Good Friday's Campsite Quest

The convoy formed for the first time that morning: the golden bus in front, Grammy's hired white Hiace following behind, two vehicles heading east toward the Bay of Fires. It was a new shape for the trip, checking mirrors for a second vehicle, matching speed, pulling over when the gap grew too wide. Grammy drove the Hiace the way she approached most things: with confidence, at her own pace, and without any visible interest in being told what to do.

Bridport appeared mid-morning and the waffles drew us off the highway. A food stop in a busy little hub where the waffles came golden and stacked, topped with ice cream and nuts and enough syrup to make the plate stick to the table. Grammy and Fran approved. It was the kind of meal that belongs to a holiday rather than a life, and for the next three weeks that was exactly what the trip would be: part life, part holiday, the two blurring at the edges.

The roads corrugated past Bridport, the bus juddering along in a way that rattled the cupboards and tested the patience. Good Friday was tomorrow, and the camps along the Bay of Fires coast would fill early with families driving up from Launceston and Hobart for the long weekend. The prospect of arriving late to a full campground with two vehicles and four people was enough to sharpen the search. Policeman's Point appeared before the anxiety could build much further, a site with enough space for the bus and the Hiace side by side, far enough from the main road to feel private, and we took it with the relief of people who had been imagining worse.

The afternoon slowed down once the camp was set. Fran and Grammy put coffee on in the Hiace and Sal walked across to join them, the three women sitting together in the small van with mugs and conversation while Anth stayed in the bus and caught up on work. It was a new dynamic, the social centre shifting from the couple to the group, the evenings expanding to include other voices and other rhythms. Grammy had stories. Fran had opinions. The combination was good company and would remain so for the next three weeks.

That night someone mentioned the aurora. The conditions were not certain, the forecast said possible, and we went to sleep with one eye on the idea that the southern sky might put on a show. It did not, or if it did we slept through it, but the hope alone added a layer to the evening that ordinary starlight would not have carried.Read more