I’ve been living in Hobart for a week now.
That’s not a sentence I thought I’d write. But at the same time, it also feels deeply right.
At the start of June, I packed my life into boxes—the bulk of which were filled with books—and drove my Subaru Forester down to Geelong and onto the Spirit of Tasmania with my mate, Ryan.
One week in and we’ve already found our local cafe. (It’s Wide Awake in North Hobart.) My calendar is packed with weekend adventures. And I’ve come to relish the fresh moments that materialise when I stop trying to plan them.
We’re off to a superb start.
Coming down for air
2024 became an inflection year for the two of us and we were both eager for a breather away from the familiar routines of city life.
So over a few late-night tennis hits and early-morning coffees, we entertained the question: What if we moved to Hobart for a bit?
When the prospect of moving down didn’t feel outrageous, we knew it was the right call. I’m fortunate to be in a role that allows me to work remotely. And Ryan sought a gentler life rhythm to help ease some health concerns.
The timing was right. And the destination was even more so. Tasmania has long held a special place in my heart, hosting many memorable adventures and family holidays.
We moved into a renovated heritage house from 1908, just off the vibrant Elizabeth Street strip. The neighbourhood is packed with charming cottages and Federation-era homes—making my lunchtime strolls a discovery of delight.
Beyond explaining or expecting
Something peculiar happened four days in. We went out for burgers after work and our server began with some friendly small talk about where we were from.
What he said next caught us both off guard: You guys look so relaxed.
We accepted the compliment, yet were taken by surprise. Not in all my years of city life had someone remarked on my state of relaxation. It was nice, but unexpected.
Days later, I still found myself searching to make sense of it. Did we really look that relaxed—or was he simply being polite? What could it be about Hobart that has this soothing effect?
But my biggest reflection from that interaction? I don’t need to explain it. I don’t need to identify what caused it. I don’t need to update my construct of the world (or myself) to make it make sense.
The rhythm of life down here isn’t about explaining events with certainty. It’s not about optimising moments of happiness. It’s not about maximising what I can accomplish in a day.
Explaining. Optimising. Maximising.
These tendencies and traits have served me well. But taken to the extreme, their rational rigidity blinds us to the moments of surprise and delight that arise when we allow space for them. When we pause to experience—not to explain or expect.
Leaving space for serendipity
Looking back, I see how engineered parts of my life became.
My work commute? Waking to a precise alarm to catch the same carriage on the same train to walk to the same cafe. Routine can be a good thing. (And returning to Patricia for Melbourne’s finest coffee was a great thing.) It often provides structure and certainty.
Yet it suffocates those delicate spaces where serendipity arises. It snuffs out the seemingly small moments that often carry the most weight as we meander through life.
Rarely are our richest moments of meaning found in the rush or the chase.
The real magic awaits us in the space in between. It blossoms in the pauses. In the unscripted interactions with the warm souls who we meet along the way.
It happened on a whim when we popped into a corner pub after work. The ginger beer and nachos were average, but the deep conversation that brewed between us (on the perils of optimising) was anything but—and helped to shape this article.
It happened on late-night playlists when Dreams and September played at random, but brought a beaming smile to my face.
And it happened on the summit of kunanyi / Mount Wellington yesterday afternoon.
Finding flow and fun
Mt Wellington is never far from view in this city, watching over those below like a stone guardian.
We drove to the summit where the dolerite tors were still encrusted in ice after a full day of sunshine. (How grateful we were that the feels-like temperature remained positive at a balmy 1°C.)
With wild wind gusts and a blue-bird sky, I normally would have left my pro Sony camera behind. (Unfavourable conditions mean imperfect photos—or so was the comforting fiction I often told myself to avoid trying and failing.)
To challenge the crippling pursuit of perfection that can creep in, I picked up a Fujifilm X-T50 and paired it with the Voigtländer 27mm f/2.
Put simply, the Fuji has been a delight to document my time in Tassie. The low profile encourages me to grab it for everyday outings. The manual-focus lens forces me to physically connect with the scene—to line up the frame with my feet and fine-tune the focus dial. The pleasing colours inspire me to share images instantly.
It’s brought a spark of spontaneity back into my photography.
Yesterday’s summit shoot was fun. Hopping over ice-encrusted boulders was fun. Bracing myself against the wind as I snapped handheld frames was fun. Sharing my favourite shots straight from the camera was fun.
Hobart, you’ve cast a spell over this mainlander. Let’s see what other enchantments you have in store.