Dust, Tides, and Quiet Goodbyes

As we pulled away from Periwinkle Beach, a bittersweet realisation washed over us like the gentle coastal winds - this might be our final embrace with Tasmania's wild western shores until our paths would bring us back again. This rugged coastline had been our initial baptism into wilderness, our first profound encounter with the raw, untamed spirit of Tasmania that had captured our hearts almost twelve months ago. Each kilometre felt like a farewell love letter to a landscape that had fundamentally altered our understanding of journey and home.

Our route traced familiar contours, a pilgrimage of remembrance. The detour to Preminghana Indigenous area felt like a moment of quiet reverence, connecting us to the deeper, more ancient stories of this land. From the lookout, the wind farm at Bluff Point stood as a testament to human innovation meeting natural grandeur - enormous turbines spinning their silent songs against the expansive Tasmanian sky.

The dirt road welcomed our travel-worn bus, another layer of dust barely distinguishable from the previous coating - a subtle testament to our wanderings. Our nomadic life had become a manuscript of experiences, each journey writing itself delicately over the last, creating a rich tapestry of memories.

Two potential campsites beckoned - one with amenities and likely crowds, the other a free boat ramp offering an uninterrupted view towards Robbins Island. Our choice was instinctive, drawn to the raw, unfiltered connection with the landscape. The retreating tide exposed an extraordinary canvas of sand flats stretching impossibly towards Robbins Island, a vast emptiness that spoke of potential and waiting. Though no cattle drive materialised to break the silence, the landscape itself felt alive with unspoken stories.

Morning arrived with the tide's embrace, water nearly touching our bus - a gentle reminder of nature's constant, rhythmic movements. A brief stop at the alternative campsite confirmed our earlier decision; the abundance of travellers only reinforced our preference for solitude.

Smithton offered practical necessities - fuel, water, and a surprise final encounter with Ben and Kerry. This chance meeting, our sixth unexpected reunion, felt like a fitting punctuation to this chapter of our journey. Connections forged on the road often carry a magical, ephemeral quality - intense yet transient.

Turning eastward along the Bass Highway felt like closing another circle, retracing the very first leg of our Tasmanian adventure. Potential camps danced in our imagination - Midway at Sulphur Creek, our inaugural Tasmanian campsite, or the Berry Patch where Terry, that fascinating traveller who had intended a brief visit yet found himself embraced by Tasmania's magnetic pull, awaited our return.Read more