Skip to main content

As always, the British especially shudder at the latest American vulgarity, and then they embrace it with enthusiasm two years later.


Why is there a lion on the Tasmanian flag? Mount Nelson Signal Station, Mount Nelson. March 2011.

Mount Nelson is a suburb of the city of Hobart, Tasmania, Australia. Its name would suggest that it is located upon a mountain, but you’ve not reckoned with the cunning logic of Tasmanians.

Now, there is no universally accepted definition of a mountain. The Oxford English Dictionary defines a mountain as
a natural elevation of the earth surface rising more or less abruptly from the surrounding level and attaining an altitude which, relatively to the adjacent elevation, is impressive or notable.
Strictly speaking, Mount Nelson is not much of a mountain. Given that Mount Wellington towers over it right next door, I’m not sure it’s visage is either impressive or notable. Indeed, its highest peak is a measly 350 metres above sea level.


The view of South Arm Peninsula and beyond. Mount Nelson Signal Station, Mount Nelson. March 2011.

Mount Nelson was originally named Nelson's Hill – a far more appropriate name – by noted subject of revolts, Captain William Bligh (think mutiny on the Bounty/Rum Rebellion). The Nelson is not THE Nelson though, it actually refers to David Nelson, local brothel keeper and night soil collector chief Botanist of the Bounty mission. The name 'Nelson's Hill' was later altered to Mount Nelson, no doubt to assuage any feelings of inadequacy.

The station itself was used to keep an eye on traffic coming up the Derwent Estuary, and send/receive messages down to Port Arthur (usually relating to the behaviour of one Martin Cash).


the view from within the Signal Station itself. Mount Nelson Signal Station, Mount Nelson. March 2011.

The Signal Station itself is about the size of a (very small) front room you might find in a Victorian terrace house. I’m sure that it must have been quite dull sitting up there in the pre- Internet PC television radio telephone telegraph.

Comments

Roddy said…
The intrepid mountaineer. I'm sure you have to start small.
I am enthralled by your history lesson, as with your photography.
Kris McCracken said…
It's a nice spot.
Roddy said…
Yes. I like it!
Chris Rees said…
I like to think that the expedition to conquer and name Mts Nelson and Stuart were home in time for lunch.
Kris McCracken said…
It's quite a nice spot for a picnic, really.

Popular posts from this blog

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral