Moira

The Murray River, a shimmering serpent sunning itself on the border of New South Wales and Victoria, whispered tales of adventure as we crossed its glassy bridge. Our destination: Barmah National Park, a haven for curious creatures and whispers of the wild. But floods, capricious spirits, had reshaped the map, closing the usual paths. So, Anth, our fearless pilot & navigator, spun a new yarn, one that snaked down forgotten backroads and promised a taste of untamed beauty.

Fallen logs, slumbering giants across the dusty track, demanded a gentle hand to awaken. Trees, gnarled sentinels of the bush, forced us to dance a sinuous ballet, tires whispering secrets to the earth. Muddy patches, hungry for careless wheels, were outwitted with practiced precision. Finally, the campsite emerged, a verdant oasis nestled beside the mighty Murray.

This wasn't just any campsite; it was a front-row seat to a wildlife spectacle. Pelicans pirouetted on the river's surface, their ivory wings flashing in the sun. Herons, patient predators, stalked the shallows, spear-like beaks poised to strike. White spoonbills painted the scene with exotic flair, their snowy plumage glowing like embers against the river's glassy skin.
And then, the dawn chorus. Hundreds of raucous currawongs, magpies, corellas, and cockatoos erupted from the trees, their symphony shaking the stillness of the morning.

Days unfolded in a languid rhythm. The sun, a fiery orb in the sky, partnered with pesky mosquitoes to confine us to the cozy embrace of our bus. Laptops clicked with the symphony of work, stories whispered onto paper, photos transformed into memories. But amidst the chores (gleaming windows, sparkling floors, dust banished), magic bloomed. Each night, as dusk painted the sky in fiery hues, we'd light two candles, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. Jazz, a whisper-soft serenade, lightly filled the air, weaving a spell of enchantment. This wasn't just a journey; it was a life, unfolding like a storybook beneath a canopy of stars.

The Murray River sang its lullaby, the wind rustled secrets through the trees, and we, nestled in our rolling home, knew we were exactly where we were meant to be. The adventure wasn't just in the detours; it was in every sunrise, every mosquito-battling laugh, every quiet moment bathed in candlelight. And that, dear reader, is the truest magic of all.Læs mere