The plane
aims for the runway and lands with a bump then taxis across the runway. We
stand and wait while people jostle for their luggage. When the door is opened I
am expecting Hobart.
The door
opens and coming out of the warm plane I stand at the top of the stairs and
feel Hobart.
Hobart is the
fresh, cold, windy air that hits me.
I imagine
the buildings around Hunter Street. These stone buildings have existed forever
and will remain forever. They don’t make them like that anymore and we don’t
know how they made them and who made them but we love them.
My mind
drifts towards the dock. Princess Wharf
1. Often bypassed, ignored and invisible. It normally sleeps but periodically awakens
for food, fun and people.
Some tourists
are taking photos of statues that us locals often ignore. We all sup and drink
together and watch the boats. Some coming. Some going. Some working. Some recreational
boats. We then wander around the docks dodging cars looking for a place to park.
There is a seal
scavenging between the boats. Attracting cameras from the docks. And pointed at
by a group of kayakers.
On Saturday
everything changes. Salamanca Market arrives. Most Saturdays at one of our
parkruns I speak to one of our visitors. They are all heading towards the
Salamanca Market after the parkrun. With high expectations.
Sometimes a
cruise ship will dwarf the docks. Ejecting queues of lanyarded people. They
will see a lot more of our state than we will see of them.
When I head
towards the shops I come to Macquarie and Davey Street, full of endless streams
of advancing cars. Arterial roads
clogged and constipated with cars. The same roads become clear and spacious
when everybody is in their idyllic, semi-rural, dream home with a view.
From the
docks I head towards the Tasman Bridge. Which connects the two halves that
can’t live by themselves. Like the two halves of a heart they need each other
and keep each other alive.
Pass the
Queens Domain. Bypassed daily it is silent, mysterious and unknown. Now home to
an empty dilapidated cage which once housed the last of its species. The
decrepitude cage stimulates thoughts of Benjamin. Pacing forlornly back and
forth in his cage. We still have the cage. We don’t have what lived in it.
The Queens
Domain is named after Queen Victoria. A lady who never saw her Domain, didn’t
manage it and probably didn’t even know about it. There were people who lived
there for thousands of years and looked after and managed it. All that remains of
them are a few middens by the river.
The Queens
Domain stimulates thoughts of our parkrun. Everybody enters. Males, females,
old, young, all ranges of ability or lack of. Another thought bubble floats up.
The Bellerive parkrun. Adjacent to the Bellerive oval where elite sportspeople with
ability play and we drink, eat and watch.
Further on
we come to the bipolar Botanical Gardens. One day we wander, mooch and admire
the plants. The next day we lie on the grass, sup and peer for the performers
on the stage and listen to music. The
next day we are back photographing the flowers.
The Derwent
River is brooding, slow flowing and broad. Continuously becoming wider and
wider. Sometimes home to regattas of boats.
Not home for fishermen or swimmers. They
are well aware of the Derwent’s hidden secrets. It’s cold and full of heavy
metals.
I reach the
bottom of the stairs. My mind drifts to the always slumbering Mt Wellington. The
mountain that comes and goes. When hidden behind clouds it is always present. Nestling
in its foothills is The Lady Franklin Gallery. Displaying art by us.
Guided by a
florescent jacket and flags on ropes we head across the tarmac towards a sign
that says “Welcome to Hobart”. We wonder
what new renovations have occurred at our airport in the last few weeks. When
will they hammer in the final nail.? Where do we get our luggage from this
time? How many people will we meet and talk to about our trips? As we walk across the tarmac I can feel
Hobart.
Hobart is
the fresh, cold wind hitting my face and it feels good.
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