Tasmania Trip - Part 4

A Detour, a Letdown, and a Little Light at the End of the Tyre Saga

I woke with a weight in my chest, the unease from the day before still hanging in the air like the coastal mist that sometimes rolls in off Great Oyster Bay. My first instinct was to check the tyre. Sure enough, the pressure had dropped even further overnight. We couldn’t ignore it any longer — this wasn’t just a slow leak. It was a stubborn problem that demanded action.

I pulled out my phone, hoping to quickly find a local garage or service station. But nothing loaded. I tried again. Still nothing. Yesterday, it had worked just fine. Now, in our moment of need, it was utterly useless. I stared at the blank screen in disbelief.

Fortunately, my wife had better luck with the cottage’s Wi-Fi. With her phone online, we decided to call the car rental company to ask for advice. The representative was sympathetic enough and offered to connect us to roadside assistance. That was a relief — for a moment, anyway.

Roadside assistance couldn’t come to us directly but informed us that there was a petrol station in the direction we were heading. Unfortunately, they couldn’t guarantee the station had tyre services. We weren’t willing to take that gamble. Not with a pressure that kept steadily falling. So we asked them to find us a proper garage.

What they came up with wasn’t ideal — a place in Rosebery, a good hour’s detour in the opposite direction. We'd have to backtrack west across the island before turning east again. It would cost us at least two hours, and that meant dropping the scenic stops we’d planned for the day. But we didn’t have a choice. Safety trumped sightseeing.

Before leaving, we found the cottage owner in her garden, hands deep in the soil. I complimented her garden, especially the elegant irises swaying gently in the breeze. I mentioned my dream of one day creating something similar back home. Perhaps she misinterpreted my admiration as a desire to take a few with me, because she disappeared into the shed and re-emerged with secateurs, offering me cuttings.

Touched, I clarified that what I really wanted were the bulbs — so I could try my luck at growing them. With a warm smile, she crouched down and carefully dug out a couple, placing them tenderly into my hands. Her quiet generosity in that moment softened an otherwise frustrating morning.

We told her about the connectivity issues, and she asked a simple question: “Are you with Optus?” We were. And just like that, the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. A nationwide Optus outage had struck — no mobile service, no internet, no landlines. No wonder I couldn’t make calls or use data. Just our luck. Every domino had fallen against us that morning.

With mounting tension, we set off for Rosebery, driving cautiously, keeping our speed at or below 80km/h as advised. I couldn’t appreciate the scenery; my mind was fixed on the tyre and the long drive ahead.

When we finally rolled into Rosebery, we found the garage. I stepped inside and explained our situation, hopeful that our ordeal was nearly over. The man behind the counter, possibly the owner, listened and then dropped the hammer: “I don’t do rentals. I won’t touch it.”

I blinked, stunned. I pleaded — not for a full fix, just for him to look at it. But he was immovable. I then asked if I could at least use their air pump to inflate it. He pointed outside and said I could, but he wouldn’t help.

I assumed some previous bad experience had hardened him toward rental vehicles. I tried to work the pump myself, but it wasn’t the type I was familiar with — no clear instructions, a setup more suited to a mechanic than a motorist. I was floundering.

Desperate, I turned to another driver at the pump, hoping for help. Maybe the staff member saw something in that — my frustration, the futility, my last-ditch effort to ask a stranger. Whatever it was, something shifted. He came outside, asked what was wrong, and without a word, demonstrated how the pump worked. In the end, he inflated the tyre himself.

A flicker of kindness. Maybe even regret. I thanked him sincerely, and we hit the road again — this time retracing our path toward Cradle Mountain before finally turning off toward the east coast.

Our scenic plan for the day was gone. We bypassed every stop on our list. The detour meant a four-hour drive had become a seven-hour haul. We stopped briefly in Sheffield — part hunger, part desperation for directions, since Google Maps was still non-functional.

Sheffield turned out to be a small delight. Known for its colourful murals and dairy farming roots, the town offered a splash of cheer. At the Information Centre, staff welcomed us with that uniquely Tasmanian warmth, clearly used to fielding direction-seekers adrift in the internet blackout. We used their Wi-Fi to finally download offline maps — a process we had to Google how to do first. A minor digital epiphany.

And then, like a ray of sunshine breaking through storm clouds, the internet came back. Just like that. Spirits lifted, we grabbed lunch at the Blacksmith Café and Grill — a cozy spot with excellent pies and blacksmith-crafted trinkets on display. Nourished, reconnected, and armed with Google Maps, we continued toward Coles Bay.

We arrived just after 5 PM. Our accommodation — a freshly renovated duplex — still smelled of new paint and fresh timber. After unloading our bags, I checked the tyre again. It had deflated further. I crouched for a closer look, and there it was — a fine metal wire embedded in the sidewall. The culprit, at last.

I rang the rental company again, now with clear evidence of the issue. I explained where I was, what had happened, and asked if they had a local partner. They didn’t.

“Can I drive to your Hobart branch and swap cars?”

“It’s not recommended,” came the reply. “It’s not safe.”

“So what do I do?”

Pause. Then: “We can’t help you.”

That was it. No plan, no guidance, no alternatives. Just a corporate shrug.

I hung up, dazed. The guy had sounded young — like someone new, unprepared to improvise outside a call script. Later, they sent a customer satisfaction survey. Let’s just say I didn’t hold back.

I considered changing the tyre myself, but doubted both my memory and muscle. Instead, I looked up the nearest tyre service and found one in Bicheno, about half an hour away. I called. Someone answered. I explained everything. His reply was simple: “Bring it in tomorrow morning. We’ll take a look.”

It was the first genuinely helpful response I'd received all day. He asked for the car’s details to make sure they had the right tyre in stock. I promised to be there at 8 AM.

Feeling lighter at last, we strolled the quiet neighbourhood as twilight settled in, then wandered down to a local restaurant — Geographe Restaurant and Espresso Bar — for a much-needed dinner. The woodfired pizzas were just what we needed. The seafood, fresh and generous. The service? Warm and unrushed.

We returned to our accommodation full, tired, and cautiously hopeful. Tomorrow would bring another early start and another repair attempt. But for now, we had a roof, a plan, and the promise of resolution.

Sometimes, that’s enough.