Seeking Solitude

We continued our northward progression along Tasmania's eastern seaboard, memories of previous journeys overlapping with present experience like transparent maps laid atop one another. Soon we reached the familiar silhouette of Lagoons Beach—that special place where we had celebrated Anth's birthday the previous year during our southbound exploration. The calendar had completed its circle, returning us to this shoreline under different circumstances, now as travellers preparing to bid farewell rather than newcomers discovering fresh wonders.

Disappointment whispered through us as we surveyed the camping area. Where last year we had enjoyed relative solitude, today's scene revealed a scattered constellation of caravans, tents and vehicles. Most disheartening of all, our cherished spot—that perfect position with uninterrupted ocean views where we had toasted another year of Anth's journey—sat occupied by another traveller's setup. With a shared glance that required no words, we agreed to continue our quest for the perfect evening sanctuary.

Little Beach appeared next on our coastal progression, its name belying the expansive beauty we recalled from previous explorations. Yet here too, the universe seemed determined to test our flexibility, as the prime position we had mentally reserved sat claimed by fellow nomads. The pattern emerging felt almost comical—as if these treasured locations we had discovered and quietly claimed in our hearts had simultaneously been discovered by the entire travelling community during our absence.

Though the clock showed mid-afternoon, darkness was steadily gathering its forces around us—not due to the lateness of hour but to the season's inevitable transition. In mere days, Tasmania would officially cross the threshold into winter, the sun already retreating earlier each evening as if practising for its abbreviated winter appearances. This premature nightfall created subtle urgency in our search for appropriate accommodation.

Providence arrived in the form of Falmouth, a modest coastal settlement whose day use area beckoned from the roadside. With hopeful curiosity, we guided our bus toward the designated parking area, seeking level ground comfortably distanced from residential dwellings. As we manoeuvred into position, the sun made its final magnificent gesture of the day—sinking below the horizon and igniting the sky in a spectacular farewell performance of crimson, amber and violet. This celestial display seemed to confirm we had found precisely where we were meant to be.

The adjacent waters revealed an unexpected delight—a gathering of seabirds seeking shelter for the approaching night. Nature's avian community had assembled in impressive diversity: stately pelicans with their impossible beaks, elegant black swans gliding with aristocratic dignity, opportunistic seagulls squabbling over final morsels, and various waders picking methodically through shallows. This impromptu wildlife convention provided better entertainment than any planned attraction, each species performing its evening rituals according to ancient programming.

With darkness fully established, we transformed our bus into its most discreet configuration—what we playfully termed "stealth mode." Window coverings secured to prevent interior light from broadcasting our presence, exterior components tucked away, nothing left outside to suggest overnight occupation rather than casual daytime visitation. This respectful approach to unofficial camping had served us well throughout our travels, allowing us to exist temporarily in these marginal spaces without disrupting local sensibilities.

Sleep came easily as the ocean provided its perpetual soundtrack—waves breaking against shore in rhythmic percussion that seemed perfectly calibrated to human consciousness. This auditory blessing had accompanied us throughout our eastern coastal exploration, each location offering its own particular acoustic signature while maintaining that fundamental oceanic rhythm that speaks so deeply to something primordial within us.

Morning light revealed Falmouth's daily awakening. Local residents appeared with remarkable punctuality, dogs straining at leads in anticipation of sandy freedom, wetsuit-clad figures carrying boards toward promising breaks, the occasional jogger maintaining disciplined rhythm despite the temptation of surroundings that invited lingering appreciation. We observed this community ritual with quiet fascination, these glimpses into local routines offering insight into what permanent dwelling in these paradise locations might entail.

With morning coffee warming our hands, conversation turned to the Falmouth Blowhole—that curious geological formation reportedly located just a short walk along the shoreline. Curiosity piqued, we secured our home and set off around the small cove that curved away from our overnight sanctuary. The beach presented an unusual characteristic—where we had grown accustomed to Tasmania's pristine sands, this particular strand consisted entirely of crushed seashells, countless generations of marine architecture broken down by relentless tidal action into a crunching carpet beneath our feet.

The path led upward along a modest bluff, the morning exercising muscles that appreciated the movement after days of vehicular travel. Rounding a rocky promontory, we discovered nature's hydraulic spectacle—the blowhole announcing itself through sound before vision confirmed its presence. As incoming waves forced compressed air and water through the narrow channel, periodic eruptions shot skyward with impressive force. While perhaps not the most dramatic blowhole Tasmania had offered during our explorations, the display nevertheless proved worthy of our morning detour, another small wonder added to our collection of island memories.

With satisfied curiosity and exercise-refreshed bodies, we returned to our patiently waiting home. The morning's dog walkers and surfers had largely dispersed, returning to whatever responsibilities structured their weekday existence. We too prepared for departure, securing loose items and transitioning our stationary sanctuary back into its mobile configuration. As we pulled away from Falmouth's generous shoreline, the question hung between us—where would this day's journey conclude? The beautiful uncertainty of nomadic existence asserted itself once more, tomorrow's destination existing only as possibility rather than certainty as we continued our farewell tour of Tasmania's eastern edge.Read more