My Sister and Me (And Trevor Makes Three) The latest in a series of Short Stories by would-be Travel Writer Michael Musgrave On board the “Orion” Gourmet Food & Wine Expedition Cruise from Hobart to Sydney in March 2007
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The picture of Annie on the front page of this story reminds me of an old black and white photograph of her as a three year old sitting cross-legged on the back lawn of our house in bayside Redcliffe. Growing up, I remember kids from the Far West Children’s Homes coming to Redcliffe for their first-ever view of the sea. And now, sixty years later, Annie is going to sea for the first time, just as excited and wide-eyed, with Trevor and me. What better first time ‘going to sea’ experience than on this Gourmet Food and Wine Expedition on the 100 metre ocean-going mega yacht “Orion” around the Tasmanian West Coast and up to Sydney? Annie is nearly beside herself at the first sight of the “Orion” docked at Princes Wharf in Hobart as we drop by early to off-load our luggage. My ever-composed brother-in-law Trevor contains his excitement until I order a second cup of coffee after lunch when he pipes up with “Can we go yet?” A quaint twist on the grandchildren’s impatient “Are we there yet?” Before sailing there’s the usual fire drill in the Lounge but unlike my “Orion” Kimberley cruise in the North West of Australia last May, I notice that the chairs in the Lounge are anchored to the floor. I keep my own counsel but secretly wonder what this may portend for these waters of the Great Southern Ocean and the notorious Bass Strait. At Fire Drill, we meet dapper Daniel and Roger, short-cropped Jac and Jill, with faces like so many Irish nuns we’ve known in our lifetime and other interesting characters with stories yet to unfold. At the Sail Away celebration on the Sun Deck, I see Leo Schofield at the rail nursing a glass of bubbly and take Anne and Trevor over to meet him. Annie’s pleased to introduce herself to the celebrated chef Serge Dansereau, noted providore Simon Johnson and Tasmanian winemaker Andrew Hood. What a food and wine spectacular this is already shaping up to be! Trevor’s already caught the eye of another guest who compliments him on the colour of his pink shirt. Or is it the colour of Trevor’s eyes?
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Very snug beneath my crisp white cotton doona, I’m not worrying that sleep is avoiding me. The ship is rocking and rolling as we sail along the southern coast of Tasmania with nothing between us and Antarctica. Pulling the curtains back at three in the morning expecting to view mammoth waves crashing over us, all that I see is a full moon dancing on a shining sea. No waves, just a slight swell. Why the rock ‘n roll? Why does my whole torso feel like a lump of wellkneaded dough with every roll of the ship? Still sleepless at sunrise, I go up on deck. Ronald, the ever-attentive Filipino bar steward from my Kimberleys Expedition is there with a mug of ginger tea – he thinks I might need it. He is one good reason for returning to sail on the “Orion”. Tracy, the Hotel Manager on board tells me that forty of the one hundred passengers on this expedition are also repeat customers. Not bad, eh? Our first port of call is the sheltered inlet of Bathurst Harbour at Port Davey in the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage area. There has been minimal human impact to the environment here as it is virtually inaccessible other than by sea. The waters of Port Davey are part of an amazing and unique ecosystem with layer upon layer of different densities and temperatures of salt and fresh water which are home to a fascinating array of marine and aquatic life. Respecting environmental concerns, “Orion” does not sail up into Bathurst Harbour as it would upset the delicate balance of this bio-diversity. I board the first zodiac with Expedition Leader, Justin and the local Pilot, Murray. The experience is one of “absolute remoteness”. We head off in ‘as good as it gets’ sunshine but that quickly turns to a downpour and then more sunshine. As one of the last land masses to break away from the Gondwana super continent, Tasmania’s geology bears a strong similarity to geological formations found in Antarctica. There are examples here of dolerite rock in the shape of organ pipes similar to Mt Heading off in our zodiacs up Bathurst Harbour in ‘as good as it Wellington which we visited in gets’ sunshine Hobart a couple of days ago, and the top of the famous Tasmanian Cradle Mountain. We see few trees growing only on protected north-facing sides of mountains; otherwise no more than grasses survive the onslaught of the winds above the rocky shores laced with bull kelp. A few adventurous yachtsmen seek shelter in the little coves and are rewarded with beautiful white beaches all to themselves. Returning to the ship heading into the wind and rain, I’m sitting crouched at the front of the zodiac bouncing across the waves against the current. The true meaning of wilderness comes to me as the wind whips up, skies leaden, and rain pelts down. The whole world
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becomes grey. Rain and small hail-stones sting my face like a spray of pellets. I put my tongue out to taste it. I’m cramped, wet and shivering. Ahh! A pot of blue appears; clouds dissipate; sun beams through; and colour returns to the windswept, almost tree-less landscape. Now for a spot of lunch on the back deck.
The true meaning of wilderness . . . . the whole world becomes grey
We set out into the swell and another moonlit night on the Great Southern Ocean, but no amount of Ronald’s kindness nor mugs of ginger tea, Stemetil or magnetic wrist bands can save me from the sea sickness that befalls me immediately prior to the Captain’s Cocktail Party. Annie thinks that the conveniently placed sea-sickness bags all along the corridors are for your digital photo prints as advertised on the outside. After ribbing her, little did I expect that I’d be racing into the corridor in my undies an hour later to fetch one! I wasn’t the only one sick. Half the ship missed the Captain’s Cocktail and Welcome Dinner that night. While I was throwing up (only once mind you and after which I felt instantly better), Trevor was teaming up with the celebrity Tasmanian winemaker Andrew Hood in the Galaxy Lounge winning the first round of Trivia and a bottle of champagne. After such activity, we welcome a day at sea to hear the on-board ‘Foodie’ celebrities ‘strut their stuff’. There’s still some rock ’n roll as we head up the west coast of Tasmania, but most stomachs have adjusted enough to attend the session on the ‘Organoleptic Assessment of Virgin Olive Oils’ (to learn how to appreciate good and bad olive oil!) as told by Providore Simon Johnson. Unless you enjoyed castor oil and orange juice as a child, you would have experienced some difficulty if you imbibed rather than sluicing and aerating the warmed olive oil in your mouth before spitting it out. (Trevor spluttered and nearly choked on one.) I suppose I could detect the smell of ‘green and grassy’, taste the ‘banana on the palate’ and feel ‘peppery on the throat’. I also learn that green is no benchmark of a good olive oil but more that leaves have been left in the pressing. The best time to press an olive is when it is turning from a green to an aubergine colour. But I don’t have to worry about any of that. I just have to shop at Simon Johnson’s.
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Understanding a bit more about olive oils was interesting but Simon’s showcase of Australian and imported cheeses later in the cruise were quite inspirational. I know what pleases my palate but after listening to him I feel a lot more confident about what to ask for and probably a lot less likely to baulk at what appears to be a big price tag. I now know how to choose a ripe Rebluchon that when cut will roll out in the shape of a lovely woman’s breast, but I’m more likely to look for the cloth-bound cheddar that’s been painstakingly brushed turned and washed over the two years of maturation. Heaven forbid I even look at waxed packaged cheddar! After today, I will ‘pick’ nuggets from a block of parmesan (rather than cut it) to enjoy the explosions of salt and calcium crystals on my palate. I also now know that a good hostess does not add kiwifruit and strawberries to a fine cheese platter – as Simon says “it is not fruit salad.” Serge Dansereau, the consultant chef for “Orion” and celebrity chef owner of Sydney’s famous Bathers Pavilion on harbourside Balmoral Beach, shares his knowledge of shellfish in the Tasmanian
Serge Danserau and Simon Johnson
waters and then provides a welcome sampling plate of scallops, mussels, baby clams and abalone. Not many Australians eat abalone yet forty percent of the world’s catch comes from these waters. I also learn that the lovely white scallops without the orange roe are not a result of being stripped of the rich delicacy. The flat shell scallop from Tasmania has this orange roe, and the scoop-shaped shell further up the east coast does not! Shellfish 'tasting plate'
Tasmania has four major wine-growing regions specialising in cool-climate wines, most of which are white. Good Pinot Noir varieties are also produced. Before boarding the ship we toured through the vineyards in the scenic Coal River Valley just twenty minutes out of Hobart with a delicious lunch of local delicacies at Meadowbank Winery. Tasmanian winemaker Andrew Hood is on board to talk about the characteristics of the various wines and I learn even more botanical reasons to appreciate them. In the tastings I learn that the Sauvignon Blanc has grassy, guava and lantana characteristics. (Have you ever smelled a freshly pruned lantana hedge?) Another had tomato vine characteristics. But the best descriptors were kept for the Riesling which can range from floral and rose
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petals, to pine needles and . . . kerosene. I order a bottle of Andrew’s Ice Riesling after dinner and am pleasantly surprised how much I enjoy this lower alcohol dessert wine – not like some botrytis that can be “sickly sweet and mawkish.” You all know what mawkish means of course. Annie lost no time in sharing with Serge and Simon her planned menu for the luncheon she is staging for a dozen of my friends when I visit the Gold Coast at the end of the
month. Simon recommends changes to vary not only taste and texture but also temperature of the planned dishes. Her chilled spanner crab panacotta survived, but a roasted rack of veal served warm has now replaced the planned cold poached chicken. The passion, energy and zest for life of these guys have also given me time for musing. Perhaps I’m becoming too complacent and slipping into a less than active retirement mentality. Serge’s passion extends past being the best restaurateur. He encourages and supports small primary producers to grow the best meat and vegetables; he also writes his own books and even takes his own food photographs. He went off to photography school in between making stock in the morning and serving his famous dégustation menus at the Bathers Pavilion in the evening. I’ve dabbled in writing for so long and have recently started adding my own mediocre photographs. I better find a course in publishing soon. Does this mean an Apple Mac is in the offing too? Simon operates a huge importing and distribution business in quality food items, many of which are imported from Europe. He revels in dealing with suppliers and selecting the right product for clients in his providoring empire throughout Australia. He is now expanding into the UK and the US. Talking to him takes me back to my old tour operating days developing products and opening new destinations around the world. Journalist, columnist and restaurant critic Leo Schofield bloviates (an apposite word he introduced while being a panelist on the “Liar, Liar” game on board one evening) about his next trip to Paris, the restaurants and books he’s reviewing and the column he has to file by this evening in his role as Editor-at-Large for Australian Gourmet Traveller. I
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wonder if I’m a tad envious. And perhaps I’m starting to sound the same way with all the travel stories I’m bombarding my friends with of late. Was this initial ‘awakening from complacent retirement’ prompted through my witnessing the passion and energy of Phil Asker (the founder of Captain’s Choice Tours and leader of our recent Mekong Adventure), and remembering my deep involvement in tour operations through most of my working lifetime? I have nil desire to return to the workforce in any capacity, but some social stimulation with more active kindred spirits may not be a bad idea. Robert Lee, an old friend from London days has been encouraging me to ‘semi-fictionalise’ my stories to expand their appeal to a wider audience. These guys on board give me inspiration to get off my butt and find a way. There has to be a better way than email to share or publish my stories. There’s a further challenge to get my teeth in to. Our next port of call is King Island situated to the top left of the map of Tasmania. It extends for seventy kilometres across the Bass Strait and is battered year round by the Roaring Forties, the ever-present Westerlies that circle the world’s southern latitudes. Many a poor migrant from England and Ireland was drowned in shipwrecks on its shores in the early days of white settlement. Today we’re having our first real ‘wet landing’ of the cruise. A scout boat sets off from the ship to go ashore and check on conditions. Annie is ready on deck in her pink ‘Mary Jane Crocs’ (plastic shoes) with her hat tied around her neck and life vest snug to her breasts. An exciting ride as the zodiac bounces over the swell till we reach the calm behind the breakwater and slide over into the shallows at the beach. Annie is beside herself with her sailor’s prowess - wait till this afternoon! Adrian, the ever-loquacious but wellmeaning bus driver is a King Island resident of thirty years and seems determined to show us every black stump and air every local political grievance of his beautiful home. Cattle shelter behind thick ti-tree hedges feeding on the lush grass that is the secret to the succulent local beef, rich cream and world-beating hand made cheeses. King Island Cheese, the iconic Australian cheese-making business has recently been bought by San Miguel the Filipino business conglomerate, much to the ire of the locals. (We’re seeing a more widespread but similar reaction by many Australians to the recently approved Private Equity takeover of our iconic national carrier, Qantas.) Crayfishermen and abalone divers harvest rich catches from the sea while other residents gather the bull kelp tossed on shore by storms and send it to Scotland for processing into natural gelatine used in so many food products like ice cream, beer and pharmaceuticals. We all enjoy sampling the delicious local cheeses and yoghurt at the King Island Dairy, but then make protracted stops in the little town of Currie and at the local Museum where Annie turns the hymnal pages on the old organ and finds one (a hymn) even for circumcision. There’s everything here. No one from the ship seems to want to get the show back on the road, so we finally arrive at the planned luncheon stop on the other side of the rather bland island by afternoon tea time. The local oysters are plump, creamy and
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delicious, and the crayfish were clearly swimming this morning – all are so fresh. But I’m cranky at the disorganisation. Imagine Annie’s moment of fear returning to the ship approaching the Marina Deck. She’s holding on for grim death to the ropes of her zodiac bobbing and bucking in a huge swell and wondering how in God’s name she’s going to step off onto the landing deck with her ‘gammy’ titanium leg. The captain has the thrusters working only on one side of the ship to lessen the roll but this doesn’t stop the deck rising and falling metres and at times showing the underside of the ship. Annie couldn’t take in that the manoeuvre was being run like a military operation with two burly sailors in the zodiac and two more on the deck poised to lift her (and others) on board to safety at the right moment. O ye of little faith. Peter, the 140 kg, one-legged rascal from Brisbane places his faith in others and comes aboard smiling. The ‘six degrees of separation’ we are all experiencing on this cruise is so uncanny. Trevor and Jane Wholohan (of ‘Jac and Jill’ fame on the first day) are both retired from lifetime careers as educationists and university administrators in different states. How strange when they discover they both shared a friendship and worked with the same Dean of Education at different universities so far apart in time and geography. Jane may have had the visage of an Irish nun, but as a non-Catholic the closest she came to the nuns was when she was sent to a Catholic school in Paddington ‘for her betterment’ and was taught by Sister Mary Seraphim. She was expelled unfortunately when there were insufficient places for Catholic children in the school – unless she ‘turned’! But she didn’t. Annie struck up a wonderful friendship with Patricia Shaw, the author of eighteen historical Australian novels that have been published in twelve languages. It transpires that her daughter has just purchased an apartment in ‘Chardonnay Palms’ down the street from her and Trevor at the Gold Coast and they will be near neighbours. Angelina the purser on the ship was pulling her long blonde hair out wondering how she knew my face. We finally fathomed that she is a fellow Potts Point resident, and when she was concierge at Pomeroy in Potts Point, Hilary Shekleton had introduced me. It’s that effect I have on women! I was speaking to Graeme (Alvin Purple) Blundell about my trip to India next month and my plans to include a few days in Simla at the foot of the Himalayas. His wife, Susan Kurosawa editor of the Travel Section in The Australian finds Simla to be one of her favourite places in India. In fact she wrote her last novel there over many visits. I’ve ordered a copy at Lesley Mackay Bookshop in Potts Point to collect on my return home. Almost too much excitement, so I decide to cancel my shore excursion to the wineries in the Tamar Valley around Launceston and have a day of rest. The thought of more wine
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(and in the morning to boot) just doesn’t appeal. Instead I take the coach to town with Anne and Trev and make the pilgrimage to the Tasmanian Design Centre. It has Australia’s only museum collection of contemporary wood design and a wonderful range of crafts by prominent Tasmanian designers. Little fanfare heralded the special Gourmet Dinner on board and I think I appeared at the Captain’s Table (minus the elusive youngish German captain) unshaven. “Orion” food consultant Serge left the menu to the Executive Chef Lothar tonight and it was simply exquisite. More lobster, this time freshly cooked and still warm, strangely but not unpleasantly with olive oil. Lothar gave me the secret of his lobster cooking technique the next day. I don’t know where he sourced the barramundi but I’ve never tasted better. Showtime was delayed by more than an hour as the guests just didn’t want to leave the dining room. Jill and David toddled off declaring the evening sans pareil. I gave the entertainment a miss as I was perversely looking forward to rock ‘n roll under the doona and the splash of the waves on my window to put me to sleep. Pangs of guilt win out over the wished-for lulling to sleep by the waves. It’s Lent. And here I lie sated on my crisp white linen pillowcase in a queen-size bed in a Junior Suite denying myself nothing. My only sacrifice is my head facing the pointy end of the ship and being forced to look at an infernal vase of fake white flowers glued to the surface of the polished cabinetry at the foot of the bed. We’re told to go quietly “into the wilderness” for periods during these 40 days of Lent and He will find us. I let Him know where I was here on the lonely seas but I can’t recall any moments of His finding me. I’ll really have to work hard on my spiritual self in the run-up to Easter when I get back to Sydney. I’ll have to give up more than sex, and sugar in my tea, because I haven’t done either since school days. My planned lie-in at Flinders Island is sorely interrupted as the anchor rolls out noisily seemingly from under my bed. Get up for breakfast Michael. Can’t you hear the chickens? Your plump poached eggs await you in the Constellation dining room. The lure of those softly poached golden yolks is too powerful to ignore. So, once again, sleepless at sunrise, I’m up and at it. It’s time I started writing anyway. Michael with the orange lichen on Flinders Island
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The pen can wait – a bit of exercise in the fresh air ashore appeals. Brilliant sunshine accentuates the colours in the turquoise waters and orange lichen on the rocks as we sit on the side of the zodiac for the ride ashore to Trousers Point. Flinders Island is on the eastern end of Bass Strait and was probably part of the land bridge which joined Tasmania to the mainland before the melting of ice after the last ice age. Too breezy to swim, we take off on a walk over the ridges of granite, many of them covered with the orange lichen that make up about a third of the island. Lush and bushy, but low-growing Casuarina mixes with low level coastal vegetation of various ‘alpine’ colours. Millions of small pesky flies attach themselves to our clothing and up our nostrils. Keep your mouth closed too!
Annie, Jill and Teddy
The rocky peaks of Mt Strezelecki rising out of the sparkling waters of the bay provide a stunning backdrop for our lunch outdoors on the aft deck of the ship. Forget the umbrellas. We all don hats and sunscreen and revel in the glorious weather while we eat. Our waist lines are shot after this week of exquisite dining so back for the sweets, and back for the triple cream blue cheese, and what the heck – dip those freshly cooked sugared doughnut sticks in the bowl of chocolate to accompany our coffee.
We weigh anchor and set out for the homeward journey northwards toward the Australian mainland across a balmy Bass Strait. Who would guess that this was the same stretch of treacherous sea that claims so many of the participants in the annual Sydney to Hobart Yacht race? How many withdraw each year and put into Eden with tattered sails and broken masts? After a calm night at sea being entertained at the Crew Concert, we put in to Eden too and tie up at the dock amongst the fishing trawlers.
A little ‘dressing up’ at the Crew Concert. “We still call ‘Orion’ home”
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This fishing, whaling and timber town on the south coast of New South Wales has the third deepest port in the world. We are greeted by the local tourist association with hats and gifts but an even greater attraction is the bronzed oyster farmers Greg and Andy from Pambula who have come to the wharf with a bag of their freshly shucked Pacific oysters for us to taste. I lost count at twelve! (Annie was still going.) Andy is experimenting with the currently unfashionable native Australian Angassi variety, which is similar to the famous prized French Belon oyster. He is keen to expand his business by exporting to Dubai. True to form, Serge is impressed with the quality of Andy’s oysters and is ready to give of his experience and assist him to perfect his product offering.
The three of us sampling oysters with the growers Andy and Greg on the wharf at Eden
A free shuttle bus is laid on for a little drive around a very tidy town in a spectacular natural setting of coastline, harbours and lakes. There’s no sign of drought here. The grass is so green and it provides a vivid contrast with the blue of the sea and sky. This very short experience has me wanting to come back. Half way through lunch, I leave my hot leg ham on the plate to get on deck and see us pull away from our berth in Snug Cove and sail out through the spectacular Twofold Bay. Pencil-thin lines of white sand divide bush and sea around the circumference of this vast harbour. Now for a Saturday afternoon sail up the east coast to Sydney. I take to the bed for one last nap. If I have another morsel of delicious food or a glass of fine wine on this cruise I’ll simply expire. Lulled to sleep by the waves, I’m awakened by a knocking at the cabin door and Annie is there with a summons to join the boys and girls at the Captain’s Table for a farewell dinner. Some other passengers were none too happy to find our little band of Michael, Annie, Simon and Trevor ‘Final Night’ cognoscenti chic already ensconced when the doors of the dining room opened. Then upstairs to the farewell “Slide Night” where we imbibe even more as Anne and David
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watch in feigned horror at holiday slides of their double chins and podgy arms flashed on screen for all to see, and laugh at. I rise before dawn and see the lights of Sydney on the port side from out at sea looking much the same as from a plane. It takes a few minutes to discern the blacker spots that must be the entrance between North and South Head and I know I have time to shower before getting back on deck.
Having never sailed into Sydney Harbour on an ocean liner, I’ve been looking forward to this as much as anything else on the cruise. As the sun rises out of the ocean behind us, we sail through the Heads with Serge’s Bathers Pavilion ahead of us on the shores of Balmoral Beach. The slow procession down the harbour as the day brightens is dramatic but the real Finale is kept for our turn around the Bradley’s Head lighthouse where there in front of us the sun is glistening off the glass facades of the skyscrapers of the City and the sails of the Opera House. The panorama picture postcard is completed with a huge white Silverseas cruise liner almost touching the roadway of the Harbour Bridge above as it turns into its berth at Circular Quay. How lucky we are to arrive at the optimum time and on such a perfectly sunny morning. The party’s over. We’ve enjoyed some wonderful food, made terrific new friends, but now its time for the three of us to ‘batten down the hatches’ at home in Elizabeth Bay, find our land legs and get some rest.
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