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Hobart, Tasmania (TAS) - 29th November 2008
Hobart Car Kilometres: 185,291
Distance Travelled: 397km
Total Distance Travelled: 17,040km
After leaving the north coast, we had planned to take a couple of leisurely days getting to Hobart, hoping for a squiz at Table Mountain on the way. However, the weather conspires against us (it's probably not personal), and we get within a few kilometres of the mountain and give up - it's veiled in fog and clouds, and we have no hope of getting a near view.
We start looking for a pitch for the night, and head to a council site that we've seen advertised. The site looks ok, but when we rock up there's a sign telling us to go to the local shop to pay and get a toilet key... however, when we get to the shop, there's a sign saying they've closed up for the night and giving complicated directions to the owner's house. Rather than simply programming these instructions into sat-nav Ken, we decide to skip town altogether, and don't have to wander too far in the rapidly approaching darkness before we come upon a layby just out of Waratah town that (hurrah!) allows free camping. We're the only patrons for the night, and despite being reassured by a passing local that we would be safe enough, we only set up the bare minimum of tent and bed before retiring for the night as soon as darkness falls, and are only interrupted once by a couple of friendly ambulance crews who stop in for a cuppa and crew change early on.
Waking early, feeling a little grubby from a lack of shower, and ready for a coffee (yes, we do have the implements to make it ourselves, but it's soo nice to sip one made professionally sometimes!), we drive into our next town: Yolla - there's not a lot going on, just a smattering of houses, a craft shop and a petrol station, but it does come equipped with a cafe, albeit not yet open. We stake it out, and are as relieved as the owners are excited to be the first customers of the day at 8am - we got a real feel of how quiet the town usually was when the owner of the wood craft shop opposite the cafe came in especially to boast about how he'd just sold an Irish tourist a spatula or something for ten dollars, and left looking a little crestfallen when the cafe owner cocked her head over at us, who had trumped him with a total spend of $12 on two coffees, a ham and cheese toastie and a portion of apple crumble with ice cream (no explanation, sorry).
The cafe owner was soon holding court, as having gotten over the shock of having foreign customers so early in the morning, he decided to give us some bang for our buck and entertain us. Thrilling as it was, the slow-paced photo DVD of local flora and fauna didn't really capture our imaginations. However, the proprietor had another trick up his sleeve - the tale of a cash machine ram-raid that had taken place the previous week. It had made the front page in the national paper, and had put the Yolla on the map (http://www.themercury.com.au/article/2008/11/28/41021_tasmania-news.html ). We were informed that the very establishment where we were standing was the scene of a dramatic getaway bid, with several cars in the area having been broken into by the ramraider who'd committed his crime in the next town but found his original getaway vehicle wanting, and then made off in a stolen metro or something similar (complete with a whole ATM poking out of the back), oblivious to the fact that the cafe's ute was parked around the back, unlocked and with the keys in the ignition.
Much as we'd have loved to have hung around listening to yarns all day, Hobart was calling, and we clambered back into the motor and were away.
Winding our way through the damp but lush and picturesque roads of western Tasmania, we pass by the pretty Lake Plimsoll and the ugly, scalded and surreal landscapes of Queenstown - its slopes eroded by acid rain following years of destructive mining. We read that some of the locals are keen to keep it this way, with the idea that it attracts tourists; however, it feels horrible, dingy and desolate, and we're glad to see that now the mining has stopped, a few sprigs of nature are slowly returning to the landscape.
After amusing (scaring?), Dave with some of my more ambitious driving skills whilst we make our way down to Hobart via some very, very wiggly roads (it's good practice for New Zealand), we finally arrive. During the drive, we have been umming and aahing about whether to treat ourselves to a motel for a couple of nights - the rain is still threatening, and we're in need of a bit of pampering. We find a cheapie riverside room that isn't too far from town and after a good hot shower each we drive into Hobart to sample the evening air and get our bearings for Tasmania's capital.
The main strip of bars, pubs and cafes is positioned around the marina at Salamanca Place: the combination of booze and water seems like a risky one to us, but Aussies are well used to the proximity, and the pristine condition of the life-saver rings dotted around the water's edge is testament to their respect for the water. After a brief examination of Hobart's social hub, we pootle up the hill to Battery Point, a warren of skinny lanes and 19th century cottages resplendent with beautifully detailed ironwork around the porches and balconies.
Light failing, we let sat-nav Ken guide us back to our motel and the relative luxury of a television, heater, private bathroom, solid roof and freshly made, non-air, bed - it feels lovely, and we're shocked when our next door neighbour complains about the quality - we're not sure whether this demonstrates their high standards, or our low ones...
The next day, after throwing budgetary caution temporarily to the wind and booking another night in the motel, we drive down to the Tasman Peninsula and Port Arthur. The Port was chosen in 1830 by Governor Arthur as a 'natural penitentiary' for convicts who had committed further crimes upon arrival in the newly founded colony, and has a murky past. The prison operated until 1877, and was either hell on an already hot area of the earth, or relatively comfortable compared to similar prison set ups in the UK and Ireland at the time, depending on how well each prisoner kept to the rules. However, the horrific shooting by a deranged gunman of 72 people, killing 35, at this popular tourist destination in 1996 has forever cemented it in history as a dark and tragic place.
Many of the prison buildings are wholly or partly intact, so after a surprisingly interesting trip around the museum at the entrance, we explore the rambling prison grounds and look out to sea, trying to imagine what it would have been like to be a prisoner or a warden here in the 1800's.
Prison thoroughly visited, we drive back up the peninsula via a spectacular coastal blowhole and some collapsed caves and arches, and cheer ourselves up after the grim feel of Port Arthur with a meandering drive through Doo Town - each shack in the area has an 'entertaining' name, such as "Af To Doo", "Doo Little", "Love Me Doo", and the bordering on cheeky "Doo Me".
Sufficiently cheered, we drive back into Hobart for some further touristing, only to be cut off at the pass once we've parked the car, by a procession in protest (or celebration, we can't work out which), of some kind of Buddhist event. This being our second unscheduled procession this fortnight (the first being the 'special' modern dance routine that we bumped into in Canberra), we sat down and watched it for a bit before proceeding onwards.
After a trawl around the CBD, and a revisit of some of the photogenic marina-side buildings, it was dark again and time to return to the motel for our last night in more salubrious surroundings before our return to canvas tomorrow.
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