Back Where it All Began: The Henty Dunes

Greetings fellow whingers! I thought as my inaugural post on the Whinger’s Guide I would share with you the story of the original whinging event which sowed the seeds (of discontent) that eventually sprouted this blog.

A long, long time ago…it must have been about 2003…five of us, including three future Whinger’s Guide contributors, took a weekend trip from Hobart to the West Coast of Tasmania. While we all had a great time on this trip, there was certainly plenty to whinge about: the motel in Queenstown was ordinary, Strahan appeared overly touristy and lacking authenticity, and a 1985 Toyota Corolla simply does not seat five adults in comfort over a four-hour drive. But the place where all this crystalised into the idea for the Whinger’s Guide was The Henty Dunes.

For those that don’t know, The Henty Dunes are a massive expanse of sand behind Ocean Beach just North of Strahan. They’re reasonably spectacular and are a popular spot for walking, quad-biking, sand-boarding and other sand-related activities. We decided to walk over the dunes to the beach to fill in some time before our (already booked and paid for) jet boat ride several hours later.

We parked in the carpark and headed straight out onto the dunes, completely failing to notice the information signs, maps and walker registration book on the way. It was easy to see in which direction the beach lay, so we struck out towards it. Now, you would think it a relatively simple matter to walk over some sand dunes to the beach. We certainly thought so, but it proved not to be the case. Though we were heading in the right direction, we kept coming up against dead ends, lagoons and impenetrable walls of coastal vegetation, so that we had to retrace our steps and find an alternative route. Finally, after a desperate scramble through some thick scrub laced with spider webs, we made our way out onto the beach. This was all very nice, as far as beaches go, but he walk in had taken longer than we anticipated and we decided not to linger too long as we wanted to have time for some lunch before the jet boat trip.

Although we had been baffled by the dunes on the way in, this was nothing compared to the way out. The direction back to the carpark was less clear, the dunes all looked alike, apparent short-cuts led nowhere and each time we struggled up a sand dune expecting to see the end in sight we were disappointed. By now all our water bottles had run out, the sun was at its zenith and we were tired from hours of walking on the shifting sand. We weren’t in any real danger, as there were plenty of quad-bikers about, and one member of our party (in a precogniscient moment) had decided to stay back in the car and read a book, but this knowledge did nothing to alleviate our immediate frustration and discomfort, so we struck up with a bit of lighthearted complaining about the folly of the venture, the confounding nature of the dunes and the fact that we now looked likely to miss out on lunch, and possibly our jet boat ride as well. One of our companions (who had been unofficially leading the expedition, and maybe took the criticisms more personally than intended) tried to improve morale by remaining cheerful and casting the enterprise in the light of a great adventure, but we were having none of it. Eventually he gave up, citing us as a pack of negative whingers.

Finally we located the road, at the base of a massive dune that we had to slide down, and made our way back along to the carpark. We zoomed back to Strahan just in time to catch the jet boat, whinging about the dunes all the way to our friend who had stayed in the car, while he whinged back about how long we’d taken.

On reflecting that evening, we had to agree that yes, we were whingers, but we didn’t see that that was anything to be ashamed of. As far as we were concerned, sharing those snide comments and cuttingly witty remarks during our experience actually made it more tolerable, memorable, and even kind of fun. We’d enjoyed telling our friend about our trials afterwards; it made for a good story. We decided that whinging was really a positive exercise. We’d been consulting a popular travel guide during our trip and we decided it too could be improved if there was more whinging involved. After all, we reasoned, it’s always much more entertaining to read or hear a scathing account of something than one overflowing with praise. To be considered a proper critic, one has to criticise. As well as this, whinging can be very informative, serving not only as a warning for the things you do whinge about, but (reading between the lines) as an endorsement for the things that don’t warrant much complaint. We envisaged ourselves travelling the state, writing a sort of no-holds-barred guide that wouldn’t mince words when it came to informing the reader of our real opinions. Thus, the concept of The Whinger’s Guide to Tasmania was born.

We’ve never really had the time or motivation to write the Whinger’s Guide from scratch, but over the years we’ve had many experiences which we’ve judged at the time to be worthy of an entry, should we ever get around to doing it. We’ve also discovered other friends who share the joy of a good whinge and embrace the concept wholeheartedly. Finally, after a catalytically whinge-worthy experience in a restaurant on the weekend (to be covered in a future installment) we decided to make a start in the form of this blog. Who knows where it will go from here, but given our seemingly endless capacity for whinging, the sky’s the limit!