Hello Hobart!

All things said and told Tiger Airways ain’t that bad, especially when it costs less than a night’s sleep to fly two across the Bass Straight. The downside was a late arrival that saw us flag the last shuttle bus to Hobart. Once again we were a little too lax in our preparation, overlooking the fact that the Aussies were still on their school summer break and accommodation would be hard to come by. We got a taste of what it must’ve felt like for Mary and Joseph as we plodded the capital’s streets in search of a room, but fortune favours the brave and, after much searching, we landed the two final dorm bunks in some hostel called the Pickled Frog. As for food, we weren’t quite so lucky and had to settle for a slice of greasy pizza from some dodgy backstreet takeaway, which were washed down with a couple of pints of Cascade (the Hobart brewery and, believe it or not Aussie’s oldest) in the only “local” bar we could find. Straddling the Derwent River and backed by the towering Mt Wellington, Hobart has enhanced its rich colonial heritage with a lively vibe stemming from countless street festivals and old cobbled roads crammed with bars. Add to this its busy fishing port – a dozen of the freshest oysters we’d tried since Stewart Island for 10 bucks – and several funky suburbs all within walking distance and the city has it made.

With a population only just breaking 200,000 Hobart, the country’s second oldest city and smallest state capital, is a breath of fresh air. It’s easy to lose track of time simply wandering … and that’s exactly what the first couple of days were made up of as we explored till our legs would walk no more. The old port area of Battery Point, the buzzing Salamanca markets – a must see every Saturday – and the cool as a cucumber North Hobart suburb, packed with European style bars and eateries. For those who care, Hobart started life as a village of tents and huts with a population of just 262 Europeans; in 1804 David Collins, governor of the then known Van Diemen’s Land decided Hobart’s deep river location made it perfect for trading and further exploration of the island. The aborigines were beaten back in a bloody battle in 1803 by the first Europeans to arrive and their name for the region, Nibberloonne, was later changed to Hobart about 1842.

No trip to Hobart is complete without an exertion up to the peak of Mt Wellington, which is by no means high at 1270m, but offers breath-taking panoramic views for as far as the eyes can see. Most visitors tend to rely on their campervans or jump the bus, but in true Marit and Kris style we opted for the four hour hike from Fern Tree, and shit is it rewarding. Following the aptly named “zig zag” trail, you climb out of the tree line and weave around sheer granite rocks to reach the peak, where the reward is a view that stretches from the south west cape, east to Bruny Island and the Tasman Peninsula and north towards Mt Field and the Cradle Mountain national park.

But it’s a small world, not least when you’ve a Dutchie in tow! Just as we prepared to descend for civilisation but who should rock up at the summit in their newly hired campervan than our three amigos Annelies, Bart and Ray – complete with cold beers in hand. Somehow we managed to avoid temptation, preferring to descend by foot after arranging a catch up beer in Fern Tree, which led to two and a long night’s entertainment north of the city at the their well hidden campsite.