Waves of Change at Trial Harbour
1.–4. jan. 2025, Australia ⋅ 🌬 14 °C
The journey from Zeehan to Trial Harbour became a meditation on the raw beauty of Tasmania's west coast, where civilisation gradually surrenders to wilderness. Those final ten kilometres of dirt road served as a threshold between worlds, each turn of our wheels carrying us deeper into a landscape where nature's voice speaks with unfiltered honesty. The small coastal community emerged before us like a dream, tucked between the wild ocean and the whispering hills, promising solitude and connection in equal measure.
Fortune smiled upon us at the campsite, blessing us with a vantage point that felt like nature's private balcony. Before us, the wild waves of the Southern Ocean danced their eternal performance, each surge and retreat a reminder of life's constant ebb and flow. The horizon stretched endlessly, a canvas where sea and sky merged in a watercolour of infinite blues, each shade telling its own story of depth and distance.
In one of those serendipitous moments that make nomadic life so magical, Ben and Kerry's arrival halfway through our first day felt like the universe's gentle reminder that even in the most remote corners of the world, hearts can find their way to each other. Their familiar faces appearing in this wild landscape brought a warmth that matched the unexpected clearing of Tasmania's typically moody skies. After a week of characteristic rains, the weather transformed as if celebrating our reunion, the notorious west coast winds softening to gentle whispers rather than their usual roar.
These perfect conditions beckoned Anth to explore on foot, his running route weaving through the coastal township like a thread through nature's tapestry. The ATV tracks that crisscrossed the landscape became his pathway to solitude, each stride carrying him through a world where human presence felt both fleeting and profound against the backdrop of ancient rocks and timeless seas.
Our nights became a symphony of peace, the constant crash of the Western Ocean wrapping around us like a familiar blanket. There was something profoundly comforting in this natural white noise, as if each wave's arrival on the shore was washing away the complexities of our everyday existence, leaving only the essential rhythms of being.
We could have remained here indefinitely, letting the days merge like the waves on the horizon, each sunrise bringing new promises of discovery and contentment. However, life has its own timing, and the news of Anth's successful clinical trial screening introduced a gentle urgency to our otherwise fluid journey. The knowledge of a waiting flight in Hobart became a reminder that even the most perfect moments are precious because they cannot last forever.
Those three days at Trial Harbour became a testament to the beauty of impermanence - each moment more precious because we knew they were numbered. As we prepared to depart towards new hiking adventures and camping grounds, we carried with us not just memories, but a deeper appreciation for how life's necessities sometimes guide us away from paradise, only to lead us toward new discoveries waiting on the horizon.Les mer
Midnight Calls to Mountain Dreams
31. des. 2024–1. jan. 2025, Australia ⋅ ☀️ 13 °C
Life on the road often leads us down unexpected paths, and so it was as we departed Queenstown with our compass initially set towards the town of Tullah. Yet there's a certain magic in allowing the journey itself to guide us, and at the junction of the inspiringly named Anthony's Road, we felt that familiar pull of possibility that so often shapes our nomadic life. Something whispered to us to change course, to point our wheels toward Zeehan instead, where the promise of the golf course's simple comfort of hot showers beckoned.
The small mining town's golf course revealed itself as another hidden gem in Tasmania's crown, where the landscape seemed to cradle human endeavours in its ancient embrace. The mountains that formed our backdrop stood like silent guardians, their timeless presence a reminder of how brief our own passages through these places are. As the last day of the year settled around us, we found ourselves sharing this slice of paradise with a young family, Ben and Kerry, along with their two boys bringing life and laughter to the quiet evening air.
Watching those children at play stirred something deep within us - memories of our own children at that age, when their worlds were as boundless as their energy. Their parents' proud eyes and patient smiles mirrored our own journey through parenthood, prompting quiet reflections on how swiftly time flows, like water through our cupped hands, impossible to hold onto yet precious in every moment.
As the evening drew closer to midnight in this corner of Tasmania, technology bridged the vast distances separating our family. Our video calls connected us across oceans and time zones - to our two adult children making their way in Japan, their faces glowing with stories of their own adventures, and to our third back on the Sunshine Coast, holding down the fort where our own journey began. Each conversation was a testament to how love transcends distance, how family bonds stretch but never break across the miles that separate us.
The calls were bitter-sweet symphonies of connection and separation, joy and longing, pride and nostalgia. Through pixelated screens, we shared stories, laughter, and those precious moments of silence that only families understand. Our children's voices, carried to us through the digital ether, painted pictures of their lives unfolding in different corners of the world - each one writing their own story, yet still connected to ours by invisible threads of love and shared history.
Though our stay at Zeehan would be brief, with new destinations calling us forward into the fresh year, this New Year's Eve became a crystalline moment in time - one where the past, present, and future seemed to converge under Tasmania's star-strewn sky. As we settled in for the night, our hearts were full with the reminder that home isn't a fixed point on any map, but rather the constellation of connections we carry within us, spanning continents and crossing oceans, binding us together even as we journey apart.Les mer
River Songs & Railway Dreams
30.–31. des. 2024, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 15 °C
Through curtains of rain and wisps of cloud, our journey to Lake Burbury became a meditation on nature's mysteries. The mountain peaks played hide and seek through the mist, offering fleeting glimpses of their majesty before disappearing again into the white void. Each lookout point along our route held the promise of revelation, yet delivered only whispers of the landscape's true character - a reminder that sometimes the most profound experiences require patience and faith.
Our arrival at the lakeside campsite stirred something deep within us - that familiar thrill of discovering an untouched sanctuary, the kind of solitude that had become precious to us throughout our Tasmanian adventures. Setting up our temporary home at the water's edge, we felt that peculiar mix of gratitude and anticipation that had become the heartbeat of our nomadic life. Though the lake remained veiled in rainy mist, our experiences at other Tasmanian waters had taught us to trust in the promise of dawn's unveiling.
That trust was rewarded as the next morning painted our world anew. The lifting of clouds felt like nature drawing back heavy curtains, revealing a theatre of beauty that left us breathless. Mountains stretched toward the heavens in every direction, their reflections dancing on the lake's surface like mirrors to infinity, creating a moment of pure wonder that reminded us why we chose this life of perpetual discovery.
The generous gift of long summer days in these southern latitudes allowed us to ease into the morning, savouring the simple pleasure of unhurried time. Our destination, East Pillinger, beckoned with promises of stories etched in rust and stone. This ghost town, once vibrant with the dreams of a thousand souls on Macquarie Harbour's edge, now stood as a testament to the impermanence of human ambition.
The journey to the trailhead became an adventure in itself, our bus navigating the old train line cutting like a time traveler threading through history. The humid forest pressed close, creating an almost primeval atmosphere that demanded respect and careful navigation. Anth's dance with the landscape - trimming branches here, inching through impossibly tight spaces there - became a metaphor for our broader journey: progress often requires patience, skill, and sometimes, the humility to move forward one careful inch at a time.
Our hike through the World Heritage area became a symphony of natural and human history. The constant companion of the Bird River, its waters stained rich amber by tannins, provided a mesmerising soundtrack to our journey. Like a ancient storyteller, its fast-flowing waters seemed to whisper tales of the countless seasons it had witnessed, its voice rising and falling as we traced the ghost-path of long-vanished train tracks. Though the iron rails had surrendered to time, the chronicle of human enterprise remained etched in the landscape - carefully constructed embankments stood as monuments to determination, weathered sleepers emerged like verses in a poem of progress, and abandoned telegraph lines reached toward the canopy like fingers trying to touch the past.
Reaching East Pillinger, we honoured our arrival with a quiet lunch at the pier's edge, where Macquarie Harbour's waters lapped gently below, singing lullabies to the ghosts of industry. The town's remains spoke to us in different voices - the preserved boilers and kiln brickwork stood proud like elderly storytellers, while the slowly vanishing deluxe train carriage reminded us of nature's patient reclamation of all human endeavours
Our return journey along the historic track became a meditation on time's circular nature. The Bird River's song, which had accompanied our outward journey with such enthusiasm, now seemed to carry a different melody - more contemplative, as if matching our own reflective mood. Each step retraced was a reminder of how differently we experience familiar paths when viewed through the lens of fresh understanding. The late afternoon light filtered through the ancient canopy in entirely new ways, highlighting details we'd somehow missed earlier - a fallen sleeper half-buried in moss, telegraph wire glinting like silver threads in the sun's slanting rays, the way shadow and light played across the weathered embankments. Our footfalls fell into a natural rhythm with the river's flow, and we found ourselves walking in comfortable silence, each lost in private thoughts about the lives that had once animated this wilderness. The ghost town of Pillinger seemed to follow us in spirit, its stories now woven into our own ongoing narrative of discovery. By the time our waiting bus emerged through the forest's embrace, we carried with us not just memories of what we'd seen, but a deeper appreciation for how places like this mark us, changing something fundamental in how we view the delicate dance between human ambition and nature's patient reclamation..
As afternoon shadows lengthened, we made the decision to continue our journey rather than spend another night at Lake Burbury. With Sal's precious holiday time ticking away, the call of unexplored trails pulled us northward back toward Queenstown.
Yet before leaving this chapter of our journey, we paused at the Confluence - a powerful metaphor made manifest in the meeting of waters. Here, the orange-stained Queen River, bearing the scars of human industry, met the pristine dark flow of the King River in a dance of redemption and reminder. We sat in contemplative silence, watching this beautiful collision of human impact and natural resilience, each lost in thoughts about our own place in this delicate balance.
A practical stop at the cemetery for water became our final farewell to this landscape of contrasts. As we pointed our compass north into the unknown, we carried with us not just full water tanks but fuller hearts, enriched by another day of discoveries both physical and spiritual in this remarkable corner of Tasmania.Les mer
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
ReisendeThat is certainly where we were, in Gormanston just before Queenstown. You would have seen that old hotel
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
ReisendeThat was nice of that couple to invite you to their place in WA whenever you go there. Glad to hear you are feeling better Anth.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Reisende
WOW. What a great camp. 🩷💚
Reisende
Oh that is awesome ❤️🔥❤️🔥
ReisendePretty spectacular that's for sure.
ReisendeWould make an amazing poster!