Upon arriving back in Melbourne, we spent three delightful days kicking back with our Mel and Damien, our friends from the Grampiens. They kindly put us up for several evenings, and we had some very enjoyable dinners with them, including a memorable meal at Melbourne’s Moroccan Soup Bar. The restaurant was a little closet-like venue, packed with atmosphere and serving up a set four-person multi-course banquet of phenomenally good food. Our days were spent doing things like baking, doing laundry, and figuring out where we would head to next. We also spent a great deal of time coughing, hacking, and blowing our noses, as by this time Glen was getting over his cold, which I had just caught.
Due to the cost of train tickets, we decided to skip Sydney and flying directly to Brisbane instead of taking a multi-leg train journey north. The plan is to use Brisbane as a launching pad for small side trips around that area. We will stay along the Gold Coast and the southern part of the Sunshine Coast until it comes time to fly to Auckland.
Monday, October 29, 2007
The Ugly Side of Hostels
As I mentioned earlier, I am now going to give the not-so-proverbial dirt on our Hobart hostel.
We elected to stay at Montgomery’s. In the YHA advertisements, it had billed itself as being "Hobart's most luxurious YHA" and promised a lively hotel atmosphere that would be good fun and good value for money. The rooms were more expensive than I would have normally liked, but the price of a dorm bed wasn’t too dreadful and I figured that it would be worth the cost due to the hostel’s convenient downtown location. Truthfully, luxury doesn't particularly interest Glen nor I. Cleanliness, on the other hand, does.
The hostel managers evidently feel that convenience of location outstrips the requirements of any good hostel to keep a reasonably clean, well-appointed place for guests to stay. The place, quite frankly, just isn’t up to scratch.
One would expect a hostel billing itself as "luxurious" to have kitchen accommodation that could reasonably provide for the 40+ guests that the hostel could hold at any given point of time. In the case of Montgomery’s, one would be wrong. This picture shows the kitchen in it’s entirety – it has one stove-top range, one functioning microwave, one broken microwave, two tables, a whole lot of dinner plates, and a whopping four bowls for stuff like soup or cereal. And as you can see, it was a considerable squeeze to fit six people in the kitchen at once:
The kitchen is on the first floor of the hostel, and as we mount the stairs to the floors containing the rooms, dorms, and TV/internet lounge, we start to witness the strange phenomenon of drywall holes:
The next stop we shall make on our tour is the TV/internet lounge itself. Mouldy old couches aside, we were rather aghast at the state of the ceiling. The paper, paint, plaster, or whatever the heck is covering the ceiling is bubbling up and flaking off in large areas:
Really large areas.
Next up is the dormitory. Funky smell aside (which I blame on the re-breathed sleep air of twelve people as opposed to negligence on the part of the hostel), I am left wondering what sort of pollutants are near this window, whether the pollutants are a result of interior or exterior air, and whether or not the hostel ever intends on actually cleaning said window:
And now, for the finale: the bathroom. In my option, hostels can be rated almost solely on the cleanliness of the bathroom. Soap and hand drying systems, be they blow-dryers or towels, should be available. Toilets should be properly cleaned. Shower stalls should be properly maintained and relatively free of serious mildew or mould build-up. As you can see, such was not the case:
Here’s a close-up:
The pictures don’t really do the mould justice. It crawled up the wall from the floor to at least chest level, a good five feet for sure. It was also thick. It was thick and furry, like a caterpillar. And the mould wasn’t just limited to that one line of grout – it was on the opposite side of the shower stall and around the grouting of the floor basin. Oh, and the toilets were not properly cleaned. Nor were there ever hand towels or dryers. As for soap, one would be lucky to find one of those tiny bars of soap that hotels leave in their guest suites for complimentary use. Usually, there was no soap at all.
Is it any wonder that Glen came away from the Hobart hostel with a really, really nasty cold? "Luxurious" my ass!
We elected to stay at Montgomery’s. In the YHA advertisements, it had billed itself as being "Hobart's most luxurious YHA" and promised a lively hotel atmosphere that would be good fun and good value for money. The rooms were more expensive than I would have normally liked, but the price of a dorm bed wasn’t too dreadful and I figured that it would be worth the cost due to the hostel’s convenient downtown location. Truthfully, luxury doesn't particularly interest Glen nor I. Cleanliness, on the other hand, does.
The hostel managers evidently feel that convenience of location outstrips the requirements of any good hostel to keep a reasonably clean, well-appointed place for guests to stay. The place, quite frankly, just isn’t up to scratch.
One would expect a hostel billing itself as "luxurious" to have kitchen accommodation that could reasonably provide for the 40+ guests that the hostel could hold at any given point of time. In the case of Montgomery’s, one would be wrong. This picture shows the kitchen in it’s entirety – it has one stove-top range, one functioning microwave, one broken microwave, two tables, a whole lot of dinner plates, and a whopping four bowls for stuff like soup or cereal. And as you can see, it was a considerable squeeze to fit six people in the kitchen at once:
The kitchen is on the first floor of the hostel, and as we mount the stairs to the floors containing the rooms, dorms, and TV/internet lounge, we start to witness the strange phenomenon of drywall holes:
The next stop we shall make on our tour is the TV/internet lounge itself. Mouldy old couches aside, we were rather aghast at the state of the ceiling. The paper, paint, plaster, or whatever the heck is covering the ceiling is bubbling up and flaking off in large areas:
Really large areas.
Next up is the dormitory. Funky smell aside (which I blame on the re-breathed sleep air of twelve people as opposed to negligence on the part of the hostel), I am left wondering what sort of pollutants are near this window, whether the pollutants are a result of interior or exterior air, and whether or not the hostel ever intends on actually cleaning said window:
And now, for the finale: the bathroom. In my option, hostels can be rated almost solely on the cleanliness of the bathroom. Soap and hand drying systems, be they blow-dryers or towels, should be available. Toilets should be properly cleaned. Shower stalls should be properly maintained and relatively free of serious mildew or mould build-up. As you can see, such was not the case:
Here’s a close-up:
The pictures don’t really do the mould justice. It crawled up the wall from the floor to at least chest level, a good five feet for sure. It was also thick. It was thick and furry, like a caterpillar. And the mould wasn’t just limited to that one line of grout – it was on the opposite side of the shower stall and around the grouting of the floor basin. Oh, and the toilets were not properly cleaned. Nor were there ever hand towels or dryers. As for soap, one would be lucky to find one of those tiny bars of soap that hotels leave in their guest suites for complimentary use. Usually, there was no soap at all.
Is it any wonder that Glen came away from the Hobart hostel with a really, really nasty cold? "Luxurious" my ass!
Launceston, Devonport, and beyond
After our tour had ended, we found ourselves with about four days to kill before heading from Tasmania back to Melbourne. To be honest, there wasn’t a whole lot we felt like doing in Launceston. It is a cute little city, with a few nice areas to walk and some interesting shopping districts, but we were feeling somewhat frustrated by our lack of transportation options. After two days in Launceston, we headed up to Devonport, where we would be catching the Spirit of Tasmania overnight ferry back to the mainland.
The day we left was, like most days in Launceston, raining steadily. The rain did bring about some form of amusement, however, as it heralded the apparition of a rare and noble creature, namely the Humpbacked Glen:
Devonport was similarly a pretty but somewhat dull pace to visit. There are beaches, but I would frankly recommend staying away from them. If the warning signs speak the truth, the Devonport beaches are out to kill you:
I think that the many days of non-stop driving and touring was finally getting to us, and we were wanting to be able to kick back and shut our heads off for a little bit. Happily, our Devonport hostel was completely devoid of other visitors save us, and we found an unsecured wireless connection in our room. As our room was a private double bed with the luxury of its own sink and television, we basked in the relative glory of our newfound electronic access and did little more than sit around, go out for groceries, cook and eat for two days. We did take some walks here and there, but there wasn’t much around to really grab our attention. The fact that Glen was in the throes of a nasty cold he picked up in Hobart didn’t exactly help our energy level either.
The Spirit of Tasmania voyage was quite lovely. We had gone with the budget-friendly option of ocean-view recliners that were on a promotional sale, and enjoyed a nice on-board dinner (the first nice dinner out we’ve taken since arriving in Australia), a shared bottle of wine, and an evening screening of Harry Potter: The Order of the Phoenix. As a result of entirely too much rich risotto, too much wine, and a very choppy sea, my night’s sleep was redolent with dreams of being seasick and throwing up overboard. Happily, such nastiness didn’t actually occur in real life, but it did make for an, uh, interesting night. Glen, on the other hand, slept like a rock.
The day we left was, like most days in Launceston, raining steadily. The rain did bring about some form of amusement, however, as it heralded the apparition of a rare and noble creature, namely the Humpbacked Glen:
Devonport was similarly a pretty but somewhat dull pace to visit. There are beaches, but I would frankly recommend staying away from them. If the warning signs speak the truth, the Devonport beaches are out to kill you:
I think that the many days of non-stop driving and touring was finally getting to us, and we were wanting to be able to kick back and shut our heads off for a little bit. Happily, our Devonport hostel was completely devoid of other visitors save us, and we found an unsecured wireless connection in our room. As our room was a private double bed with the luxury of its own sink and television, we basked in the relative glory of our newfound electronic access and did little more than sit around, go out for groceries, cook and eat for two days. We did take some walks here and there, but there wasn’t much around to really grab our attention. The fact that Glen was in the throes of a nasty cold he picked up in Hobart didn’t exactly help our energy level either.
The Spirit of Tasmania voyage was quite lovely. We had gone with the budget-friendly option of ocean-view recliners that were on a promotional sale, and enjoyed a nice on-board dinner (the first nice dinner out we’ve taken since arriving in Australia), a shared bottle of wine, and an evening screening of Harry Potter: The Order of the Phoenix. As a result of entirely too much rich risotto, too much wine, and a very choppy sea, my night’s sleep was redolent with dreams of being seasick and throwing up overboard. Happily, such nastiness didn’t actually occur in real life, but it did make for an, uh, interesting night. Glen, on the other hand, slept like a rock.
The Grand Tour, Part III
The third day involved a transfer to a different tour company and a drive up to Cradle Mountain. Cradle Mountain is a much scrubbier, rougher place than the rest of Tasmania, or at least the rest of the areas that we had seen. It’s fairly similar in nature to the Rocky Mountains around the Jasper area, although Cradle Mountain is covered in these weird patchy clumps of grass called "Button Grass".
Cradle Mountain is also covered in wombats. We probably saw over a dozen wombats foraging around, much to the delight of one of the families on our tour group. They were obsessed with wombats, and were inevitably the first ones to see one waddling around. During the tour, the family encountered a wombat on a walking path, and as the daughter was standing very still, taking a video, it waddled up to her and gave her leg a bit of a taste. The family was ecstatic at this – the wombat didn’t bite, per say, as it didn’t puncture jeans or skin and just left her with a bit of a bruise. They got it on video and couldn’t stop talking about the wombat love bite. They decided that their daughter would become "wombie girl", and when the tour guide took them to the ranger station to have the bite looked at, the rangers had a good laugh at the incident.
On our way back to Launceston, the bus driver suggested we go past a farm cheese factory and have a look at their farm gate store. There would be many samples to try, and for those who don’t like cheese, there would be many varieties of honey to taste. So we stopped at the Ashgrove Cheese farm and stepped off the bus and into a sticky, cheesy heaven. As the farm operates their own dairy and honey production, everything was as fresh as you could possibly hope for.
There were about ten varieties of cheese produced on that farm, eight varieties of honey, homemade ice cream, and oodles of wines and meads. Glen and I bought two bottles of braggot (mead ale) to try. In addition to the mead, we picked up two different kinds of cheese and a bottle of strawberry wine. It was a dangerous, dangerous place to be in, and now I shall regale you with photos in order to make you, dear reader, wildly jealous. I give you:
The cheese wall!
The honey stand!
The wine wall!
Personally, I think we held off reasonably well, only coming away with two small bottles of mead, one small bottle of strawberry wine, and two kinds of cheese. That would be the sort of place to visit if you were looking to put together the best Christmas stocking ever, because they had sample size variety packs of everything and the prices were extremely reasonable. Like I said: it was a dangerous, if delicious, place to visit.
Ah, and for the curious among you, the cheeses we bought were both Lancashire, regular and smoked.
Cradle Mountain is also covered in wombats. We probably saw over a dozen wombats foraging around, much to the delight of one of the families on our tour group. They were obsessed with wombats, and were inevitably the first ones to see one waddling around. During the tour, the family encountered a wombat on a walking path, and as the daughter was standing very still, taking a video, it waddled up to her and gave her leg a bit of a taste. The family was ecstatic at this – the wombat didn’t bite, per say, as it didn’t puncture jeans or skin and just left her with a bit of a bruise. They got it on video and couldn’t stop talking about the wombat love bite. They decided that their daughter would become "wombie girl", and when the tour guide took them to the ranger station to have the bite looked at, the rangers had a good laugh at the incident.
On our way back to Launceston, the bus driver suggested we go past a farm cheese factory and have a look at their farm gate store. There would be many samples to try, and for those who don’t like cheese, there would be many varieties of honey to taste. So we stopped at the Ashgrove Cheese farm and stepped off the bus and into a sticky, cheesy heaven. As the farm operates their own dairy and honey production, everything was as fresh as you could possibly hope for.
There were about ten varieties of cheese produced on that farm, eight varieties of honey, homemade ice cream, and oodles of wines and meads. Glen and I bought two bottles of braggot (mead ale) to try. In addition to the mead, we picked up two different kinds of cheese and a bottle of strawberry wine. It was a dangerous, dangerous place to be in, and now I shall regale you with photos in order to make you, dear reader, wildly jealous. I give you:
The cheese wall!
The honey stand!
The wine wall!
Personally, I think we held off reasonably well, only coming away with two small bottles of mead, one small bottle of strawberry wine, and two kinds of cheese. That would be the sort of place to visit if you were looking to put together the best Christmas stocking ever, because they had sample size variety packs of everything and the prices were extremely reasonable. Like I said: it was a dangerous, if delicious, place to visit.
Ah, and for the curious among you, the cheeses we bought were both Lancashire, regular and smoked.
The Grand Tour, Part II: Devil bites
Day two involved a morning trip to a wildlife park and Tasmanian Devil sanctuary. This was yet another place where you have the opportunity hand feed kangaroos and other various wildlife. Glen had it out with a black swan:
It was rather odd how many people in our tour group were nervous about feeding the kangaroos. These suckers were so hand-fed I suspect I could have saddled up one of the males and chucked a four-year-old on its back and it wouldn’t have blinked.
The Tasmanian Devils weren’t part of the hand-feeding extravaganza, of course, as their disposition wouldn’t exactly endear them to accepting nibbly treats out of someone’s outstretched palm. The park did, however, have a couple of hand-raised devils they use as part of a feeding demonstration. The devils, a pair of females named Danger and Delilah, are very fond of their handlers, and lap up any amount of attention he gives them. The handler picks one up so that visitors can give her a pat on the back, and as soon as he scooped up the devil, she chomped down on part of his sleeve, closed her eyes, and went blissfully limp. The other devil, meanwhile, had chomped down on his pant cuff and was dragged around the enclosure as the handler made his way among the visitors. Apparently the devils latch on to the handler’s clothes as a sort of happy/security gesture, as they would similarly latch on to their mothers in the wild. It’s a bit like a cat kneading a cushion (or belly, or whatever). And it’s darn cute:
The rest of the day was spent driving to more lovely locations, namely the Bay of Fires and a couple of spectacular waterfalls. There was pastoral countryside and dairy farms galore, and we ended up in Launceston for the evening.
It was rather odd how many people in our tour group were nervous about feeding the kangaroos. These suckers were so hand-fed I suspect I could have saddled up one of the males and chucked a four-year-old on its back and it wouldn’t have blinked.
The Tasmanian Devils weren’t part of the hand-feeding extravaganza, of course, as their disposition wouldn’t exactly endear them to accepting nibbly treats out of someone’s outstretched palm. The park did, however, have a couple of hand-raised devils they use as part of a feeding demonstration. The devils, a pair of females named Danger and Delilah, are very fond of their handlers, and lap up any amount of attention he gives them. The handler picks one up so that visitors can give her a pat on the back, and as soon as he scooped up the devil, she chomped down on part of his sleeve, closed her eyes, and went blissfully limp. The other devil, meanwhile, had chomped down on his pant cuff and was dragged around the enclosure as the handler made his way among the visitors. Apparently the devils latch on to the handler’s clothes as a sort of happy/security gesture, as they would similarly latch on to their mothers in the wild. It’s a bit like a cat kneading a cushion (or belly, or whatever). And it’s darn cute:
The rest of the day was spent driving to more lovely locations, namely the Bay of Fires and a couple of spectacular waterfalls. There was pastoral countryside and dairy farms galore, and we ended up in Launceston for the evening.
The Grand Tour, Part I: Ovens and cracks
Our grand solution to the "how on earth do we get around Tasmania" question was to sign up for a tour that would take us from Hobart to Devonport. About four days after we landed in Hobart, Glen and I left our manky hostel and hopped on the tour bus, along with the American girl we had met (she decided to take the same tour as us after we told her about the itinerary).
The tour was, as I suspect all tours are, a whirlwind exposure to a few of the tourist highlights in that part of the state. We boarded the bus, hopped off at a couple stops, boarded the bus again, stopped at a hostel, slept, boarded the bus, and so on. It was a good choice for our transportation dilemma, but defiantly reinforced the fact that if you want to make the most of Tasmania, you really do need your own vehicle.
On the first day we made a very brief stop over at the town of Ross. Ross is one of those nauseatingly picturesque towns that you would see in postcards and visit on long weekends for the sole purpose of staying at that adorable little bed-and-breakfast where they have a blind dog and two goats. It was more of a pit-stop than anything else, but oddly enough Ross has a bakery, cleverly known as the Ross Bakery Inn in which most Japanese tourists have a keen interest, as it is one of the sites in the anime movie Kiki’s Delivery Service. I had no idea it was an actual place, but apparently the oven in the bakery is quite a feature in the anime movie.
The exterior of the building in question:
And the interior, including the famous oven. It's difficult to see the workers, but most of the women were wearing what I can only describe as a Scottish tartan "Miss Muffet" costume:
Glen and I indulged in a couple of desserts while we were in the bakery, and shared a Lamington (I think that’s what they call it), which is a sponge cake sort of confection with jam and coconut shavings around the outside, and an absolutely heavenly vanilla slice – perfectly flakey pastry, excellent custard. I shall have to attempt to recreate the vanilla slice when we get back home.
Next we found ourselves heading to Wineglass Bay, a lovely white-sanded, blue-watered bay nestled among a whole pile of other smaller bays. The tour group did a hike up to the main bay lookout point, and the view is indeed picturesque and spectacular.
Even better than the view, however, are the huge cracks in the cliff face around the lookout point. The tour guide pointed them out, so Glen and I scrambled around them for a while.
Pretty cool, eh?
Possibly the event that gained popular interest among our fellow tour groupies was the appearance of a couple of female wallabies, complete with joeys in their pouches, near the Wineglass Bay parking lot. These suckers were so accustomed to visitors and so very, very good at begging for handouts that they would actually allow people to pet them.
Behold the ferocious beast and its spawn!
We spent that night in Bicheno, a small town on a particularly windy harbour. The hostel was freakishly cold, as the wind kept howling right through the exterior wall of our room. Happily, Glen and I had a dorm room to ourselves, which meant that we could squish onto a single twin-sized bed and huddle together for warmth. All newlywed jokes aside, it was necessary to do so to get any sleep. The wind made a hell of a racket, screaming around the outside of the hostel and wailing through trees and boat masts. I could have sworn that there were banshees outside trying to kill us with their howls.
On to the next stop!
(The chair upon which we are lounging is located on the hiking trail to the Wineglass Bay lookout - it is surprisingly comfortable!)
The tour was, as I suspect all tours are, a whirlwind exposure to a few of the tourist highlights in that part of the state. We boarded the bus, hopped off at a couple stops, boarded the bus again, stopped at a hostel, slept, boarded the bus, and so on. It was a good choice for our transportation dilemma, but defiantly reinforced the fact that if you want to make the most of Tasmania, you really do need your own vehicle.
On the first day we made a very brief stop over at the town of Ross. Ross is one of those nauseatingly picturesque towns that you would see in postcards and visit on long weekends for the sole purpose of staying at that adorable little bed-and-breakfast where they have a blind dog and two goats. It was more of a pit-stop than anything else, but oddly enough Ross has a bakery, cleverly known as the Ross Bakery Inn in which most Japanese tourists have a keen interest, as it is one of the sites in the anime movie Kiki’s Delivery Service. I had no idea it was an actual place, but apparently the oven in the bakery is quite a feature in the anime movie.
The exterior of the building in question:
And the interior, including the famous oven. It's difficult to see the workers, but most of the women were wearing what I can only describe as a Scottish tartan "Miss Muffet" costume:
Glen and I indulged in a couple of desserts while we were in the bakery, and shared a Lamington (I think that’s what they call it), which is a sponge cake sort of confection with jam and coconut shavings around the outside, and an absolutely heavenly vanilla slice – perfectly flakey pastry, excellent custard. I shall have to attempt to recreate the vanilla slice when we get back home.
Next we found ourselves heading to Wineglass Bay, a lovely white-sanded, blue-watered bay nestled among a whole pile of other smaller bays. The tour group did a hike up to the main bay lookout point, and the view is indeed picturesque and spectacular.
Even better than the view, however, are the huge cracks in the cliff face around the lookout point. The tour guide pointed them out, so Glen and I scrambled around them for a while.
Pretty cool, eh?
Possibly the event that gained popular interest among our fellow tour groupies was the appearance of a couple of female wallabies, complete with joeys in their pouches, near the Wineglass Bay parking lot. These suckers were so accustomed to visitors and so very, very good at begging for handouts that they would actually allow people to pet them.
Behold the ferocious beast and its spawn!
We spent that night in Bicheno, a small town on a particularly windy harbour. The hostel was freakishly cold, as the wind kept howling right through the exterior wall of our room. Happily, Glen and I had a dorm room to ourselves, which meant that we could squish onto a single twin-sized bed and huddle together for warmth. All newlywed jokes aside, it was necessary to do so to get any sleep. The wind made a hell of a racket, screaming around the outside of the hostel and wailing through trees and boat masts. I could have sworn that there were banshees outside trying to kill us with their howls.
On to the next stop!
(The chair upon which we are lounging is located on the hiking trail to the Wineglass Bay lookout - it is surprisingly comfortable!)
Monday, October 8, 2007
Devil the Convicts
About a 1.5 hour drive away from Hobart is the Port Arthur Historic Site. Port Arthur was one of Australia’s more notorious convict camps. The history is broad and very interesting, the website that this post references has loads of info that you can read. There were lots of ruins to wander around, and lots of restored buildings and exhibits to explore.
Originally, Port Arthur wasn’t on our list of things to visit. For some weird reason the tour company we were booked with had to remove the Port Arthur leg of the tour from the itinerary. One of the girls in our dorm room, however, had rented a car and was heading to Port Arthur with a different girl in our dorm room. Snapping up an opportunity to tag along with them, we joined the American girl and the Aussie girl (who
had rented the car) and went to Port Arthur.
This is the ruin of the old flour mill / prisoner dormitory. There is a great deal to see there, but this is one of the more dramatic shots.
The cheery fellow photographed below stands in one of the interpretive exhibits at the Port Arthur visitor's centre. Glen took a liking to him.
"PULL MY FINGER."
We had a great time there, both on the visit to the camp and on the hour long detour we took we took on the way back to Hobart when we missed the correct highway turn-off. It was defiantly a good side trip to take; I’m quite glad we met up with those two girls and was able to pal along with them.
Originally, Port Arthur wasn’t on our list of things to visit. For some weird reason the tour company we were booked with had to remove the Port Arthur leg of the tour from the itinerary. One of the girls in our dorm room, however, had rented a car and was heading to Port Arthur with a different girl in our dorm room. Snapping up an opportunity to tag along with them, we joined the American girl and the Aussie girl (who
had rented the car) and went to Port Arthur.
This is the ruin of the old flour mill / prisoner dormitory. There is a great deal to see there, but this is one of the more dramatic shots.
The cheery fellow photographed below stands in one of the interpretive exhibits at the Port Arthur visitor's centre. Glen took a liking to him.
"PULL MY FINGER."
We had a great time there, both on the visit to the camp and on the hour long detour we took we took on the way back to Hobart when we missed the correct highway turn-off. It was defiantly a good side trip to take; I’m quite glad we met up with those two girls and was able to pal along with them.
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