Hobart, A Lament

This time, I begin with a short piece of advice – when I’m writing my blog posts, I try so hard to remember everything that has happened that the occasional thing will slip by. With this in mind, if you are interested in my visit to the Boags Brewery Museum, the home of Boags beer in Launceston, then check out my photobucket. All the photos carry a short explanation, and are posted in reverse chronological order (that’s the newest ones first for those less comfortable with big words!)

But this story has long since moved on! Day 2 with the car was an early start, leaving Swansea, a town remarkable for being composed of only one street – the Tasman Highway at that. Tasmania is a place even more rife with English placenames than Australia already is, perhaps this is a reflection of the English desire to live on an island, to be separated from the mainland, to surround ourselves with water that we may be safe from external threats. Or maybe it’s just that in the remote and challenging Tasmanian landscape, full of these strange and dangerous creatures, the first settlers like to remind themselves of home. A depleted Aboriginal community on the island could also have contributed to the most historic British towns that I passed through or by after leaving Swansea: Pontypool, Little Swanport, Darlington, Nugent and Penzance all led the way to my next scenic spot – the remarkable Tasman Arch.

In Geological terms, it is perhaps made all the more interesting by its close neighbours, no more than a couple of hundred metres to one side is the Devil’s Kitchen, an example of what the Tasman Arch will eventually become in a few hundred years time. The ‘bridge’ over the gully has collapsed, leaving nothing more than a natural inlet. To the otherside is the Tasman Blowhole, what the Tasman Arch may have been a couple of hundred years ago – a cave into the rock with just a small hole having weathered through from ground level. Regardless, crossing the Tasman Arch seemed the thing to do.

From there, I continued along the dogleg around to Port Arthur, but wanting to make Hobart before dusk, I afforded myself only a brief glimpse of one of Tasmania’s most famous historic towns before heading along to the state capital.

I find it difficult to describe Hobart in a similar way to how I find it difficult to describe Canberra. It shares certain characteristics, although it certainly has a different history. Whereas Canberra was nothing until it became the nations capital, I feel Hobart was something; a burgeoning town, maybe on the brink of becoming a welcoming, vibrant city that Tasmania could be proud of. As it is, there is a distinct aura that it has been rushed into a doomed attempt to match cities like Sydney or Melbourne too quickly. The centre has been stripped bare of the kind of character that takes years to develop, and replaced with all the soul of a designers pencil.

The market in which you will find this modern, minimalist statue is just one of the many examples. A small, hidden plaque explains how this market is the vibrant centre of the town, where like minded people can sell their wares, whether it be fresh food, art or advice. It mentions how it underwent a rennovation to match the growing popularity of Hobart, and this is where I feel the mistake was made. There is no history in a row of identical, sandstone-clad buildings with painted guttering. There is no sense of the people who have passed through over the years, no hint at the many different styles and times that might have scattered themselves around.

I feel bad to criticise Hobart, as if you scratch the surface, you can find markers of what the city might have been. Every so often you come across a fascinating little story, an insight into the growth of this town. The main street looks like any other pedestrianised main street, but wander just slightly away, and the hints of the early 20th Century charm are there to be seen. Maybe it was the weather, but I felt like the only person in that city who wanted to see beyond the lifeless soul that has taken over Tasmania’s capital.

After leaving the city centre, you all too quickly run into the kind of crowded, factory-homes that you would associate with England in 1900, just another sign that Hobart was never intended to be the city it has become. It was in one of these buildings that I was staying for the night, and it was perhaps away from the business-led CBD that I met the people who make a good city for the first time. The traffic warden who showed me how to cheat the bizarre parking rules of Hobart, and the pub round the corner where everyone just wants to enjoy their night restored a bit of my faith, but I feel that the damage done to central Hobart may be too much.

But enough rambling about Hobart! We’ll leave it at the fact that after my afternoon there, I had no desire to stay any longer than necessary the next morning, and anyway, I had a long way to go on my journey.

And finally, I leave you with this slightly humourous safety warning by the Tasman Arch, which left me slightly worried.

Is that really the best position to adopt when falling from a cliff?