Eden – Eden - Eden

We are still in our lovely sheltered anchorage, within the big naval jetties, right outside a beautiful big old house (probably 1930s – gabled, orange tiles, columns, like a big California bungalow.) It has its own private little beach and is surrounded by thick green bush. And I THINK, or hope, for their sake, that a fortuitously placed little headland hides from their view the enormous woodchip pile and operating machinery associated with this industry…

Tomorrow Bermagui, but today was all Eden.

And what an appropriate name for this beautiful little town. Who knew? Not me! I knew it was a place where Sydney-Hobart yachtsmen blow in, ignominiously…and that the main industries are fishing and forestry, and that it used to be a centre for whaling. But I didn’t know how very beautiful it is. The big bay, Quarantine Bay, has many lovely little beaches, with rocky headlands, and thick, green bushland right down to the sea. Eden itself is very small, and not suitable for bike riding…because it is steep, and Pete and I are flatcountry riders.

We went into the bay next to ours, trying to get a look at Boydtown, the original settlement. But this bay was full of bits of wood – hazards to shipping! Not quite as big as the logs Canadian lumberjacks leap on, but large nonetheless, and a real worry. They had been washed into the bay in the recent floods, we later found. So…we didn’t go to Boydtown. We headed straight into Eden. We were led into town by a small pod of enthusiastic dolphins, just a few of them, which darted busily around the bows of the boat until we were nearly at the wharf. I was just delighted, being able to watch them as I attached the mooring lines and fenders. (Yes I do know how to do just one or two useful things, on the boat…)

We tied up to the big solid wharf and organised to fill up with fuel at 3pm. This gave us a few hours to walk up the steep hill to the town centre. Lots of people were fishing along the wharf. They all had to move to make way for 2XS but no complaints; they all had comments, and admiration for the boat. One of them trotted off to his car to bring me his newly acquired digital camera, to show me photos of his grand-daughter (Laura…) sitting in his kayak, then many photos of his kayak (prized possession) on his couch, on his bed, in the water, on a trolley he made himself out of an old wheelchair. I actually couldn’t see anything very clearly in the bright sunshine, but I made appropriate admiring sounds and he was happy.

We walked up a fairly new, beautifully laid-out pathway, called Warren’s Walk. As we wound our way up, we could hear swish swish, then we could see a tall thin woman (older-than-me), sweeping…the grass?? No; when we came around the bend we saw she was meticulously sweeping the pathway clear of grass clippings. She was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt which said, “So many books, so little time.” That sort of woman a-bit-older-than-me… We stopped to chat and to congratulate her on her obviously (voluntary) task. She sighed deeply and said, in a strong German accent, “Ah yes; the council mow the lawns, but they do not keep the path tidy. You can call me the Wicked Witch of Warren’s Walk.” We said she might be the witch, broomstick and all, but she certainly was not wicked! When we walked back down the pathway later in the day, Pete stopped and gasped in horror – “Well!” he shouted. “She hasn’t swept this TWIG off the path! And what about those three leaves over there!!”

At the top of the hill, there was Eden, in all its glory. And no I am not being sarcastic. (Sarcastic, moi???) A whole streetful of lovely old houses, early 1800s, cottages, grand hotels. Lots of new buildings, shops, galleries, cafes. And huge great pubs and clubs just waiting for yachties! The views from the hilltop are simply breath-taking – and this is a lot for a Hobart Girl to say; we have such beautiful views, in Hobart. The whole main street of Eden looks down on two (sometimes three!) sides, out into the bays and the ocean, with waves crashing in. Beautiful!

The first thing we did was to go to the museum, set up in the 1930s, and run entirely by volunteers – it would seem a whole team of very nice ladies a bit—older-than-me… A fabulous little museum! All about…whaling… So a teensy bit gruesome but fascinating. Eden made its early fortune from whales; many people are now making another fortune from whale watching. Much nicer, to our 2011 sensibilities. There are many stories about the early days. The whalers used killer whales to herd the other whales into the bay to be slaughtered. The killer whales acted like sheepdogs, led by Old Tom, a very smart and human-friendly orca, whose skeleton now reposes in a glass case. This is all hard to believe, but it is very well documented. Apparently there are no other recorded cases of killer whales doing this anywhere else in the world… Now all of the whales are cosseted and treasured; no whales have to die and no humans have to go out in tiny wooden boats with harpoons.

We watched a video which gave us all sort of useful information about the birds and mammals we have been seeing all the way up the coast. “Oh look,” said Pete fondly. “There is your very own albatross!”

Pete had left his bike helmet behind in Hobart; we were on A Mission to get him a new one. Bike shops are not all that popular in Eden; it is, as I said, so steep… But we found a small shop which sells this and that in the outdoor-ish mode, and which had about 3 helmets for sale. The man now has 2 left for sale…

We looked in some of the shops and galleries, and had a coffee in the Sign Shed, run by two recent escapees from the Canberra ratrace – sea-changers! If you want a sign made, go there! Or if you are in Eden and you want a REALLY nice cup of coffee – ditto.

Back down on sea level, we went and ordered a fisherman’s platter for two, $20, which we took, back to 2XS. There was more than enough (fried! yummy!) food for both of us. We sat happily on the deck, watching people fishing, with two happy pelicans on the lookout for scraps. And a small cheery seal leaping around making a nuisance of itself beneath the fishing lines.