Solitary Rhythms: Anth's Interlude

The familiar interior of our nomadic home felt curiously altered—spaces designed for two now accommodating just one. Anth moved through this temporary solitude with purpose, the absence of Sal's presence both a void and an opportunity. Our partnership, so central to this wandering life, had temporarily divided into parallel journeys: Sal immersed in academic pursuits in Queensland whilst Anth remained as custodian of our wheeled sanctuary in Tasmania. This separation—a pragmatic necessity rather than emotional choice—now shaped the coming days into a different rhythm.

With the bus suddenly quieter, Anth turned his attention to projects that had lingered at the edges of our shared consciousness—tasks particularly suited to his skills that had been patiently awaiting their moment. The first order of business emerged from his ongoing fascination with geocaching—those modern treasure hunts that had become an entertaining subplot to our travels. Several Challenge Caches had been lingering in his mental inventory, their requirements now fulfilled and ready for documentation. There was something deeply satisfying in the methodical search, the decoding of cryptic hints, the triumphant moment of discovery, and finally, the ritual signing of the logbook. Each successful find represented another small victory against the puzzle-maker's ingenuity.

With these geometric conquests secured, Anth's attention pivoted toward a long-contemplated improvement to our mobile home. The space behind Sal's driver's seat had become a testament to the chaos theory of storage—items precariously stacked and wedged, their retrieval resembling an archaeological excavation more than organised access. The inefficiency had become a minor but persistent irritation in our otherwise streamlined existence. Proper shelving would transform this spatial conundrum into functional storage, a small enhancement to our daily living that would pay dividends with each item easily located rather than excavated.

The local Bunnings welcomed him with its familiar industrial vastness—aisles of potential stretching in every direction. Anth navigated this cathedral of DIY with the confidence of experience, selecting timber, brackets, screws and finishes with careful consideration of weight, durability and aesthetics. Each item chosen represented not just a component of shelving but a small investment in our continued comfort and organisation.

Materials secured, he pointed our bus northward, toward the diminutive settlement of Tunnack. There was poetic symmetry in this destination—Blue Haven Retreat had served as his solitary harbour once before, when circumstances had reversed and Sal had flown from Launceston, leaving him to navigate Tasmania alone. The "retreat" name suggested something rather more elaborate than the reality: a modest oval serving the small rural community, offering quiet space for travellers to temporarily rest. Its unassuming simplicity suited his current needs perfectly.

The bus settled into position at the edge of the oval, a solitary mechanical beast against the backdrop of Tasmania's agricultural heartland. Rolling pastures stretched toward distant hills, the landscape punctuated by weathered fence lines and occasional clusters of eucalyptus. The afternoon light cast long shadows across the grass as Anth established his impromptu workshop in the shade of the bus.

The Silky saw—that precision Japanese implement that had proven its worth countless times during our travels—now whined softly as it carved through timber. Wood shavings collected on the ovals grassy surface as measurements were double-checked, pieces test-fitted, and adjustments made. There was therapeutic value in this focused creation, the transformation of raw materials into functional form providing both distraction from Sal's absence and anticipation of her eventual return. The shelving units slowly emerged from chaos, each cut and join bringing order to what had previously been improvisation.

Between bouts of construction, Anth found relief in movement. The surrounding countryside offered a patchwork of dirt roads threading between pastoral properties—perfect territory for combining exercise with his geocaching pursuits. These caches had eluded him during previous visits, their coordinates noted but time having been insufficient for proper exploration. Now, with hours entirely his own to allocate, he jogged along rust-coloured roads that wound between paddocks, following digital breadcrumbs to hidden treasures. Each discovery brought the particular satisfaction of completion, of leaving no puzzle unsolved in this corner of Tasmania.

Three days passed in this rhythm of creation and exploration. Mornings began with the ritual preparation of a single coffee, its aroma filling the bus with familiar comfort despite the halved occupancy. Afternoons saw progress on the shelving project, interspersed with geocaching excursions that stretched his legs and refreshed his perspective. Evenings brought quiet contemplation as darkness settled over the oval, stars emerging overhead with extraordinary clarity in this region largely unbothered by artificial illumination.

The shelving units—promising yet incomplete—stood as a physical manifestation of this interlude at Tunnack. The final components would await acquisition at Anth's next destination, the familiar embrace of Honeysuckle Banks on the outskirts of Launceston. There, with access to another Bunnings for the remaining pieces, Anth would complete this testament to organised living. For now, the time had come to continue northward, to write the next chapter in this temporary solo journey while the countdown to reunion continued its steady progression.Read more