GEORGE SAYS

George says, 'The day we went to Bruny Island was perfect, in mid spring, mostly sunny and with a light breeze. The people queuing in front of the ferry wharf all Australian visitors us excepted, relaxed as only Australians can be on a holiday, never too loquacious nor anxious about children straying a few meters from Mum. As soon as we were on Bruny soil, we took a road heading North and lost sight of the other cars. Driving through a wood a wallaby crossed the road with good timing, taking long aerial steps with its beautiful face turned toward us. No need to press the brake, we were already keeping to a slow pace.

We parked the car near the sea to walk on lonely beaches each one of us taking to different directions looking for shells or fallen trees, but in the end one special place was on top of our goals, and that was the narrow strip of land joining the Northern and the Southern parts of the Island, where two different seas were visible from a small elevation you could walk up to on very comfortable wooden steps. In a place like this elsewhere, in populated countries, there would be numberless cars and coaches parked at the base, but here instead we only met one couple, and a single man sporting an Australian leather hat, with whom we exchanged a few words.

There was a group of teenagers led by a man to the lookout, but I barely noticed them at the time. Looking down to the Western part of the beach we saw among others the prints of little penguins which must have used the beach shrub vegetation as their roosting place at night. Somebody told us that the levels of the two different seas, the Pacific and the Tasmanian, are not at the same level, and thus a rise of the higher water would enact an ecological catastrophe.

Descending the steps we paused sadly in front of the face sculpted in bronze of the last Aboriginal woman, died in 1876 after all her relatives had been killed by the Western 'civilized' intruders.

We drove on moving further South, at one point leaving the main road into dirt roads that passed desolated farms, looking for a fake lighthouse that a Tasmanian friend had built with his own hand as a weekend retreat. We tried different country roads, with the car jumping on the disconnected ground, but it seemed all in vain, the improbable lighthouse not to be seen anywhere. But then, while climbing a slope, we had a glimpse of a small wooden tower on top of the hill. Nick the psychologist recognized the friend who was in our car and introduced himself. He said that the young guests were participant in an anti-establishment symposium. When tea was served, the young took to themselves and let us elders to do the conversation. Nick wanted to lead the way to his lighthouse. First a ground floor hall where I immediately noticed a rough shower. I don't remember if it was Nick himself or the lady who explained that Nick had a female weekend visitor who had complained of the lack of a shower, so he had to comply. But of course, the bedrooms were on the upper levels, and a journey downstairs might have been uncomfortable on a cold day (Ah, gossip!). One of the rooms that occupied the entire area of every level in the tower was filled with a big water tank. The impression of the interior was to me absolutely spartan. Not my cup of tea, as the English say.

I was instead interested in the man's motivations first, and in the process of building the wooden lighthouse single-handedly. If you like challenges in life, you are prone to be curious about these things. Nick had lived a short period of months in contact with the sea, surrounded by the sea, and almost no human around. That would have been a time of reflection for everyone in the situation, and he felt that he had had the experience of his life. When this happens to you, some sort of re-enacting is inevitable, and Nick found his own way of re-enacting by building a lighthouse of his own. On top the unfinished tower I could glimpse the sea in the distance. Not the same from an actual lighthouse. Nick would read my mind. He sensed my objection, and he said, 'The forest around here stands in lieu of the sea.'

Later, leaving the tower for the piazza he had cleared all round the building, Nick answered my questions to how he had proceeded. He showed me the bases of the trunks that act as pillars. He explained how he had excavated holes in the ground and then covered them in heavy bitumen, laid down the trunks with only a few inches of their bottom ends verging on the greased hole. A rope was attached to the top end on one side, while on the other it was tied to the rear of a jeep that provided the pull. He said, the Roman legionnaires of old used several men to do the job. The bottom of the tree trunk would slide into the hole, be steadied there and then go up vertically. Ingenuous indeed. Nick went on explaining similar feats. Three years work during all weekends and festivities. A hard if remunerative job.

Elena and I only interrupted Nick's narration to relieve ourselves of the tea's water in the forest. It was also an excuse to visit the place around Nick's sophisticated summer house. We took a path in the wood, and soon found a friendly tree for each of us, first Elena and a few meter further for myself. I was ready to urinate when I nearly jumped back. I had seen a snake near the tree. Elena came over and saw that the said snake had paws. I knew instantly that I had made myself the object of ridicule for the rest of my days. We went back to Nick's house and told our Aussie friends our meeting with a snake, or serpent. The lady asked Nick, were there snakes in this season? Nick shrugged his shoulders meaning there were plenty. With cameras in their hand two of our friends wanted to have a look at the creature. It was still there, a big lizard bearing the name of Blue-Tongue, toxic but never lethal.

I went inside the wooden-framed caravan all painted over with desert flowers to have some more tea.’