Skip to main content

The deeper the experience of an absence of meaning - in other words, of absurdity - the more energetically meaning is sought.


Mussels, seaweed and a mountain. Little Howrah Beach, April 2011.

You can get a reasonable sense of Hobart from Little Howrah Beach. On the right, you can see Bellerive Bluff on Hobart’s eastern shore. Look closely and you will see the triumphant light towers of Bellerive Oval, home of the all-conquering Tasmanian Tigers.™

Behind that, and across the Derwent River Estuary, you can see Hobart’s western shore nestled in the foothills of what eventually rises up to Mount Wellington, which tends to dominate the vista of the city (except on cloudy days).

You can see the Sullivans Cove and Hobart’s waterfront area at centre-right of the picture, with the imposing flourishing meagre scant spattering of large buildings sitting just behind it. Shifting further left you’ll see Battery Point, Sandy Bay, Lower Sandy Bay across to Taroona on the left of the image.

At the extreme left you can just about see Long Beach – home of the ‘big Park’ – which has featured prominently on the blog, as the fancy-pants playground is surrounded by a nice bit of flat just right for tearing about on scooters.


Mussels and a mountain. Who ate all the seaweed? Little Howrah Beach, April 2011.

Comments

smudgeon said…
Best views of Hobart (along with those from Mt Wellington summit) are from Little Howrah Beach.

Nice weed.
Hi! Kris...
What very beautiful photographs Of
Mussels, seaweed and a mountain at Little Howrah Beach.
Thanks, for sharing the quote too!
DeeDee ;-D
Roddy said…
Who's tourist brochure are you reading from? You amaze me with the amount of useful information in your meagre brain.
Carola said…
Wonderful photos and a great quote.
Kris McCracken said…
Me, best crabbing beach in Hobart too, don’t forget! BTW, that last comment sounds like Tommy Chong.

DeeDee, always a pleasant morning there. We stop off at the French patisserie (Jen and Hen) and the Japanese bakery (Ez and I) on the way back.

Roddy, my own.

Carola, in some places it’s almost impossible to take a bad photo.

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