Melbourne-based writer and journalist. Purveyor of finally crafted radio plays. A Muppet of a man.
Bridestowe Lavender Farm is about an hour drive north of Launceston, not far from the northern coast of the island. The vast sea of purple is smack in the middle of a region of farm land. There isn’t much to tell you about it’s proud history – since 1921, in case you’re wondering – and you too can stop by there, pay an entrance fee, and take a few photos excessively dominated by the one colour.
There’s a gift shop selling everything lavender related that you could ever dream of, and provides perfect camouflage cover for an army of ninja grannies. There’s also a cafe, which sells lavender tea, lavender scones, and lavender ice-cream. It’d never occurred to me to infuse my food with lavender, and after sampling some lavender tea, it will never occur to me again. You know how it’s possible to have too much of a good thing? Apply that on a lavender scale.
You can take a tour around the processing sheds, just in case you hadn’t had enough lavender. There’s a sickly sweet smell everywhere, and everything is a muted shade of purple. After a while I felt like I was being buried in toilet air fresheners.
The local news stopped by to film a fluff piece for the evening news – “Aren’t you guys tired of filming these yet?” The owner asked as he prepared to be interviewed. I gather there was many a slow news day in the Launceston area.
In an effort to get in the story, myself and Mrs Smith strolled amongst the idyllic lavender with more affection on display than we normally would. Hand in hand, we did all but frolic, but in vain – the news seemed to know their target audience well, and we were upstaged by an an old couple who had practised being adorable and in love for many years longer than we had.