Rules and more rules, as long as they are my rules.
The chances of us coming back to drive ourselves around the central highlands of Tasmania in a rolling Hilton is about the same as any Kiwi in Australia not currently playing first class Rugby claiming, after a few beers, that they, or their brother, were an All Black triallist. The chances of us doing anything more than driving though Rosebury on any subsequent journeys, is roughly about the same as any of the said Kiwis, or their brothers, having actually trialed for the All Blacks. It is such a stark contrast to the effort, clear priorities and care that have been put into the hundred kilometers we travelled before, that I am still struggling to reconcile the difference. It has a really cool gold and zinc ore bucket rope conveyor with rusted buckets on it as you enter town that, based on the drive in, comfort you, thinking that this mining shenanigans obviously was not happening anymore. One kilometre later, and acres of desolation open up showing you just how wron...