Comfort. That’s a lovely word, isn’t it? Comfort. What things do you associate with it I wonder. Granny’s all enfolding hugs where, as a child, you’re lost to the world in a heady wave of lavender oil and the colour purple. Or a big mug of steaming soup beside a raging fire on a winter’s evening. A big, fluffy bath towel. No – bath sheet – they’re bigger.

That’ll do for starters – granny’s hugs, big soup mugs, fluffy towel. Definitely things of comfort. 

I’ll tell you what comfort is not. Comfort is definitely not two nearly 50 year olds sharing a thin single mattress that’s laid out in the back of an old station wagon in a lay by next to the main road on the East coast of Tasmania. 

We’re in Tasmania. And that’s wonderful. We’re sleeping in a car. And that’s — uncomfortable! 

When you’re of an age where you have got wonderfully well used to your own, old, familiar bed. And if you’re the sort of person who, when you set out round the world, seriously consider if there is room in your one bag to fit your three pillows from your own, old, familiar bed. And then you’re lying in the back of a car on the very edge of Tasmania and count up that you’ve had 22 different beds since leaving the UK just 9 weeks ago. And now you’re sleeping in a car and your body is adopting positions that God probably didn’t have in mind when he designed them.

In the middle of the night I was a little concerned to realise that I couldn’t feel my legs. Nor my left arm. Nor the left side of my face. Fearing I’d suffered a stroke it was a relief when I discovered that I couldn’t feel the car door either, nor the roof. I couldn’t feel anything because my fingers had gone totally numb. I bashed my anaesthetised hand against the car door in amusement until it woke Ella who thought we might be being attacked. 

If you do have to sleep in a car, at least this one is cool. It’s a very beaten up station wagon with dents and dings all over: war wounds from run ins with bush life and wildlife. It has bits hanging off it and its spare tyre is pretty much just as useful as mine. The car is old and full of character. This car is what Tommy Lee Jones would look like if he was turned into a Mitsubishi.

We’d had two nights in an AirB&B in Hobart, so this was to help balance the budget.

And it has its compensations – we awoke looking out over probably the Indian or the Pacific Ocean. Almost certainly one of them, or possibly the Tasman Sea. Geography is not my strongpoint. Anyway, it was a long beach, a lot of water and very pretty. Looking out of the other window there was a highway with trucks rumbling down it.

 

We’ll have to find out some time if it’s legal to spend the night in a lay by in Australia. But for now I’d rather rely on a healthy dose of ignorance. Ignorance is, after all, bliss – and it’s also cheaper than knowledge sometimes.

It wouldn’t surprise me if it was illegal, as Australians seem obsessed with laws. I’ve never seen anywhere with so many signs telling you what you can’t do.

And this doesn’t surprise me as modern Australia was invented by convicts, so they were used to having lots of rules.

On our way down to Hobart we stopped in a place pretty much in the middle of Tasmania called Campbell Town. One of the features of the town is the long lines of bricks set into the pavement and stretching either side of the main street. On each brick is engraved the name of a convict sent out from the UK, it gives their age, their crime and their sentence, and often one line to include any subsequent detail known about their later life. Reading them was humbling and sobering. 7 years for a 14 year old boy for stealing bread. Life imprisonment for a 22 year old for burglary. Sarah Brame, age 23, stole 2 brooches, sentenced to 14 years. She was shipped over with her 2 daughters. 

Many thousands of convicts came to Tasmania to serve their sentence. To the South East of the island, on the end of what might be an isthmus (spell check hasn’t objected to that so it might be the word I’m thinking of) anyway, a lump of land connected to the mainland by a narrow strip less than 100m wide is the site of Port Arthur, where we spent the day. It was set up in the 19th century as a prison and housed over a thousand convicts at the height of its popularity. A dumping ground for the overflowing prisons of the UK – conditions were often brutal and escape was infrequent.

One of the documented escape attempts involved a prisoner getting as far as the narrow stretch of land just mentioned (called Fisheagle Neck) which, as it was effectively the only way off the peninsula and was easy to guard, had a permanent group of soldiers stationed there. Our intrepid escapee had come across a dead kangaroo, skinned it and sort of climbed into the skin and then, just as night fell he hopped past the guard post and off down the narrow strip towards the mainland. It was an excellent plan given the fading light and the soldiers’ lack of intimate knowledge of kangaroos. 

However, they were hungry. They fancied a steak. And there was a pretty slow moving meal hopping away from them. One of the soldiers ran after the kangaroo and raised his gun. History didn’t relate exactly what the soldier thought when the kangaroo screamed: “Don’t shoot!” and proceeded to skin itself. 

Although, if the guards were anything like the Tasmanians of today, they would probably have congratulated the prisoner on his escape attempt: “Truly excellent escape attempt Mr Prisoner. Absolutely awesome try!” for Tasmanians, we have discovered, are the most wildly enthusiastically encouraging people on the planet. Just ridiculously so. We all know that the first words an Australian baby speaks are “No worries” – and continues having to say it at least 8 times an hour for the rest of their life. But Tasmanians combine that with over the top encouragement. For example – I conduct a simple exchange at the local supermarket. I place my purchases on the conveyor belt – the assistant beeps them, I hand over cash. “Well done. Outstanding job!” comes booming out from him. I, being British, assume he’s being sarcastic. Look for signs of irony or even mild contempt. No. Pure unadulterated encouraging positivity is dripping down his countenance and all over his counter. And this is magnified all over the island. 

“Way to go!” upon my achieving the impressive feat of buying a newspaper. “Aw well done, beautiful job!” on Ella totally buying a bus ticket. 

I’m not sure how they would react to our doing something actually truly clever: maybe their heads explode.

We mentioned this trait to a couple with whom we’re staying and they laughed it off saying that they hadn’t ever noticed but were then amused when we pointed out 5 occasions they went on to do exactly that during the meal. It must just be so ingrained in their psyche that it becomes unconscious habit.

Australians certainly seem a lot happier in general than Brits. Maybe it’s that they feel so amazingly affirmed when completing even the simplest task.

I think they should change their national anthem and have instead the song from the Lego Movie. It would be brilliant to see at the medal ceremony at the Olympics, or before a rugby match, or at the state opening of parliament – everyone standing proud and then: “Everything is Awesome, everything is cool when you’re part of a team” blares from the speakers. Who wouldn’t get up and dance along to it? 

This level of constant unremitting encouragement just doesn’t happen in the UK.

I’m still a little suspicious of why the Tasmanians compliment the simplest achievement. Maybe it’s just done to Brits. Maybe they have such a low expectation of us that when we manage to walk and talk at the same time without banging into something they are genuinely thrilled. 

Which is better to be? Typical Tasmanian person complimenting everyone and everything in the same over the top manner, or a Brit who compliments far less frequently but, when it happens, far more meaningfully?      I know full well that a large chunk of my personality that should be devoted to encouraging people, or building them up, is missing. It’s not something I deliberately don’t do – it just doesn’t cross my mind to do it at the time. 

I definitely do not encourage enough. What about you? Do you easily say “well done.”  If you do then, “that’s amazing! Awesome job!”

Should you be a little more Tasmanian?

I think I should.