Opting for the easiest option we opted to head into the seafood options around the docks, but still managed to stuff that relatively straightforward matter up in a reasonably comprehensive manner.
Three times, in fact...
Had we been able to avail ourselves of a bit of free Wi Fi support things might have been different, but once we set off I managed to navigate us into an industrial estate, nearly had us heading over the Tasman Bridge, and put us into the wrong lane when we were making the first pass past the parking at the wharves.
We weren't sure about the seating and liquor provisions in the floating options on the western side, and headed in to join the masses at Mures, which came highly recommended by Jimbo. I'd read references to the operation at various times since the late seventies, so it seemed like a chance to cross another one off the bucket list of seemingly iconic experiences.
We arrived just before the real rush hour, though the place was getting uncomfortably close to chocker as we placed the order for seafood chowder and a trevalla and chips, and found a table reasonably close to the servery. Madam set off to rustle up eating irons, water and such while I guarded the table, hoping that the buzzy thing I'd been handed didn't start doing its thing before she got back.
That failed to eventuate, but I was just about to head off to grab a glass of something when it did. That only delayed the pursuit of something chilled, white and Tasmanian for a minute or three, though writing nearly a week later I have absolutely no recollection of what it actually was. Riesling, however, would be a very short priced favourite.
After dinner, I suggested we take a squiz at the menu board for the Upper Deck on the way out, but a slight drizzle had us heading for the car. That had possible implications a couple of days down the track, but we didn't know that at the time, did we?
Back at base I tucked myself into bed quite happily as the wind howled around outside, full of vague childhood memories of winter storms in Brisbane, and thoughts of God help sailors on a night like this garnered from a reading of Horatio Hornblower stories.
Somehow, tucked into a four poster bed in a stone building with stone floors, those memories seemed particularly appropriate.