There is, I think, a particular kind of exhaustion that does not want a holiday - so much as it wants to be gently captured by something scenic and carried elsewhere. That was the mood. Not “book flights immediately” tired. More “please place me on a boat and let Brisbane sort me out” tired.

We started at Milton in the early afternoon with what could only generously be described as a ‘plan.’ The idea was to catch the CityCat and eventually wind up at Eat Street Northshore, which sounded ideal in theory: food, lights, atmosphere, drinks, and the deeply comforting sense that other people had already done the hard work of making a destination feel exciting. We, for our part, would simply arrive.

Only Brisbane, as it often does, had a more meandering version of events in mind.

The ferry was busy - not pleasantly buzzy, but properly committed to its own popularity. By three stops in – just having graced the shores of weekend South Bank, the ferry entered that deeply humbling phase of ‘refusing passengers altogether.’ We took that as our cue to make a tactical retreat. We got off at QUT Gardens Point instead, which turned out to be exactly the right kind of accidental decision.

The walk from the Botanic Gardens along the river is one of those Brisbane experiences that makes the city feel unexpectedly lush. The City Botanic Gardens are all giant trees, sprawling roots, tangled greenery, and that soft, humid river-edge atmosphere that makes the place feel less like a formal garden and more like a cultivated jungle someone politely put pathways through. We wandered slowly, which is to say properly. No fitness trackers. No smug step-count objectives. Just drifting. Looking at the river. Looking at the trees. Looking, inevitably, at people.

And Brisbane, I must say, is a very good city for people-watching. Because everyone appears to be starring in a slightly different film. There were earnest joggers, elegant women in linen, students moving in packs, tourists in varying states of confusion, a duo completely oblivious to the fact that other people were out to use the trails too (we dub thee “Near-Miss Central”), and couples doing that silent side-by-side walk that suggests either; a) very healthy relationship, or b) a mild disagreement about where to get dinner.

We kept following the river, cruised past Riverstage, checked out upcoming bands (how is Brisbane such an amazing destination for live music? Nevermind. Don’t question it. Just appreciate it), and into the busier city stretch. This is where the walk begins to feel less botanical and more social anthropology. By the time we reached the newly refreshed Eagle Street area, the cranes were out in force and construction was doing its usual best to make everything look halfway between progress and inconvenience. But even that had its own strange energy. Brisbane is very clearly in one of its glow-up phases, and while there’s a lot of concrete, there’s also a feeling that the city is stretching into itself.

By this point we’d accidentally turned our vague ferry outing into a proper walk — at least ten or twenty kilometres, as it felt — which made the upcoming Howard Smith Wharves not just appealing but inevitable.

Felons Barrel Hall, tucked into the Howard Smith Wharves precinct under the Story Bridge, is indeed a real and official place, and not just a beer-soaked mirage brought on by river fatigue. It’s billed as a live-music and barrel-aging venue within the precinct, and it has that particular Brisbane hospitality talent of feeling both incredibly expansive and wildly full at the same time.

And packed? Dear Lord, yes.

But it was Saturday, and what better to do on Saturday but Beer? You walk in and the place just keeps going. Buildings, tables, people, drinks, chatter, movement. There is something almost heroic about the number of picnic tables scattered across Howard Smith Wharves. Not a few. Not “plenty.” An empire of picnic tables. Entire civilisations could rise and fall between the beer hall and the river lawn and still there would be somewhere to sit and beer to wash it down.  Though perhaps not immediately. Because we couldn’t find an available outside table.

We settled into Barrel Hall (the indoor area) because by then we had earned refreshments and also because the atmosphere had that appealing, democratic jolliness of a place where everybody has decided, more or less collectively, to enjoy themselves. Clay ordered some glorious plum-cola beer concoction that was memorable, both for how delicious it was and for how quickly I forgot its proper name. I went for a house-made raspberry seltzer of the adult variety, which felt like the correct beverage for someone who still intended to remain upright for the rest of the evening.

We also ordered corn fritters, which sounds casual until you taste them and realise somebody back there is taking bar food personally. They were excellent. Fancy, yes. But the sort of fancy that justifies itself. I will return just for those fritters.

Had I known about the beanbags and grassy riverfront setup further along near the ferry terminal, I might have chosen that for peak lounging. But these are the small regrets that make a day out feel textured. You can’t know everything in advance. Sometimes the best you can do is notice the beanbags too late and carry that knowledge into your next visit like a wiser, slightly more strategic woman. Bean bag preparedness is now baked in to my plan, right before “order the fritters.”

From Howard Smith, we hopped back on the CityCat and continued toward Northshore Hamilton. The all-stops service runs the full stretch of river, and while it’s public transport in the technical sense, it also feels suspiciously like sightseeing for people who know how to work the system.

This leg of the trip was long enough to feel satisfying. Long enough to settle into. Long enough to watch Brisbane do that thing it does from the water, where every bend reveals another version of the city: old houses, improbable mansions, refitted industrial buildings, pockets of greenery, glossy apartment blocks, and riverfront architecture trying very hard to look effortless. We attempted, unsuccessfully, to secure rooftop seats on the CityCat, but apparently so did everyone else in Brisbane. Good luck to anyone hoping for the top deck during a busy Saturday run. Bring optimism.

There was also a brief moment of ferry drama when the signage abruptly suggested the ride was terminating before we’d reached Northshore, which is exactly the sort of public-transport plot twist that makes you question your life choices for thirty seconds. Were we never to reach Northshore, never to sample the spoils of Eat Street? But the signs were wrong, the boat righted itself (full-180), and on we went to Northshore.

And then: a seemingly haphazard stack of colourful shipping containers. There we were.

Eat Street Northshore is one of those places that could have been deeply annoying and instead is somehow weirdly wonderful. Yes, it is glitzy and full of neon. Yes, it has been very thoroughly loved by Instagram. Yes, there was already a line by 5pm. But entry was still only $6, and once inside, the place opened up into an absolute carnival of food, neon, noise, and delicious confusion. Officially, there are over 70 traders and multiple bars, which feels about right when you are wandering around in widening circles trying to mentally catalogue dumplings, seafood, desserts, barbecue, cocktails, noodles, pastries, things on sticks, and at least three foods you swear did not exist when you were younger.

What struck me most was the scale of the place once you’re in it. It’s not just a line of stalls. It’s a proper little world: shipping containers turned into tiny restaurants, courtyards tucked into corners, bars scattered throughout, live music stages, and seating zones that seem to multiply every time you turn around. High tops. Low tops. Picnic tables. Slightly questionable tables you’ll absolutely claim out of desperation if carrying two meals and a drink.

And the ambience was marvellous - in the most overstimulating way. People were everywhere, attempting the difficult modern feat of simultaneously eating, filming, corralling children, locating friends, holding cocktails, and composing themselves for Instagram reels in front of pink neon signs. Families surged about in loose formation. Couples hovered over menus as if choosing a life philosophy (we may have briefly participated there). Groups of friends were stationed around giant food platters with expressions of reverence. It was a bit of a zoo, honestly.  But a very entertaining zoo.

One of the genuine highlights was the music. Eat Street’s official programming spans multiple stages and performance areas, and that absolutely tracks with the experience of being serenaded while trying to decide between dessert options and mild structural collapse from fullness.

We spent a heroic amount of time circling the precinct before ordering anything, which is to say Clay conducted a serious menu reconnaissance operation while I considered every option like it might reveal something profound about my character. Eventually we split up — a dangerous but necessary tactic in a place like this — and each pursued our chosen dinner. He went Indian curry. I went to Porc and Poulet, lured by a chicken burger that looked so absurdly perfect. I swear, it had the visual confidence of a celebrity headshot. “Come for me…” So I did.

Reader, it arrived enormous.

Not merely large. Structurally ambitious. A burger with altitude. One of those towering creations that asks you, with some aggression, how committed you truly are. I carried it back one-handed with a drink in the other like a woman in a very specific kind of obstacle course, and after a brief period of near-misses and mutual searching, Clay and I collided again somewhere in the middle of the food court and secured the last available 6-person high-top table near the band.

Which was exactly right.

Shortly after, other couples and groups swung by to beg for a seat and so we shared the glorious high-top with others. There is a particular joy in sitting down after a long walk, ferry ride, and extended campaign of culinary decision-making, then immediately demolishing excellent food while live music plays and neon glows all around you. It is not subtle joy. It is not intellectual joy. It is very direct and very convincing. And then, you’re making friends with new table companions to boot. Joy, neon and friendship. 

By dessert time, we had reached that tragic but predictable stage of the evening where every sweet thing looked wonderful and absolutely impossible. So we did another lap, admired our options, and admitted defeat. Sometimes the best dessert is simply knowing your limits.

Then, because Brisbane was showing off, we caught the ferry back at night.

And really, if you’ve never done Brisbane by CityCat after dark, you should. The river at night has a completely different temperament. The city softens. The reflections stretch out and shimmer. The Story Bridge lights up - it knows it’s being admired. The buildings along the water go from ordinary to cinematic. Even your own tiredness starts to feel poetic instead of inconvenient. We sat there with sore feet, full stomachs, and that pleasantly dazed feeling you get after a day that asked very little of you except that you show up and keep going.

Which, honestly, was exactly what we needed.