Haircuts and Horizons: A Nomad's Detour

The gentle rhythm of our nomadic existence continued its delicate pendulum swing between wilderness and civilisation—this time dictated by the mundane necessity of Sal's hairdresser appointment. One more day tethered to the constructed world stretched before us, a brief intermission in our perpetual pursuit of solitude and natural beauty. As dawn painted the sky in watercolour hues, we slipped away from our temporary harbour at the day use area.

Sorrel greeted us with its small-town bustle, a modest outpost of convenience that served as our final portal of practicality before our intended retreat. The post office—a squat brick building with its familiar red insignia—received our carefully packaged parcel, another thread maintaining connection with the distant conventional world we had largely left behind. Each errand represented both necessity and constraint: the refuelling of our diesel tanks a reminder of our reliance on infrastructure, the topping up of water reserves a preparation for coming independence.

It was during this water ritual that serendipity delivered a kindred spirit. Another Coaster owner pulled alongside us, his vehicle bearing the subtle hallmarks of a home rather than merely a conveyance. The Tasmanian local emanated the particular weathered vitality that comes from decades of surfing—his skin textured like well-oiled leather, eyes perpetually narrowed as if still scanning distant swells. He spoke of his own nomadic chapters, years spent traversing the mainland in pursuit of perfect waves, his vernacular peppered with the specialised dialect of surf breaks and ocean conditions. Our brief exchange carried the easy camaraderie of those who share an unconventional approach to living, before we parted ways with casual waves and genuine well-wishes.

With practical matters addressed, we relocated to another nondescript carpark where Sal could attend her online tutorial—the digital world temporarily infiltrating our analogue existence. For two hours, she would immerse herself in academic discourse while Anth set off on his own small adventure, pursuing a geocache that had eluded previous attempts. The urban landscape offered little in the way of concealment, however, and Anth's search concluded without triumph, the small hidden treasure remaining elusive among the constructed environment.

As Sal's tutorial concluded and her device was powered down, we faced the familiar question of where to spend the approaching night. Rather than pressing closer to Glenorchy where tomorrow's appointment awaited, we chose to retreat to Roche Beach—a day use area nestled between our previous night's accommodation at Seven Mile Beach and Lauderdale, where we had briefly dwelled during November's wanderings. Of all the unofficial overnight sanctuaries this region offered, Roche Beach held a special allure—a level expanse of gravel, tucked away from curious eyes, and close enough to the shoreline that the sea's percussion could serve as our evening soundtrack.

We claimed our place in the nearly deserted carpark, the bus settling into position with familiar creaks and sighs. The beach beckoned with its pristine sweep of sand, and we answered its call, our footprints creating temporary signatures along the water's edge. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the shore, transforming ordinary pebbles into jewels and ripples into liquid gold. Together we wandered, collecting fleeting moments rather than souvenirs, our conversation flowing and ebbing like the tide itself.

Evening drew its gradual curtain across the sky as we returned to our mobile sanctuary. The simple ritual of preparing dinner within our compact kitchen carried the comfort of home regardless of location. Later, as darkness enveloped the world outside our windows, we indulged in the guilty pleasure of television bingeing—this technological comfort a curious counterpoint to our otherwise stripped-back existence. Through the night, only the rhythmic crashing of waves interrupted the silence, nature's lullaby accompanying us into dreams.

Morning arrived with characteristic Tasmanian crispness, the early light filtering through our curtains as we prepared for the day's obligations. We navigated back toward civilisation, the Tasman Bridge arcing gracefully over the water as we crossed into Hobart's northern suburbs. Glenorchy received us precisely on schedule, Sal departing for her appointment while Anth pursued domestic necessities.

The discovery of the laundromat's demise—machines removed, space vacant—provided an unexpected pivot in our routine. Hand washing would now become part of our itinerant existence, another adaptation in our ever-evolving lifestyle. Between errands, Anth replenished our supply of canned tuna—that humble yet reliable component of our daily lunch wraps, a practical staple of nomadic nutrition.

Reunited after Sal's transformation—her freshly cut hair a small luxury in our otherwise simplified life—we found ourselves at a crossroads of possibility. The open road beckoned in all directions, and with the spontaneity that characterised our best decisions, we turned toward Lake Pedder. Ted's Beach, nestled in the heart of Tasmania's World Heritage wilderness, called to us like an old friend. We had discovered its magnificence over six months prior, sharing its splendour with Justin and Andy during their temporary convergence with our journey. Now, with appointments honoured and civilisation's requirements satisfied, we pointed our home westward, toward the ancient forests and mirror-like waters that represented everything we sought in our chosen life of beautiful uncertainty.Leggi altro