Nothing to see there. At the peak elevation of 1271 metres weather gets really crazy and scares away all vegetation except some stubborn shrubs that took their lessons from Bear Grylls. There are warning signs both on the mountain and in Wikipedia which tell the adventurers that the weather can change rapidly and warm clothes are recommended at all times. I felt it before I had time to read any signs. It was 30°C at the sea level so we arrived to the summit wearing only T-shirts. We left the car, we jumped back into the car. Next time we emerged from it we had two more layers of clothes on us and a fourth layer wouldn’t be unwelcome.
There are no man-made attractions either. Your basic lookout has a platform, stairs and a bronze plaque eternalising some dignitary without whose ribbon-cutting skills that place, surely, could never be opened. This one also boasted a huge parking area, toilets and a building which protected less well-clad tourists from capricious weather but still nothing to write home about. Honestly, the mountain looked much better from a distance.
Nothing to see there, but with lookouts it is what you see from there that matters. Being the highest bump of the neighbourhood, Mount Wellington has a lot to offer in that department. If someone asked you “What is a vista?” you could take them to the top of the mountain, point your finger in any direction and say “This is a vista.” However, there are vistas and vistas: if, for example, you turned west all you could see there were Bear’s students and some nondescript rocks, but if you looked east you would be rewarded with a gorgeous view: Hobart sprawled along the shores of River Derwent, its central district gradually dissolving into suburbs, farmlands and, finally, complete wilderness; white specks of yachts and boats drawing evanescent deltas on the water; distant, misty ocean competing with the sky for the loveliest hue of blue; and mountains, always mountains. Apart from that, nothing to see there.