Tilbakestill søk
Nomadic Narratives
Reiser for tiden
  • Sal and Anth

Nomadic Narratives

Our home is a bus, our map the whispers of wanderlust, Australia our playground. From shimmering shores to the boundless outback. This journey is a story fuelled by laughter, shared experiences, & the constant hum of adventure's song. Les mer
FølgOversiktKalenderDelDelBøtteliste
Eldste først
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    1Nelson Falls
    Nelson RiverDonahays LookoutHorsetail FallsThe Gravel12The top of Horsetail Falls1The walk to Horsetail Falls1The bridge at the start of the Frenchmans Cap Hike

    Sacred Waters & Ancient Paths

    29.–30. des. 2024, Australia ⋅ ⛅ 13 °C

    The journey beyond Derwent Bridge stirred memories deep within our souls as we sought out the spot where we had once camped with Grammy on Lake King William's parched bed. Nature's cycles had transformed this cherished place - where our bus once stood on dusty earth, water now rippled and lapped at the shores, the broken drought bringing renewal to this sacred corner of our memories.

    Our westward passage along the Lyell Highway drew us deeper into Tasmania's ancient wilderness, each mile a step further into nature's embrace. The Franklin River Nature Trail beckoned us into its mysterious realm, where moss-draped trees stood as ancient guardians of time immemorial. We wandered in reverent silence along the banks of the fast-flowing Surprise and Franklin rivers, their waters singing songs of countless seasons past, the very air thick with the weight of history and natural wonder.

    Just minutes drive further along our path, the trailhead to Frenchman's Cap emerged - a multi-day adventure we lovingly tucked away in our hearts for future sharing with our adult children. Today's journey led us instead to the swing bridge spanning the Franklin River. One by one, we crossed its suspended path, letting the gentle rain wash over us as we paused midway, each lost in contemplation of how deeply our nomadic life had transformed our very beings. As if orchestrated by fate, a fellow wanderer emerged from the trail just as we stepped off the bridge - another outdoor educator, the fifth we'd encountered in Tasmania, his spirit kindred to ours as he shared tales of his hitchhiking adventures across the island.

    Donaghys Hill Lookout called to us next, its relatively modest two-kilometer ascent offering rewards that far outweighed the effort. Standing at its summit, the panoramic views served as nature's consolation for the longer hikes we'd chosen to postpone, each vista a promise of adventures yet to come.

    Twenty minutes along the winding road, another trail beckoned, adding another precious chapter to our day of short but soul-stirring walks. The Nelson River greeted us with its swift-flowing waters, cutting through moss-covered rainforest like time itself. The recent rains had transformed the river into a powerful force, building our anticipation for the waterfall that awaited us. When we finally reached the cascade, it greeted us in full, magnificent flow, its mist embracing us on the viewing platform like a cool blessing. We captured this moment both in pixels and in our hearts, each droplet adding to the day's growing epic, despite - or perhaps enhanced by - the persistent rain.

    Lake Burbury appeared transformed from our last crossing, its waters now shrouded in mystery by clouds and mist, so different from the clear skies that had blessed our passage at the year's beginning. Through Gormanston's mining vestiges we traveled, ascending bare hills that told silent stories of industrial past. The Iron Blow Lookout revealed its copper-infused waters, a startling blue jewel set in the scarred landscape below.

    The story of these mountains unfolded before us - trees sacrificed to feed the copper smelter's hungry furnaces, while toxic sulphur fumes and acid rain created a wasteland where forests once stood. Without the protective embrace of trees, the earth withered, and heavy rains stripped away the precious topsoil. The sulphur-saturated ground painted the landscape in unusual pastel hues, a haunting beauty born from environmental tragedy.

    Returning to the Lyell Highway, we answered the call of Horsetail Falls, a sight that had tantalized us during our previous passage. The boardwalk guided us along the hillside, the falls thundering with renewed power from recent rains, its fifty-meter descent commanding our attention throughout the journey. A newly completed section of track led us to the fall's summit, where Queenstown spread out below us in the valley. A conversation with a part-time local, full of pride for his town, added human warmth to the natural splendor surrounding us.

    Queenstown welcomed us to its famous 'Gravel' - the unique Australian Rules Football oval that spurned grass for stone. As we settled in for the night, fate brought us neighbors from our old Sunshine Coast home, fellow travelers circling Australia's vast expanse. The day's abundance of experiences had filled our souls to overflowing, leading us to forgo our usual evening entertainment in favor of peaceful reflection.

    Dawn brought overcast skies and practical necessities - long-overdue laundry and fuel stops becoming moments of quiet contemplation in this historic mining town. We savored a rare treat of coffee in a local café, each sip a small gesture of support for a community that had witnessed such dramatic transformation - from a bustling 20,000 souls to today's resilient 1,500. As we set our course toward Lake Burbury's shores, we carried with us the whispered echoes of Tasmania's wild heart, each moment a treasure in our continuing journey of discovery and growth.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    On the shore of Lake St Clair
    Pine Lagoon Dam Wall2The Wooden SnakeThe Pumphouse

    Echoes of Belonging

    26.–29. des. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 21 °C

    The morning light cast long shadows across Little Pine Lagoon as we prepared to depart, each ripple on the water's surface seeming to whisper of adventures yet to come. Our reluctance to leave spoke of the profound way this place had touched our souls, yet the promise of new horizons beckoned with gentle insistence.

    Derwent Bridge and Lake St Clair called to us, not just as destinations but as guardians of stories waiting to be discovered. The southern terminus of the Overland Track stood as a testament to countless journeys of transformation, its six-day trek a future promise we held close to our hearts - a dream to be shared one day with our adult children, when time and circumstance would weave our family's paths together once more.

    In Bronte, a Highland town where water and wisdom flowed in equal measure, a chance encounter with a local resident walking their dog sparked profound reflection. Their casual mention of the approaching peak season touched on something deeper - our own evolution from travelers to something more intimate. After nearly a year in Tasmania, we inhabited that beautiful space between visitor and resident, nomads who had learned that home isn't a fixed point on a map but a state of being, a way of moving through the world with open hearts.

    Anth's quest for a geocache led us to a piece of living history - a wooden stave pipe still carrying water after seventy years, its continued service a metaphor for the enduring spirit of this island and its people. These moments of discovery, these touchstones with the past, reminded us that every path we walked was layered with stories.

    Lake St Clair unveiled its beauty gradually, first through the Frankland Beaches walk, where we merged our running program with the simple joy of exploration. The shoreline became our companion, walking platforms and beaches creating a rhythm beneath our feet as the lake's magnificent vistas stretched endlessly before us. Each step, whether running or walking, felt like a conversation with the landscape.

    Our camp outside the National Park became a sanctuary of simplicity, shared only with one other soul seeking solitude. The Watersmeet Circuit the next day offered a different kind of meditation, its paths inviting quiet contemplation as clouds gathered and rain threatened. Weather, we had learned, was not an obstacle but a different lens through which to view the world's beauty.

    As predicted, our peaceful camp transformed into a bustling waypoint for travellers heading to and from Queenstown. Yet even in this ebb and flow of visitors, we found our own rhythm, understanding that each person's journey held its own purpose, its own timeline.

    When Sal's calf signaled for gentler progress, we adapted without resistance. This journey had taught us that sometimes the most profound experiences come not from pushing forward but from knowing when to pause, when to listen to both body and soul. As we bid farewell to Lake St Clair, its waters holding memories of our footsteps along its shores, we carried with us not just experiences but a deeper understanding of what it means to truly belong - not to a place, but to a way of being in the world.

    The road to Queenstown and the West Coast beckoned, another chapter waiting to unfold in our continuing story of discovery, adaptation, and growth.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    Great Lake
    At the Beamont Memorial23

    Highland Magic: Three Days of Wonder

    24.–26. des. 2024, Australia ⋅ 🌙 8 °C

    The familiar highland road stretched before us like an old friend's embrace, yet this Christmas Eve journey held its own unique magic. Each turn revealed missed treasures, beckoning us to pause and discover the secrets we had previously passed by. Anth's pursuit of ancient geocaches became our excuse to slow down, to savour these moments between moments.

    At Lake Arthur, where a twenty-year-old cache waited like a time capsule of adventure, the wild soul of Tasmania revealed itself. The fading light painted the landscape in honey-gold hues as wildlife emerged from their daytime sanctuaries. Small wallabies, their movements delicate and precise, bounded away from our approaching vehicle, while a wombat, determined and purposeful, crossed our path like a reminder that sometimes the most precious encounters are unplanned.

    Through Mienna we traveled, the Great Lake Dam stretching before us like nature's cathedral. The view over the lake spoke of vastness and solitude, a fitting prelude to our Christmas Eve adventure. As we turned onto unfamiliar roads, the setting sun became our companion, its golden light forcing us to slow our pace - a blessing in disguise as the wilderness came alive around us. Wallabies and kangaroos emerged like spirits from the lengthening shadows, each one a gift of wild Tasmania.

    Our intended campsite, occupied by a solitary tent, became another subtle nudge from the universe. In honouring another traveler's solitude, we discovered our own perfect sanctuary at Little Pine Lagoon's boat ramp. The water stretched before us like liquid silver, promising a Christmas Eve unlike any we had known before. In our nomadic life, we had learned that sometimes the best destinations are the ones you never planned to find.

    As darkness embraced the landscape, the lake transformed into a canvas of reflected colors, while the legendary Tasmanian wind sang its wild lullaby, rocking our home on wheels like a cradle beneath the stars. We drifted to sleep imagining Santa navigating these wild highlands, bringing Christmas magic to even the most remote corners of this island.

    Christmas morning dawned with a gentle whisper of possibility. The anticipated hike to Lake Saint Claire gave way to a different kind of celebration - one of stillness, of being present in our cozy sanctuary. "Violent Night" played on our screen, a contemporary Christmas tradition in our unconventional life, while the lake outside our window provided an ever-changing backdrop to our celebrations.

    The magic of connection bridged vast distances as we reached across continents, our hearts touching both Japan and mainland Australia through the miracle of technology. Our children's faces, illuminated by screens but warmed by love, created a tapestry of family that transcended physical boundaries. In these precious moments, we were reminded that home isn't a place - it's the constellation of hearts that beat in rhythm with our own, no matter how far apart.

    As Christmas night deepened, nature offered one final gift. Just before midnight, the southern sky awakened with an ethereal dance - a subtle aurora painting the darkness with whispers of otherworldly light. The very faintness of its appearance made it more precious, like a secret shared between the heavens and those patient enough to witness its delicate beauty. In this remote highland sanctuary, far from artificial lights and holiday clamour, we were granted a celestial blessing that seemed to validate our choice of this unconventional life.

    The pull of Little Pine Lagoon proved too strong to resist, our planned departure yielding to the gentle invitation to linger. Boxing Day dawned with the same peaceful presence that had blessed our Christmas, the lake's surface reflecting our contentment back to us like a mirror of liquid silver. We found ourselves unwilling to break the spell that had woven itself around our temporary haven, choosing to extend our stay another night.

    These additional days became a meditation on the gifts of stillness. The lagoon's changing moods, the wild birds' morning chorus, the wind's endless conversation with the water - each element added its voice to the symphony of our extended Christmas celebration. In this pause between festivities and future adventures, we discovered that sometimes the greatest luxury is simply the freedom to stay, to breathe, to be.

    Our nomadic life had taught us to recognise these moments when a place asks you to linger, when the usual urgency of movement gives way to the wisdom of stillness. Here, in this highland sanctuary where Christmas magic had touched both earth and sky, we allowed ourselves to sink deeper into the profound gift of presence - with nature, with each other, and with the quiet joy of choosing our own path through this remarkable life.

    The aurora's brief appearance became a metaphor for our journey - sometimes faint, always beautiful, and most visible to those who choose to venture far from the beaten path. In these three days beside Little Pine Lagoon, we celebrated not just Christmas, but the courage to live differently, to find magic in unexpected places, and to let love guide us home, wherever that might be.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    The Batman Bridge

    The Dance of Separation and Return

    23.–24. des. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 16 °C

    The morning unfurled slowly, like a reluctant goodbye, as we prepared for Anth's brief sojourn to Melbourne. Sometimes the shortest separations carry the heaviest weight, each hour counted in heartbeats rather than minutes. We chose to take the scenic route to Launceston, crossing the Batman Bridge - Andrew's recommendation becoming a metaphor for the bridges we build between moments of togetherness and necessary apart-ness.

    The bridge itself stretched across the water like a silver thread connecting two stories - our past adventures and future possibilities. Such detours, we've learned, often hold unexpected gifts, their beauty made sweeter by sharing the discovery together. The water below caught fragments of morning light, scattering them like promises across its surface.

    In Launceston, we moved through our preparations with practiced efficiency, yet underlying tenderness. Each item of food carefully chosen, each liter of water collected - not just supplies, but foundations for the adventures that would follow Anth's return. These simple tasks held deeper meaning: preparing our mobile home for Christmas, ensuring that when reunited, we could immediately embrace the freedom of the open road.

    The airport goodbye was brief, coloured by the knowledge that only twenty-four hours stood between separation and reunion. As Anth departed for his clinical screening, Sal continued to our familiar haven at Honeysuckle Banks, where the rhythm of solitude took on its own gentle cadence.

    In the quiet space of separation, Sal found her own poetry in the ordinary - immersing herself in podcasts that echoed through our mobile home, weaving words into her book like threads in a tapestry of memory. The bed, made with such loving precision, became an art installation of domestic perfection, too beautiful to disturb - a moment of whimsy in the anticipation of reunion.

    Meanwhile, Anth's screening in Melbourne unfolded with promise, each successful step bringing him closer to home and the continuation of our shared journey. The promise of answers in the new year hung like a gentle mist on the horizon of our adventures.

    Christmas Eve arrived with the sweetness of reunion at the airport, our hearts immediately turning westward where Tasmania's wild coast beckoned. The interruption of necessity had served its purpose, and now the open road called us back to our original path with the urgency of a lover's whisper.

    As we set our course west, the approaching Christmas - our first as nomads - filled the air with electric anticipation. Each mile ahead promised new discoveries, each moment together more precious for the brief separation we had endured. The west coast waited like an unopened gift, ready to become the backdrop for our holiday celebrations.

    In this journey, we were learning that home isn't a place at all - it's the space between heartbeats when eyes meet across airport terminals, when plans change and reform like clouds in the Tasmanian sky, when every detour becomes part of a greater adventure. It's in the knowing smile shared over a perfectly made bed, in the quiet courage of brief separations, and in the joy of choosing, again and again, the path that leads us forward together.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    2
    24

    The Art of Slow Living

    17.–23. des. 2024, Australia ⋅ 🌬 18 °C

    Time, that most precious of currencies, flowed differently now in our nomadic existence. As we pointed our compass toward Tasmania's northern shores, we reflected on how the measured pace of our wandering life had transformed our relationship with moments passing. Less than a year had elapsed since our last journey here, yet in the beautiful paradox of slow living, that time held the depth and richness of a lifetime. Like children rediscovering the infinite stretch of summer days, we had found ourselves relearning the art of savouring each breath, each sunset, each unexpected turn in the road.

    Brady's lookout emerged as an unexpected gift, offering us virgin territory despite our extensive explorations of Tasmania's soul over the past year. The Tamar River stretched below like a silver ribbon threading through the landscape, a reminder that even in a place we thought we knew intimately, there were still secrets waiting to be discovered.

    Narawntapu National Park welcomed us with open arms, its three campsites each whispering different promises. We chose Koybaa Campground, finding poetry in its quietude rather than perfection in its amenities. Here, among the whispers of ancient trees and the distant song of waves, we waited for news that could reshape our immediate future - Anth's trial hanging like morning mist, neither here nor there.

    The discovery of another Great Short Walk felt like a personal gift from the landscape itself. Our feet carried us through a tapestry of environments - wetlands breathing with prehistoric rhythm, coastal heath dancing in the salt breeze, and Bakers Beach stretching endlessly toward the horizon. Archers Knob revealed itself as a cathedral of natural splendor, offering views that reminded us why we had chosen this life of perpetual discovery. In that moment of solitude, perched above the wilderness, we felt the profound gratitude that comes from being exactly where you're meant to be.

    The cold shower that followed our hike became a baptism of sorts, washing away not just the physical exertion but the last vestiges of our former life's hurried existence. The discovery of a hidden protein ice cream in our freezer transformed into an impromptu celebration with pancakes - a reminder that joy often hides in life's simplest moments.

    Our running journey toward that first 5km milestone continued, each step writing our story into the earth beneath our feet. It was during one of these meditative runs that we spotted it - the perfect spot at Bakers Point, offering uninterrupted views of beach and water meeting sky. The universe's timing proved impeccable once again.

    As we settled into our new vantage point, life's gifts continued to unfold. Sal's academic journey bloomed with another Very High Distinction, while the long-awaited call about Anth's clinical trial arrived like a herald of new adventures.

    In the gentle evening light, watching the waves paint endless patterns on the shore, we marvelled at how this life had taught us to find home in uncertainty, to discover wealth in simplicity, and to measure success not in possessions but in moments fully lived together. The flight booking for Monday, with Anth's return promised for Christmas Eve, added another layer of anticipation to our ever-evolving story. This brief separation would make his homecoming even more precious, as we prepared to celebrate our first Christmas as nomads - a profound milestone in our journey of transformation.

    The approaching holiday season carried a different kind of magic now. Gone were the traditional trappings of our past celebrations - the familiar decorations stored in boxes, the well-worn routines of holiday preparation in a static home. Instead, we found ourselves crafting new traditions within the intimate space of our mobile sanctuary. Every mile traveled, every sunset witnessed, every challenge overcome had led us to this moment - our first Christmas untethered from conventional roots, rich with the freedom to define celebration on our own terms.

    Our hearts beat in time with the rhythm of the tides, each wave bringing us closer to reunion, to celebration, and to the profound joy of spending this sacred season together. Here, where the Tasmanian shore met endless sky, we would welcome Christmas not as travelers passing through, but as souls who had finally found their truest expression of home - one without walls, bound only by horizon and heart.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    2

    Sacred Spaces and Patient Hearts

    13.–17. des. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 21 °C

    The familiar roads north to Launceston carried us back to Honeysuckle Banks at Evandale, a place that had become more than just a convenient stopover. Nestled beneath flight paths and alongside train tracks, this modest sanctuary held its own kind of poetry - a transitional space where our nomadic life intersected with the wider world. Only 5 minutes from the airport, it offered both practicality and peace, a reminder that sometimes the most meaningful places are those that serve the simplest purposes.

    While uncertainty hung in the air about Anth's potential mainland journey, we found ourselves drawn back to Cataract Gorge. The landscape held echoes of our previous visit with Grammy and Fran months ago, but this time revealed itself in new ways, as if the gorge itself was teaching us that familiar places can always unveil fresh mysteries.

    The Duck Creek Trail beckoned, leading us along the upper reaches of the gorge where ancient rocks told silent stories of time's patient work. Anth's discovery of another of Tasmania's oldest Geocaches added another layer to our exploration - a modern treasure hunt in an ancient landscape. The old Duck Creek Power Station stood as a monument to human ingenuity, its weathered walls a testament to the intersection of progress and nature.

    Our chosen path back through the main gorge rather than retracing our steps seemed symbolic of our broader journey - always seeking new perspectives, even in familiar territory. The afternoon light filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows that danced across our path, nature's own choreography accompanying our wandering thoughts.

    The following day brought a different kind of exploration as Sal embraced the art of mindful acquisition - the delicate balance of desire and practicality that comes with living in a bus. Her philosophy about cushions - that one can never have enough - spoke to a deeper truth about making a home wherever we roam. Each new addition transformed our space, bringing fresh comfort and color to our mobile sanctuary. Meanwhile, Anth's work on extending our roof coverage was its own meditation on protection and care, a practical expression of love for our shared space.

    As we waited for news about Anth's potential Melbourne trip, we turned our gaze toward Narawntapu National Park, understanding that sometimes the most beautiful destinations are found in the spaces between plans. The waiting itself became part of our story, teaching us again that movement and stillness are equal partners in the dance of nomadic life.

    Each pause in our journey created space for both reflection and anticipation, like inhaling deeply before diving into unknown waters.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth

    Detours and Unexpected Paths

    12.–13. des. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☀️ 21 °C

    The road has its own language, a dialect of constant negotiation and subtle surrender. We retraced our path down from the Central Highlands, our westward trajectory momentarily paused - not derailed, but gently redirected. Life on the road teaches you quickly: flexibility is not just a virtue, but a survival skill. Adapt or be consumed by the very journey you've chosen to embrace.

    The Midland Highway stretched before us like a familiar friend, its contours etched into our collective memory. Before the vehicle inspection, we seized the opportunity to replenish our supplies, understanding the economics of remote travel. Small towns westward would demand premium prices for limited provisions, a reality we had learned to navigate with practiced wisdom.

    An unexpected message from past trial friends sparked another subtle shift in our plans. Anth received a tantalizing opportunity that demanded immediate attention, our carefully crafted itinerary bending once more to the unpredictable winds of adventure. Launceston became our interim destination, a strategic point from which potential journeys could unfold.

    Ross appeared like a living museum, its historic streets whispering stories of colonial Tasmania. While Anth knew its narratives intimately, for Sal this was a fresh exploration. We walked together, our footsteps tracing the town's memory, absorbing the layers of history embedded in its architecture and quiet lanes. Summer draped itself generously across the landscape, bestowing us with luxurious days - fifteen hours stretching between sunrise and sunset, time feeling both abundant and ephemeral.

    Campbell Town welcomed us, its free camp bustling with the energy of peak tourism season. We found our spot among the transient community, the landscape alive with the quiet hum of travelers' stories. Our running program continued, this time trading the wild bush trails of Brady's Lake for the structured streets of the town.

    Returning to our bus, we were greeted by an unexpected tableau - the grassed camping area transformed into a rabbit sanctuary. These small creatures moved with a remarkable nonchalance, seemingly unperturbed by the human intrusion, their presence a reminder of nature's resilient adaptability.

    As evening descended, we washed away the day's exertion and settled in together, the intimacy of our shared journey reflected in the simple ritual of watching a movie. The promise of Launceston hung in the air, another chapter waiting to unfold.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    4Sunrise over Brady's Lake11

    Silver Waters, Wild Hearts

    4.–12. des. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 20 °C

    The Central Highlands beckoned to us, a sprawling network of lakes that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of Tasmania itself. Our journey was one of perpetual discovery, each mile bringing us closer to a destination we had yet to define. The small town of Ouse was but a momentary breath, a place to replenish our water tanks and gather our thoughts before diving into the unknown.

    Tasmania's intimate landscape rolled out before us, distances measured not in miles but in moments of connection. We were travellers without urgency, our home a mobile sanctuary that carried us between dreams and reality. Our criteria for the perfect campsite was simple yet profound - clear skies to connect us to the world through Starlink and maximise our solar, views that could heal the soul, and spaces that whispered of solitude and possibility.

    Tungatinah Lagoon first caught our eye, its waters reflecting the landscape like a liquid mirror. But we were not ones to settle quickly, our nomadic hearts always searching for that perfect confluence of elements. A serendipitous encounter with a retired Science professor - who might have once stood before Anth in a lecture hall decades ago - added a layer of nostalgic magic to our journey. Their weathered expedition vehicle and sage advice became a compass guiding our wandering.

    Lake Binney and Brady's Lake passed beneath our wheels until we discovered *that* spot - a flat expanse right on the water's edge, bordered by flowering lupins dancing in the gentle Tasmanian breeze. An old local fisherman, seemingly as much a part of the landscape as the rocks and water, cast his lines in quiet determination.

    The surrounding waters told their own story. A kayak slalom course nestled between two lakes offered a dramatic backdrop to our camp, its turbulent waters a challenge that only one lone kayaker seemed brave enough to navigate during our stay. The local cormorants had their own plans, seemingly driving away or consuming the fish, much to the frustration of the persistent fisherman who came and went with varying degrees of success.

    Our life on the road demanded reinvention. No longer could we rely on the familiar comfort of our gym and its heavy weights. Instead, we embraced a new philosophy of fitness - running programs that challenged our strength athlete mentalities, resistance bands becoming our tools of transformation. Each workout was a meditation, a conversation between our bodies and the landscape that surrounded us.

    The Tasmanian weather was a temperamental artist, painting our days with wild, unpredictable strokes. Scorching summer days would surrender to rain-lashed evenings, winds that sang ancient stories, temperatures dropping to single digits to remind us of nature's capricious heart. Our sunrises became a daily ritual - some mornings blazing with crimson and gold reflecting on the lake's surface, others shrouded in soft, melancholic grays.

    Academic achievements punctuated our journey - Sal received more assignment marks, distinctions that sparked a delightful debate about who was prouder: Sal or Anth. We were more than travellers; we were partners in growth, in learning, in experiencing life's rich, complex tapestry.

    An unexpected administrative detail emerged - a need to return to Glenorchy for a heavy vehicle inspection. But we had learned that such detours were not interruptions, but threads in the larger narrative of our journey.

    On our final morning, as if scripted by some divine storyteller, a fine mist draped our bus like a soft farewell. A rainbow stretched across the lake, and a platypus - that most enigmatic of creatures - glided by, searching for food. It was a moment of pure, unexpected magic - a reminder that beauty exists in transition, in the spaces between planned destinations.

    We were not just traveling. We were becoming.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    2

    Meadowbank Moments

    29. nov.–4. des. 2024, Australia ⋅ 🌙 13 °C

    The rhythm of the road hummed beneath us, a familiar melody of possibility and freedom. After completing our errands in Sorell, we pointed our home-on-wheels towards the wild western edges of Tasmania, each mile a brushstroke in our ongoing canvas of exploration.

    Our journey was more than a simple transit—it was a breathing, living testament to the nomadic spirit that had taken root in our souls. We approached our travel with the wisdom of seasoned wanderers: diesel tank full, water reserves ready, our lifelines carefully maintained. The Derwent River slipped beneath us, a liquid memory of countless crossings, its silvery surface reflecting our trajectory westward.

    Hamilton became more than a mere waypoint—it was a serendipitous moment of connection. There, amidst the unremarkable landscape, we encountered Graham and Angela, a retired couple from Western Australia whose weathered faces told stories of countless adventures. Their unexpected hospitality was a gentle reminder of the unspoken covenant among travellers—a language of kindness that transcends geographical boundaries. When they pressed their contact details into our hands, inviting us to camp at their home should we reach Western Australia, we felt the warm embrace of a community bound not by blood, but by shared wanderlust.

    Bethune Campsite welcomed us like an old friend, Meadowbank Lake spreading before us in a panorama of breathtaking tranquility. We remembered our previous visit with Grammy, those precious moments now softened by memory's tender filter. These days were our sanctuary—a pause in our perpetual motion. Anth's recent health challenges had retreated, and Sal's academic year had concluded, leaving us with the luxurious gift of unstructured time.

    Our days unfolded in gentle rhythms. A new television series became our companion, its narratives intertwining with our own. The campsite, though not our typically secluded wilderness haven, held its own quiet charm. Travellers came and went, each a fleeting brushstroke in our temporary community, their brief intersections with our lives adding depth to our journey.

    As always, the call of the road eventually whispered its irresistible invitation. With the practiced efficiency of seasoned nomads, we prepared to continue our westward trajectory—our home compact, our spirits expansive, ready to embrace whatever landscapes and stories awaited us.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    Gellibrand Point Nature Reserve
    Goat Bluff WW2 BunkerGoat Bluff Lookout1

    Healing Waters, Hidden Treasures

    27.–29. nov. 2024, Australia ⋅ 🌧 16 °C

    In the gentle embrace of a Tasmanian morning, we found ourselves drawn back to Glenorchy, our hearts already yearning for the wild western shores that awaited us. The day began with life's simple rhythms - Sal's long-awaited hair appointment, a moment of self-care before our next adventure, while Anth found meditation in the hypnotic spin of laundromat machines, our clothes dancing in sudsy circles. These mundane tasks held a deeper meaning, marking the transition between civilisation and wilderness that lay ahead.

    Our familiar sanctuary in Sorell beckoned with its final errand, the post office standing as a lighthouse in what had become our temporary home port. Time, that eternal trickster, had slipped through our fingers like grains of sand, leaving us to seek shelter until morning's light. Through Wikicamps, we discovered our evening's refuge - a peaceful strip of beach at Lauderdale. Yet before we could rest, we faced an unexpected detour - Anth's health had taken a challenging turn, with an infected throat joining forces with his persistent shingles, requiring a visit to the after-hours doctor.

    In celebration of Sal's academic perseverance and as a healing balm for Anth's ailments, we treated ourselves to pizza - a simple pleasure that carried profound memories. The aroma wafting through our mobile home transported us back to precious moments shared with Grammy and Fran months ago, reminding us how time moves both swiftly and slowly in this nomadic life we've chosen.

    We arrived after dark, moving with the discretion of those who understand the unspoken rhythms of transient living. We nestled our bus into its temporary haven, the pizza's warmth matching the comfort of our cozy home. The ocean's rhythmic whispers became our lullaby, each wave a gentle reminder of nature's constant presence in our lives.

    The following day brought the joy of geocaching, Anth's treasure-hunting passion leading us on local adventures. We played a careful dance with time and space, disappearing during daylight hours only to return like nocturnal creatures to our beachside sanctuary.

    Dawn broke with golden news - Sal's dedication to learning had earned her another High Distinction, her academic journey blooming like wildflowers along our physical one. This triumph sparked an impulse to explore further, drawing us toward the South Arm Peninsula, where Anth's quest for a 21-year-old cache beckoned like a siren's call.

    At Goat Bluff Lookout, history emerged from the landscape in the form of a World War 2 bunker, its concrete shoulders still bearing the weight of untold stories. The geocache hidden there felt like a bridge between past and present, connecting us to both history and the modern-day treasure hunters who had come before.

    Our journey led us to Opossum Bay, where the road surrendered to nature. While Sal rested in our wheeled sanctuary, Anth embarked on a solitary pilgrimage through Gellibrand Point nature area, his recovering strength carrying him through the 5km round trip. Each step was a celebration of healing, each breath a reminder of returning health.

    Reunited, we turned our compass back toward Sorell, our hearts already dancing with anticipation for the western wilderness that awaited us.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    4

    A Pause Between Journeys

    14.–27. nov. 2024, Australia ⋅ ⛅ 11 °C

    Our return to nomadic life emerged softly, like a gentle awakening after the intense intimacy of our two weeks in Japan. The memories of time spent with our adult children still lingered—moments of shared laughter, quiet conversations, and the bittersweet intensity of reconnection—now gradually giving way to the familiar rhythm of our traveling life. Leaving Simon and Sue's place, we carried with us the emotional richness of family time, our hearts full yet ready to embrace the open road once more.

    Our path West was not merely a geographical progression, but a deliberate unfolding of possibility. We were retracing a route first traveled with Grammy and Fran, this time allowing ourselves the luxury of pause and discovery. The West Coast beckoned with its untold stories, its wilderness waiting to be witnessed not just with eyes, but with the full texture of our shared experience.

    Pragmatic needs anchored our immediate world—Sal's university assignments and our bus's mechanical requirements created a temporary root in this landscape of constant motion. Chauncy Vale Reserve became our interim home, a place of transformation. Where winter had once painted it in cold, muted tones, spring now breathed vibrant life into every corner, mirroring our own capacity for renewal.

    The truck mechanics' workshop became an unexpected sanctuary. While mechanical hands worked to restore our mobile home, Sal's digital workspace hummed with academic focus. Her laptop open, fingers moving with practiced rhythm, she completed online assignments. The bus's restoration and her scholarly work ran in parallel—both processes of careful reconstruction, of preparing for the next phase of our journey.

    Transient connections marked our days—brief encounters that illuminate the broader landscape of nomadic life. Finn and Alex arrived like a gentle breeze, fellow travellers whose stories resonated with our own. Over steaming coffee, we exchanged the language of the road, recognising in them the same restless spirit that had connected us with Arli and Luke months earlier during our Mersey Forest encounter.

    Anth's recovery from shingles became a quiet meditation on resilience. An unexpected reminder of our Japanese adventures, it spoke to the way our bodies carry our stories, our travels etched into our very skin. Each day brought subtle healing, both physical and spiritual, as we chased sunlight across our campsite. Our solar panels hummed in synchronicity with our heartbeats, collecting energy as we collected memories.

    The arrival of Sue and Sail—geocachers we'd previously known only through distant cache logs—added another layer to our traveling tapestry. They were more than chance encounters; they were brief, beautiful intersections of wandering lives, each conversation a thread weaving our individual narratives into a broader human experience.

    When Sal finally submitted her final assignment, the relief was almost tangible. Chauncy Vale had been more than a temporary home—it was a sanctuary of completion, a breathing space between chapters of our adventure. The weight lifting from her shoulders was our collective exhale, a moment of triumph and anticipation that belonged to us both.

    The West Coast continued to call, its untrodden hiking trails promising new narratives, unexplored terrains. But first, the small rituals that ground us—a post office visit, a haircut—tiny anchors in our perpetually moving world. We were more than travellers. We were storytellers, cartographers of inner and external landscapes, mapping our journey one moment, one mile at a time.

    In these moments of constant motion, we discovered something profound: home is not a fixed point, but a continuous journey of understanding, connection, and shared discovery.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth

    Dawn's Promise: Journey Begins

    27. okt.–14. nov. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 18 °C

    The gentle hum of anticipation filled our bus as we nestled into our final night on Australian soil. Everything was meticulously prepared for our Japanese adventure - our temporary home secured, our travel documents arranged, and our hearts already reaching across the ocean toward Torrin. The familiar comfort of our nomadic nest felt especially poignant tonight, knowing it would be two weeks before we'd return to its embrace.

    Dawn painted the Boomer Bay sky in soft pastels as we rose with the first light. There was something ceremonial about brewing our last Australian coffee in our bus kitchen, the aromatic steam swirling through the morning air like incense. Each sip felt meaningful, a conscious savoring of the familiar before stepping into the unknown adventures ahead.

    Though we had packed and repacked our Japan-bound bags the previous day, we couldn't resist one more thorough check - perhaps the tenth time, but who was counting? Our careful fingers danced over zippers and compartments, a ritual that was equal parts practical preparation and nervous excitement. The lightweight packs seemed to hold not just our carefully chosen belongings, but all our dreams and expectations for the journey ahead.

    With reverent care, we secured our beloved bus one final time, double-checking locks and systems, knowing it would rest safely in Simon and Sue's care. As we stepped out into the crisp morning air, our backpacks shouldered and hearts light, we made our way to the road where our Uber driver would soon arrive. This simple walk marked the first steps of our international journey - from our wheeled home in Tasmania to the bustling streets of Japan, from one island nation to another.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    1
    Lime Bay2Protein Low Carb Amazingness!!1111

    Echidnas, Essays & Island Generosity

    21.–27. okt. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☀️ 17 °C

    As the countdown to our Japanese adventure ticked down to its final week, we found ourselves seeking one last Tasmanian haven before our flight to visit Torrin, our eldest. The familiar landmarks around Hobart had become like old friends over our months of wandering, but Lime Bay on the Tasman Peninsula still held the promise of undiscovered territory, just a scenic hour and a half from the airport.

    The journey itself proved to be quintessentially Tasmanian. As we guided our trusty bus through Dunalley, a town whose weatherboard facades had become familiar friends on our previous passages, we encountered one of the island's spiky residents. There, in the middle of the road, a determined echidna waddled along, completely oblivious to the modern world around it. We brought our home-on-wheels to a gentle stop, and with careful coaxing, helped guide the prehistoric-looking creature back to the safety of the roadside vegetation.

    The road carried us onwards, crossing the iconic Eaglehawk Neck - that narrow strip of land that holds so many dark convict tales - before turning north into uncharted territory. The anticipation of discovering a new corner of Tasmania built with each turn, until finally, Lime Bay revealed itself to us like a gift being unwrapped.

    The campground was a slice of coastal paradise, with sites scattered along the bay's edge. Monday's quietude meant we had our pick of spots, and we chose one that spoke to both our practical and aesthetic sensibilities. Our bus, our beloved home, stood proudly in the full sun - a position other campers often avoided but one that suited us perfectly. The tropical roof created by our solar panels, combined with our tinted windows and excellent insulation, kept us comfortable while harvesting the sun's energy. It was our own little sustainable sanctuary with a view.

    As the days drifted by, like clouds across the Tasmanian sky, the solitude we'd grown accustomed to during the winter months gradually gave way to the bustle of spring. The Hobart show holiday brought an influx of weekend warriors, filling the once-peaceful campground with the sounds of family life and holiday excitement.

    Yet it was in this busy period that we experienced another moment of characteristic Tasmanian generosity. Simon and Sue, locals from the nearby Boomer Bay, emerged as guardian angels, offering their yard as a safe haven for our bus during our upcoming Japanese sojourn. Their kindness reinforced what we'd learned over and over - that Tasmania's true treasure lies in its people's hearts.

    While the campground hummed with activity, Sal immersed herself in her university work, the gentle sound of typing mixing with the coastal breeze as she tackled three challenging assignments. The relief was palpable when she finally submitted them, just days before our planned departure. To celebrate this academic milestone, we embraced the perfect spring weather, setting out on a hike across our small peninsula. Our reward was a pristine beach, completely deserted, where the only footprints in the sand were our own - a final, perfect moment of Tasmanian solitude before our upcoming international adventure.

    As Sunday dawned, the campground stirred with the familiar rhythm of weekend warriors packing up their temporary homes. We too began our departure preparations, our movements practiced and purposeful after months on the road. Our timing had been impeccable - our food stores had dwindled to their last morsels the previous evening, a testament to our growing expertise in provisioning our nomadic lifestyle.

    But before making our way to our temporary haven at Simon and Sue's, we felt drawn to explore one last piece of Tasmania's complex history. The Coal Mine Historic Site stood as a somber sentinel to Tasmania's convict past, its weathered ruins whispering stories of hardship and survival. For several contemplative hours, we wandered through the remnants of this penal settlement, our footsteps echoing across worn stone floors where convict laborers once toiled. The site served as a powerful reminder of the harsh foundations upon which modern Tasmania was built, each crumbling wall and rusted iron bar a chapter in the island's compelling narrative.

    With our spirits full of historical reflection, we made a quick detour to extinguish our hunger before steering our bus toward Boomer Bay. As dusk approached, we arrived at Simon and Sue's property, our final resting place before our Japanese adventure. Their warm welcome and generous hospitality felt like a fitting farewell to an island that had shown us so much kindness over the months. As we settled in for our last night in Tasmania, we couldn't help but feel grateful for the serendipitous encounters and unexpected friendships that the nomadic life continues to bring our way.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    2

    Coffee, Cockatoos & Coming Home

    20.–21. okt. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 13 °C

    The afternoon slipped away as Anth moved through his pre-reunion checklist with methodical care. Our mobile home needed its basic necessities – fresh water flowing through its veins, provisions stocked in its cupboards, and a full tank of diesel to power our upcoming adventures. Each stop around Hobart felt purposeful, knowing each task completed brought us closer to being whole again. As evening settled over Tasmania, our faithful bus carried Anth toward the airport, where Sal waited with two weeks of stories held close to her heart.

    The moment of reunion brought more than just embraces – it carried the profound realization that our nomadic life had truly transformed. As Sal stepped back into our rolling sanctuary, the feeling of 'coming home' washed over her with unexpected intensity. The bus was no longer just a vehicle of adventure, but the heart of our wandering life.

    With evening's shadows lengthening and tomorrow's responsibilities looming (including Sal's pressing university assignments before our Japanese adventure), we chose the familiar comfort of Seven Mile Beach's day use area for our night's rest. But before retiring, the moonlit beach called to us. Hand in hand, we walked across sand turned silver by lunar light, the gentle symphony of waves providing the perfect backdrop for reconnection. These precious moments, shared under the evening sky, reminded us why we chose this life of freedom and simplicity.

    Morning arrived with nature's own welcome committee – a rowdy gathering of Yellow Tailed Black Cockatoos had chosen the trees beside our bus for their breakfast feast. Their distinctive calls and the sound of cracking seeds created a wild yet oddly comforting alarm clock. As their chorus continued overhead, we rekindled our cherished morning ritual – sharing that first cup of coffee together. The familiar aroma filled our cozy space as we sat, cups warming our hands, catching up on the smaller moments of our time apart. It was these simple pleasures, missed during our separation, that made our nomadic life feel so rich and complete.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth

    Gordon's Ebb & Flow: A Solo Chapter

    3.–20. okt. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 16 °C

    Our paths diverged temporarily at the Hobart airport, where after Sal's departure, Anth guided our home-on-wheels back to the tranquil waters of Gordon foreshore. The same peaceful spot we'd discovered earlier still beckoned, offering unobstructed views of the sunrise painting its daily masterpiece over the silhouette of Bruny Island. Our trusty bus settled into position, ready to serve as both sanctuary and observatory for the coming days.

    The morning brought an unexpected moment of nomadic camaraderie when our temporary neighbour Dion, accompanied by his faithful girl dog, approached with a request. A journey to Franklin along the Huon River awaited, and Anth gladly stepped in to help relocate Dion's second vehicle. The forty-minute drive through Tasmania's lush countryside provided a welcome adventure, made even more practical by Dion's thoughtful stop at the local grocery store. This proved particularly fortuitous, as our original shopping had anticipated a different scenario – one where we'd both be away for two weeks, rather than just Sal's journey to Queensland while Anth awaited news about clinical trials post our upcoming Japan adventure.

    Back in Gordon, as Dion and his four-legged companion continued their own journey, our bus became Anth's solitary haven for the next two and a half weeks. Tasmania's notorious weather proved to be an ever-changing companion – fierce winds that tested our bus's sturdy frame, brilliant sunshine that sparkled off the water, moody clouds that painted the sky in endless shades of gray, and rain that drummed a constant rhythm on our metal roof. Each day unfolded like a weather lottery, keeping Anth on his toes and reminding us why we fell in love with this unpredictable island.

    The solo time proved productive as Anth tackled our growing list of bus maintenance tasks – those small but essential jobs that ensure our mobile home runs smoothly. As often happens with such projects, each completed task seemed to reveal two more waiting in the wings, but there was satisfaction in the steady progress.

    Life at the Gordon foreshore took on its own rhythm, much like the tides that perpetually lapped at the shoreline beside our bus. The campsite itself became a living, breathing entity, with travelers flowing in and out like the waters that surrounded us. Groups of grey nomads would gather in circles, their chairs arranged like storytelling circles of old, sharing tales of adventures past and roads well-traveled. Young families brought bursts of energy and laughter, children's excitement echoing across the water as they discovered the simple joys of coastal camping. Seasoned full-time travelers, kindred spirits to our own lifestyle, would come and go, each carrying their own stories of life on the road. This constant ebb and flow of humanity provided a comforting backdrop to Anth's solo days.

    Between these social observations and maintenance tasks, Anth made what would become a pivotal booking – our return journey on the Spirit of Tasmania. The earliest available crossing wasn't until June next year, a revelation that put our entire Tasmanian adventure into perspective. We were, remarkably, only halfway through our island exploration, with many more seasons of discovery ahead of us on this captivating island state.

    While Anth immersed himself in both physical tasks and the digital realm of our online business ventures, Sal was embracing her own journey in Queensland. The pursuit of her Masters of Counselling brought both academic challenges and deep fulfillment, confirming it was indeed her perfect path. Between university sessions and assignments, she found precious moments with family, helping Sophie and Mackenzie prepare for their own life transition, moving from the very home we'd left behind to begin our nomadic adventure.

    Though physically apart, our hearts remained synchronised, each day bringing us closer to reunion. When Sal finally boarded her Brisbane flight home, Anth bid farewell to our peaceful Gordon haven, guiding our bus along familiar roads to welcome her back – our nomadic family complete once more.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth

    Beach Walks & Hidden Treasures

    2.–3. okt. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☀️ 14 °C

    The familiar arch of the Tasman Bridge welcomed us as we journeyed northward, its steel spans glinting in the morning light as we made our way toward Sorell. The day held a mix of practicality and nostalgia – a final visit to the optometrist for Sal's contacts, another small piece of our nomadic life falling into place before our temporary separation.

    Following whispered recommendations from fellow travellers Justin and Tevin, and validated by Andy's recent visit, we steered our golden home toward the Seven Mile Beach day use area. The spot lay less than ten minutes from the airport, perfect for tomorrow's bittersweet departure. The parking area, sparsely dotted with vehicles, offered us a quiet sanctuary for our last evening together.

    The beach called to us irresistibly, and we found ourselves walking along the shoreline, our feet sinking into the cool sand. Each step stirred memories of another life, of countless sunset walks along Wurtulla Beach on the Sunshine Coast. The parallel wasn't lost on us – how life has a way of echoing familiar joys in new places, even as we embraced our freedom-filled nomadic existence.

    Back at the bus, as Sal immersed herself in the digital realm of her online tutorial, Anth embarked on his own afternoon adventure. The dense fir pine plantation beckoned with its geocaching secrets, offering a few precious hours of solo exploration while sunlight still painted the sky. The forest held half a dozen hidden treasures, each cache a small victory in his personal treasure hunt.

    As darkness crept across the landscape, Anth returned to our home-on-wheels, pleasantly exhausted from his successful expedition, just as Sal was wrapping up her academic pursuits. Together, we transformed our conspicuous gold bus into our version of a stealth camper, pulling curtains across windows and relying on our limo tinting to maintain the illusion of vacancy. The solar panels on our roof might have given us away, but we liked to think we achieved some measure of discretion.

    In the quiet of our last night together before a two-week separation, we found ourselves reflecting on the life we'd chosen. The gentle sound of distant waves provided a soundtrack to our gratitude – for our relationship, for the courage to embrace this unconventional life, and for all the adventures still awaiting us on the road ahead.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    3

    Pancakes, Paradise & Parting Ways

    26. sep.–2. okt. 2024, Australia ⋅ ⛅ 9 °C

    The crisp Tasmanian morning saw us winding our way south from Oatlands, the familiar landscape rolling past our windows as we steered our home-on-wheels towards Sorell. There was a bittersweet tinge to this journey, knowing these were our last precious days together before Sal would temporarily trade our nomadic life for university commitments in Queensland. The morning's errands in Sorell – collecting parcels from the post office and an optometrist visit for contact lenses – felt like final pieces falling into place before our temporary parting.

    With errands complete, our hearts naturally pulled us toward Gordon Foreshore, a campground that had become something of a spiritual anchor during our Tasmanian adventures. Though the summer had drawn more travelers than during our winter visits, fortune smiled upon us once again. We secured our favorite spot, where the D'Entrecasteaux Channel stretched before us like liquid silver, its waters dancing beneath the sunlight while Bruny Island stood majestically on the horizon, wrapped in its perpetual air of mystery.

    Life at Gordon had a way of delivering unexpected gifts, and this time it came in the form of an old bus and its charismatic owner. Dion, a road warrior with a decade of stories etched into the lines of his face, and his faithful companion "Girl Dog", whose name carried all the beautiful simplicity of life on the road.

    The warmer weather brought with it the return of a cherished tradition – Sal's legendary Chocolate Chip Protein Pancakes, crowned with Anth's expertly crafted Ninja Creami Protein Ice Cream. The first bite was like welcoming back an old friend, a healthy indulgence we'd sorely missed during the winter months.

    Between these sweet moments, Sal immersed herself in the familiar-yet-foreign world of online academia. Watching her navigate assignments with growing confidence, rediscovering her student rhythm after years away, filled Anth's heart with pride. The sight of her surrounded by digital textbooks and notes, determination etched across her face, was a testament to her courage in embracing this new chapter of our journey.

    On our final morning, as the reality of our temporary parting drew closer, Dion's generous spirit shone through as he helped Anth prepare our trusty portable diesel heater for its new owner. This faithful companion had kept us warm through Tasmania's winter chill, but like so many aspects of nomadic life, it was time to adapt and upgrade to a permanent solution.

    As we bid farewell to Gordon Foreshore once again, heading north toward Hobart and Sal's waiting flight, we carried with us another chapter of precious memories. For Anth, tomorrow would bring a solitary return to these familiar waters, holding space until Sal's return would make our nomadic home complete once more.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    1

    Nightfall Drive to Oatlands' Calm

    25.–26. sep. 2024, Australia ⋅ 🌙 5 °C

    As the sun dipped below the horizon, we found ourselves once again embarking on a nocturnal journey, leaving the lights of Launceston behind. Sal's freshly styled hair was a reminder of the small luxuries we still indulged in, even as we embraced our nomadic lifestyle. The bus's headlights carved a meager path through the Tasmanian darkness, their dim glow a stark reminder of our need for more powerful illumination. We made a mental note to prioritise those driving lights on our ever-growing wish list, knowing that while we preferred daylight travel, sometimes the night road was unavoidable.

    Our destination, Oatlands, beckoned like a beacon in the distance. Anth's memory of his solo visit during the bustling Bullock Festival painted a vivid contrast to the tranquil scene that greeted us now. The free camp, once a hive of activity, now offered a peaceful respite. We manoeuvred our bus into place, joining just a handful of other vans scattered around the site. The quieter pace of the town wrapped around us like a comforting blanket, a welcome change from the festival's earlier fervour.

    As night deepened, the wind picked up – a familiar Tasmanian lullaby. The bus gently rocked, its motion reminiscent of a cradle on the shores of Lake Dulverton. The lake's waters, barely visible in the darkness, lapped softly at the shore, creating a soothing rhythm that blended with the whisper of the wind through the trees.

    Inside our cozy mobile home, we settled in for the night. The gentle swaying of the bus, once a novelty, had become a comforting constant in our lives. As we drifted off to sleep, our thoughts wandered to the journey ahead, the places we'd seen, and the countless adventures still waiting to unfold across this island state.

    The darkness outside our windows held the promise of a new day, new experiences, and the continued joy of our chosen lifestyle. In that moment, rocked by the Tasmanian wind on the shores of Lake Dulverton, we felt profoundly grateful for the freedom of the open road and the ever-changing landscape of our nomadic existence.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    1Honeysuckle Banks

    Midland Meanders & Melbourne Moments

    23.–25. sep. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☀️ 11 °C

    As our trusty bus wound its way east from the rugged Central Highlands, we felt the landscape shift beneath our wheels. The Midlands of Tasmania unfurled before us like a patchwork quilt of history and natural beauty, each turn in the road revealing new wonders. Our hearts swelled with the familiar excitement of exploration as we turned north, the freedom of our nomadic life pulsing through our veins.

    Campbell Town beckoned, a place that held memories for Anth from his solo journey when Sal had been visiting family in Queensland. This time, hand in hand, we traced the Convict Brick trail along the main street. The weight of history beneath our feet felt more profound as we shared the experience, our footsteps in sync. Sal's keen eye, always attuned to the hidden stories in our surroundings, caught sight of a brick that had eluded Anth before - one dedicated to the father of the infamous bushranger, Ned Kelly. We marvelled at this unexpected connection to mainland lore, feeling the threads of Australian history weaving through our island adventure.

    Midway through our historical meander, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee lured us into a local café. As we savoured our breakfast, the warm mugs cradled in our hands, we relished this moment of normalcy amidst our unconventional lifestyle. The chatter of locals and the clinking of cutlery created a comforting soundtrack, reminding us of the simple pleasures we still cherished on the road.

    With renewed energy, we set our course for Launceston. The practical aspects of our nomadic life called - replenishing our water supply, filling the bus's thirsty tank with diesel, and restocking our mobile pantry. These mundane tasks held their own kind of magic, each one a testament to the self-sufficiency we'd cultivated in our life on wheels.

    An unexpected turn of events saw Anth arranging a whirlwind trip to Melbourne. The promise of securing additional funds for our upcoming Japanese adventure added an air of excitement to our day. With barely enough time to prepare a hasty dinner, we found ourselves back at the familiar comfort of Honeysuckle Banks in Evandale, its proximity to the airport a sudden blessing.

    As Anth embarked on his less-than-24-hour mainland jaunt, Sal settled into the quiet solitude of the bus. The gentle Tasmanian night enveloped our mobile home, the distant calls of native wildlife a soothing lullaby. The following day unfolded in parallel - Anth navigating the clinical trial process in Melbourne while Sal immersed herself in her Master's studies back in Tasmania. Their reunion at the airport that afternoon felt like closing a brief but significant chapter in our shared journey.

    Another night at Evandale allowed for a deeper exploration of this charming town. While Sal attended her online lectures, the soft glow of her laptop illuminating the bus interior, Anth wandered the historic streets. He soaked in the timeless appeal of Evandale, each weathered building and quaint shop front telling its own story of Tasmania's rich past.

    Our final day in the area was a dance of practical tasks and personal care. The rhythm of the laundromat's machines provided a soundtrack to our afternoon, a mundane yet necessary interlude before Sal's long-awaited hair appointment. As darkness fell and Sal emerged, refreshed and styled, we pointed our bus once more towards the open road. Leaving Launceston behind, we carried with us new memories, clean clothes, and the ever-present anticipation of adventures yet to come.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth

    Waddamana: Where Four Make a Crowd

    21.–23. sep. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 7 °C

    As dawn's first light filtered through the bus windows, we took a lingering look back at the serene Penstock Lagoon, bidding farewell to the last traces of snow that clung to the landscape like scattered pearls. Our hearts brimmed with gratitude for the unforgettable weeks spent in this frosty haven, but the call of warmer climes beckoned us southward, promising new stories and adventures.

    Choosing the road less traveled, we opted for a longer, scenic route, abandoning the familiar paths of our earlier journeys. This decision led us to the storied Waddamana Power Station, a relic of our past explorations. Yet, this time, it was not the history of the station that captivated us, but the quaint charm of Waddamana village itself.

    As we approached, we realised we'd stumbled upon a gathering that could only be described as a town meeting - albeit one that involved three-quarters of the entire population. The charm and absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on us; Waddamana's grand total of four residents, minus one, had converged for their morning ritual.

    Llry and Toni, the heart and soul of this van-café, welcomed us like old friends. The air was thick with the comforting aroma of freshly baked pastries and rich, aromatic coffee. We lost ourselves in their stories, painting a vivid tapestry of life in this secluded corner of the world, while indulging in their delicious creations—gifts that made our hearts and bellies full. It was a bittersweet parting as we promised to return, leaving behind this slice of warmth amid the rolling hills.

    Back on the dirt road, Anth's spirit of adventure shone as he collected geocaches, treasures hidden amid the rugged terrain, while Sal immersed herself in her studies. Soon, we found ourselves on the Lake Highway, a familiar ribbon of road that cradled us northward before we veered East onto a new path, one that led us to the tranquil waters of Lake Sorell and Lake Crescent.

    The Tasmanian Highlands unfolded around us, a landscape so distinct from the mainland's familiar vistas. The rugged beauty of these highlands whispered secrets of ancient earth and untamed wilderness. We arrived at our haven for the night, Dago Point, perched gracefully above the shimmering expanse of Lake Sorell. Here, solitude enveloped us once more, the absence of other campers lending an air of exclusivity to our winter retreat.

    For two blissful nights, we luxuriated in the embrace of milder temperatures, a gentle reprieve from the snow-kissed chill of our previous encampment. The tranquil serenity of the lake mirrored our peaceful spirits, as we soaked in the surrounding beauty, feeling as if the world had paused just for us.

    But as with all journeys, ours too had to continue. Our water reserves exhausted, we packed up our mobile sanctuary and set our sights on Launceston. Sal had an appointment with her hairdresser, a small return to routine amidst our nomadic life—a reminder that even as we roam, the ties to the everyday weave seamlessly into our extraordinary journey.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    1
    The Full MoonCheers2

    A Snowy Sojourn in Tasmania's Highlands

    13.–21. sep. 2024, Australia ⋅ ❄️ -1 °C

    The winding road through Tasmania's Central Highlands felt familiar beneath our wheels as we retraced our path from just days before. Our destination, the now-beloved Penstock Lagoon, beckoned us with promises of winter wonder. This time, we chose a spot close to the water's edge, our campsite a mirror image of our previous visit. The air thrummed with anticipation as our trusty weather app whispered secrets of an impending snowfall, painting our expectations with shades of white.

    As night fell, we nestled into our cozy bus-turned-home, excitement making sleep elusive. Dreams of snowflakes danced behind our eyelids as we drifted off, the promise of tomorrow's adventure a lullaby in our ears.

    The next morning, Anth stirred first, his consciousness pulled from slumber by an inexplicable sense of change. With childlike eagerness, he slid back the curtain, a gasp of wonder escaping his lips. The world outside had transformed overnight, draped in a pristine blanket of snow several inches thick. Unable to contain his joy, Anth gently roused Sal, his whispered excitement painting the air with visible puffs in the chilly bus.

    In a flurry of movement, we leapt from our bed, fumbling with layers of warm clothing. Our usual morning ritual of coffee was forgotten, the allure of the snow too strong to resist. As we pushed open the door, the crisp air nipped at our cheeks, the crunch of fresh snow beneath our feet sending shivers of delight up our spines.

    Standing there, surrounded by the hushed beauty of a snow-covered landscape, we were struck by the realisation of a dream come true. When we first embarked on our nomadic life, choosing Tasmania as our inaugural destination, the thought of camping in our bus amidst a snowfall seemed like a distant fantasy. Yet here we were, living that very dream, the reality even more magical than we had imagined.

    This wasn't our first encounter with Tasmanian snow. Two years prior, we had hiked the Walls of Jerusalem, witnessing the aftermath of a snowfall. But this - this was different. Today, we were not merely observers of a snowy landscape, but active participants in its creation, our footprints the first to mar the perfect white canvas.

    Drawn by the ethereal beauty of snow-laden gum trees, we set off on a walk, assuming we had the winter wonderland all to ourselves. However, fate had a surprise in store. Just minutes into our trek, we encountered Cody and Sian, fellow travellers whose eyes sparkled with the same wonder we felt. They shared that they had been exploring Australia for a year, their week-long Tasmanian adventure a deliberate chase for this very snowfall. The serendipity of the moment wasn't lost on us, and we quickly extended an invitation back to our campsite.

    Returning to our bus, we worked in tandem to set up the dweller hot stove, creating a cozy outdoor haven against the intensifying cold. Soon, Cody and Sian joined us, and the air filled with laughter and stories of life on the road. As we talked, the snow continued its silent descent, alternating between gentle flurries and heavy sleet. Being Queenslanders, unused to such weather, we couldn't resist the urge to play. The four of us frolicked like children, catching snowflakes on our tongues and marveling at the icy crystals melting on our warm skin.

    As the chill began to seep into our bones, we retreated to the warmth of the bus, finally indulging in that forgotten morning coffee. The rich aroma filled the small space, mingling with the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering excitement of the morning's adventures.

    Over the next couple of days, Cody and Sian's company added an unexpected layer of joy to our snowy retreat. When they eventually departed, promises were exchanged to meet again on the road, the close-knit nature of Tasmania making such reunions more than just a possibility.

    The following week unfolded like a dream, each morning greeting us with a fresh dusting of snow. The days were crisp and cold, but filled with a magic that transformed Penstock Lagoon into an ever-changing winter landscape. We watched in awe as the familiar scenery morphed with each snowfall, revealing new beauty in places we thought we knew by heart.

    Sal often found herself lost in thought, her artist's eye drinking in the interplay of light and shadow on the snow-draped landscape. Anth, meanwhile, couldn't resist capturing every magical moment through the lens of his camera, determined to preserve these memories forever.

    As our water supplies dwindled, we reluctantly prepared to leave our snowy haven for a trip into town. Yet even as we packed up, our hearts were full. Penstock Lagoon, already one of our favourite places in Tasmania, had once again captivated us, gifting us with memories of a winter wonderland we would cherish forever. As we drove away, stealing glances in the rearview mirror, we knew that this magical place had etched itself even deeper into our hearts, calling us to return again and again to its snowy embrace.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth

    Bunnings, Burgers & Bus Adventures

    11.–13. sep. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 3 °C

    The crisp Tasmanian air nipped at our cheeks as we approached Launceston, our trusty bus humming along the winding road. A hint of anticipation hung in the air, a subtle undercurrent to our adventure. Our first stop was the local Bunnings Hardware, a treasure trove of possibilities for our mobile home. The smell of fresh timber and paint assailed our senses as we wandered the aisles, picking up a few small items to breathe new life into our beloved bus.

    With our DIY aspirations satisfied, we turned our attention to our grumbling stomachs. The local grocery store beckoned, its colourful produce and tempting aromas promising a feast for our road-weary souls. In a moment of indulgence, we decided to treat ourselves to some takeaway – a rare luxury in our nomadic lifestyle. The familiar golden arches of McDonald's called to us, promising a quick and comforting meal. The savoury scent of burgers and fries filled the bus, mingling with the anticipation of our upcoming pit stop.

    As the sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, we made our way to the Honeysuckle Banks Campsite in Evandale, just a short five-minute drive from the airport. We quickly set up camp, knowing we'd need to leave again soon for the airport. With our temporary home established, we pointed the bus towards the departures terminal. The mood shifted slightly, a touch of melancholy settling over us as we approached. Anth's flight to Melbourne loomed, a brief but necessary detour in our shared journey. We lingered at the drop-off point, neither of us wanting to be the first to say goodbye. Finally, with a tight hug and a promise to reunite soon, Anth disappeared into the bustling crowd, leaving Sal alone with the quiet hum of the bus engine.

    Sal returned to the Honeysuckle Campsite, hoping for a peaceful night but finding restlessness instead. Her light sleeping tendencies, usually a minor inconvenience, became a significant hurdle in this less-than-ideal location. The campsite's proximity to the train tracks meant that every passing train sent reverberations through her bed, jolting her awake just as she began to drift off. The constant comings and goings of cars, their headlights occasionally sweeping across the bus windows, added to the nocturnal disruptions. To compound matters, the campsite's position under the flight path ensured that even the sky offered no respite, with the intermittent roar of aircraft engines punctuating the night. It was a far cry from the tranquil evening she had hoped for, and a stark reminder of the unpredictable nature of life on the road. As dawn broke, Sal found herself bleary-eyed and weary, longing for the familiar comfort of Anth's presence and the quiet nights they usually shared in more secluded spots.

    Meanwhile, Anth's journey took an unexpected turn. The flight, already a source of slight anxiety, faced delay after delay. Time crawled by, the airport's harsh fluorescent lights and uncomfortable chairs a poor substitute for the cozy confines of their bus. It was nearly midnight when Anth finally arrived at Blake's house in Melbourne, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. The offer of a couch to crash on was a godsend, infinitely preferable to the impersonal chill of a hostel or the extravagance of a hotel room. As Anth drifted off to sleep, his thoughts wandered back to Sal and their bus, a pang of homesickness tugging at his heart.

    The following afternoon brought a joyous reunion. As Anth climbed back into the bus, it felt like slipping into a warm embrace. The familiar scent of home washed over him, erasing the stress of his brief sojourn in the city. We decided to linger one more night at Evandale, savouring the tranquility of the campsite and the comfort of being together again. Tomorrow, we would finally head back up to Penstock Lagoon, chasing the promise of Tasmanian snow.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth

    Fire & Frost: Birthday in the Highlands

    5.–11. sep. 2024, Australia ⋅ ⛅ 11 °C

    The bittersweet tang of farewell lingered in the air as we bid adieu to Michael and Amanda, our hearts already turning to the next chapter of our nomadic odyssey. Sal's birthday loomed on the horizon, a beacon of celebration amidst our wanderings. Her wish, to nestle in the embrace of snow-draped wilderness, hung like a fragile dream in the capricious Tasmanian weather. Though the fickle gods of climate seemed to conspire against us, our spirits remained undaunted. The siren call of the Central Highlands beckoned once more, drawing us back to the familiar shores of Penstock Lagoon, a place etched in our memories from adventures past.

    Our journey's first waypoint found us at the local Fedex depot, anticipation thrumming through our veins as we collected a long-awaited treasure - the Dweller, a hot tent stove that promised warmth without the acrid veil of smoke. Though we lacked a hot tent to house it, the mere thought of its cozy glow kindled excitement in our hearts as we set our sights on the frigid heights that awaited us.

    The road unfurled before us like a ribbon of memories, leading us past Chauncyvale, where echoes of laughter shared with Andy during his Tasmanian sojourn still seemed to linger in the air. As we climbed higher, the landscape transformed around us, shedding the familiar for the wild beauty of sub-alpine moorlands. Recent rains had left their mark, turning the world into a glistening tapestry of water and light that stretched as far as the eye could see.

    Leaving the Lake Highway behind, we embraced the rugged charm of the dirt road that snaked its way to Penstock Lagoon. The ten-kilometer stretch flew by in a blur of anticipation, and soon we found ourselves in the welcoming arms of a now-familiar haven. Nostalgia guided us to the boat ramp where we had first laid our heads in this enchanted place. The sparse tree cover offered a perfect stage for our solar panels to drink deeply of the sun's energy, a vital preparation for the moody weather that loomed on the horizon.

    Sal's birthday dawned without the hoped-for blanket of snow, but love found a way to make the day special. A steaming cup of coffee, lovingly prepared and presented in bed, became our quiet celebration of another year of adventures shared. The day's centrepiece was a poignant lunch at the Great Lakes Hotel with Amanda and Michael, a bittersweet farewell tinged with the promise of reunion. As they prepared to trade the roads of Tasmania for the shores of New Zealand, we marvelled at the unexpected friendships forged in the crucible of our nomadic existence. Their decision to swap wheels for waves, inspired by our own journey, filled us with a sense of kinship and possibility.

    Returning to our lakeside sanctuary, we settled into a rhythm as timeless as the water lapping at the shore. Days unfolded in a peaceful tableau of fly fishermen casting their lines into the mirror-like surface of the lagoon, their silhouettes etched against the sky from dawn to dusk. Our explorations took us along winding roads and to hidden campsites, each step a discovery. The frisbee, a parting gift from Andy, became our companion in moments of joyful play, its arc through the air a reminder of friendship's enduring nature.

    As evening shadows lengthened, the Dweller stove came into its own. Together, we foraged in the surrounding bush, gathering armfuls of wood. The satisfying crackle of the fire and the warm glow it cast transformed our campsite into a cozy haven against the encroaching chill of highland nights.

    Though snow remained elusive, the promise of its arrival hung tantalizingly in the air, whispered on every breeze. Yet fate, ever capricious, had other plans. An unexpected summons from the mainland tugged at Anth, necessitating a hasty departure. Once more, we found ourselves retracing familiar paths, the road to Launceston unspooling before us past the serene expanse of Arthur Lake and through the quaint charm of Poatina.

    As the urban skyline of Launceston grew on the horizon, we felt the familiar mix of excitement and nostalgia that always accompanied our transitions from wilderness to civilisation. Another town day approached, bringing with it the promise of new adventures and the bittersweet knowledge that every journey, no matter how winding, must sometimes lead us back to the world we left behind. Yet in our hearts, we knew that the call of the open road, of hidden lagoons and snow-capped peaks, would soon lure us back into the wild embrace of Tasmania's highlands.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    2The View from CMAX

    Parallel Journeys: Love, Science & Home

    12. aug.–5. sep. 2024, Australia ⋅ ⛅ 14 °C

    The golden Tasmanian sun cast long shadows across the peaceful oval at Tunnack as I reluctantly prepared for my departure. With a heavy heart, I bid farewell to the serene landscape that had been my home, knowing that only one fleeting day remained before my flight to Adelaide beckoned me away from this island paradise.

    As I navigated the winding roads southward to Sorrell, the familiar Tasmanian countryside rolled past my window like a nostalgic film reel. The uneventful drive allowed my mind to wander, filled with a mixture of anticipation for the upcoming Stage One clinical trial and a tinge of melancholy at leaving behind the rugged beauty of Tasmania. The weight of my to-do list pressed upon me, a constant reminder of the impending transition.

    Arriving in Sorrell, I first steered our faithful companion – our once-golden bus, now cloaked in a patina of Tasmania's diverse terrain – towards the car wash. As I stood watching the swirling brushes and cascading water slowly reveal the vehicle's true color, I couldn't help but see it as a metaphor for my own journey. Layer by layer, the grime of our adventures was washed away, leaving behind a gleaming surface that reflected the bright Tasmanian sky. Twelve minutes of therapeutic cleansing later, our bus stood resplendent, a beacon of memories and future promises.

    With the bus restored to its former glory, I turned my attention to the mundane yet necessary task of laundry. The rhythmic hum of the washing machines in the local laundromat provided a soothing backdrop as I sorted through our clothes, each item holding whispers of recent adventures.

    My final errand led me to the post office, where packages awaited – tangible links to the outside world we'd permanently left behind. With arms full of parcels and a heart full of memories, I made my way to the Forcett Inn, our bus's temporary home for the next few weeks.

    The following day dawned bright and clear, a perfect Tasmanian morning to bid farewell to this enchanting island. As the plane soared over the patchwork landscape below, my thoughts were already racing ahead to Adelaide and the three weeks that lay before me. The Stage One clinical trial I was participating in promised not just to contribute to cutting-edge medical research, but also provided a welcome boost to our travel fund, bringing us one step closer to our dream of exploring Japan.

    As I navigated the structured days of the trial, another story was unfolding across the continent. Sal, my beloved partner in both life and travel, was embarking on her own journey of reconnection and love.

    Brisbane greeted Sal with open arms and the warm embraces of her father and son. The joy of reunion radiated through her, a palpable energy that lingered long after those first moments at the airport. Over the next three and a half weeks, Sal's days were filled with the kind of moments that nourish the soul – the comforting melodies of her father's organ practice, intimate conversations with her mother over steaming cups of coffee, and the pure, unconditional love expressed in cuddles with Sophie and Mackenzie.

    Though miles apart, our hearts remained connected, each of us filling our days with meaningful experiences. As my trial in Adelaide drew to a close, and Sal's family time in Brisbane wound down, we found ourselves once again on converging paths. In a serendipitous twist of fate, we reunited in Melbourne, boarding our flight to Hobart together – a perfect symmetry to bookend our time apart.

    As the plane descended towards Hobart, the familiar contours of Tasmania coming into view, we shared a look of contentment. Our separate journeys had enriched us individually, but now, reunited, we were ready to continue our grand adventure together, our hearts full of love, memories, and anticipation for the road ahead.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • Sal and AnthNomadic NarrativesSal and Anth
    2

    Traces of Time, Tranquility's Promise

    11.–12. aug. 2024, Australia ⋅ ⛅ 14 °C

    The soft purr of our trusty bus engine filled the air as I wound my way through the picturesque Tasmanian countryside. My next planned stop was Oatlands, a mere twenty minutes away, but fate had other plans for me that day. As I approached the quaint town of Ross, memories of Grammy's unfulfilled wish to visit this historic gem during her whirlwind tour flooded my mind.

    As I eased my vehicle to a stop at the heart of Ross, I found myself at the legendary Four Corners—a crossroads steeped in local lore and symbolism. The air seemed to hum with the weight of countless souls who had stood at this very spot, contemplating their next move. To my left stood the Ross Hotel, its weathered facade whispering tales of Temptation. Across the way, the Catholic Church's spire reached towards the heavens, a beacon of Salvation for the weary traveler. The Town Hall, with its promise of Recreation, beckoned from another corner, while the somber Old Jail loomed ominously, a stark reminder of Damnation for those who strayed too far from the path of righteousness.

    With reverence, I visited each building in turn, running my fingers along sun-warmed stone and weathered wood. The echoes of history resonated within me, and I found myself lost in contemplation of the countless lives that had intersected at this fateful crossroads.

    My reverie was broken by the siren call of adventure—a geocache caught my eye, luring me away from the Four Corners and up past the old church. As I followed the winding path, the Ross Bridge came into view, its graceful arch spanning the tranquil Macquarie River. I paused, awestruck by the realisation that I stood before the third oldest bridge in all of Australia, a testament to the skill and perseverance of the convicts who had toiled to create such enduring beauty.

    On my way to the bridge, I stumbled upon the Ross Stables, a place where time seemed to stand still. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the soft nickering of phantom horses and the scrape of hooves against worn floorboards. The ghosts of the past felt tangibly close, their presence a poignant reminder of the rich tapestry of lives that had been woven into the very fabric of this small town.

    As I finally reached the Ross Bridge, I marvelled at the intricate carvings adorning its sturdy stone structure. Patterns, worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain, yet still telling their silent stories to those who cared to listen.

    Though my heart yearned to linger in Ross, to delve deeper into its myriad stories, time's relentless march urged me onward. With a wistful sigh, I returned to my bus and set course for Oatlands, my intended resting place for the night.

    As I rumbled into Oatlands, however, I was met with an unexpected sight. The town was alive with the vibrant energy of a winter festival in its final throes. While the festive atmosphere might have appealed to some, the crowded free camp—filled to bursting with stalls and parked cars—sent a ripple of unease through me. After months of seeking solitude in Tasmania's hidden corners, the thought of spending the night hemmed in by strangers felt suffocating.

    With a mixture of disappointment and relief, I fired up the engine once more and consulted my faithful Wikicamps app. Fortune smiled upon me, revealing another potential campsite just a short drive away.

    As twilight painted the sky in hues of lavender and gold, I found myself entering the drowsy town of Tunnack. The moment I arrived, I knew I had made the right choice. This tiny country town, with its handful of houses and vast stretching silence, was balm to my soul. I guided my bus onto the community oval, its neatly trimmed grass crunching softly beneath my tires.

    At first glance, the oval might have seemed unremarkable, even boring. But as I positioned my bus near the edge, with dense bush on one side and the open expanse of the field on the other, I felt a profound sense of peace settle over me. Save for a single vehicle parked in the distance, I had this slice of paradise all to myself.

    As the last rays of sunlight painted the sky, I settled in for an evening of quiet contemplation. In a couple of days new adventures awaited—a flight to Adelaide and the start of a clinical trial at CMAX. But for now, on my last night alone in Tasmania, I savoured the solitude that had become so precious to me.

    The gentle whisper of the wind through the trees and the occasional call of a night bird were my only companions as darkness fell. Yet I didn't feel lonely. Instead, I felt profoundly connected—to the land, to the moment, and to myself. As I drifted off to sleep, my thoughts turned to Sal, soon to return from Queensland. Our nomadic life together would resume, bringing with it new joys and challenges. But for now, in this perfect moment of solitude, I was exactly where I needed to be.    Les mer

    Se oversettelse
  • 2025© FindPenguins
  • Hjem
  • Om oss
  • Gruppesporing
  • Presse
  • Vilkår
  • Personvern & Cookies
  • Hjelpesenter
  • Avtrykk