Tassie

After an alcoholic last night in Sydney I flew out to Hobart in Tasmania to check out the bits of Australia “down under down under”. In an area bigger than Ireland, Tasmania has a population of only 400,000, which makes it marginally less populous than a Sydney commuter train on a Monday morning. Hobart is the biggest “city” but in reality is just a small town. Everything’s closed on a Sunday (the day I arrived) including shops, cafes, restaurants and probably hospitals and fire stations too.
I’d met a girl called Aimee on the shuttle bus from the airport and we went down to the Tourist Information centre together to see what there was to do in Tasmania. There we met a girl from Manchester (Marie) and we wandered around Hobart for a bit trying to sort ourselves out. We all had similar travelling plans and timescales, so after a few background police checks for criminal convictions and mental instabilities we decided to rent a car and travel round together. I didn’t mention my sleep talking episode or my brief spell in the psychiatric dorm at the Big Hostel in Sydney, but evidently news of this hadn’t filtered down to the Tasmanian police.

The next day we hired “Marina” from a backstreet garage – a 1986 Nissan Pintara estate – a fine vehicle, hewn from a solid lump of iron back in the days where “airbags” were people who talked a lot and “crash protection” meant assuming the brace position just before impact. She was no-frills motoring at it’s best – 4 wheels, an engine and a steering wheel, all loosely held together with light welding and strong prayers. That day we drove her up to Launceston testing out her mighty engine on the open roads of the main highway, with a vague plan of a touring route scratched out on a piece of paper and in our heads.

We stopped at “Historic Ross” on the way up. Good toilets – I’d give them 8 out of 10. Town was a bit shite though.