Travelways

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The Notley crew gorge on fernery

I suppose saying that there are lots of ferns at Notley Fern Gorge is a bit like announcing the discovery of millions of white granules at Sandy Beach. But there are. Hundreds of them. Mother shield ferns, kangaroo ferns, hard-water ferns, giant manferns and common filmy ferns. Big ferns, small ferns, tree ferns, ground ferns (apologies to Dr Seuss). So many ferns, in fact, that the track can be hard to find in a few parts because it is overgrown with them. We leave Launceston with a loose idea to head to Notley Fern Gorge and pull in for the essential coffee at Grindelwald. Here's  a Swiss-style village built by a Dutch migrant in the middle of a Swiss-design suburb in a state emphasising wilderness, heritage and viticulture. I love it. It may be an awkward fit with Tasmania's tourism themes but Grindelwald and its chalet accommodation has always been a big hit with families and the conference market. The wood carvings, Swiss architecture, mini-golf, playgrounds and fairytale shopping strip have provided enough eye candy and tactile fun to lure  thousands of day trippers since the resort opened in 1989. So we nab drinks and cut across the West Tamar Highway to join  Rosevears Drive, and wind along the edge of the Tamar River to the floating pontoon at Rosevears. It's Monday this week and the river is calm. We sit in the barbecue shelter, sip drinks and admire the view across the river to St Matthias Church at Windermere. The next stop is Exeter and the Tamar Visitor Centre to pick up notes for Notley Fern Gorge. It's all fairly close - we started our unhurried drive from Launceston about 11am, have stopped three times yet arrive at the gorge shortly after midday. The car's gauge has been claiming temperature in the high teens;  the mugginess makes the day feel warmer. The walk to Notley Fern Gorge is a circuit and we wander clockwise, wondering when we'll see Bradys Tree. Bushranger Matthew Brady and his lawless confederates were said to have camped out in the big hollow of a tree and flintlock muskets found nearby added veracity to the rumour. It's steady downhill, brushing past knee-height ferns, until the sky is stolen by the fronds of towering manferns and the path criss-crosses a stream with a series of small bridges. The greenery is magnificent. Mossy dead logs, dogwoods, blackwoods, stringybarks but mostly ferns dominate the landscape. It is a little cooler at the stream, which is just as well, because the ascent is aerobic. We don't notice any of the wallabies, pademelons, possums and hopefully devils that inhabit the area but the birds are lively and we manage to identify  a pink-breasted robin. Puffing and panting, we scale steps and upward path until reaching Bradys Tree. You can stand comfortably in the hollow, where a few rifle-shaped pieces of wood have presumably been left by charading half-pints. I stand within and a droplet of what I hope is sap drips on the noggin. If Brady camped here, he probably put up with far worse. Not many creature comforts in the bush in the 1820s. The gentleman bushranger couldn't, for example, walk five minutes to a car park and drive off to Grindelwald for a coffee. But you can.