Tasmania Part 1

 Letter No. 284

Dear all,

We had a lovely Christmas at my sister Lisa’s. The first one without Dad which was a bit sad. Jess came to stay with us for a few days as well which was nice. On 29^th December, we flew to Tasmania to see our friend Paul Pincus finish the Sydney to Hobart Yacht race. The flight was delayed by an hour and the meal on the plane was the most underwhelming meal I have ever had - a hot-dog. A small overcooked one at that. What depths QANTAS has sunk to. There were three of our friend on the same flight and more on a later flight and a few already there. We checked into our hotel, The Henry James hotel on the dock about 5pm and went straight out for a champagne tasting. It was in the Clover Hill tent in the Taste Festival which was a short walk away. We were overlooking the harbour and about ten boats finished while we were there. They sailed right in front of us to many loud cheers. It was quite exciting. Astoundingly we had ten champagnes and it was all free! Dinner was 12 oysters and we went straight on to dance to a 80s cover band. It was a non-stop welcome to Tasmania!

The next morning it was a leisurely breakfast at the hotel and a walk down to the harbour to look at the boats. We went on to the Mawson Hut Replica Museum and the Tasmanian Art Gallery and Museum.

The Mawsons Hut Replica Museum is essentially a lovingly crafted reminder that early Antarctic explorers were made of sterner stuff than those of us who complain when the café’s heating is set a degree too low. Inside, we admired the meticulous reconstruction of Mawson’s living quarters, marvelling at how men survived months of darkness, isolation, and tinned food without once demanding oat milk or Wi‑Fi. It was humbling, in the way only other people’s suffering can be when viewed from a safe, well‑insulated distance.

From there, we strolled to the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, where the climate was considerably more controlled and the hardships limited to choosing which exhibit to admire first. We wandered through natural history, colonial artefacts, and contemporary art—an eclectic mix that suggested Tasmania has always been a place where the ancient, the eccentric, and the earnest coexist quite happily. Culturally enriched we went back to the hotel for a rest – still feeling the effect of the ten champagnes last night.

We had been tracking the progress of our friend Paul Pincus aboard Solace with the sort of dedication normally reserved for NASA mission control. When he finally began nosing into the Derwent, we wandered over to the Taste Festival and secured brilliant seats right on the harbour—prime viewing for the nautical equivalent of a celebrity arrival. Naturally, champagne was required. It would have been rude not to.

After an hour of genteel sipping and squinting at sails on the horizon, Solace appeared and we gave the crew a suitably enthusiastic welcome to Hobart. Then came the urgent business of necking the remaining champagne and sprinting—well, briskly ambling—around to the other side of the harbour to greet them again at the dock. Somewhere in this flurry, Katie managed to shed the belt from her jacket. Naturally, I was dispatched to retrieve it while she returned to the hotel for… more champagne. A theme was emerging.

I retraced our steps through the Taste Festival, visited two separate lost‑and‑found stations, and was just about to concede defeat when I spotted the belt lying on the footpath where Katie had taken a shortcut. A New Year’s miracle. Rather than walk all the way back to the hotel, I diverted to the Shipwrights Arms—established in 1846 and historically known as the watering hole for sailors, whalers, and now, apparently, Pincus supporters. The pub was heaving, as every yacht crew seems to descend upon it the moment they tie up. Katie and the rest of the entourage joined me soon after, and we enjoyed a lively evening before returning to the hotel fireplace (in mid‑summer) for cocktails. As one does.

The next morning was a slow one, befitting New Year’s Eve. We wandered down to Jackman & McRoss in Battery Point—Hobart’s prettiest suburb, originally settled in the 1830s and still looking like it’s waiting for a Jane Austen character to pop out of a doorway. After brunch, we walked the Battery Point Sculpture Trail. The walk was lovely; the sculptures… well, Hobart, we love you, but they were a bit on the “interpretive” side.

An afternoon nap restored us for the 4pm Art Tour at the Henry Jones Hotel. The building itself is a piece of history—once a jam factory run by Henry Jones, who rose from child labourer to jam baron and knight of the realm. The hotel now displays art on every available wall, and sponsors two major Tasmanian art prizes. Our guide, Aaron, a self‑proclaimed “Master Storyteller,” lived up to the title. The tour began with champagne (of course) and continued for 90 entertaining minutes. All the art was for sale, and it took some effort to convince Katie that our walls at home were, in fact, finite.

From there we went to a champagne reception hosted by one of Solace’s crew, where we watched the 9:30pm fireworks from their hotel balcony overlooking the harbour. Afterwards, we returned to the Taste Festival for the Neon Nights theme—unfortunately we had left our fluorescent gear in Brisbane, but it turned out Tasmanians are not big on dressing up anyway. We danced to the Hindley Street Country Club Band, who played 80s hits with gusto, and made it to the harbour just in time for the midnight fireworks. We even stayed out until 1am, which is practically heroic compared to recent years.

On New Year’s Day we boarded the 10:15am ferry to MONA—the Museum of Old and New Art, built on the site of a former horse‑racing track and now home to David Walsh’s infamous “subversive adult Disneyland.” Mel and Bernie Thorpe joined us for the adventure.

MONA, as always, delivered a mix of brilliance, bewilderment, and the occasional confronting moment. We had lunch at The Source, the fine‑dining restaurant perched at the top of the hill. David Walsh himself was on the (closed) balcony with his family, prompting Mel and Katie to enter full fangirl mode. I maintain that I wouldn’t have recognised him if I’d tripped over him.

After more wandering, we attended a performance called 4pm, in which a composer writes a new piece of music every day and has it performed immediately by a string quartet. He had been doing this for 537 consecutive days, which makes my commitment to daily coffee seem rather underwhelming. Walsh and family joined the audience, much to Mel and Katie’s delight. The music was surprisingly good, and they played a few selections from previous days for good measure.

We caught the 5pm ferry back to Hobart, changed quickly, and met the others for an early dinner at Fellini’s Italian Restaurant. Katie chose it because her first job had been at a restaurant of the same name—a sentimental pilgrimage of sorts. We ended the night with cocktails by the fireplace before retiring early.

The next morning we picked up a hire car and drove to Dunalley for lunch before continuing to Eaglehawk Neck. We stopped for a short walk to Tasman Arch and Devil’s Kitchen—two dramatic geological formations carved by relentless Southern Ocean waves. Historically, Eaglehawk Neck was the narrow isthmus guarded by the infamous “Dog Line,” where ferocious dogs were chained to prevent convicts escaping from Port Arthur. Thankfully, no dogs impeded our progress.

We continued on to Wildwood Retreat in Koonya. The house is stunning, with sweeping views over the ocean that make you consider abandoning civilisation entirely. After a rest, we visited Premaydena Hill Winery for oysters, wine, and yet another spectacular view—Tasmania seems determined to outdo itself at every turn. We ended the day in the outdoor hot tub, admiring the scenery before enjoying a quiet night in. A rare and welcome pause.

Saturday 3^rd January took us to the Port Arthur Historic Site — Tasmania’s most scenic reminder that the 19th century had very different ideas about “character building.” We dutifully reported for the Port Arthur Essentials Tour at 9:15am, which, fittingly, is about the time convicts once lined up to be told what fresh misery awaited them. Our guide, far kinder than any 1830s overseer, walked us through the ruins, the stories, and the sort of punishments that make modern workplace training modules feel positively luxurious.

A few historical tidbits for the record:

• Port Arthur began as a timber station in 1830 before evolving into a full‑blown penal settlement — the kind of place where you didn’t want your name on the guest list.
• It was home to the “Separate Prison,” an experiment in psychological punishment where silence was mandatory and eye contact was optional. (Introverts may have thrived.)
• The site also boasted its own shipyard, hospital, and church — because even convicts needed a little variety.

We spent all day wandering around the ruins before boarding the boat for the Isle of the Dead Cemetery Tour at 3pm. The island holds around a thousand souls, neatly divided between “free” and “not so free,” with the headstones of the former standing tall and the latter mostly unmarked. A subtle reminder that history has always been a little uneven in its record‑keeping.

We also visited the Port Arthur Memorial Garden, a quiet, beautifully designed space honouring the victims of the 1996 tragedy. The reflection pool, framed by the remains of the Broad Arrow Café, is a stark reminder of the fragility of ordinary moments. It’s a place that encourages stillness—simple, solemn, and deeply human. A necessary pause in a landscape otherwise overflowing with history, beauty, and the usual Tasmanian weather mood swings.

 

Having absorbed a full dose of colonial gloom (and some surprisingly lovely views), we returned to our accommodation for a restorative hot tub session. Watching the sun go down from warm water felt like the perfect antidote to a morning spent contemplating the hardships of people who definitely did not have access to spa facilities.

Dinner in, feet up, and another day of Tasmanian exploration successfully chronicled.

On Sunday 4^th our adventure took us to the Cape Hauy Track, the third leg of the famed Three Capes Walk and—according to early European explorers—a place best admired from a safe distance. They described the dolerite cliffs as “imposing,” which is 19th‑century code for “absolutely terrifying.”

The track itself is an 11 km return journey, which sounds manageable until you realise that Tasmanian kilometres are longer, steeper, and more judgmental than regular ones. By the time we reached the far end, the cliffs rose in great organ‑pipe columns, the sea thundered below, and—because apparently the universe enjoys contrast—there were groups of people slacklining between the dolomite stacks.

Slacklining. Between cliffs. Over the Southern Ocean. Naturally.

I asked one of them how on earth they got the rope up there. He explained, quite casually, that they climbed 100 metres down the cliff, swam across to the dolomite column, then climbed up 50 metres with ropes and ratchets. All this before breakfast, presumably. They had two lines set up, but on the first attempt they only made it a quarter of the way across before the boulder anchoring the rope began to shift. At this point, they wisely retreated and spent the rest of our visit hunting for a sturdier boulder—because nothing says “relaxing day out” like trying to avoid plummeting into the Tasman Sea.

Madness. Entertaining madness, but madness nonetheless.

The cliffs were enormous, the dolomite columns spectacular, and the whole scene looked like something a geologist might sketch lovingly in a notebook before remembering they left their lunch in the car. By the time we trudged back to the car park, our legs had staged a quiet rebellion. There was only one responsible course of action: a restorative gin at McHenry Distillery, Australia’s southernmost distillery and a proud producer of spirits strong enough to revive even the most footsore walker.

We enjoyed a tasting paddle of three gins each, followed by a gin cocktail—because hydration is important. Katie, emboldened by botanical enthusiasm, decided we absolutely needed another bottle to take home. I didn’t argue; resistance seemed futile.

We rounded out the day with a third consecutive night in the hot tub, watching the sun slip behind the hills while our legs forgave us. A fine Tasmanian evening, and not a slackline in sight.

 

Cheers

Derek, Katie, Matt, Jessie, Molly & Pippa

Back to Australia!

 

 Letter No. 283

Dear all,

On 20th September, Jessica presided over her final Girl Up fundraising soirée, raising money to support women and girls in Cambodia who have suffered sexual abuse and domestic violence. They had sold over 100 tickets to the event, including eight of our friends, who we had roped into coming and raised $4500 for the charity. Jessie delivered the main speech which was inspiring and presidential, before the evening dissolved into dancing. It was Jessie’s final event with Girl Up, as she has been President for several years and is now stepping down.

The following weekend, Ian Whitton, Liz Redfern and Sophie arrived just as a storm had knocked out power on our street. Katie rushed around lighting candles, and we met them by lamplight, which felt quite Edwardian. It wasn’t quite the “welcome to Queensland” that we had expected. We chatted by candlelight for a while until the lights came back on.

The next night, we all had dinner at Supernormal on Queen Street, which serves up fantastic pan-Asian dishes alongside sweeping views of the Story Bridge. Next morning, Katie took Liz and Sophie to Pilates, while Ian and I opted for the more rugged pursuit of dog‑wrangling around Sherwood Arboretum. They attended a friend’s wedding that evening at nearby Hillstone Golf Club.

On Sunday we had a BBQ lunch for Liz, Ian & Sophie, combined with Ian & Cathy Muir also from Hong Kong, and Ant & Katie Whittle from our street. It was a long relaxed lunch with several bottles being enjoyed. Eventually an Uber became the only sensible option for Ian, Liz and Sophie’s airport dash back to Melbourne. It was so lovely to see them.

We headed to the Regatta Hotel on 4^th October to help celebrate Craig Wiley’s 60th birthday. The Regatta was the scene of many BBC rowing stories and is a Brisbane institution. Our entire rowing crew assembled from when we had won the Head of the River when I was in year 12 in 1983. It was a great reunion and good to relive those glory days. Always good to catch up with Craig and Kirsten. The next morning we walked Shorncliffe foreshore with the dogs, had coffee, spent a morning at the beach and ate fish and chips at Redcliffe. At the beach Pippa chased seagulls with great zeal, while Molly looked on.

The following weekend we celebrated our 29th wedding anniversary at Boucher in Graceville with a Chateaubriand that requires 90 minutes’ notice. It was an awesome steak preceded by garlic snails and followed by creme brulee – a perfect romantic meal.

My father Viv was very unwell and had been in a hospice since we returned from Europe. In the space of just a couple of months, they have sold their sheep, ute and property, and Dad moved into a lovely hospice in Ipswich with my sister Lisa’s guidance. Much of October and November was taken up with assisting mum and dad in putting their financial affairs in order and assisting with paperwork from the house sale and mum’s move to live with Lisa.

A few other things that happened in October and November:

·        Mum and Dad held a farm clearing sale on 19th October. Dad was well enough to come out of the hospice for the day and walked the hot paddocks as his life’s possessions were auctioned. It was sad, but also a relief to let things go so that Mum could move in with my sister.

·        Kylie hosted a Le Barge Reunion, where everyone from our France trip gathered for a lovely dinner to reminisce about our trip — wine and nostalgia proving a reliable pairing.

·        We met Jessie for lunch in Paddington and then took Molly & Pippa to visit her house. The dogs were very enthusiastic in their property inspection and were a big hit with Jessie’s flatmates.

·        Matt returned home on 4th November after 15 months abroad, mostly in China perfecting his Mandarin. Katie picked him up at the airport, and the reunion was suitably joyous.

·        We spent a weekend at Kylie’s fully renovated apartment in Peregian Beach. Dinners at the pub and pizza shop were charmingly local, while Sunday rain led us to Bask, a modern Australian restaurant known for its “long lunching” ethos.

Sadly, my father passed away on 15th November, when a ten-year battle with prostate cancer finally caught up with him. He had moved into a lovely hospice in Ipswich for the last couple of months, when caring for him became too much for Mum. He had declined rapidly just after we set out on our big trip. When first admitted, the nurses didn’t think he would last the night. However, he rallied, and in that time managed to guide me through the practicalities of putting his finances and self‑managed super fund in order. It did make our holiday somewhat stressful, as we were constantly aware that I might need to fly back at a moment’s notice. Fortunately, he recovered well, and we were all grateful for the extra couple of months, so that we were able to have many conversations and visits, and I even played chess with him on one occasion. It was the only time that I have ever beaten him.  

I saw Dad the night before we left for Peregian, but he had deteriorated so much since the previous weekend that he barely recognised me. Still, I was able to say goodbye. We were sitting on the beach on the Saturday when my sister called with the news. He had remained mentally and physically quite well until the final week and was not in pain. If one must go, it was — in its own way — a good passing: peaceful, dignified, and after a life lived fully.

The first of many Christmas events this year was the AECOM Christmas party on 21st November. It was a Great Gatsby‑themed roaring twenties event at The Tivoli. These events are always spectacular and this one featured champagne towers, a jazz band, dancing show girls, a tap dancing show, and lots of fab food & drinks. Katie dazzled in a red flapper dress and pearls, I wore black tie, and the Charleston was attempted but not perfected.

I went on a work trip to Mulwala on 30th November–1st December, a town on the NSW‑Victoria border famous for Lake Mulwala and its water ski club. Our team dinner began with cocktails too early, making Monday’s client meeting feel like an endurance sport. We had a long journey back via Sydney when our first flight was delayed and we almost missed the connection. We had to sprint through the airport on Final Call, which was moderately stressful.

Friday 5th December was Dad’s Funeral at Centenary Memorial Gardens. We had planned the service together - I delivered a 20‑minute eulogy; Matthew read one of Dad’s poems; Jess curated the order of service with a little help from Katie; Lisa and her four girls made beautiful flowers for the coffin. It was quite a challenge to deliver the eulogy, perhaps one of the hardest things I have done in my life. A morning tea followed at the gardens, and we chatted to Dad’s friends, colleagues and admirers as well as family members and some of our close friends who had come along to support. Afterwards a very small group of friends and neighbours came back to our house, and we spent the afternoon toasting Dad poolside with his own 1990s red wines. It was a nice if sombre afternoon and a fitting farewell.

In the eulogy I spoke of dad’s life, political activities, libertarian ideals, and his global expertise in running coal mines.

Dad was also the founder and guiding voice of the Carbon Sense Coalition, dedicating the last decade of his life to that cause. He saw how little science was being consulted in the growing climate debate, and through his work reminded us that carbon is not a pollutant but the very foundation of life.

Viv spoke with conviction, arguing that carbon dioxide is essential for plants, for agriculture, and for human prosperity. He challenged governments and communities to look beyond fear and alarm, urging practical solutions for energy, farming, and industry. His message was simple yet profound: warm, carbon‑rich times have always been “Golden Ages” for life on Earth.

Dad belonged to the Silent Generation, known for its strong work ethic, loyalty, and traditional values. They were hardworking, stoic, and rarely asked for help. Dad embodied these qualities throughout his life. Through Carbon Sense, he gave voice to farmers, miners, and everyday Australians who recognised carbon’s vital role in sustaining livelihoods. His legacy is one of courage and clarity — a man who stood firm in his convictions and sparked debate across the nation.

But Dad’s legacy is not measured only in the organisations he built or the arguments he advanced. It is also in the example he set; showing that one individual, armed with conviction and clarity, can stand against prevailing opinion and still be heard. As the ancient Greek proverb reminds us, “A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.” Dad was certainly planting trees until the day he died.

We had brunch with the Bottomley family on Sun 6 December. They are friends from our Manchester days, in town touring Australia to watch the Ashes. Joey’s, atop Kangaroo Point cliffs, had stunning views across the Brisbane River, which was some consolation for England’s showing in the Ashes tour was not going well. It was lovely to see them, and we enjoyed a fantastic meal.

The Street Christmas Party on 7th December was hosted as usual by the Trew’s. All of Mortlake Road was there sharing drinks and plates of canapes. These lovely community events make our neighbours feel like family.

On 10th December, we joined Mel & Bernie Thorpe for Lady Gaga’s Mayhem Ball at Suncorp Stadium. Katie and Mel dressed in gothic Gaga style; the crowds were mayhem; dinner at Caxton Street Brewing beforehand was sensible; parking at Jessie’s house in Paddington was genius. Gaga’s encore left us exhilarated, hoarse, and slightly deaf — the perfect end to a great evening.

The following weekend found us at Matt & Kathryn Donaldson’s Christmas party. Their riverside lawn boasts a grass tennis court, so naturally I was roped into two sets with Matt and a few others before the festivities began. It was a scorcher of a day, so I dashed home for a quick shower before rejoining for the civilised post-game drinks. The evening unfolded on their pagoda overlooking the Brisbane River, with a very cinematic sunset as twenty friends and neighbours raised their glasses.

The next day we ventured for lunch at Fratelli in Paddington, after a quick detour to Jessica’s house — Matthew had never seen it, and a guided tour was deemed essential. Lunch was long, Italian, and celebratory, marking both my birthday and Matt’s. A post-prandial collapse on the sofa was unavoidable, given that I had tickets to AC/DC at Suncorp Stadium that evening.

The tickets were free from a friend who is a life member of Suncorp Stadium and the seats surprisingly good. Jess was keen to join me, so we skipped the first support act, arriving halfway through the second. Amyl and the Sniffers were unexpectedly good, and AC/DC, as ever, were thunderous. So loud in fact that Matt and Katie could hear the music from Graceville. This was my fourth time seeing AC/DC, and they never disappoint. The only slight quibble was Angus Young’s 20-minute guitar solo. While undeniably impressive — the man is 70 and still duckwalking with manic energy — I couldn’t help thinking three extra songs and a shorter solo might have been the better bargain.

Mid-concert, Katie began texting through grim updates of the Bondi Beach Massacre – a horrific and senseless tragedy that shocked the entire nation and shifted the political mood of the country. It was Australia’s deadliest mass shooting attack in almost three decades. The news grew darker as the night wore on, a senseless counterpoint to the music. Jess and I parted ways afterwards — her house is a short stroll from the stadium, while I braved the train. My carriage was filled with the loudest, drunkest bogans imaginable, many missing teeth in alarming numbers. It was a relief to get home.

Friday the 19th was our Work Breakup Drinks: fifty of us descended on The Wickham for pizza and an afternoon of beers that slid seamlessly into gins. My fellow directors and I shouted the lot, so naturally I felt obliged to make the most of it. The next day, Saturday, was our annual Christmas Drinks, this year boasting well over fifty guests. Katie organised everything with her usual flair, and the evening was a great success. We always love raising a glass with so many of our friends and neighbours at Christmas time, and this year was one of the best.

On Sunday we observed a minute’s silence for the 15 dead in the Bondi Beach Massacre in the National Day of Reflection. A vile act of terrorism, all the more poignant by being so close to Christmas.

This year, we send our hope for peace, with best wishes for health and happiness for the festive season and beyond.

Derek, Katie, Matt, Jessie, Molly & Pippa

France Part 2

                                                                                                                                                 Letter No. 282

Dear all,

Our trip continues in France:

Day 27 – Saint-Léger-sur-Dheune to Saint-Julien-sur-Dheune

Our first day sailing was to Saint-Julien-sur-Dheune, a mere 12km away up the River Dheune. Easy, apart from the 12 locks we had to navigate on the way.

The first lock took an hour, because the thrusters on the boat I was driving were on strike which meant that I had no navigation tools. It was like a slow-motion bumper car derby. Eventually, we found our rhythm and reduced time in each lock to a respectable 10 minutes per boat. Each lock could accommodate two boats at a time, and we quickly developed a system: captain (me), bow rope (Katie), stern rope (Mel), and cabin boy (Bernie), who jumped onto each lock like a swashbuckling hero to start the mechanism.

Everything was going swimmingly until we reached the 11^th lock. The boat behind us drifted back and kissed the lock gate a little too affectionately, the emergency stop rope was pulled and everything froze. Of course, it was 12:02pm—lunch time in France, when even mechanical mishaps must wait an hour. Nobody answered our phone call for help, so we had lunch down at the base of the lock, which is not something you’ll find in any travel brochure. Just after 1pm the phone was answered by a young lady who spoke only French. Katie’s French proved invaluable in explaining the situation over the phone and giving our location, and ten minutes later the lady arrived, pressed a single button inside the locked controller, and voila, we were free.

We arrived in Saint-Julien around 2pm. A quick scout of the town revealed that everything was closed. It was Sunday, after all, and as every French person will tell you, Sunday is for rest, not commerce. The pretty Auberge just near the village was also “fermé”(closed) and clearly had been so for several years, so we searched for somewhere a little further afield. Paul found a restaurant that appeared to be open and bravely called to book a table. As they spoke no English, he passed the phone straight to Katie and she managed to book a table for ten people. Mel and Bernie had already planned a romantic dinner further afield that night to celebrate their wedding anniversary.

The rest of us cycled 6km to the restaurant, which was a pleasant ride beside the locks, apart from the uphill gradient and the 30°C heat. Upon arrival, we discovered that the restaurant was, in fact, a service station. Reactions ranged from amused to mildly outraged. We cycled back to the boats and reverted to our trusty fallback: French cheese, bread, and champagne.

Day 28 – Saint-Julien-Sur-Dheune

It rained. A perfect excuse to ditch lock navigation in favour of a drive in the French countryside. We headed to Puligny-Montrachet, a village that seems to have been preserved in 18th-century aspic. The area is known globally for white wines that make angels weep, and has been producing wine since the Middle Ages, when monks from the Abbey of Cluny first realised the soil here was liquid gold in disguise.

We wandered the cobbled streets, admired the stone buildings, and found ourselves at the Château de Chassagne-Montrachet, owned by the Famille Picard. The chateau is a stately affair with a very impressive wine cellar. We were treated to a tasting while watching the harvest in full swing—grapes being crushed and vatting underway. It was all very rustic and romantic. And yes, we did make the obligatory Jean-Luc Picard joke. As always, resistance was futile.

Next came a long, luxurious lunch at Le Montrachet, a Michelin-starred restaurant that somehow manages to be both elegant and welcoming. The girls were in raptures over the interior décor, while the rest of us admired the biblical wine list with wines up to €16,000 per bottle. We avoided this particular drop and the bill was surprisingly reasonable—under €100 a head, which in Michelin terms is practically a bargain bin special. The food was exquisite and was Katie’s favourite French experience. 

Suitably stuffed, we returned to the boats for a nap. Later, we reconvened on the lead boat for – you guessed it – a light supper of French champagne, French cheese and bread.

Day 29 – Saint-Julien-Sur-Dheune to Blanzy to Montceau-les-Mines

Today was a grand canal odyssey, featuring no fewer than fifteen locks —eight up, seven down—and a lunch break under a tree that may have been planted during the reign of Louis XIV. The locks are part of the Canal du Centre, a waterway completed in 1793 during the French Revolution and this section is known as the Ecuisses staircase. Because when you're overthrowing monarchies, why not also improve inland navigation?

The locks are marvels of 18th-century engineering. They were designed to connect the Loire and Saône rivers and facilitate the movement of coal, wine, and other essentials like wine and cheese. Each lock is a deep stone chamber with gates that open and close with the enthusiasm of a sleepy butler. By now, we could navigate each one in under ten minutes, most of which was spent waiting for the lock to decide it was ready. It’s a bit like coaxing a cat into a bath.

Midway, the third boat in our convoy had a bit of a Titanic moment—minus the iceberg and Celine Dion. A fender got stuck on the lock wall as the water drained, causing the boat to tilt alarmingly. All the boat’s crockery fell to its doom, a bike was lost at the bottom of the lock, and several phones flirted with a watery grave. It was, by all accounts, traumatic. Gin was administered.

We had intended to stop in Blanzy, but the pontoon was already occupied by some local homeless people and their dog, so we pressed on to Montceau-les-Mines, a pretty town that flourished in the 19th century thanks to the mining boom and the very canal we were cruising. The marina there was spacious, welcoming, and canine-free. Dinner was at a nearby restaurant, where we raised a few glasses to surviving the day without sinking one of the boats and to the unsung heroes of canal travel: the lock engineers of yore.

Day 30 – Montceau-les-Mines to Saint-Julien-Sur-Dheune

Today was yesterday in reverse, like a soggy palindrome. On the way we stopped at a supermarket to buy an entirely new set of crockery and glassware for the boat that had lost everything. The locks, now our old friends, were handled with the ease of seasoned mariners. I drove, the others lounged, and the boat glided through the locks like a baguette through brie.

We arrived back in Saint-Julien-Sur-Dheune in time for a nap. The village was as quiet as ever, still no sign of a restaurant. The evening brought wine, cheese, music, and a pasta dinner whipped up by Bernie and me. Nothing says “we’ve conquered the canal” like feeding a crowd from a tiny galley kitchen with questionable counter space.

Day 31 - Saint-Julien-Sur-Dheune

Another driving day, this time to explore Beaune, a walled city dating back to the 12th century. Yes, the 1100s — a time when knights were fashionable, plumbing was not, and “medieval charm” was just “life.” Beaune was once the capital of Burgundy wines and still takes that title very seriously. While the boys took the high road — literally, walking the rampart walls — the girls went shopping unsupervised. This, in hindsight, was a tactical error. The local economy thanks us.

We regrouped for drinks and lunch at a picturesque little bar that looked like it had been plucked straight from a French film. Then off to Meursault, another beautiful little town famed for its white wines and elegant architecture.

Back at the boats, we all enjoyed an afternoon nap before dressing in our best white outfits and heading out to celebrate Kylie’s 60th birthday. The venue was another fabulous Michelin-starred restaurant: L’Ouillette in nearby Santenay, a village that sounds like it should be whispered. The dinner was, in a word, spectacular. In two words: dangerously delicious.

Day 32 - Saint-Julien-Sur-Dheune to Saint-Léger-sur-Dheune

We began the day with a visit to Domaine Evenstad, a winery that opened in 1431 — the same year Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. Coincidence? Probably. But it does make you appreciate wine as a more peaceful legacy.

The cellars were beautiful, the wine-making process fascinating, and by 10:30am we were starting our tasting of six wines. It felt early, yes, but in Burgundy, wine o’clock is more of a suggestion than a rule. We have now reached peak wine knowledge. From here, it’s all downhill — possibly rolling.

We returned to the boats by noon and began our journey to Saint-Léger-sur-Dheune. Only eleven locks remained, which by now we were handling with the grace and efficiency of a mildly competent naval crew. No assistance was needed, except from the Captain (me), still waiting for someone to salute. The afternoon was spent cruising down the canal, watching the picturesque countryside drift by like a screensaver. Over the whole week we had navigated a total of 70 locks up and down the canal. Upon arrival, we docked, showered, and assembled for a final charcuterie and drinks session on the deck to polish off the last remaining magnum. Kylie and Paul departed for Paris, leaving the remaining ten of us to have dinner and toast the end of a truly lovely week. Katie and I are now looking forward to at least seven consecutive days without wine. Possibly eight. But let’s not get carried away.

Day 33 - Saint-Léger-sur-Dheune to Nice

Today was a transit day. We bid farewell at the boats to people heading back to Paris and embarked on a multi-train journey: five of us travelling to Chalon-sur-Saône and on to Lyon, and then onwards by ourselves to Marseille, and Nice. Four trains in total. The Lyon to Marseille leg was a high-speed train, while Marseille to Nice was a leisurely chug through the countryside—half the distance, triple the time, and a reminder that not all trains are created equal.

It was oddly quiet to be on our own again. Our hotel in Nice was perched right on the Promenade des Anglais, the grand waterfront boulevard of Nice, where the Mediterranean sparkles like a well-polished sapphire. We strolled along the Promenade looking for a beach bar for a light dinner. Unbeknownst to us, Nice was about to host the World Ironman Championships the next day. This masochistic race consists of a 3.8 km swim, a 180.2 km bike ride, and a 42.195 km run, which makes a total of 226 km of pure, unfiltered endurance. Despite the impending athletic chaos, there was no sign of setup—just some cryptic road closure signs starting at 2am. Suspiciously calm, like the eye of a very sweaty storm.

Day 34 - Monaco

Overnight, the Promenade transformed from tranquil seaside stroll to full-blown Ironman battleground. At least five sets of barriers stretched the entire length of the boulevard, neatly dividing the run and bike legs. I went for a run myself, dodging crowds and triathletes, to catch the swim start at 7am. It was surprisingly thrilling—helicopters, cheering, and a sea of neoprene.

We escaped the triathlon madness by hopping on a 25-minute train to Monaco, France’s glittery appendix. Monaco is the second smallest country in the world (after Vatican City), covering just 2.08 km². It has a population of around 38,000, most of whom seem to own at least one Ferrari. I saw more Ferraris in one day than I’ve seen in the rest of my life combined.

We admired the superyachts in the marina—floating mansions with names like Eclipse and My Other Boat Is Also Ridiculous—before walking up to the Monte Carlo Casino. Built in 1863 and redesigned in 1878 by Charles Garnier (the Paris Opera guy), the casino is a Belle Époque masterpiece. Ornate frescoes, chandeliers, and enough gold leaf to make Versailles blush. Citizens of Monaco aren’t allowed to gamble there, which is probably for the best. We stopped at the adjacent Café de Paris for croissants and coffee, then toured the casino before the gaming tables opened. It was all very James Bond, minus the tuxedos and espionage.

A hop-on hop-off bus conveniently appeared, so we hopped on (and then off) to visit the Oceanographic Museum. Perched dramatically on a cliff, this museum houses over 6,000 marine species. Jacques Cousteau was director for 31 years, which explains the museum’s flair for underwater drama. One room was decked out like a submarine with 26 synchronized video screens. It felt like being inside a very enthusiastic fish documentary. It made me feel surprisingly seasick when the submarine submerged and turned through the sea. A truly remarkable experience and an excellent museum.

We wandered through the old quarter, had lunch in a cute café, and then visited the Saint Nicholas Cathedral, where Princess Grace (née Grace Kelly) is buried alongside Prince Rainier. Astonishingly, it was actually the anniversary of her death on the day of her visit, and her grave was adorned with fresh flowers—a quiet tribute to Hollywood royalty turned actual royalty.

Back on the bus, we cruised to the far end of Monaco and settled into the Meridian Beach Plaza, with a fantastic view of the Azure Coast. The view was so lovely we broke our no-wine vow and polished off a bottle of rosé. Oops.

We returned to the Monte Carlo Casino around 4pm to see the gaming rooms in action. It was fascinating and alarming to see large piles of chips evaporate in real time. We finished the day at a marina bar with another bottle of rosé (double oops), then caught the train back to Nice and had dinner at a great Italian restaurant near our hotel. A fitting end to a day of glamour and history.

Day 35 - Nice

Today was a day of gentle wandering. We began at the Cours Saleya Markets, which, on Mondays, swaps its usual fresh produce and flowers for antiques, flea market finds, and the occasional questionable taxidermy. This market has been the beating heart of Nice’s Old Town since the 16th century, and in 1861 it became the city’s first official flower, fruit, and vegetable market, shipping cut blooms across Europe. Mondays, however, are for treasure hunters. We had breakfast in the market, surrounded by vintage postcards, brass candlesticks, and a surprising number of old keys.

We made our way to Castle Hill, or Colline du Château, which is more park than fortress. The original castle was built in the 11th century and was once the most formidable citadel on the Mediterranean coast, but was subsequently destroyed in 1706 by Louis XIV. We took the lift up, which was a very good idea, and the views from the top were spectacular: Nice’s ochre rooftops and winding alleys on one side, the marina and its floating millionaires’ club on the other. We walked down—380 steps, which felt like a gentle punishment for taking the lift up.

The rest of the morning was spent meandering through Old Town Nice, a delightful maze of cobblestone alleys, Italianate architecture, and buildings painted in every shade of gelato. Nice was part of the Kingdom of Sardinia until 1860, which explains why the Old Town feels more Ligurian than French. The Baroque churches and palaces are straight out of the Genoa playbook, and the Cathédrale Sainte-Réparate is a fine example of Roman-style grandeur with a dash of Mediterranean flair.

We had lunch on Rue Masséna, a pedestrian street lined with restaurants, and then an afternoon on the beach. Now, about the beach. Nice’s beaches are not sandy. They are made of galets—smooth, round pebbles that have been washing down from the Alps for centuries. They look picturesque in photos but are about as comfortable as lying on a pile of decorative garden stones. Walking on them is a test of balance, pain tolerance, and dignity. Still, the water was lovely, and the sun was doing its best Riviera impression.

We ended the day with drinks overlooking the beach, watching the sun dip into the Mediterranean like a well-timed cliché. The sky was perfectly blue, as to be expected for the Côte d’Azur. It was the final night of our holiday, so we went to a very flash French restaurant, where the food was exquisite and the bill mildly traumatic. A bit sad to be wrapping up the trip, but at least we did it in style.

Day 36 - Nice to Brisbane

We had a last morning wandering around Nice before catching the bus to the airport and beginning our long trip home. Nice to Doha to Brisbane where we got home at midnight.  I think we need more holidays like this.

Cheers from Derek, Katie, Matt, Jessie, Molly & Pippa