniture, free range eggs in the fridge and a loaf of homemade bread with jams lovingly provided.

The back garden was amazing - a treasure trove of fruit and vegetables at our disposal meant we had fresh mulberries at breakfast. And lunch. And dinner.

We settled down in the town of Hamilton (that's my maiden name. Geddit? Oh never mind), one with a tiny population, big beautiful hillscapes, a historic church and a goat I decided to name Engelbert.

Anyway. On Saturday morning we woke up to a fresh 13° c (while back home, Sydney was sweltering in the heatwave of the decade, enduring 42° c). This was the day. I suited up and we headed off into the relative wilderness looking for Dee River. Apparently there is even a place named Dee! I hoped for a sign that welcomed me personally.

About an hour into the drive, we saw a 'Dee River' sign and pulled over to take our first glance at it. A rocky stream bubbled past under the bridge. It looked friendly. We vowed to come back here if we were unable to find a more suitable launching point.

Eventually we turned off onto a dirt road - but shh, don't tell the hire car company - and bumped along it, fumbling with a map. We drove through a cluster of holiday homes which were possibly the aforementioned township of Dee, and there she was, the great Lagoon, on our left.


Dee Lagoon: your fate awaits you.

I'm totally in the Lagoon named after me. Ridiculous, but true. I flailed for a couple of minutes; my feet sinking into the oozy swamp mud. Mel joined me in solidarity. Then we toweled off, went back to the cottage and got drunk on cheese. Victory.