I love Tasmania.   I love returning home to Hobart, my birthplace.  Each visit re-opens a filing cabinet cluttered with indelible memories … the tastes, the touches, the sounds, the colour and a vast range of emotions.

When I was a kid we walked everywhere … to school, to town … and to footy and cricket practice. 

Pet goats kept the grass short and occasionally, enthusiastically, left teeth marks in bats and balls, unknowingly left overnight after net practice.

Then, I didn’t realise how precious Tasmania was.   How lucky I was.

The 150 plus kilometre stretch of treacherous and unforgiving seas maintained a sense of isolation from the mainland.  Bass Strait was both a physical and psychological block.   Traffic either way was limited.

Today that untouched beauty and brutal authentic history is magnetic … no longer a secret.  The tiny triangular island has become a must see destination.

Van Dieman’s Land was settled by Europeans 200 years ago.   Britain’s most distant penal colony.  Not a fun place to visit.  The average sentence for the transportees was 7 years.   The horrific, gut-churning journey, below deck, in chains, across the high seas could take 8 months.  Convicts described it as “the end of the world”.

Reports, stories and rumour of cannibalism and depravity on the remote island stretched the mind to heightened dimensions of dread and terror, Port Arthur.

What a contrast today.   A spontaneous decision to pack your bags for Tassie could be therapeutic.   A wonderful weekend getaway.  A chance to top up the well,  to re-charge the battery … the necessity of life on the corporate treadmill.  Or simply a romantic whim.   

If time and money is not an issue and the spirit of adventure is your driver, there is not a better way to ‘capture’ Hobart and its offerings than to plough under full sail up the River Derwent.   A competitor defeating the individual challenges that every Sydney-to-Hobart yacht race manifests.

What an indelible entrance … powering up The Derwent under full sail to a tumultuous ‘local’ applause at race end.

Constitution Dock is one of the finest deep-water harbours in the world.  Mount Wellington dominates the backdrop like natures own organ pipes. 

My Uncle Charlie once kicked a football over the edge … the mighty punt travelled several kilometres down the mountain before coming to rest. (Should we open the Guinness Book of Records?) What will your memory be?   Life is made up of unpredictable memorable moments … create a Tassie Chapter.

Nothing wrong with winging your way to Tassie to save precious time.

The old IXL Henry Jones Jam Factory is today a chic art-house hotel.   The exposed original convict brickwork and sandstone walls, married to interesting glass roofed atrium spaces, enjoys a world class reputation.   Accommodation could be lifted from the pages of a glossy architectural designers magazine – engaging ambiance.

People to meet?  Wine to taste?  Then pull up a stool at the IXL long bar and treat yourself to a glass or two of Stefano Lubiano wonderful  chilly climate wine – sparkling or still ... try the Riesling, or the Pinot Noiv.  Maybe a Jansz Pipers Brook (Ninth Island) or Freycinet?

Stroll a short distance across the waterfront to Tavern 42 Degrees South.   Here’s a different ambiance.  Change the wine label to Tamar Ridge or Bay of Fires.

If a beer is more to your taste, then the Lark Distillery in Davey Street offers 70 plus single malt varieties.   A night extended?

Remember, you’ve only just arrived.  It’s Friday night.  No need to stray too far … whether staying at the Grand Chancellor, Wrest Point Casino (which is getting a little tired) or one of the smaller boutique hotels in Battery Point where the whalers used to hang out.  This old world charm has its own unhurried environment.   Visit Arthur’s Circus – a circle of quaint symmetrical Georgian style houses with simple corrugated roof and picket fences.

My Dad, Big Max, used to own St Ives Hotel which is still a popular watering hole – Cascade was the beer of choice in those days.  Seppelts Solero was the ladies drink in the “mixed bar” and wine was referred to as Claret. Closing time was 6pm.

For 20 years Orizuru has been serving sasumi and sushi to die for … flapping fish from the boat moored metres away is quickly on a plate.  Quality assured.

The casual ambience and dockside vista is the perfect environment to plan the next 2 days …   Tasmania has the purest air in the world as well as some of the cleanest rain water.

Take your time …The options are plentiful.

Pull the blinds back.  Expose a brand new day – water facing rooms at the Grand Chancellor offers a stunning view – the juxtaposition of gently bobbing crayfish boats are reflected in the inky black water like an artists canvas.   Rich yellows, reds, whites and blues anchor the conflicting vertical masts of the yachts.  Grab your camera, take that shot out of your hotel window.   Take 2 -  there’s no film … only deletable images.   Experiment.   Then head out for breakfast. 

Rug up in winter, for at times the icy wind is reliably straight from Antarctica.   If you’re lucky one of the icebreakers will be docked with its bulbous snout … plimsoll markings like tattoos on a rusty metal skin will suggest the vessel is empty … like your day.   Talk to people … Tasmanian’s are very hospitable.  Get ideas.

Why not brekky at Jam Packed … massive sustenance for the meandering day ahead.  Energized … let’s go!!

Saturday morning markets at Salamanca Place – a compulsory shopping experience for every traveller.  Where do we begin?  Maybe Kelly Steps end where a brutal murder occurred half a century ago?   What incredible secret stories the walls of these symmetrical sandstone warehouses contain.  Shut your eyes, let your imagination seep back into the pages of history, past Old Ma Dwyer’s infamous brothel which dominated the maritime streetscape and the minds of sailors.  You’ll find her establishment, or what remains, at the other end, the city end.   Permanent businesses co-exist for the better part of the day with portable stalls and caravans peddling their wares.   A patchwork quilt of parasols and striped tarpaulins.   Colours of fresh produce and quirky pieces are drawn to the eye.   Hand marked price tags, spruikers and smells cull individuals from the passing pedestrians.

Wursthaus is a must view corner store … an attack on the senses as any great deli should be.  Here you will receive expert advice on local produce – wine (they’ll be happy to ship to the mainland), cheeses, sausages, sauces and jams.   The thing that struck me about this collection of ‘goodies’ was the outstanding quality of design used to brand each product – ‘ boutique’ – quirky, authentic and sophisticated.  I am attracted to eye catching graphics  …  I love felt pens and stationery shops … I found this destination in the town proper.  A frustrated architect on tour … historical buildings around every corner.

The memory of my father asking a timber sculptor, ankle deep in wood shavings, if the blonde curls on the floor were in fact King Billie or Huon pine.  Big Max scooped up a handful and pressed them to his nose.   Dad was a Master Builder who loved his profession and the ability to create with his hands, especially from timber.  He offered me the shavings – I am still intoxicated by the smell, the image of the complete ‘at one-ness’ of my Dad with the ‘unexpected’ discovery.   He was a dedicated student of timber.   I would also insist I become a student of people … What makes them tick?  What makes them successful? What makes them laugh? Yes, communication is a contact sport.  Not more so than when in tourist mode.

The flair and ingenuity of recycled materials – corrugated iron and wood – around every turn.   Glass blowers, jewellers and leather makers displayed their craft.

House honey, jam and chutney.   Hand-knitted jumpers, vests and head warmers beckoned one to touch … alas, no triple XL’s – No Sale!

Chocolate in the shape of Tasmania?  Maybe?

Time for a coffee – look no further than Retro Café or Sugo.   Read the Hobart Mercury like others or delve into that second-hand book you bargained for - indulged in.   While coffee is being lovingly pulled by the barista … be attracted to the handmade card shop … write a note to someone special! … We don’t receive or send enough of these ‘handwritten’ messages, to treasure in this technology-mad information and email society.    A thank-you to cherish or give.  Always pick a beautiful stamp and write in colourful ink.  Just me … but it works.  A card with the extinct Tasmanian Tiger.  Write.

On the flip side.  We used to have a stuffed specimen in the Biology Lab at Friends’ School, North Hobart.  Not a dog, a tiger?

Hire a car … Tasmania is so easy to navigate your way around …

Moorilla Estate is a contemporary vineyard … a 25 minute drive from the CBD.  Striking architecture of stainless steel, glass and metal deck.

3 paper Mache cows dominate the entrance.  These are the black and white mascots for their own brand of “Moo” beer.  Sidney Nolan, the famous artist created them during the war years to place in paddocks next to industry.  From the air they would suggest a rural environment.  Beyond the stacked cows is the sarcophagus of an Egyptian mummy … the owners are keen collectors of Egyptian artefacts … ask nicely and they may even show you!

Walk up the metal staircase to the tasting area and let our eye roam to the ceiling – a massive John Olsen original in 3 panels will capture your imagination.

Now, put your bum on a stool and enjoy the view and the tasting.

These experiences abound in Tassie   …  follow your nose … I haven’t mentioned trout fishing in the Lake District – postcard scenery.

A hike across Table Mountains, the Franklin River or the spectacular beauty of Wine Glass Bay at Freycinet (wonderful venue for a conference)

If golf is your game you will not be disappointed – several of Australia’s finest courses. 

On the West Coast, the seaside township of Strahan will give another checklist of things to see and do.

Queenstown, the mining centre is like a moonscape … myth has it that locals would poison anything that remotely resembled grass growing to maintain the status quo.    Here the football ground is made of gravel.   The players wear boots with rubber bars on their soles, not stops, as is the conventual footwear - a lot of fluid on the keen and gravel rash.   They grow ‘em tough in this part of the world.   Take your camera.

Go fishing out of Triabunna on the East Coast … take a walk on Maria Island  … get a feel for how life might have been 2 centuries ago.

South of Hobart is the Huon Valley, famous for apples.  A picturesque drive.   In autumn the ruins of Port Arthur are bathed in filtered light from the spectacular colours of nature  - greens, oranges, yellows and browns.

If you are fortunate to hook up with the guide who describes the walkway towards the ruins as “the havenue of hoookes, helms and hashes, hall henglish trees” .. you’ll have a ball, until you get locked into the solitary confinement cell.  2 huge doors with not even a crack of daylight at the base of the door – soul destroying.   Trust you don’t suffer from claustaphobia.

All part of the rich tapestry of experience … a tale to tell over dinner … please do ...   tell all of your friends to c’mon down to Tassie  … so that they too can have a weekend to talk about.

Fortunately, I’ve run out of ink … not memories and stories  … maybe another time?

Keep smiling, 

Max
Speaker, Author, Entrepreneur