15th of August - Launceston

A little water feature

So now we come to the final day of my visit to Tasmania. It is here that I must confess to the dutiful reader that this day did not begin in the highest of spirits, owing to the impromptu pub challenge I had undertaken the night before. Despite a rather sore head, I pulled myself from my small bed in the hostel to enjoy whatever sights I could on a Monday in Launceston.

Some variety of fountain

Leaving my luggage with the hostel, I promptly began a lengthy ramble through the city in search of the biggest, greasiest breakfast I could find. And it was a long journey which, despite the advice of several tourist information centres and even a passer-by who happened to overhear my quest, I found none of the cafes I was directed to to have the kind of breakfast I was after. Eventually I consulted, as I should have from the very beginning, the internet. After traversing nearly the whole city centre again, I arrived at the cafe I had looked up, and was not disappointed - the breakfast served here was indeed enormous, and suitably greasy. So much so, in fact that I - I am quite ashamed to admit - was not able to finish it. But, with a full stomach and somewhat subdued hangover, I was content enough to embark on my sightseeing journey proper.

Macaca Fuscata

Stopping briefly by the occasional fountain or water feature, I slowly made my way to the City Park. In addition to being a lovely green spot with pagodas, a conservatory, duck pond and monkeys. Yes, the attentive reader did not mis-read that. The City Park in Launceston is home to a troupe of macaque monkeys gifted from the sister city in Japan. However, I regret to inform the astounded reader, that the monkeys do not, in fact, run around wild and free, where they can climb into people's hair or steal their peanuts. No, they are confined safely in a natural enclosure as one might see at a zoo.
After enjoying the monkeys' antics for some time I continued leisurely through the park, taking my time to enjoy the conservatory and the duck pond, then went to the Automotive museum, which finds itself just across the road.
While the building is relatively small, the collection housed therein is reasonably impressive (at least for one who is inclined to enjoy such things), however it is not something that can really be translated into an engaging blog post, so that is all I will say about that.
And so I come to the final stop of my adventure through Tasmania - the Boag's brewery, for after this stop my time was up and I caught my flight back to the mainland. And here my luck with tours finally took a positive turn, and I was able to actually be guided through their facilities. In fact, the group was rather intimate, with only one other couple taking part (in addition to the guide of course). Unfortunately, and presumably much to the eager reader's disappointment, no pictures were allowed, but as one who works at another, smaller brewery (albeit in the restaurant, not making the beer itself), I was suitably impressed by the size and scale of Boag's, as I was led through one enormous chamber of whirring, complicated machinery to the next. It is always amusing and interesting to note how small, in comparison to sections such as bottling and lagering, the actual brew floor is, consisting of a handful of relatively modest (though still quite huge) stainless steel vessels. The bottling floor, in contrast, is reminiscent of a giant, industrial, adult version of Willy Wonka's Chocolate factory. After the tour, of course, we were treated to a tasting of their small range. Small, that is, in comparison to the veritable smorgasboard of beers offered by the craft brewery I work at. My predilection toward craft beer unfortunately meant that the comparatively simple and crisp flavours produced by Boag's were not quite to my palate, but I would definitely not say that I did not appreciate the tasting, especially as the beers were all paired with cheeses, which I always enjoy.
But then it was time to go home, so I departed to my hostel to pick up my luggage, then caught the shuttle to the airport - where, to my surprise I found myself sitting the the terminal directly next to the same couple that went on the tour with me.

And so closes another chapter in my holidaying experience. I bid my loyal reader goodbye, until next I go travelling!

14th of August - up through the middle to Launceston

Now we are nearing the end of our Journey, and the day chronicled in this post is the penultimate of my whole trip, and the last I would spend with Ally before she would head off to her uni business.

Australia's oldest bridge

Much of the day was spent travelling north from Hobart through the middle of Tasmania, stopping, as was our wont, at any interesting localities we happened to pass on the way. The first stop we made was at a town called Richmond, which by all accounts was a very pretty spot with many beautiful and quaint cottages. It also boasts the oldest bridge in Australia - one built by convicts in 1823, and another reminder of that aspect of our country's past.

Also at this town, we stopped at a bakery for a mid-morning snack, and I finally was able to indulge in what Ally had been assuring me was a typically Tasmanian delicacy, and one which I had so far failed to locate on our travels, namely a curried Scallop pie.

I'm sure the discerning reader will agree it sounds quite an unusual culinary combination, and while I must admit it is probably not to everybody's taste, I found it rather palatable.

Oatlands Windmill

The next stop on our long road back north was the rather peculiarly (and, as it turns out, aptly) named Oatlands. This town's attraction is a large windmill, reminiscent of many seen in the Netherlands, and it seemed the area was rather proud of its milling and grain producing heritage, as there were all manner of authentically produced and milled items to buy at the local shop.

Unfortunately time did not permit a lengthy sojourn, and we were not able (again) to take the tour of the building, so there is little else I can say about it at this time. The reason for our haste was we had one last major attraction to visit before the southern winter sun vanished and left it an impossibility. We hurried from the windmill north to Launceston and, after locating the Hostel I had hastily (and cheaply) booked for myself on the way there, and dropping off my luggage, we headed to Launceston's premiere natural attraction - Cataract gorge.

Cateract Gorge

Much is said about the gorge, and how fabulous it is to have such a thing of natural beauty so close to such a suburban hub. We enjoyed it in the last rays of the sun, taking the chairlift across it one way, on the other side of which we stopped at a kiosk to make a quick lunch of wedges, pies and soup, which the Ostentation of Peacocks which strolled the gardens and walking paths on that side of the gorge presently and insistently tried to beg and steal from our very hands. Returning to the other side of the gorge and our car, we crossed via an adventurous and exciting, narrow, shaky, hanging wooden bridge.

Finally I was dropped off at my hostel by Ally and miss V--, and I proceeded to head in to the city to discover what kind of night life one could expect on a Sunday night. My rambles through its streets could lead one to assume I had taken up my pub challenge again, as I visited four on this evening, before settling on one Royal Oak, where an irish style music session kept me entertained until I stumbled back to my hostel and in to bed.

13th of August - Hobart and Port Arthur

On this day another traveler joined our posse. Ally had arranged for a friend of hers to join us for the last few days of the journey, as the two had uni related business together in Tasmania after the trip. So on the morn of this day, we went to Hobart airport and picked up miss V-- to then spend the morning and afternoon in that said city.
Our first destination was the famous Salamanca markets. As one accustomed to other types of markets and fairs, I must admit I was taken aback somewhat. Here, instead of the endless stalls of the same cheap trinkets mainlanders apparently enjoy immensely, there were but a vast variety of fine Tasmanian produce, handmade wares, and generally goods one may actually want to buy. I imagine anybody with a less hardy nature would have been quite aggravated at their complete inability to gripe and moan about the quality of the market. My main complaint, however, was a lack of money and luggage space to purchase everything I wanted.

Cascade Brewery

Subsequent the market, we proceeded to that other great attraction of Hobart and the South of Tasmania - the Cascade Brewery.
Myself working toward entering the brewing business, it was of quite some interest to me, and the ancient and venerable building that housed the brewery was  certainly a sight to behold, being loomed over by mount Wellington, its head in the clouds. However, we were proven disappointed - our intention had been to take part in the tour, but alas! it was fully booked when we arrived. So instead we tarried some time in the bar, tasting this and that beverage, and took a few picturesque photos in the gardens, then moved on.
Our next adventure was also of the alcoholic kind, as we returned to the city and visited the Lark pub. Again this venture had a degree of disappointment with it - we had thought, upon reaching the building, that it would be the distillery (although I thought it strange given how small the building was), and we could go on a tour here instead. Unfortunately it was but a pub owned by the Lark Whisky brand. Nevertheless we had an excellent time, being regaled by the barkeeper on the history and qualities of the Whisky they produce - one which, despite its relatively short existence, has gone to become one of the best and most celebrated in the world.
Our final stop on this day was Port Arthur - the famous convict settlement in the south east of the island. Here we went to take part in an after-hours ghost tour. Such a thing normally appeals to me in theory (though I wished we could have visited first in daylight hours to gain a more complete appreciation of the complex, but one cannot do everything in the limited hours the day grants one), but I regret to say that I have discovered years of hard-baked skepticism have rendered me practically immune to ghost stories.
The guide - a kindly matronly character who seemed like a friendly aunt - assured us that on nearly all of her tours "something happens" (by which she certainly meant something supernatural). The closest thing to a supernatural occurance, I regret to inform the eager reader, that I feel occurred during this tour was this: Ally and miss V-- had purchased before the commencement of the tour two hot beverages (a soy latte and a hot chocolate). Before entering the parishioner's house, where we were to be told a number of eerie stories, they were told to leave their cups outside. They placed the said containers on the ground next to the path inside, but when we exited the former dwelling, the two ladies were shocked to see only one cup still remained. The excitement, however, was short lived, as it was immediately discovered that the missing beverage container had merely fallen backward into a gutter.

12th of August - Bruny Island

The day chronicled in this blog post commenced with something of a disappointment. We had hoped to catch a ferry across to Maria Island, which lies some way to the south of Freychinet, and participate in a few more walks there, and the previous day had indeed called the ferry in the hopes of securing two seats. The gentleman I spoke with already seemed unhopeful of our success, as at that time all the spots were already spoken for, though he did assure me he would call should the situation change and somebody change their plans. Some time later in that day (shortly before arriving at our accomodation) I received a rather perplexing phone call. Upon answering it I was met by, at first, silence, then a somewhat bewildered woman who thought I had called her. Evidently there had been some kind of error where she had dialed my number (probably the last in the call list) without realising it. For it was indeed the same number I had called earlier in my fruitless attempt to book the ferry, and the ensuing strange conversation only further confirmed the afore stated situation.

A little cove on the walk to the Gulch

Nevertheless, on the next day (the very one this post is intended to be about) we headed to the ferry in the hopes that somebody would not show up. But alas! This was not to be, and we found ourselves waiting at the departure point in vain. "No matter", we told ourselves with resolve, for we had already formulated a backup plan. One way or another we would visit an island that day, and by Jove we would go on a walk! So we hopped in our car and expedited slantways, southwest, through Hobart and to the ferry for Bruny Island, where, the website assured us, we would have no trouble catching the boat. And indeed we were able to cross without problem, and soon found ourselves merrily driving through the island, stopping at every enticing locality that sold local cheese, beer or chocolate that we saw (and Bruny, like the rest of Tasmania, has no shortage of such places) until we arrived at the beginning of the most appropriate walk we were able to research in such a short time.

The Gulch, with Penguin Island on the right

The walk in question, in retrospect, sounds more like the plot of a pirate story - we were to trek across the dark sands passed adventure bay, ford a river then traverse muddy tracks through the forest along the shoreline until we reached the ruins of the whaler's hut. Then we could round the (I assume) nameless cape until we reached the Gulch, with Penguin Island on its far side. Thinking on it now, I regret not braving the freezing waters of the Gulch to climb upon that island, as I am certain it must have had some buried treasure. But we were on the lookout for a different kind of treasure, of the natural kind. Bruny island, you see, is home to a very rare kind of Wallaby - namely one with white fur, which exists nowhere else in the world.

More scenery around the Gulch

Though the cape, the Gulch and the Island were beautiful, in that wild, rugged way much of Tasmania is, we slowly despaired of sighting this elusive creature. We kept our eyes open on the whole trip back, and nearly gave up. But fortune, it would seem, was on our side this day. Remember the river crossing on our way up, and the difficulty we had in keeping our feet dry, we decided on a different course of return - namely through a vacant caravan park undergoing refurbishment.

The best picture I could take of the White Wallaby

Despite the signs warning us it was a construction site, we persevered, and I still cannot believe my luck, but at the far end I spotted it! A white Wallaby! Both of us managed to take a number of quite blurry pictures of it, but as one can imagine they are shy creatures, and it disappeared into the bush before we could get close.

Nevertheless we were elated at this encounter, which kept us from being entirely dejected as our bad luck with ferries continued - we just missed the second last ferry back by about five minutes, and the final one for the evening would not come for another hour. Well, so be it. It had nonetheless been a superb day, and we did not regret having come here instead of Maria.

11th of August - More Freychinet

Oh dear, it seems I had become quite recalcitrant and lackadaisical in the maintenance of my blog for the last few days of my stay in Tasmania. I shall have to endeavor to bring its state back up to date as promptly as possible.

In this post, then I shall be recounting my adventures where I left off.

Me and the cessna

On the very next day, we headed off rather early in order to catch a plane we had booked, more or less on a whim, the day before. No, we hadn't suddenly decided to return home, fed up with the Apple Isle! This was a charter service to fly us around and give us the best views of Freycinet national park. This being the first time in a small propeller plane for both of us (the machine in question was a Cessna), we both had certain emotions about the flight. However, while Ally's were trepidation, mine were excitement. However, Ally soon came around to my own attitude as we took off and she beheld it was not as frightening as she had anticipated.
And what can one say about such a flight? It was spectacular, and the pilot very knowledgeable and informative.

Wineglass bay from the air

If you are yet ignorant of the nature of the national park, I shall endeavor to explain it to you. It comprises of an extended peninsula on the east coast of Tasmania of nearly unspoilt wilderness. It was established as a national park over 100 years ago, making it one of the two oldest such parks in Australia. It also has one of the two best beaches in the country - Wineglass bay, which is only accessible via an hour-and-a-half walk. Other beaches (arguably as beautiful) are also to be found on the peninsula, but they are even more remote, requiring a full days' hike to reach. However, with our small plane we were able to see them both within the short space of half an hour.

Freycinet from the air

How many seals can you spot?

Following our safe return, we proceeded to complete a handful more short walks in said national park. The first, at Cape Tourville, led over a series of boardwalks around a cliff and a squat lighthouse. It also presented us with an excellent view, via a set of handy binoculars set up for the use of passers by such as us, of a group of rocky islands which is a favoured spot for seals. Of those creatures, we fancied we could spy one or two lounging near the water, but we cannot be sure.

I considered moving in, but the wi-fi is not great.

The next walk was somewhat longer and led us past the so-called Sleepy Bay to Gravelly beach, an appropriately named little cove where the sand was comprised of pieces of granite broken off nearby boulders. Two such boulders lay at the far end, with interesting holes cut in to them by the action of the sea, which makes for perfect photo opportunities.
Scrambling up the rocks behind these boulders, I found the opportunity to ramble much further along the coastline, climbing over craggy granite. Had I been travelling alone I may have considered it, but Ally was not as keen to go exploring off the beaten path.

Gravelly beach

Friendly Beaches

Finally we concluded our tour of the region with a visit to Friendly beaches. As we had decided against going to Wineglass bay due to time constraints (and given the weather was hardly suitable for beach activities), this proved to be a decent compromise. One of the things that makes the beaches in the area so beautiful is the high silicone content of the sand, making it incredibly white. This is true as much of Friendly Beaches as it is of Wineglass bay, and I believe we were suitably dazzled by its whiteness.

Promptly we continued our journey to our next accommodation, stopping in the town of Swansea on the way to make a delicious lunch of salt and pepper squid, and with another brief interlude to view an ancient bridge (by colonial Australian standards) built by convicts. Thereafter we made it to our rather miserable (but cheap) hotel and retired, both being rather exhausted.

Bicheno to Freycinet

Today was, in many ways, a repeat of the one two days ago - signified primarily by walks and punctuated by seeing wildlife, but overall being rather unsuitable for a lengthy and detailed post.

Our first visit was to Whaler's Lookout in Bicheno - a picturesque spot upon a little hill at the end of a short walk.

View from Whaler's Lookout

A moment before I am swept out to sea, never to be seen again.

Coles Bay

Directly afterwards we headed to the beach to appreciate the local blowhole, before continuing southward (hastily booking this night's accommodation on the way) and enjoying Coles bay, and then taking a walk through Freycinet National Park (where we saw some very bold Wallabys) to Wineglass Bay Lookout.

A very cute Wallaby

Wineglass Bay

Cross country

Now to finally catch up to the actual date. The events of today represented little more than a transit from Cradle Mountain to Bicheno on the east coast of Tasmania.
On our passage from thence to here, we did make several stops, but they were all related to the sampling and purchase of food and drink goods, which this island is famous for.
First we stopped at a dairy to buy some cheese, then we went in a long and fruitless search for Wallaby steak (settling instead for Wallaby Mince with which we cooked a delicious bolognaise), thereafter we visited a winery where Ally purchased a Merlot (and I actually discovered one or two wines I was able to tolerate), next we visited a purveyor of fine sauces, mustards and jams (where we bought several jars of their delicious wares), and our final stop before reaching our accomodation was the Iron House brewery, which was somewhat more to my tastes than the wine from earlier.

Tomorrow, however, should prove to be more eventful.

An adventure in around Cradle Mountain

It will be noted by the reader that this post, like the last, is still posted one day behind. But fear not! The day succeeding the one chronicled in this post (that is, the very day this record is being written) proved rather modest in its eventfulness, granting me quite an amount of luxury to catch up, as it were.
The day which is the subject here, though, was rather the opposite, and began with a rather overpriced breakfast at the visitors center for the national park. Also at this location we also contrived our plan for the rest of the day, as we were to tackle a relatively long hike through the park.

Having stated now, and presumably convinced the attentive reader, that the day in question was a veritable carnival of events and experiences, it is with some contrition that I must now confess there was little that made for exceptional material for a blog post such as this. Our walk took us through breathtaking scenery - around lakes, up mountains, through gullies, past waterfalls and across fields, but I am impelled to state that there is little I could write on the subject that could not be better expressed through pictures. Therefore, I shall conclude this post with just a photographic record of the walk, followed by a short account of the activity we partook in the evening, after our long ramble.

I apologize for the formatting of the photos - unfortunately Blogger seems to be quite touchy regarding it.

But as promised, I shall now recount the events following our walk. Ally was familiar with the nearby sanctuary for Tasmanian Devils, having been there on numerous occasions before. The reader may not be aware, but this animal, which sounds fierce in name and vocalisations (though it is thoroughly
undeserving of this reputation) is actually quite endangered, thanks largely to the horrible facial tumour disease crippling the population. The sanctuary, then, serves to build a population free from this affliction, as well as protecting a number of other endangered species (namely two varieties of quolls, and the occasional wombat).

On Ally's advice, we arrived in time for the evening feeding, in which a group of the ravenous creatures were given their dinner of Wallaby, which they proceeded to squabble and fight over to our amusement. It must be said that they are quite remarkable and singular creatures, and charming in their own way. But for those not inclined that way, the quolls certainly satisfy those of a more conventional taste in their small, furry animals. Put a simpler way, quolls are very cute.

Devonport to Cradle Mountain

This blog post is recounted somewhat delayed, as I could only summon enough energy last night after a long, tiring day to make the briefest of notes on the events of the activities we had undertaken.
The exhaustion was only heightened by the fact that neither of us were able to rest particularly comfortably on the small, hard beds of our cabin, although thankfully the weather for the crossing was rather calm and there was not too much rocking heaving.

Coming in to Devonport

Ally and I got up early too, and were not able to get ourselves to sleep again, so instead we gathered our luggage and headed out to the lounge, then the deck to watch the approach of Tasmania. A brief soujourn on deck, however, proved rather chilly, and we quickly retired to the lounge to await our arrival, and the announcement that we could return to our car.
Luckily, when this announcement came, we did not find ourselves languishing in our vehicle nearly as long as on embarkment, and were driving through the streets of Devonport within half an hour of entering the car.
Our first stop was the local tourist information centre, where I received some very helpful information as to what I could do on my last day (when Alison would already be off at her placement), and we were given good advice as to which cafe to avail ourselves on for breakfast. The "Laneway", as it was called, served us with a very satisfying breakfast, with eggs, bacon, toast and waffles, and Ally even assures me the soy flat white she ordered was Melbourne Quality.

Tasmanian Dairy Country

Promptly following breakfast (with an immediate interlude at KMart to gather some items we had irresponsibly neglected to bring, such as pants) we hastened to our first tourist destination for the day (with a second interlude to photograph some photogenic cows and ducks standing by an idyllic, mirrorlike pond before a breathtaking mountain backdrop) which was King Solomon's Caves. Between the two interludes, we also made an extended detour to view the local hydro-electric dam, known as "devil's gate", which was quite a sight to behold. These distractions aside, however, as I stated, we took ourselves directly to King Solomon's caves without delay.

Devil's gate dam

Normally a person visiting the Moles Creek area of Tasmania would be spoiled for choice if they were inclined toward visiting underground places, however the region has recently experienced an embarrassment of rain, resulting in the caves and their respective visitor centers being damaged by floods, leaving the aforementioned caves one of the few still open to visitors. This proved not to be too great a tragedy for us, as the cave we visited was amply impressive. The tour guide, too, was particularly knowledgeable and informative (if a little too anxious not to offend), and despite my previous interest in geology and caves, I am happy to say I was granted some new wisdom, however slight, on the subject. The reader may be interested to note the reason it was given its moniker - apparently its first explorers, upon seeing the crystals in the limestone glistening in the light of their lanterns, incorrectly assumed the cave to be filled with expensive diamonds.

It's hard to take a good picture in a cave

After duly enjoying the splendour of the cave, we sought out lunch in nearby Railton, a town which is resplendant with topiaries, via the town of Sheffield, which is similarly blessed with a slew of murals. We made a perfectly adequate meal of a pie and a burger at the local take-away shop, and continued on our way in direction of Cradle Mountain.

Wooden bridge over clear water

On this final leg for the day, Tasmania very vaingloriously flaunted as much of its admittedly spectacular scenery in as short a space as possible. From green, rolling hillsides, then eucalyptus forests, quaint wooden bridges over swiftly babbling mountain streams took us through rainforests, then stark highlands of scrub and skeletal trees and finally the mountains which seemed to be trying to compete with the Swiss Alps in their ostentation.

Highlands with me in a tree

As if to abash us, we were even audaciously given a welcoming committee of dear little Pademelons, seemingly waiting for us to arrive at our cabin.

Welcoming committee

We did not tarry here for long, however, as the light would soon begin to fade, and we still planned to view the spectacular Cradle Mountain itself from Dove Lake, as the weather the next day promised to be less than ideal for this task. And so we drove on, up toward the titular mountain, and again I found myself humbled, with the breathtaking peak bearing majestically before me, reflected in the glassy surface of the lake once we arrived there. We spent some time at the shores, basking in its glory, before finally returning to our cabin (the welcoming committee, we noticed, was now nowhere to be seen), to retire for the night.

Cradle Mountain

Reviving the blog - Tasmania

Well, here we are again. I've decided to dust off the old travel blog, and make some new literary contributions to it. While I have been on a couple of trips away since my last post, as you could clearly gather I didn't bother recording them here, which I afterwards found myself regretting. There's a lot you can forget in the months and years after a trip.
So I thought this trip to Tasmania would be a good opportunity to pick up the old habit again.

This first post will probably be reasonably short, as I'm not, actually, you know in Tasmania yet. Currently I'm typing this in our cabin in the ship "Spirit of Tasmania", but you have to start somewhere!

The day leading up to the departure was quite hectic. My girlfriend Ally and I have quite a few animals that need to be taken care of, but luckily one of her uni Buddies was willing to house sit for the week and a bit I would be away. (Ally is gone longer, because the holiday will for her be immediately followed by two weeks of placement).
This is particularly fortuitous because they are both studying veterinary science. No having to worry about the fur babies not being properly taken care of!
So the afternoon consisted of Ally and I splitting our time talking to Louise about the feeding routines of our various pets, trying to get the last of our recently washed clothes dry, and then packing said clothes.

Then, when we realised it was getting a lot later than we had planned to get away, we finally bustled out the door and drove off...
Only to have an excruciatingly long wait at the terminal to get on the ferry.

The "Spirit of Tasmania", waiting for us to board.

In order to make the best of our time away, we took Ally's car. She also will need it for her placement, so it definitely had to come over with us.
But once you arrive at the terminal, you still have to wait in queue for a very long time... first all the other vehicles coming back to Melbourne have to get off, then you can slowly inch your way on, the vehicles being squeezed together in the hold like sardines.
Once we could finally get out of the car, it was a matter of squishing between the other cars with whatever luggage we wanted to take on board and making our way onto the decks.
Ally, being of a somewhat overprepared nature, chose to take eight of the thirty-seven bags, backpacks, duffel-bags, suitcases and shipping containers she had packed with her on the boat. (Actual numbers may be exaggerated for comic effect). I, taking just my medium-sized sports bag, laptop and camera, was already wondering if there wasn't a fair number of superfluous items I could pitch overboard as I struggled to carry it past the lines of parked cars.

Soon, however, we had found our way to our small cabin. Modest though it is, especially at the price, I think I greatly prefer it to the slightly cheaper option of airplane-style seating. It is some luck that we found it at all actually; upon reaching one landing in the middle of a flight of stairs, a lady, seeing the slightly bewildered expressions on our faces, kindly pointed us in the direction of the fore of the ship, where she assured us we would certainly find the cabins - and where, upon our venturing, we discovered no such thing. The cabins, as we presently discovered, were in the exact opposite direction.
Until it came time to finally retire to our tiny dorm for the night, we spent a good two hours exploring the ship. A number of minutes were well spent up on the deck, trying (mostly in vain) to coax our cameras to take a decent picture of the night-time skyline of Melbourne.

Me, with Melbourne vanishing in the background

Out of curiosity, we also ventured into the small gaming lounge the ship sports. In my normal life I am an attendant at such a venue, and I found myself wondering which gambling regulations a ferry would follow. I didn't get a satisfactory answer to my question, except to gain a fair level of certainty (due to the lack of appropriate signage) that it was not the Victorian regulations.
As luck would have it, however, I spotted a single dollar coin left in the tray of one of the poker machines by the previous absent-minded patron. Upon gifting it to my girlfriend, and warning her duly about the dangers of gambling, she promptly wasted it in the nearest slot - one belonging to a Geisha themed game, which she assured me was my favourite. Not a sausage did it give us either.

After this unsatisfying experience, and a few more minutes aimless meandering, we finally decided to have dinner. The restaurant on board, I'm sad to report, is expensive and nearly as disappointing as the gaming lounge.
Our final destination before heading back to the cabin was the in-house entertainer. With his shiny metallic guitar and banjo, he certainly looked the part for cruise-ship entertainment (a sparkly suit and keyboard may have been more appropriate, but his persona was also not out of place), but the small crowd was only able to muster a somewhat lackluster cheer to his old-timey blues songs.

I guess that is what you get on a cruise to Tasmania in the middle of winter.