TODAY (Sun, July 9) marked the start of my rediscovery of Hobart, and what a great journey it was.  What better way to explore the region than by combining my two big passions — running and diving.

Firstly, please be warned that whilst this piece is about the joys of Hobart, it is also about me to some extent and my relationship with Hobart.  So anyone who is likely to be driven to self harm by this should just ignore the article.

Secondly, a brief background.

I left Hobart in the late autumn of 2002 after three and a half years, disillusioned and sulking.  The year before I had completed a degree which had the capacity to send a sane person all the way to their grave in three short years.  I still had little idea of what I wanted to do with my life, as has always been the case, and continues to be to some extent. 

The only career I had really wanted had recently fallen in a heap and I was disenchanted with my actual job, which mainly involved kissing the arse of Hobart’s rich elitist wankers whilst doing my best impersonation of civility.  I missed the north where I was born and raised and longed to be back by the ocean again.

So on impulse we moved north to Bridport with the promise of a three month contract for my girlfriend (and now wife) in Launceston and a retail job for me until I sorted myself out.

Hobart seemed to represent everything that sucked about life including other issues which I wont ramble on about here.  So I’ve done my best to avoid the place for three years.  But on my last visit to Hobart some ten months ago I was again struck by the amazing beauty of the city and everything that was good about it.

Confessions of a Ferret Salesman

Tucked up at home in Launceston, I’ve recently been reading Cheeky: Confessions of a Ferret Salesman by former Tasmanian Liberal Party leader, Bob Cheek.  Cheeky tended to polarise opinion, but I love him.  In various parts, Cheek’s book has brought back a flood of memories of places and people that I too have shared an acquaintance with.  Reading Cheek’s confessions encouraged me to get out and have a look at Hobart.

So, back in the south today I decided to run with no set destination or time frame and take in all the old sights.  Starting at Long Beach park next to Prossers, one of my favourite places in the world, I was immediately struck by the immense beauty of the mountain in hues of blue, filling the gaps between the trees as parents watched their children play soccer on the sports fields covered in the morning sun.

Moving along Sandy Bay Road at a comfortable pace, I again took in all the beautiful houses and architecture of the early homes, together with the newer ones.  The water from the Derwent splashed up on the footpath by way of greeting as I passed between Waimea Avenue and the Casino, not far from areas that Cheeky mentions in his book, and not at all far from where I used to live (in a flat about the size of Cheeky’s third toilet I’d guess).  Nowhere in Australia can you find such a beautiful urban vista as the view from this part of Sandy Bay.

I reluctantly pressed on past my duck friends at the Casino and towards the hustle and bustle of the shopping heart of Sandy Bay.  I gave the University a cursory glance, and a grunt, in the knowledge that the big yellow building would not relinquish those three stolen years.  I know Uni is supposed to be a rollicking great time, but to me it always seemed like a holding pool for ferals and people scared of life.

I see Mykonos takeaway is still kicking in all its vibrant glory

Now dodging pedestrians and prams I passed the old Colonial Bank building where I used to deposit the rent to our lovely Greek landlord.  A nicer man you would not meet.  On the Greek theme, I see Mykonos takeway is still kicking in all its vibrant glory.  Their hot chips at 0300 were always welcome, but I never seemed to learn from experience that hot food and alcoholically dulled senses always resulted in a burnt mouth, most evident later that day in the harsh morning light of a hangover.

The cause of the hangover resided just near St. Ives.  The snotty old yellow flats that housed my mates, which the well to do neighbours of Sandy Bay Road must hate, still sit there like a mole on a well rounded bikini’d bottom.  Continuing on with a giggle, and past the now defunct Club Surreal I was drawn to the noises, sights and smells of Salamanca Market. 

That great band still perform like clockwork next to Knopwood’s, and I was relieved to find dagwood dogs alongside fashion stalls are still cool.  Salamanca Market is just one of those brilliant and unique things you’d never find anywhere else.  A magnet for every person of every persuasion, everyone comes together in the shadows of the beautiful Georgian buildings, under the watchful eye of the ever present mountain.

The great thing about Salamanca is that it’s like walking into a randomised mix of everything that is Hobart.  The old mingle with the young, the merchants mix with the patrons, the rich mix with the poor and the ponces mix with the ferals – and the differences of everyone seem to be set aside.

I collide with Christine Milne

I amble on with a steady stride past Parliament House and contemplate some of the interesting, ridiculous and surprising antics that Cheeky outlined in his tome.  I have a quiet chuckle at the expense of ‘Rennay’ Hidding, ‘Runners’ Rundle, ‘The Mouth’ QC, ‘Whacko’ Jackson, ‘Noddy’ Llewellyn and ‘The Emperor’.

Like any good script, one should expect the surprise arrival of a character.  As I round a corner near Constitution Dock, I nearly collide with one rugged up Christine Milne, mobile glued to ear talking about none other than Recherche Bay.  This is a true story.  Of all the things Christine could have been discussing — the weather, the market, wool prices in Mongolia — she really did utter those words.  Even on a Saturday, a good Green never has a day off.  Despite all of Christine’s hard nosed fighting over the years and her steely death stares, I still reckon she looks like you could just bowl up and give her a big hug.  I don’t think Cheeky would agree with me there.

Pressing on past the Silos and Princes Park and up through Battery Point, I discovered that for all of its intrigue and quirky beauty, I still don’t understand how anyone can live there.  Really I don’t.  And property prices continue to become more stupid by the week.  Not that the posh looking real estate agency in the heart of suburb would be complaining.  I’m informed they’re known as the Battery Hens.

I rejoin Sandy Bay Road and admire the clean lines of the newish apartment developments whilst dodging more prams and people in bare feet and beanies.  I let my mind drift as I take in the images and salt smell on the return journey to Long Beach Park.  I finish up, immensely satisfied with my 11 kilometre rediscovery of my favourite parts of Hobart.

As I tuck into lunch and a drink at my favourite bakery in Sandy Bay I decide that If I could afford it, I reckon I could nearly live in the south once again.  Unfortunately my planned dive at Tinderbox didn’t go ahead due to the prevailing conditions, but I‘ll be back.

Geoff Rollins

Tucked up at home in Launceston, I’ve recently been reading Cheeky: Confessions of a Ferret Salesman by former Tasmanian Liberal Party leader, Bob Cheek.  Cheeky tended to polarise opinion, but I love him.  In various parts, Cheek’s book has brought back a flood of memories of places and people that I too have shared an acquaintance with.  Reading Cheek’s confessions encouraged me to get out and have a look at Hobart.

Like any good script, one should expect the surprise arrival of a character.  As I round a corner near Constitution Dock, I nearly collide with one rugged up Christine Milne, mobile glued to ear talking about none other than Recherche Bay.  This is a true story.  Of all the things Christine could have been discussing — the weather, the market, wool prices in Mongolia — she really did utter those words.  Even on a Saturday, a good Green never has a day off.  Despite all of Christine’s hard nosed fighting over the years and her steely death stares, I still reckon she looks like you could just bowl up and give her a big hug.  I don’t think Cheeky would agree with me there.