Dear all,
We had a lovely
Christmas at my sister Lisa’s. The first one without Dad which was a bit sad.
Jess came to stay with us for a few days as well which was nice. On 29th
December, we flew to Tasmania to see our friend Paul Pincus finish the Sydney
to Hobart Yacht race. The flight was delayed by an hour and the meal on the
plane was the most underwhelming meal I have ever had - a hot-dog. A small
overcooked one at that. What depths QANTAS has sunk to. There were three of our
friend on the same flight and more on a later flight and a few already there.
We checked into our hotel, The Henry James hotel on the dock about 5pm and went
straight out for a champagne tasting. It was in the Clover Hill tent in the
Taste Festival which was a short walk away. We were overlooking the harbour and
about ten boats finished while we were there. They sailed right in front of us
to many loud cheers. It was quite exciting. Astoundingly we had ten champagnes
and it was all free! Dinner was 12 oysters and we went straight on to dance to
a 80s cover band. It was a non-stop welcome to Tasmania!
The next morning it was a leisurely breakfast at the hotel and a
walk down to the harbour to look at the boats. We went on to the Mawson Hut Replica Museum and the Tasmanian Art
Gallery and Museum.
The Mawsons Hut Replica
Museum is essentially a lovingly crafted reminder that early Antarctic
explorers were made of sterner stuff than those of us who complain when the
café’s heating is set a degree too low. Inside, we admired the meticulous
reconstruction of Mawson’s living quarters, marvelling at how men survived
months of darkness, isolation, and tinned food without once demanding oat milk
or Wi‑Fi. It was humbling, in the way only other people’s suffering can be when
viewed from a safe, well‑insulated distance.
From there, we
strolled to the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, where the climate was
considerably more controlled and the hardships limited to choosing which
exhibit to admire first. We wandered through natural history, colonial
artefacts, and contemporary art—an eclectic mix that suggested Tasmania has
always been a place where the ancient, the eccentric, and the earnest coexist
quite happily. Culturally enriched we went back to the hotel for a rest – still
feeling the effect of the ten champagnes last night.
We had been tracking
the progress of our friend Paul Pincus aboard Solace with the sort of
dedication normally reserved for NASA mission control. When he finally began
nosing into the Derwent, we wandered over to the Taste Festival and secured
brilliant seats right on the harbour—prime viewing for the nautical equivalent
of a celebrity arrival. Naturally, champagne was required. It would have been
rude not to.
After an hour of
genteel sipping and squinting at sails on the horizon, Solace appeared and we
gave the crew a suitably enthusiastic welcome to Hobart. Then came the urgent
business of necking the remaining champagne and sprinting—well, briskly
ambling—around to the other side of the harbour to greet them again at the
dock. Somewhere in this flurry, Katie managed to shed the belt from her jacket.
Naturally, I was dispatched to retrieve it while she returned to the hotel for…
more champagne. A theme was emerging.
I retraced our steps
through the Taste Festival, visited two separate lost‑and‑found stations, and
was just about to concede defeat when I spotted the belt lying on the footpath
where Katie had taken a shortcut. A New Year’s miracle. Rather than walk all
the way back to the hotel, I diverted to the Shipwrights Arms—established in 1846
and historically known as the watering hole for sailors, whalers, and now,
apparently, Pincus supporters. The pub was heaving, as every yacht crew seems
to descend upon it the moment they tie up. Katie and the rest of the entourage
joined me soon after, and we enjoyed a lively evening before returning to the
hotel fireplace (in mid‑summer) for cocktails. As one does.
The next morning was a
slow one, befitting New Year’s Eve. We wandered down to Jackman & McRoss in
Battery Point—Hobart’s prettiest suburb, originally settled in the 1830s and
still looking like it’s waiting for a Jane Austen character to pop out of a
doorway. After brunch, we walked the Battery Point Sculpture Trail. The walk
was lovely; the sculptures… well, Hobart, we love you, but they were a bit on
the “interpretive” side.
An afternoon nap
restored us for the 4pm Art Tour at the Henry Jones Hotel. The building itself
is a piece of history—once a jam factory run by Henry Jones, who rose from
child labourer to jam baron and knight of the realm. The hotel now displays art
on every available wall, and sponsors two major Tasmanian art prizes. Our
guide, Aaron, a self‑proclaimed “Master Storyteller,” lived up to the title.
The tour began with champagne (of course) and continued for 90 entertaining
minutes. All the art was for sale, and it took some effort to convince Katie
that our walls at home were, in fact, finite.
From there we went to
a champagne reception hosted by one of Solace’s crew, where we watched the 9:30pm
fireworks from their hotel balcony overlooking the harbour. Afterwards, we
returned to the Taste Festival for the Neon Nights theme—unfortunately we had
left our fluorescent gear in Brisbane, but it turned out Tasmanians are not big
on dressing up anyway. We danced to the Hindley Street Country Club Band, who
played 80s hits with gusto, and made it to the harbour just in time for the
midnight fireworks. We even stayed out until 1am, which is practically heroic
compared to recent years.
On New Year’s Day we
boarded the 10:15am ferry to MONA—the Museum of Old and New Art, built on the
site of a former horse‑racing track and now home to David Walsh’s infamous
“subversive adult Disneyland.” Mel and Bernie Thorpe joined us for the
adventure.
MONA, as always,
delivered a mix of brilliance, bewilderment, and the occasional confronting
moment. We had lunch at The Source, the fine‑dining restaurant perched at the
top of the hill. David Walsh himself was on the (closed) balcony with his
family, prompting Mel and Katie to enter full fangirl mode. I maintain that I
wouldn’t have recognised him if I’d tripped over him.
After more wandering,
we attended a performance called 4pm, in which a composer writes a new piece of
music every day and has it performed immediately by a string quartet. He had
been doing this for 537 consecutive days, which makes my commitment to daily
coffee seem rather underwhelming. Walsh and family joined the audience, much to
Mel and Katie’s delight. The music was surprisingly good, and they played a few
selections from previous days for good measure.
We caught the 5pm
ferry back to Hobart, changed quickly, and met the others for an early dinner
at Fellini’s Italian Restaurant. Katie chose it because her first job had been
at a restaurant of the same name—a sentimental pilgrimage of sorts. We ended the
night with cocktails by the fireplace before retiring early.
The next morning we
picked up a hire car and drove to Dunalley for lunch before continuing to
Eaglehawk Neck. We stopped for a short walk to Tasman Arch and Devil’s
Kitchen—two dramatic geological formations carved by relentless Southern Ocean
waves. Historically, Eaglehawk Neck was the narrow isthmus guarded by the
infamous “Dog Line,” where ferocious dogs were chained to prevent convicts
escaping from Port Arthur. Thankfully, no dogs impeded our progress.
We continued on to
Wildwood Retreat in Koonya. The house is stunning, with sweeping views over the
ocean that make you consider abandoning civilisation entirely. After a rest, we
visited Premaydena Hill Winery for oysters, wine, and yet another spectacular
view—Tasmania seems determined to outdo itself at every turn. We ended the day
in the outdoor hot tub, admiring the scenery before enjoying a quiet night in.
A rare and welcome pause.
Saturday 3rd January took us to the Port Arthur
Historic Site — Tasmania’s most scenic reminder that the 19th century had very
different ideas about “character building.” We dutifully reported for the Port
Arthur Essentials Tour at 9:15am, which, fittingly, is about the time convicts
once lined up to be told what fresh misery awaited them. Our guide, far kinder
than any 1830s overseer, walked us through the ruins, the stories, and the sort
of punishments that make modern workplace training modules feel positively
luxurious.
A few historical tidbits for the record:
- Port Arthur began as a timber station in
1830 before evolving into a full‑blown penal settlement — the kind of
place where you didn’t want your name on the guest list.
- It was home to the “Separate Prison,” an
experiment in psychological punishment where silence was mandatory and eye
contact was optional. (Introverts may have thrived.)
- The site also boasted its own shipyard,
hospital, and church — because even convicts needed a little variety.
We spent all day wandering around the ruins before boarding the
boat for the Isle of the Dead Cemetery Tour at 3pm. The island holds around a
thousand souls, neatly divided between “free” and “not so free,” with the
headstones of the former standing tall and the latter mostly unmarked. A subtle
reminder that history has always been a little uneven in its record‑keeping.
We also visited the Port Arthur Memorial Garden, a quiet,
beautifully designed space honouring the victims of the 1996 tragedy. The
reflection pool, framed by the remains of the Broad Arrow Café, is a stark
reminder of the fragility of ordinary moments. It’s a place that encourages
stillness—simple, solemn, and deeply human. A necessary pause in a landscape
otherwise overflowing with history, beauty, and the usual Tasmanian weather
mood swings.
Having absorbed a full dose of colonial gloom (and some
surprisingly lovely views), we returned to our accommodation for a restorative
hot tub session. Watching the sun go down from warm water felt like the perfect
antidote to a morning spent contemplating the hardships of people who
definitely did not have access to spa facilities.
Dinner in, feet up, and another day of Tasmanian exploration
successfully chronicled.
On Sunday 4th our adventure took us to the Cape Hauy
Track, the third leg of the famed Three Capes Walk and—according to early
European explorers—a place best admired from a safe distance. They described
the dolerite cliffs as “imposing,” which is 19th‑century code for “absolutely
terrifying.”
The track itself is an 11 km return journey, which sounds
manageable until you realise that Tasmanian kilometres are longer, steeper, and
more judgmental than regular ones. By the time we reached the far end, the
cliffs rose in great organ‑pipe columns, the sea thundered below, and—because
apparently the universe enjoys contrast—there were groups of people slacklining
between the dolomite stacks.
Slacklining. Between cliffs. Over the Southern Ocean. Naturally.
I asked one of them how on earth they got the rope up there. He
explained, quite casually, that they climbed 100 metres down the cliff,
swam across to the dolomite column, then climbed up 50 metres with ropes
and ratchets. All this before breakfast, presumably. They had two lines set up,
but on the first attempt they only made it a quarter of the way across before
the boulder anchoring the rope began to shift. At this point, they wisely retreated
and spent the rest of our visit hunting for a sturdier boulder—because nothing
says “relaxing day out” like trying to avoid plummeting into the Tasman Sea.
Madness. Entertaining madness, but madness nonetheless.
The cliffs were enormous, the dolomite columns spectacular, and
the whole scene looked like something a geologist might sketch lovingly in a
notebook before remembering they left their lunch in the car. By the time we
trudged back to the car park, our legs had staged a quiet rebellion. There was
only one responsible course of action: a restorative gin at McHenry Distillery,
Australia’s southernmost distillery and a proud producer of spirits strong
enough to revive even the most footsore walker.
We enjoyed a tasting paddle of three gins each, followed by a gin
cocktail—because hydration is important. Katie, emboldened by botanical
enthusiasm, decided we absolutely needed another bottle to take home. I didn’t
argue; resistance seemed futile.
We rounded out the day with a third consecutive night in the hot
tub, watching the sun slip behind the hills while our legs forgave us. A fine
Tasmanian evening, and not a slackline in sight.
Cheers
Derek, Katie,
Matt, Jessie, Molly & Pippa
