Hobart City Break

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. 

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.