Traces of Time, Tranquility's Promise

The soft purr of our trusty bus engine filled the air as I wound my way through the picturesque Tasmanian countryside. My next planned stop was Oatlands, a mere twenty minutes away, but fate had other plans for me that day. As I approached the quaint town of Ross, memories of Grammy's unfulfilled wish to visit this historic gem during her whirlwind tour flooded my mind.

As I eased my vehicle to a stop at the heart of Ross, I found myself at the legendary Four Corners—a crossroads steeped in local lore and symbolism. The air seemed to hum with the weight of countless souls who had stood at this very spot, contemplating their next move. To my left stood the Ross Hotel, its weathered facade whispering tales of Temptation. Across the way, the Catholic Church's spire reached towards the heavens, a beacon of Salvation for the weary traveler. The Town Hall, with its promise of Recreation, beckoned from another corner, while the somber Old Jail loomed ominously, a stark reminder of Damnation for those who strayed too far from the path of righteousness.

With reverence, I visited each building in turn, running my fingers along sun-warmed stone and weathered wood. The echoes of history resonated within me, and I found myself lost in contemplation of the countless lives that had intersected at this fateful crossroads.

My reverie was broken by the siren call of adventure—a geocache caught my eye, luring me away from the Four Corners and up past the old church. As I followed the winding path, the Ross Bridge came into view, its graceful arch spanning the tranquil Macquarie River. I paused, awestruck by the realisation that I stood before the third oldest bridge in all of Australia, a testament to the skill and perseverance of the convicts who had toiled to create such enduring beauty.

On my way to the bridge, I stumbled upon the Ross Stables, a place where time seemed to stand still. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the soft nickering of phantom horses and the scrape of hooves against worn floorboards. The ghosts of the past felt tangibly close, their presence a poignant reminder of the rich tapestry of lives that had been woven into the very fabric of this small town.

As I finally reached the Ross Bridge, I marvelled at the intricate carvings adorning its sturdy stone structure. Patterns, worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain, yet still telling their silent stories to those who cared to listen.

Though my heart yearned to linger in Ross, to delve deeper into its myriad stories, time's relentless march urged me onward. With a wistful sigh, I returned to my bus and set course for Oatlands, my intended resting place for the night.

As I rumbled into Oatlands, however, I was met with an unexpected sight. The town was alive with the vibrant energy of a winter festival in its final throes. While the festive atmosphere might have appealed to some, the crowded free camp—filled to bursting with stalls and parked cars—sent a ripple of unease through me. After months of seeking solitude in Tasmania's hidden corners, the thought of spending the night hemmed in by strangers felt suffocating.

With a mixture of disappointment and relief, I fired up the engine once more and consulted my faithful Wikicamps app. Fortune smiled upon me, revealing another potential campsite just a short drive away.

As twilight painted the sky in hues of lavender and gold, I found myself entering the drowsy town of Tunnack. The moment I arrived, I knew I had made the right choice. This tiny country town, with its handful of houses and vast stretching silence, was balm to my soul. I guided my bus onto the community oval, its neatly trimmed grass crunching softly beneath my tires.

At first glance, the oval might have seemed unremarkable, even boring. But as I positioned my bus near the edge, with dense bush on one side and the open expanse of the field on the other, I felt a profound sense of peace settle over me. Save for a single vehicle parked in the distance, I had this slice of paradise all to myself.

As the last rays of sunlight painted the sky, I settled in for an evening of quiet contemplation. In a couple of days new adventures awaited—a flight to Adelaide and the start of a clinical trial at CMAX. But for now, on my last night alone in Tasmania, I savoured the solitude that had become so precious to me.

The gentle whisper of the wind through the trees and the occasional call of a night bird were my only companions as darkness fell. Yet I didn't feel lonely. Instead, I felt profoundly connected—to the land, to the moment, and to myself. As I drifted off to sleep, my thoughts turned to Sal, soon to return from Queensland. Our nomadic life together would resume, bringing with it new joys and challenges. But for now, in this perfect moment of solitude, I was exactly where I needed to be.Читать далее