Sandwiched between the changeable face of Mount Wellington and a sparkling harbour that gives Sydney a run for its money, Elinor Sheargold crosses the pond to discover Tasmania’s pocket-sized capital. With the giddy enthusiasm that comes with the start of a mini break I decided to kick-off the day on a high with a climb up 1270m Mount Wellington.
Hooking up with the Mount Wellington Descent tour guides, I was soon summit-bound having swapped the thickly forested foothills for a wild expanse of windblown gums somehow ekeing an existence out of the boulder fields. The tantalising views that had kept me glued to the van windows on the way up had only whet my appetite for more, and on a clear day Mount Wellington doesn’t disappoint. The panorama from the open viewing platform – far too wide for any point and click cameras – is easily the finest view anywhere in the southern capital.
Below, the city nestled around its deepwater harbour and spilled along the Derwent’s shores to the familiar curve of the Tasman Bridge and beyond into Tasmania’s southern highlands. To the south, Wrest Point Casino’s iconic tower could be picked out, with Bruny Island, Storm Bay and the Tasman Peninsula a kaleidoscopic backdrop of blues, greens and browns.
What goes up must come down, and as the name suggested, we were cycling back down to sea level. So with a silent prayer to the patron saint of mountain bikers, we mounted up for more than 20km of careering down the vertiginous face of the mountain on the narrow (but thankfully sealed) road.
The two-in-one Mountain Descent lasts around three hours, but if you’re short on time or courage, the $25 Mount Wellington Shuttle will whisk you from sea to summit and back with 30 minutes up top.
Having
come back down to earth, I found myself in Salamanca Place. Forget the city,
this is the real heart of Hobart.
Once the haunt of sailors, whalers and workmen, Salamanca’s 19th
century sandstone warehouses now bustle with artists, shoppers and tourists
drawn to its galleries, theatres, cafés, craft shops and fashionably hip bars.
Every
Saturday, Salamanca
morphs into one of the liveliest outdoor markets in the world as stalls set up
shop under the leafy plane trees and buskers of every shape and sound hit the
street. It’s a Hobart
institution and top of any discerning traveller’s to do list.
I
admit I’ve never been one for markets. I tend to wander listlessly around the
dog-eared books, comedy t-shirts, cheap jewellery and second-hand bric-a-brac.
But pulled along by the crowds, I was side-tracked by stalls offering quirky
homespun objects d’art, cutlery fashioned from scented Tasmanian sassafrass and
blackwood, and colourful paintings sold by the artists themselves.
Chocolate
liquer-filled truffles, Bruny Island fudge, cool climate wines, cheeses, honey
– lots of honey – lemon myrtle mustard, jams and sauces, I eyed them all with
(ahem) relish. It’s not the sort of place to visit on an empty stomach.
Ducking
into the Salamanca Arts Centre, I followed the sound of clanging metal to the
centre’s courtyard, where I came upon a blacksmith bent over his BBQ-size
smelter hammering a coat hook into shape by hammer and anvil. The centre’s
arcades and warehouses are packed with studios, galleries, theatres and shops
where artists in residence make and sell their goodies.
Emerging
into café-lined Salamanca Square,
a coffee was in order to fortify myself for another circuit of the markets.
Choosing a corner café by the eenie meenie process of elimination, I found
myself confronted with a line of gleaming metal washing machines. Hobart cafes, it seems,
like to multi-task, be it café-cum-laundromats like I’d just walked into, or
internet cafes that double as Errol Flynn galleries. They’re also perfect for
sitting back and enjoying a front row seat for one of Hobart’s great free shows on market day.
Peeling
off the main drag into the backstreets behind Salamanca, I appeared to have wandered into
Little Britain. With its quaint mariners cottages crammed around village
greens, lofty mansions, a wander along Battery
Point’s narrow streets is like stepping back in time.
Try
not to think of the devastatingly high calorie count and allow yourself to be
seduced by Jackman & McRoss’ pastries and tarts, or spend a lazy summer
afternoon in the beer garden at the quintessentially English pub ShipwrightArms pub – Shippies to locals.
As
you’d expect of Australia’s second oldest city, Hobart exudes 
history from every
convict-chipped brick, and it would be criminal to miss the Penitentiary and
Chapel which predates Port Arthur. Tours of the tunnels, cells and gallows give
an abbreviated history of harrowing colonial times and you can still see the
original 1829 furniture, convict fingerprints in bricks, and solitary cells under the chapel floor - an interesting take on Heaven & Hell.
The
Hobart Museum and Art Gallery is also worth a visit. Past the Muttaburrasaurus
skeleton in the foyer you’ll find exhibitions on the Mouheneenner Aboriginal
people, black and white footage of the last known Tassie tiger, and
the piece-de-resistance, interactive Islands to Ice Antarctic exhibition
complete with 3D theatre - cool in more ways than one.
Top
it off with some night frights on an historic ghost tour into Hobart’s murky past followed by spirits of a
different kind at the Lark Whiskey Distillery – try the Pepperberry Vodka.
But
like most visitors to this harbour city, I was inevitably drawn back to
Salamanca and the waterfront; a bobbing mosaic of leisure yachts, Hobart’s
fishing fleet, cruise boats, square riggers, the orange hulk of the Aurora
Australis Antarctic supply ship and, from the end of December, the first Sydney
to Hobart super yachts.
This
is prime time to be in Hobart.
The sun stays up until 9pm and the arrival of the yachts sets Hobart’s annual Summer Festival into swing –
headlined by the week-long gastronomic gala that is the Taste of Tasmania.
Hob
nob with the yachties as you indulge in the Apple Isle’s world-class wines and
cuisine. Splurge at one of the swish waterfront restaurants, or shell out on
rock lobster and a glass of chardy from Mures. You can always go on a diet in
the New Year.
That
said, nothing beats an impromptu fish n chips picnic by the docks as gulls
freewheel overhead and yacht halyards hum in the summer breeze.