A man is his own easiest dupe, for what he wishes to be true he generally believes to be true.

Melting moments. Hastings Cave, Huon Valley. June 2011.

Now these caves started to form around forty million years ago, but seemed to be unseen until 1917, when forest workers knocked down a bloody great big tree and knocked a great big hole in the ground to reveal an entrance. As usual, they named the bugger after the governor of the time who never bothered to visit.

Mud from the mid-1960s. Hastings Cave, Huon Valley. June 2011.

The cave itself is a decent size with a bit of light. There are a bunch of stairs that can get pretty steep, but Ezra managed to them just fine. Formed in dolomite, this cave is a bit different from the usual limestone around these parts. Despite being the middle of winter, underground is pretty nice, with the temperature a comfortable nine degrees Celsius.

Comments

Roddy said…

It was quite comfortable, but I don't think I could handle the dampness.

13 June 2011 at 16:37

Kris McCracken said…

It was very dry consider the days of rain preceding it.

13 June 2011 at 18:27

Roddy said…

Somehow I think the bearskins would soak up any moisture that may be around. No wonder there are no koala bears in Tasmania.

13 June 2011 at 20:24

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

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

This will hurt me...

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