I first came to Hobart just over three years ago, to take up a job. Unencumbered and ready for an adventure, I thought nothing of agreeing to the post without ever having visited the Tasmanian capital (or Tasmania, for that matter). The job advertisement included the promise of an ‘idyllic lifestyle’, which sounded pretty good to me.

‘Idyllic’ was hardly the word that came to mind during my first twenty-four hours or so in Hobart. The roadkill on the journey from the airport to the CBD didn’t get things off to a good start, and a sinking feeling hit my stomach when the bleak outer suburbs came into view. Even the city’s backdrop, Mount Wellington, failed to impress, looking more bovine than imposing. As the taxi crossed the Tasman Bridge, I glanced upstream and saw the smoking hulk of the zinc smelter, which took me completely by surprise (somehow I didn’t count on Hobart having heavy industry). When the cab came to a halt at a set of lights in the CBD, the harmonious sandstone façades of the ‘historic Hobart’ of my imagination were nowhere to be seen. Instead, I cast my eyes across an intersection dominated by some of the ugliest built structures I had ever encountered. I know my Jane Austen, but, even so, was mightily unnerved by these first impressions.

Over the next few days, I explored the city on foot. While I was shocked by the scale and impact of unsympathetic architecture and taken aback by the citizens’ indifference to sartorial style, I came to realise that it was better to imbibe Hobart slowly and carefully than to slam it down in one thirsty, reckless gulp. The beauty, as it turned out, was in the detail. There might be nothing particularly attractive about the shopfronts in Elizabeth Street, as they march up the hill from the CBD towards North Hobart, but some of the stores themselves are gems, none more so than the CWA shop. The mere fact of its existence pleased me.