Small World

We're now in Hobart having travelled from Launceston via Strahan on the west coast over the last couple of days. I've had one or two Wordsworthian moments in the process, especially at Cradle Mountain. We didn't actually climb it, but just looking up from Lake Dove was enough. The problem with such moments is that you can't be sure they're your own rather than Wordsworth's, of course.

There are a lot of dead trees here, one of the features that reminds you you're not traversing an English landscape. I think they are the product of bush fires. Remarkably a fair number might look dead but seem to be showing signs of growth, sprouting bits of green in unlikely places.

No stone cottages or thatched roofs here. Most roofs seem to be made of some kind of corrugated metal but manage to look quite attractive despite this. In fact, generally the houses are highly attractive: the vast majority just comprise a single storey, many are wood-clad and are small and tidy, just as Dickens liked his women to be. (Small and tidy, not clad with wood.) I think he would have approved.