![]() Locals fear that world heritage protection would prevent them from accessing places they consider to be part of their home. Not necessarily, but we do want to talk about the forest. ![]() “We’re making a documentary film.” (I’m the tagalong writer). “So, what are you lot doing here?” says the one in the faded Carhartt sweatshirt. The weather is the island’s determinant factor its context, shape and personality. But after nearly three weeks here, I’ll admit that Tasmania might be allowed to claim it. It’s a popular one in places where the combined virtues of unruliness and resolve are essential to survival. “They say if you don’t like it, just wait five minutes.” I’ve heard this truism before. He’s looking for a character assessment, not an answer. ![]() “What do you think of our weather?” one asks. Even in muddy work boots and jeans, we’re conspicuous. And they want to talk, which isn’t really surprising. They wear camo and flannel, unironically. They share the weathered look of men who work outside-calloused hands that swallow their glasses, and crinkles around their eyes. Outside the wind howls, knocking against a sign that says “Best in the West,” which is also carved into a picnic table on the wraparound porch.Īt a corner table near the window, three men scrimmage over half-finished tens (the vernacular for half-pint). Steam rises from mounds of mashed potatoes. The daily specials are listed on a blackboard in the attached dining room, which is decorated with photographs and dioramas of endemic fish. There’s a fire going in the hearth next to an occupied pool table. A half dozen or so are parked for a long night. They come from work, stopping on the way home for a pint of Boag’s, the local economy beer. It’s dark when the regulars amble up the steps and through the swinging glass door of the Marrawah Tavern just up the road from Arthur River.
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