Flat Roads and Foggy Mornings

As afternoon shadows lengthened, we found ourselves ensnared in Melbourne's evening exodus—thousands of commuters streaming homeward in metallic rivers of predictable routine. Our own commute followed different logic entirely, measured not in minutes to familiar driveways but in discoveries yet unmade. The irony wasn't lost on us as we inched forward amongst office workers eager for evening comfort while we sought only open road and unnamed destinations.

Fast food provided pragmatic sustenance—a concession to convenience we hoped would be our last for some time. After Tasmania's rhythm of campfire cooking and unhurried meals, these processed offerings felt particularly hollow, necessary fuel rather than nourishment for body or soul.

The Western Highway stretched before us with almost disconcerting straightness—a ruler-drawn line across Victoria's plains that contrasted sharply with Tasmania's serpentine mountain passes. Our bus, accustomed to constant steering adjustments and gear changes, seemed almost confused by this undemanding progression. Even the landscape felt foreign after eighteen months of dramatic elevation changes—flat horizons extending endlessly rather than revealing new vistas around each bend.

Darkness had fully claimed the sky when we pulled into Haddon Recreation Reserve, a modest camping ground twenty minutes southwest of Ballarat. Our headlights swept across scattered vehicles—fellow nomads creating temporary constellation of mobile homes across the simple grounds. No dramatic clifftop views or ocean lullabies here, just practical overnight refuge for travelers between more significant destinations. We selected an appropriate spot and settled with practiced efficiency, the familiar routine of leveling and securing providing comfort in this transitional space.

Morning revealed nature's artistry in unexpected form—dense fog had transformed the recreation reserve into ethereal dreamscape, visibility reduced to mere metres, familiar shapes rendered mysterious. This atmospheric embrace felt like gentle reminder that mainland Australia could conjure its own magic, different from Tasmania's dramatic displays but equally capable of transformation.

We transitioned to travel mode with the swift efficiency that comes from repetition—each component secured, each system checked, ready for movement in minutes rather than the hours it once required. Through fog-shrouded streets we navigated toward Ballarat's commercial heart, another town day beckoning with its practical necessities.

The fuel station and supermarket received our custom with minimal ceremony. We moved through aisles with focused purpose, gathering provisions calculated to sustain us through coming weeks before our return to Melbourne for the trial. Ballarat itself remained largely unexplored—its gold rush architecture and historical significance glimpsed only peripherally as we attended to necessities. This wasn't dismissal of the town's offerings but rather acknowledgment of our true preferences; wild places called more strongly than urban attractions, regardless of their cultural significance.

With tanks full—both fuel and food—we pointed west once more, leaving Ballarat's edges without regret. The mainland stretched before us with different promises than Tasmania had offered, its scale demanding adjustment in both navigation and expectation. Yet beneath these surface differences, the essential elements remained unchanged: freedom to follow whim rather than schedule, home that moved with us rather than anchoring us to place, and the eternal question of what might lie beyond the next horizon.Les mer