Tides of Kindness, Waves of Wonder

We put the fire out at Trout Creek and left, which took longer than it needed to because neither of us was in a hurry to do it.

St Helens on the way through for water and food, and then out to the coast and north to Swimcart Beach in the Bay of Fires. We had been there at Easter with Grammy and Fran, in the middle of the school holidays, when every site was taken and the place ran on the noise of other people's kids. We arrived in August to an empty camp and took the best spot on the beachfront without having to think about it.

That comparison is the whole case for winter in this state, made better than any other camp had made it. Same beach, same view, same white sand and orange rock. In April you queue for it. In August it is yours.

The surf was enormous. We had actually heard it from Trout Creek, inland, on the still nights, and had wondered what was making that noise. This was what: a heavy swell running straight in, breaking hard along the whole length of the bay, loud enough that we raised our voices outside without noticing we were doing it.

Then that night the aurora came again.

Third time. May over the Great Western Tiers, three nights earlier at Trout Creek, and now here, over the ocean with nothing between us and the pole. It sat low across the southern horizon with vertical structure standing up out of it, moving slowly, and we stood at the edge of the camp in the wind and watched it for as long as the cold allowed. Three months earlier Sal had seen her first one and cried about it. Now it was becoming something that simply happened when the sky was clear and we happened to be facing south.

The next day the wind swung offshore and the sea went flat. That happens on that coast: the same water that was breaking like artillery the night before lying down as though nothing had occurred.

It was on that flat day that a woman came over to look at the bus.

People do this fairly often. What was different was that Debi came back the following day, with more questions and an invitation. She and her partner Brett had recently bought a place at Binalong Bay, an Airbnb they called The Ship, and she wanted us to come and have coffee before we moved on.

Sal was flying out in three days. We went.

The Ship sits on twenty-seven hectares, which is a lot of ground to have around a house, and after the tour and the coffee they produced electric mountain bikes and told us to go and look at the property properly.

Neither of us had ridden one. It is a strange and slightly ridiculous sensation the first time: you pedal, and the bike does considerably more about it than your legs justify, and hills that would ordinarily involve suffering simply arrive and pass. We were out there for a good while, through the bush at speeds neither of us would have managed unassisted, and came back grinning like idiots.

E-bikes went straight onto the list of things to buy, which is a list that mostly functions as a way of wanting things in an organised fashion. But we meant it that afternoon, and we still meant it a week later, which is more than most things on the list can claim.

Debi and Brett would not let us leave without something, so we came away with local bacon and eggs from the property. That keeps happening in this state. Michael at Forcett with the paddock and the pub, Samuel with the hilltop, John at Trout Creek with the firewood, now these two with breakfast. We have been offered more by Tasmanians who had no reason to offer us anything than we would have thought plausible before we came.

Three days left before the airport. We drove back to the beach.Read more