Sunday, 13 March. Today we pack up and head down to our next port, another self catering cottage in the town of Bicheno. The drive is probably not more than an hour, so we figure we'll be there by lunch, as the map doesn't show much of interest between start and destination. However, as Robin is driving I check my Tassie guidebook, and read that a place called Shelley Point is good for sea shells. We decide to stop there as we're in no hurry. Luckily I decide to take a plastic bag with me down to the beach in case of a few finds. What we stumbled onto stunned us both. The beach had very little sand visible, as most of the shore was covered with massive piles of sea shells. In some places, the piles were 6 or 8 feet high, more like dunes. Big shells, small shells, all sizes, all colours, all shapes—I loved it, and we filled a bag with shells. An older man, who was walking his dog while his wife sat picking through a pile of shells, told us that they had been coming to this particular place for 50 years, and no matter how many people came and took shells away, the piles never seemed to diminish. Apparently, there is something about the position of the beach, and the rocks around it, that seemed to draw in the shellfish, and there was nowhere else in the area that had such a massive concentration of shells.

When I could be pulled away, we completed our drive and found our cottage to be a good sized place positioned directly above the rocky path around Bicheno's protected bay. Not much charm to the cottage itself, but the location is lovely, and there is a good sized verandah with table and chairs that gets afternoon sun, and a lovely garden and lawn down to the rocks. Bicheno is known for its resident colonies of Little Penguins (used to be called Fairy Penguins), which funnily enough are the smallest species of penguins. I had learned earlier that some of these penguins are often to be found around the house we are renting, so we asked the owners where we could see them. He took us around the back of his house, and showed us a sheltered area under some boards, where two penguins live. As we peaked in, there they are standing around while their feathers moult (literally—they stand in one place, and don't eat or anything else while their feathers fall off, so they are surrounded by a cloud of fluffy black and white feathers). They're only about 12 inches tall-quite adorable. They aren't tame but they are so accustomed to people that they aren't afraid, and in fact they tend to nest in peoples' yards locally. In a few weeks or so they will start their annual migration—to New Zealand, a matter of 1,000 miles or so, for the winter, returning next spring. It was almost a David Attenborough moment.

We walked along the foreshore footpath into town to get lunch at the Sea Life Centre (a restaurant and an enormous collection of sea shells and other related items for sale). Their seafood chowder was highly recommended, and was indeed tasty, though doesn't compare to Mom's. Then to the other end of town to see the Blow Hole, a natural phenomenon where the massive boulders that line the coast in this area are positioned in such a way that the sea rushes in and is forced up through gaps in the boulders to make a sort of geyser effect. Mildly entertaining for a few minutes, with the prospect of being drenched if venturing too close to get the perfect snapshot.

I went for a run and Robin braved the cold water for a swim, so we were ready for a good hearty dinner. Back at the cottage we cooked beef burgers on the Barbie (we are in Australia after all—it seemed the right thing to do), washed down with a Tassie pinot called Apsley Gorge. A London wine merchant had recommended this wine, so Robin had been trying, unsuccessfully, to find a bottle since we arrived in Tasmania. Today we picked up a bottle in the butcher shop where we bought the burgers, and then discovered that the winery is actually located in town (though they don't have their own shop). It was very, very good.