Tasmania - Part 2

                                                                                                                                             Letter No. 285

Dear all,

Monday 5^th January.  Today’s adventure began at the Tasmanian Devil UnZoo in Taranna. The first Tasmanian Devil feeding was at 10:00am, and what a performance it was. Two devils were the stars of the show, demonstrating why their species has survived for millennia: sheer determination, impressive jaw strength, and the ability to make adorable noises while fighting over a chunk of wallaby. The “cute noises” were somewhere between a grumble, a snort, and a disgruntled toddler. Charles Darwin never heard such things, but he would have approved.

The UnZoo concept is thoroughly modern: animals roam freely, and humans behave themselves. Mostly. It had all the usual Australian suspects—kangaroos, wallabies, birds with opinions—but the devils stole the show. They exceeded expectations so thoroughly that we briefly considered adopting one, before remembering they can bite through metal.

On the way to the Freycinet Peninsula, we stopped at the Spiky Bridge, a famously odd relic just south of Swansea. Built in the 1840s by convicts, the bridge’s jagged stone parapets were supposedly designed to stop cattle from tumbling over the sides. Another theory is that the stonemasons were simply told to “use up the leftover rocks,” which feels very on‑brand for 19th‑century government efficiency. Either way, it remains one of Tasmania’s more charismatic pieces of road infrastructure.

From there we drove north to Dolphin Sands. Our afternoon stop was the Melshell Oyster Shack, where surprisingly we ordered BBQ Scallops as we were anticipating a major oyster day ahead. The scallops were excellent, the Rosé was cold, and the breezy view across the water made us think seriously about moving to Tasmania and becoming beach hermits.

Finally, we returned to our secret beach hideaway, Driftwater Cottage, tucked away amid the sand dunes. The light softened, the wind quietened, and the place felt like it had been designed specifically to lower blood pressure. A simple day, really: devils in the morning, scallops in the afternoon, and sand dunes in the evening. Tasmania continues to deliver.

Tuesday 6^th January was a full-on seafood day, starting with a 45-minute drive to Freycinet Peninsula’s Oyster Bay Tours. We suited up in waterproof waders and stepped out into the sea looking like a cheerful, oversized toddlers. Out at the oyster beds we met the babies—tiny 1 cm specks of ambition—and spent about 40 minutes in the sea learning how they’re farmed. We saw oysters of all shapes and sizes, but the real showstopper was a 12‑year‑old oyster roughly the size of a paperback novel. Apparently, in the wild they can grow up to a metre long, which raises the question: at what point does an oyster stop being an oyster and start being a piece of furniture?

Back on shore, we shucked a dozen oysters (each one a small triumph), followed by a dozen mussels from the same farm. All washed down with a crisp glass of white wine, because one must stay hydrated while performing strenuous maritime labour. We then returned to the Oyster Shack for a platter of prawns—because restraint is for people who don’t holiday on the East Coast.

Suitably fortified, we drove to Bicheno for a quick stop at the famous Blowhole, which was in a contemplative mood. The tide was too low for any dramatic eruptions, but a short stroll across the granite rocks was refreshing. To round out our seafood‑themed pilgrimage, we visited the world‑famous Bicheno Lobster Shack—a title they may or may not have given themselves, but who are we to argue? Lobster rolls and a salt‑and‑pepper squid salad came home with us, forming the final chapter of a day dedicated almost entirely to eating things that once lived in the ocean. Back at our own little beach shack, we enjoyed the feast.

Wednesday, 7^th January   We headed to Freycinet National Park, home of pink granite mountains and famously photogenic beaches. Our target was the Wineglass Bay Beach Walk & Hazards Beach Circuit, an 11km walking loop of roughly four hours, depending on fitness, enthusiasm, and stops to admire the views. The track began with a steady climb to the Wineglass Bay lookout, where the reward is that classic crescent of white sand and turquoise water. Apparently, the bay’s name has nothing to do with wine and everything to do with 19th‑century whaling—when the sheltered waters supposedly turned the colour of claret. A charming image for the tourism brochures.

From the lookout we descended to the beach itself, crossed the isthmus, and continued along Hazards Beach, which stretches out in a long, golden arc beneath the granite peaks. The weather was glorious – the Tasmanian Summer had finally arrived – and it was a very hot day. By the final kilometres, Katie had misplaced the will to live, but she soldiered on with admirable stoicism and very little complaining, while I pretended to be fresh as a daisy.

After completing the circuit, we drove to the Cape Tourville Lighthouse, perched dramatically above the Tasman Sea. Built in 1971, it’s one of the more modern lighthouses in Tasmania, but earns full marks for its stunning scenery—endless ocean views in one direction and beautiful Wineglass Bay beach in the other. The wind was bracing and Katie refused to climb any more steps, so we made a quick retreat to the car. On the way home we made a strategic stop at Devil’s Corner Winery, where a couple of glasses of Rosé restored spirits, electrolytes, and general goodwill towards humanity.

The next day, Thursday 8^th January, we left early for Launceston, deposited the car at the hotel, and embarked on a full‑day winery tour of the Tamar Valley, one of Australia’s oldest wine regions. The first vines were planted here in the 1830s, though the modern industry didn’t take off until the 1950s, when someone realised the cool climate was perfect for sparkling wine and smugness.

Our stops included: Winterbrook — boutique and charming; Small Wonder – lunch platter with lovely view; Iron Pot Bay — named after a nearby island that once hosted a convict‑built lighthouse; and Westella — grand old homestead turned cellar door. We purchased several bottles along the way which resulted in a case of happy Tasmanian memories being shipped home.

We returned to the hotel at 5pm for a restorative lie‑down before venturing to Du Cane for a quick pizza dinner. In a shocking twist, we did not have wine. The Tamar Valley had already taken care of that.

On Friday, 9^th January we explored the Cataract Gorge, Launceston’s pride and joy, from multiple angles. Discovered by Europeans in 1804, the gorge is a dramatic cleft of dolerite cliffs and improbably calm water. First, we cruised on it with the Tamar Gorge Cruise, a 90-minute trip up and into the gorge itself, admiring the dramatic cliffs and 19^th century steel bridge. Next the Gorge Scenic Chairlift across the gorge which claims to be the longest single‑span chairlift in the world. That may not be technically true, but it certainly feels long enough when you’re dangling over the river with your legs swinging. Once across the gorge, we hiked steeply upwards to the Eagles Eyrie Lookout, a climb that rewarded us with sweeping views looking down on the gorge from an improbably high vantage point.

That evening we dined at Stillwater, widely considered Launceston’s best restaurant. It was indeed a very good meal, with a dignified level of understatement. Katie was very impressed and is already planning a return visit.

On Saturday 10^th January we farewelled Launceston and headed south toward Richmond, home to that famous bridge—the one featured in every Tasmanian calendar since calendars were invented. Built by convicts in 1823, Richmond Bridge is Australia’s oldest surviving large stone arch bridge, which makes it both historically significant and surprisingly sturdy considering the day’s winds were trying very hard to test 200 years of engineering.

Unfortunately, Tasmania decided to showcase her dramatic side. The weather turned on us with gale‑force enthusiasm and teeming rain. So much for the Tasmanian Summer. Our visit became a brisk dash: out of the car, confirm bridge still exists, back into the car before we blew into the Coal River.

From there it was straight on to Hobart for one last night on the Apple Isle. That afternoon we visited the Cascades Female Factory—Australia’s most deceptively named institution. Despite sounding like a Victorian-era sewing co‑op, it was in fact a women’s prison, where over 7,000 female convicts were “processed” between 1828 and 1856. The stories were sobering, the history compelling, and the architecture … well, it’s mainly just walls, but they are very historical walls.

Needing something a little lighter, emotionally and hydration‑wise, we headed to Cascade Brewery for a tour and tasting. Founded in 1824, Cascade is Australia’s oldest operating brewery and conveniently located at the foot of Mount Wellington—presumably so the beer can run downhill faster. The tasting session was educational in its own special way, and afterwards we settled into the Brewery Bar for dinner. Great food, great atmosphere, and a pleasant amount of contentment.

Next morning we were up suitably early for the flight back to Brisbane. It was a terrific holiday and Tasmania was completely awesome. There was history, there were walks, there was seafood and there was wine, so much wine. We experienced all four seasons in our fortnight, including the full Tasmanian summer, but even weather tantrums have a certain charm in Tassie. A return visit is definitely on the cards.

Back in Brisbane, Katie focused on the Australian Open tennis, watching as many matches as is humanly possible. On 24^th January we eased into the late‑summer Brisbane social calendar with an Australia Day BBQ at Carolyn & John Biddles, joined by Sue and Brad Rasmussen. It was a very relaxed and convivial sort of evening, with a bit more tennis-watching thrown in for good measure.

The following day, 25^th January, our friend Libby hosted a farewell long lunch for her upcoming move out of Mortlake Road. It was the kind of lunch where time quietly dissolves, and nobody checks the clock. Bernie and I arrived wearing the same shirt, to much hilarity from the rest of the group. Disturbingly, it is the second time this has happened, suggesting either a deep personal connection or a small shirt ecosystem. Paul has now bought one as well, which does not bode well for future gatherings. Anyway, it was a very lovely long lunch and a bit sad as none of us want to see Libby leaving the hood.

The following day, 26^th January, we were back at the table again, this time having been invited to lunch with our neighbours on both sides — the Goulds and the Poulsens. This officially confirmed the weekend as a Long Weekend of Very Long Lunches, something Brisbane appears well designed to support.

On 30^th January, it was time for our quarterly Winosaurs wine tasting at Alan and Liz Raggatt’s house. As always, it was a lively night with a solid turnout from the street, increasingly confident tasting notes, and debates that became more passionate as the bottles emptied. Nobody left in an ambulance, which is always a good outcome, and we wobbled home after an entertaining night.

We caught up with Ian and Cathy Muir for a nice dinner on 1^st February. They are renovating their Jindalee house while living in it, which is not for the faint‑hearted.  While progress has been made, getting tradies to turn up when promised remains an ongoing challenge. Katie has been pontificating madly about how the current inability to find an actual builder or tradie in town doesn’t bode well for the Brisbane government’s plan to construct four new stadiums and associated infrastructure in under six years for the upcoming 2032 Brisbane Olympics. As an example, the new building at the end of our street is potentially the world’s slowest build, with a daily average of one builder on site, according to Katie, sticking tiles on the façade one at a time. It is excruciatingly slow.

On 6^th February, we made time for a little culture and visited The Art of Banksy exhibition in Queen Street Mall. I knew very little about Banksy beforehand and found it fascinating. Afterwards, Katie and I turned it into a date night with dinner at Pompette, the French restaurant at Queens Wharf, which delivered excellent food in very civilised surroundings.

Friday 13^th February took us to the newly reopened Mt Coot‑tha Summit Restaurant for dinner with Nathan and Sigrid Groenhaut. The last time we’d eaten there was back in 1998 with Katie’s parents, Ken and Pam, and an 18‑month‑old Matthew. After being closed and slowly rotting away for more than 15 years, the restaurant has finally been restored and looked spectacular, with great food and even better views. Nathan and Sigrid are heading off to the USA, so this was our last dinner out with them before a farewell party on the Sunday. Heavy rain forced everyone inside and things got a little steamy.

On 21^th February, we had another dinner out, this time at Short Grain in Fortitude Valley with Ian Whitton and Liz Redfern, who were up from Melbourne for the weekend. It is Katie’s favourite restaurant and we seem to be there every second month. As always, it was superb food and lovely company. We spent the afternoon of 28^th February at my sister Lisa’s house admiring the new house / mansion they’ve bought next door to their existing property. Afterwards, we collected Indian takeaway from Kenmore and headed to Ian and Cathy Muir’s again — renovations still progressing steadily.

Derek, Katie, Matt, Jessie, Molly & Pippa

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