THIS was going to be a rave about a wonderful holiday the Redhead and I enjoyed last week in Tasmania. Nights by the fire drinking red wine during a round-the-state loop taking in all the major tourists attractions. From the brutalism of Port Arthur, to Strachan, a seaside village from where a catamaran trip opens up the pristine Gordon River in the world heritage area.

Instead, this column is about a grubby tactic used by parking inspectors in revenue-hungry Hobart that soured the tourist experience.

It happened on our last day. With Mount Wellington snow-bound - it lords over the town - we drove down to the Salamanca markets, an area very similar to The Rocks in Sydney. Parked in Castray Esplanade by the docks opposite the long sandstone row of art, crafts, fashion and food stores.

Several others pulled up at the same time and we lined up at a ticket machine to pay for parking as the spaces were marked ‘‘Permit Only''. Two dollars for an hour seemed reasonable and off we went window-shopping.

Just about every store we'd visited on the sleepy little island carried similar gifts and clothes: imaginative knicknacks or hugely expensive colonial furniture in Huon pine (now only carved from dead trees); warm woolly scarves, jumpers, beanies and gloves; chocolate box art. It was no different here.

We then decided to lunch at Richmond, an original colonial farming village about 20km away, near the airport. Days earlier, a motorist lost control of his car and knocked out a section of the historic bridge, Australia's oldest, built in 1823 by convicts (like so many structures in Tassie).

Back at the car we met four puzzled drivers. Ten cars in a row had been booked for ‘‘stopping in a permit zone without a permit displayed''. Penalty $50. All of us had bought tickets and put them on the dashboard. But apparently they applied only on the dock itself! No explanation, of course.

One irate driver rang the city council and immediately got into a row with an officious official. ‘‘You shoulda read the sign, mate. Says permit, not ticket. Your fault.''

Our hero railed about ‘‘grubby revenue-raising'', concluding: ‘‘There are tourists here and they've done the right thing. What sort of a welcome to Hobart is this?''

The official hung up in his ear, saying tickets weren't permits.

I paid up reluctantly, vowing: ‘‘Don't get angry, get even.'' I feel better now.