Tasmania - the arrival

Out Trip to Tassie was rather lacking in planning, however we had the foresight to book our first nights accommodation at an interestingly named hostel called the Pickled Frog. It has been a while since I’ve stayed in a hostel, and perhaps I’m getting too old and grumpy. Trish and I were rocked to sleep whilst listening to a girl snore loudly until 3:30am, which was then replaced with the beeping of a crossing signal outside our window. After finally donning a sleep mask and earplugs I fell asleep only to be awoken by glass collection morning. I awoke, took my stiff joints down from the upper bunk and attempted to quietly assemble clothing and shower implements. Upon entering the shower I immediately regretted not packing thongs, the sodden matt and wet, dirty floor were indications on impending tinea.

We joyously checked out and swore to never return. We climbed into our bright yellow, spoiler donned lancer that made us look like 18 year old boys from Campbelltown and headed up to check out the views from Mt Wellington.