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Bothwell, Tasmania; ‘I’ll book you in for dinner as well,’ suggests the helpful B&B owner when I phone to make an overnight reservation. ‘It’s a Monday, so none of the restaurants in town will be open’, is her explanation as I stumble to choose a dining time two months in advance. Before even setting foot in this historic township, I get the distinct impression that Bothwell is far from expansive.

However ‘The Bothwell Grange’ is a must visit on my Tasmanian itinerary as it offers the rare opportunity to stay in a historic guesthouse with a room named in honor of my own great-great-great-grandfather. Not a famous man, nor a man of significant accomplishments, but like many who traveled to Tasmania in the early days of colonial settlement in Australia, Great Great Great Grandpa King came at his majesty’s pleasure.

Bothwell, like many towns in Tasmania is rich with convict history, and in the case of the The Grange, this translates to the names bestowed on the cosy suites and rooms of this historic guesthouse.

I arrive in the historic township of Bothwell with ease courtesy of the Midland highway that runs north south between Launceston and Hobart. My convict ancestor, James King, arrived with far less ease in 1822 courtesy of the convict ship ‘Prince of Orange’.

My leisurely journey to Bothwell takes me through the historic neighboring towns of Campbelltown and Ross, the later home to an ornate convict carved bridge and the female factory memorial, a sad shrine to the women of our convict era. My ancestors’ journey started with a sentence of transportation in Oxford, England.

Bothwell today is a friendly and unique little town. The dual birthplace of both Tasmania’s own official tartan and golf in Australia, its streets are lined with historic buildings and a churchyard cemetery that dates from the 1820’s. The local council chamber records both the marked and unmarked graves of the regions early settlers and convicts that lie at rest amongst ‘Lanky Buttons,’ a rare yellow bloom that was rediscovered on this site in the mid 1980’s.

But it is the Grange that I have heard so much about, and the Grange that I want to experience. Starting its life as the Crown Inn in 1836, it is now a friendly and attentive bed and breakfast.

Pre-emptive inquiries appear the flavor of this establishment. With our dining time securely in place prior to arrival, our wine preference is sort not in the dining room but as we are shown our cosy suite. Menu’s are dispensed with, instead a friendly ‘Is Chicken Kiev alright?’ is asked as we admire the long anticipated ‘James King suite’ . Alright indeed, as to is dessert of handmade apple strudel drizzled with custard sauce.

In an era when elite hotels pride themselves on personal and attentive service, this B&B derives its hospitality standards from the Jane Austen play book.

Our host and Grange owner, Moya Falk assures us that our fellow guests, a group of hardworking tree planters have been given strict instructions to ‘keep the noise down’ and strictly ‘no swearing’ in respect of mine and my guests’ feminine sensibilities.

Only the head tree planter can be persuaded to engage in dining room conversation, his young charges appear too nervous to chat in case they break Moya’s rules! So after some polite banter on the art of tree planting, in honor of our lady like treatment, we discreetly retire to the front parlor, reserved for our exclusive use, after dinner.

The breakfast hour is left to our own choosing. Along with the expected array of breads, cereals and preserves I am provided with an unexpected serving of family history. Produced along with the coffee, Moya produces copies of my Great-Great-Great Grandfather’s death certificate and record of his charges. In faded print it is confirmed that it is the ludicrously simple act of ‘stealing a lamb’ that led to my ancestors travels from half a world away, and now my own journey to Bothwell, Tasmania.

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