When Places Call You Back

The landscape transformed around us as we settled into the drive northward, vast canola fields suddenly dominating every horizon with their explosive golden bloom. These brilliant yellow oceans stretched endlessly beneath winter sky, their luminous carpets creating such vivid contrast against grey clouds that we found ourselves repeatedly pulling over simply to absorb the spectacle. The timing of our journey had accidentally aligned with peak flowering season, nature providing unexpected visual feast that transformed ordinary farmland into something approaching transcendence.

"It's like driving through Van Gogh's dreams," Sal breathed, her camera inadequate to capture the intensity of colour that surrounded us. These fields, practical crop to farmers but pure artistry to travellers, marked our transition from forest to agricultural heartland with emphatic golden punctuation.

Kyneton appeared through the yellow haze like a Victorian time capsule, its heritage streetscapes offering necessary pause for both practical needs and historical appreciation. The laundromat—that reliable constant in nomadic life—hummed with mechanical efficiency while our linens tumbled toward freshness. These mundane interludes had become almost meditative, the forced pause while washing machines completed their cycles providing unexpected pockets of stillness in our constantly moving existence.

A nearby café beckoned with promises of warmth and sustenance, and after fortifying ourselves with coffee and a quick bite, Anth's geocaching instincts drew him toward different treasure. The Bluestone Theatre, that 1859 architectural survivor, harboured a cache within its historic grounds. While our clothes spun through their cleansing cycles, he navigated the GPS coordinates with practiced precision, adding another find to his ever-growing collection. The juxtaposition of using satellite technology to find hidden containers at a pre-federation theatre captured perfectly the temporal layers through which we constantly moved—modern nomads tracing ancient paths with digital assistance.

"Got it," Anth announced upon return, satisfaction evident despite the cache being merely another number in his statistics. Each find represented small victory, proof that even in transit we could engage meaningfully with places passed through.

Our water tanks, those vital reservoirs that enabled our independence, demanded attention before continuing northward. The mainland's water accessibility had proven frustratingly different from Tasmania's generous abundance. There, pristine streams and public taps had spoiled us with easy replenishment—water available seemingly everywhere, clean and free. Here in Victoria, finding suitable fill points required strategic planning and WikiCamps consultation, each water stop carefully noted for future reference like prospectors marking gold deposits.

The app revealed salvation just south of our destination—a public tap that promised the precious resource without requiring campground fees or awkward requests at service stations. We navigated to these coordinates with the particular urgency that comes from tanks reading low, the successful fill bringing disproportionate satisfaction. Water secured meant freedom continued, our self-sufficiency maintained for days ahead.

The final approach to Greens Lake stirred unexpected emotion. As Anth guided us toward the camping area, seeking optimal position among scattered options, an almost unconscious navigation occurred. The spot that called to us—level, lakefront, perfectly oriented for morning sun—felt immediately familiar. Only after we'd settled did realisation dawn: we had chosen almost the exact location where Sal and Sophie had camped weeks earlier during the men's trial absence.

"This is it," Sal said with wonder, recognising specific trees, the particular angle of lake view. "Sophie and I were right here."

This unconscious return to identical coordinates felt significant beyond coincidence. Perhaps places called to people in ways beyond conscious recognition, or perhaps our needs and preferences had become so refined that we naturally gravitated toward optimal spots. Either way, settling into this familiar-yet-different space created temporal vertigo—past and present overlapping, the ghost of mother-daughter time haunting our couple's retreat.

The discovery that made this location truly special revealed itself through memory rather than exploration. During their previous stay's final moments, Sal and Sophie had discovered that the amenities block's showers—assumed cold like most free camps—actually provided gloriously hot water. This knowledge transformed our experience from grateful acceptance to delighted indulgence. Hot showers at free camps represented such rarity that their presence felt like winning some cosmic lottery, luxury typically reserved for paid campgrounds available here without cost or crowds.

"Still can't believe these are hot and free," Sal marvelled after her first shower, steam still rising from her skin in the cool evening air.

As the weekend approached, vehicle numbers began multiplying with concerning speed. Cars and caravans appeared like mushrooms after rain, families and groups claiming territories across the camping area. Only when we checked the date did understanding dawn—the Labour Day long weekend, marking spring's official arrival in Victoria. This explained the unusual crowd density, city-dwellers seizing the extended break to shed winter's confinement and embrace outdoor possibilities.

Yet our waterfront position, so appealing to us with its unobstructed lake views and morning sun exposure, seemed to hold less attraction for the weekend warriors. Most newcomers clustered in a different area, perhaps preferring the shelter of trees or the social proximity of group camping. We remained relatively isolated despite the crowd, our spot maintaining its sense of peaceful separation even as the broader campground filled with voices and generators.

The weather, as if celebrating spring's arrival, delivered near perfection. Sunshine dominated our days with warmth that invited shirt removal by afternoon yet remained comfortable rather than oppressive. Occasional wind provided nature's air conditioning, though a few days brought gusts strong enough to rock our substantial vehicle—reminders that Victorian weather maintained its capricious reputation regardless of season. These windy intervals felt almost nostalgic, echoing our Tasmanian experiences where wind had been constant companion rather than occasional visitor.

"Proper spring weather," Anth observed with satisfaction, solar panels drinking deeply of abundant sunshine. "Couldn't have asked for better timing."

The long weekend's conclusion brought exodus as dramatic as the arrival had been. By onday morning, the campground had emptied as suddenly as it had filled, leaving only us and a handful of other long-term wanderers scattered along the shoreline. This transformation from crowded to empty felt like watching time-lapse photography in reverse, civilisation retreating to leave nature and silence in charge once more.

Greens Lake might have lacked the dramatic bushland setting of our favourite camps, the abundant wildlife of coastal locations, or the mountain views of highland stops. Yet it served perfectly as what we'd intended—a stepping stone between adventures, a peaceful pause before continuing northward to the Murray River. Sometimes places served not as destinations but as bridges, valuable not for what they offered but for what they enabled.

Our time here carried additional resonance through its layered history. Sal camping here with Sophie, now returning with Anth, the same spot holding different configurations of our family at different times. These overlapping experiences created depth in places, transforming simple coordinates into repositories of memory and meaning. The lake itself remained unchanged, indifferent to our human dramas and reunions, yet somehow enriched by the stories we'd written upon its shores.

As we prepared for departure toward the Murray River—that mighty waterway that had witnessed our nomadic journey's tentative beginning—we carried Greens Lake differently than we might have without its connections to our recent past. It had become not just a pleasant camping spot but a landmark in our family's evolving story, a place where paths crossed and recrossed, where mother-daughter adventures gave way to partnership's resumption, where the continuous thread of our journey revealed itself through return and recognition.

The golden canola fields would fade from view, the hot showers would become pleasant memory, the crowds would gather and disperse in their eternal urban-rural tide. But this spot beside Greens Lake had earned its place in our internal atlas—not for its spectacular beauty or unique features, but for its role as witness to our family's fluid geometry, its patient holding of our various configurations, its quiet proof that places could be both stepping stones and destinations, depending entirely on who stood upon their shores and when.Read more