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Nomadic Narratives

January - May 2024
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. Read more
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  • Sal and AnthNomadic Narratives
    Day 22–23

    City's Rush to Nature's Hush

    January 25 in Australia ⋅ ☁️ 25 °C

    The hum of the engine mingled with the ranger's farewell as we steered our trusty Coaster towards Geelong, a day earlier than planned. A parcel from the kids, filled with forgotten necessities, awaited us at the post office, and with the ferry to Tasmania departing on Australia Day, there was no time to waste.

    After weeks of remote camps and empty roads, Geelong's bustling streets felt jarring, a cacophony of noise and movement after the tranquility of the bush. We navigated the city's pulse, gathering supplies and eagerly anticipating the peace of a nearby free camp.

    The campsite, Bunjil's Lookout, perched upon a verdant valley, embraced us with open arms. A tapestry of greens stretched below, woven with the textures of a distant quarry, vineyards, grain fields, and charming homes that shared in the valley's majesty.

    At first, only a handful of caravans surrounded us, but as dusk painted the sky, more travellers joined the silent symphony of nature. The cool night air lulled us into a deep slumber, only to be awakened by the fierce duet of rain and wind. It was a daunting prelude to our upcoming journey across Bass Strait, a notoriously turbulent stretch of water.

    With a mix of anticipation and trepidation, we faced the tempestuous day ahead, our hearts a blend of excitement and uncertainty. The Spirit of Tasmania awaited, and only time would reveal the tales woven upon the waves.    Read more

  • Sal and AnthNomadic Narratives
    Day 23–24

    The Curious Case of Jack and the Sea

    January 26 ⋅ 🌬 17 °C

    The morning air crackled with anticipation as we bid farewell to our temporary haven at Bunjill and set our course for Geelong once more. Australia Day painted the streets with vibrant hues, but our hearts sought a different kind of connection—a reunion with our kindred spirit, Jack.

    Jack, a fellow traveler whose soul echoed our own, had graced our Christmas with shared laughter and stories. Now, on the precipice of our next adventure, we yearned to rekindle that camaraderie before the winds of fate carried us further apart.

    We ventured into the heart of the festivities, indulging in the savoury scents and boisterous energy that swirled around us. But it was within a tranquil park, away from the jubilant throng, that we sought true solace. Beneath the shade of our outstretched awning, shielded from the sun's relentless gaze, we found our sanctuary.

    The Crew, a cooperative card game that had tantalised us with near victory during Jack's last visit, beckoned once more. Joined by Jack's new partner, Nic, and their spirited foster greyhound, Odie, we immersed ourselves in the intricate dance of strategy and teamwork.

    Laughter echoed through the serene park as we navigated each challenge, our minds united in pursuit of a shared goal. Though victory remained elusive, we emerged with hearts alight, vowing to reconvene in the wilds of Tasmania to conclude our epic quest.

    As the day surrendered to twilight, we embraced the bittersweet farewell, knowing that our paths would soon intertwine once more. The Crew awaited its final chapter, and the promise of shared laughter and adventure whispered upon the winds of anticipation.

    The port beckoned like a gateway to adventure, a mere ten-minute drive from our eager wheels. The Spirit of Tasmania, our trusty steed across the notoriously restless Bass Strait, awaited our arrival. We clutched our cache of motion sickness tablets like warriors preparing for battle, determined to weather the tempestuous crossing.

    A dance of motorhomes, campervans, and caravans converged upon the vessel, each carrying dreams of wild Tasmanian shores. Our hearts echoed the collective hum of anticipation, for this journey had been five months in the making. The moment held a surreal edge, as if we were stepping into a long-awaited tale.

    Like sardines packed within a tin, we surrendered our freedom of movement to the gentle thrum of the ferry's engine. Our humble two-bed cabin, a sanctuary amidst the floating city, welcomed us with open arms. A shower, a luxury long absent from our nomadic life, whispered promises of rejuvenation.

    As the sun dipped its celestial canvas into the ocean's embrace, it painted the Victorian shoreline in hues of molten gold and crimson farewell. The mainland, bathed in the ethereal glow of twilight, whispered a poignant adieu as we embarked on a 12-month odyssey to the wild, untamed heart of Tasmania.

    We retreated to our cozy cocoon, seeking solace in slumber before the open seas unleashed their fury. But the ocean, a restless beast, would not be denied.

    At the witching hour, we jolted awake, tossed amidst a tempest of five-meter swells. A few more tablets became our peace offering to the churning waves, granting us a fragile return to slumber's embrace.

    Morning dawned with a touch of vertigo for Sal, a lingering souvenir of the night's tumultuous dance. Yet, as we disembarked onto Tasmanian soil, relief and elation intertwined. We had weathered the storm, and a new chapter of adventure lay before us, ripe with possibilities.    Read more

  • Sal and AnthNomadic Narratives
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    Day 24–29

    Windswept Wonders & Wash Cycles

    January 27 in Australia ⋅ 🌬 18 °C

    Chapter 1: Arrival in Tasmania - A Land of Emerald and Sapphire

    With a rumble and a sigh, the Spirit of Tasmania released us from its iron embrace, depositing us onto the shores of a world both familiar and foreign. Our bus, eager for new adventures, rolled onto the tarmac with a newfound lightness, as if it too sensed the boundless possibilities that lay ahead.

    Tasmania unfolded before us like a map traced in emerald and sapphire, its wild heart beating to the rhythm of ancient forests and windswept shores. For the next twelve months, we would call this island home, our nomadic souls finding solace in its rugged beauty and untamed spirit.

    Chapter 2: The Journey Begins - A Nomadic Homecoming

    As we drove away from the ferry terminal, leaving the echoes of the mainland behind, we felt a sense of homecoming we hadn't anticipated. It was as if the island had been patiently awaiting our arrival, whispering secrets carried on the breeze and etched into the towering eucalypts.

    Chapter 3: Ulverstone Laundromat - Unexpected Adventures

    Driving towards our night's destination, the laundromat in Ulverstone unveiled itself as an unexpected adventure, its fluorescent lights casting a beacon of cleanliness amidst the hum of our nomadic journey. We marvelled at the industrial giants—washing machines of such colossal proportions that they could swallow mountains of laundry in a single, thunderous spin. Sal's eyes danced with delight as she lovingly entrusted our cherished white linen doona cover to the gentle swirl of the suds, its transformation a soothing balm to her spirit.

    Chapter 4: Embracing the Elements - Windswept Symphony by the Sea

    While the machines hummed their industrious melody, we ventured to a nearby park, our water tanks replenished and spirits thirsting for the salty embrace of the sea. Steaming cups of homemade coffee warmed our hands as we strolled along windswept sands, the ocean's roar an orchestra of wild harmonies that played to the depths of our souls. Yet, the gusts proved playful, stealing sips from Anth's mug and scattering them back to the earth in a mischievous dance of wind and foam.

    Chapter 5: Evening Solace - Sanctuary by the Ocean's Edge

    A timely chime from our phone signaled the completion of our laundry quest. With freshly cleansed belongings in hand, we set off towards our day's destination.

    Nightfall found us nestled beside the ocean's edge at Midway Point, as if the island had drawn us into its very heart. A symphony of wind and waves serenaded our humble campsite, gusts reaching over 60 kilometers per hour in a tempestuous display of nature's might. Yet, within the walls of our cozy home on wheels, we found sanctuary. The warmth of a home-cooked meal filled our bellies, and the contentment of a shared journey filled our hearts. As the stars emerged to paint the night sky, we surrendered to the rhythm of the island's embrace, our souls aglow with the anticipation of wonders yet to be explored.

    Chapter 6: Life's Rhythms - Explorations and Encounters

    Five sunrises painted the sky, weaving a rhythm of walks, work, and sweet repose into our days. Gone was the frantic pace of routine, replaced by a life unfolding with the unhurried tide.

    Our feet followed the whispering coastline east, leading us to the iconic Penguin Surf Club and whispers of hidden treasures. Another day, the call of the west lured us towards a windswept headland, where a peekaboo game began with a curious penguin peeking from its hutch.

    As twilight dipped the world in dusky hues, a night walk unveiled a magical encounter. Nestled in the undergrowth, close to our temporary haven, two little penguins huddled together, their tiny forms dwarfed by the vastness of the starry night.

    These weren't the only connections forged during our stay. Benyu and Rach, a free-spirited duo three years into their nomadic journey, shared their tales of the open road. Alongside them, we met Hope, an inspiring soul who had been navigating the country for over a year with her young son, embracing each new day with a sense of wonder that only a child's eyes could reflect. Terry, drawn to Tasmania's magic a year and a half ago, had found a new home and feathered companions - two cheeky cockatiels who completed his island idyll.

    The embers of our final evening crackled with warmth as Benyu wove his fiery magic, painting swirling constellations against the starlit expanse. As dawn's first blush chased away the night, bittersweet goodbyes were exchanged, promises to reconnect echoing on the salty breeze.

    Each encounter, like a brushstroke on the canvas of our adventure, painted a richer picture of life lived slowly, savoured deeply, and forever etched in memory.    Read more

  • Sal and AnthNomadic Narratives
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    Day 29–32

    Coffee & New Horizons

    February 1 in Australia ⋅ 🌬 21 °C

    The relentless roar of the forties howled its farewell on our last campsite morning. Undeterred, we steered our chariot inland, seeking refuge from the blustery coast.

    Penguin, a charming town named after its tuxedoed residents, offered a life-giving refill for our thirsty tanks. Devonport, next, brimmed with fresh fruits and veggies, replenishing our dwindling stocks.

    Then, like a knight finding his Excalibur, we stumbled upon the perfect campsite. Nestled beside the gurgling Leven River in Bannons Park, it was a symphony of nature's music, the wind whispering secrets through the trees.

    Nights were crisp, demanding an extra layer of armor against the cold. But mornings? Ah, mornings began with the soul-stirring warmth of coffee, its aroma a promise of adventures yet to come.

    Our three-night sojourn may not have boasted grand vistas or epic hikes, but it yielded a far greater treasure: clarity and direction for our online business. A new path, brimming with possibilities, stretched before us, and we were eager to explore it.    Read more

  • Sal and AnthNomadic Narratives
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    1
    Day 32–33

    The Grand Detour of Leven Canyon

    February 4 in Australia ⋅ ☁️ 17 °C

    The Leven River's dulcet murmurs had lulled us into a comfortable rhythm, its promise of cascading splendor at nearby Preston Falls echoed in our ears. But fate, a mischievous imp disguised as a roadside sign, slyly winked at us, whispering of hidden gems - Leven Canyon, a mere 20 kilometers away. Curiosity, our ever-present travel companion, urged us to veer off course, sending our trusty steed (the bus) humming down a verdant new path.

    And what a serendipitous detour it proved to be! Nestled amidst an emerald embrace, Leven Canyon unveiled its dramatic grandeur. Unlike the river's tranquil meander through Bannons Park, here it roared through the canyon, a powerful testament to nature's artistry.

    From the vertigo-inducing heights of Cruickshanks lookout to the secrets whispered by the canyon floor, each vista unfolded like a breathtaking masterpiece.

    The irresistible call of camping unfurled our mobile haven, granting us the freedom to roam and rest wherever our hearts desired. As we set up camp, a spiky ambassador emerged - a Tasmanian short-beaked echidna, its shyness momentarily forgotten. Laughter and heartwarming footage filled the air, a memory forever woven into the tapestry of our nomadic journey.

    The following morning, the walk along the Canyon floor was a rugged dance with nature, testing our limits and rewarding us with the raw beauty whispered by ancient rock and gurgling river. With each conquered challenge, our connection to Tasmania's wild heart deepened, resonating within our very souls.

    Leven Canyon, a chance encounter that blossomed into an unforgettable chapter, forever etched in the narrative of our wandering souls. But the map, our ever-present guide, beckoned with new stories to tell. With hearts brimming and cameras overflowing, we pressed on, the next adventure already shimmering on the horizon and although fate nudged us down a different path, the allure of Preston Falls remained. Undeterred, we continued our journey, eventually making a stop to explore its cascading beauty from top to bottom.    Read more

  • Sal and AnthNomadic Narratives
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    Day 33–37

    Lake Kara Chronicles: Nomads & Nature

    February 5 in Australia ⋅ ☀️ 19 °C

    Leaving Preston Falls, we veered off the familiar path, forging ahead into uncharted wilderness. Our planned campsite at Leven Canyon was a memory whispered on the wind, replaced by the promise of adventure.

    Just before Lake Kara emerged from the trees, a shadowy grove named Upper Natone Forest Reserve lured us in. Its secrets unfolded with each rustling leaf and gnarled branch, a spooky symphony that set the stage for an even more unexpected encounter. As we emerged from the eerie embrace, a figure materialised – Mick, a fellow nomad we'd met at Bannons Park. He, too, called the open road his home, and like a seasoned guide, shared local gems with a knowing grin. We were tempted, but our hearts yearned for the unknown, leading us onward to Lake Kara.

    Man-made, yet teeming with life, the lake welcomed us with open arms. Three campers, painted with the stories of seasoned Grey Nomads, circled the shore, but soon, they set sail on their own journeys, leaving us monarchs of this tranquil domain.

    On the third day, the water stirred. Anth's cry echoed through the stillness, summoning Sal to witness a magical dance – a platypus, gliding amongst the reeds, its elusive form a treasure more precious than gold. It was Sal's first wild encounter with this mythical creature, a perfect counterpoint to the echidna they'd marvelled at in Leven Canyon.

    The kindness of Tasmanians bloomed again when Ros and Mike, from the nearby town of Wynyard, offered their driveway as a respite whenever we wished. But mostly, the lake belonged to us – a haven of solitude punctuated by the arrival of Natalie, a solo traveler weaving her own tapestry on the open road. Around the crackling fire, our stories intertwined, fuelled by the crisp air and the warmth of shared dreams.

    Mornings painted the lake in golden hues, but the air held a bite, a reminder of the changing seasons. The fire became a nightly ritual, a comforting ember against the growing chill, a reminder of the warmth we'd found not just in the flames, but in the journey itself, a month away from home yet closer than ever to ourselves.    Read more

  • Sal and AnthNomadic Narratives
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    Day 37–39

    Woven Paths: Heart and Horizon

    February 9 in Australia ⋅ ☀️ 22 °C

    Lake Kara's serenity was intoxicating, but even Eden requires a refilled glass. With water reserves dwindling after 8 days off grid, we turned our sails towards Burnie on the coast, restocking provisions for both body and bus.

    Weeks earlier, a casual lament about pesky flies at the bus door had reached Anth's mum's ears. Her crafty magic materialized in the form of a macrame door, waiting for us at the Burnie post office – a tangible thread of love woven with the spirit of her own Australian journeys. It was a reminder that even on open roads, kindness has a way of finding you.

    Cooee's free RV camp offered a no-frills haven, but its real treasure lay at our doorstep: the boundless expanse of Bass Strait. We were living the dream, the one whispered by many, envied by some, embraced by us.

    Two nights we stayed, the first mirroring our wild Tasmanian welcome with wind that rattled the bus like a dice cup. But the second night brought magic in the form of a lone fairy penguin, navigating the rocky path homeward just beyond our window.

    From enchanted lakes to windswept shores, each moment held its own unique freedom. And in that freedom, we lived, fully and joyfully, present in the present, wherever the road may lead.    Read more

  • Sal and AnthNomadic Narratives
    3
    Day 39–40

    The Grand Ballad of Yolla Tavern

    February 11 in Australia ⋅ ☁️ 19 °C

    Bidding farewell to the salty embrace of the coast, we delved inland, yearning for a different kind of haven. Whispers of the Yolla Tavern, a former butter factory transfigured into a pizza paradise and a monthly stage for Irish folk revelry, had reached our ears. A mere 20-minute drive and the chance to camp for free behind the pub under the publican's benevolent gaze? How could we resist?

    We were the first to arrive, the silence heavy with anticipation. Soon, a vibrant tapestry unfolded - locals and musicians wove their way in, their faces weathered like the landscape, instruments carried like well-worn companions. Rob, the publican, and his wife Jenny exuded the warmth of a thousand campfires, their hospitality echoing the spirit of small-town community.

    And then, the music erupted.

    The silence shattered as the first tin whistle trilled, sharp and bright as a robin's song. It was a spark, igniting a cascade of sound. Fiddles soared, their bows weaving stories etched in vibrant melodies. The Uilleann pipes, with their mournful wail, painted landscapes of misty cliffs and windswept shores.

    Each instrument was a voice, unique and distinct, yet blending seamlessly into a tapestry of music woven with shared passion. They weren't playing for applause, for the clinking of coins in a hat. They played for the pure joy of it, their faces alight with the magic they conjured. The music thrummed through the floorboards, pulsed in the air, vibrating like a living thing.

    Some tunes were old and familiar, carrying the weight of generations past. Others were born anew, improvised in the heat of the moment, ephemeral whispers of shared inspiration. The musicians danced a silent choreography, their instruments extensions of their souls, each adding their own verse to the unfolding song.

    As we soaked in the sounds, a white-haired, white-bearded figure joined us, Johnny. His weathered face, etched with the laughter of wind and salt, seemed to hold the rhythm of the ocean itself. In perfect harmony with the music, he spun tales of a life lived on the rolling waves, from the icy embrace of Iceland to the verdant shores of New Zealand. His gnarled hands, once strong enough to wrestle nets and battle storms, gestured with the grace of a seasoned storyteller, painting vivid pictures of his adventures. We sat there, enraptured, as music and stories intertwined, weaving a tapestry of a life lived to its fullest, seasoned with the tang of the sea and the rhythm of the tides forever etched in his soul.

    But the magic didn't stop there. As the night deepened, we were reunited with Natalie, the solo traveler we'd met at Lake Kara. Turns out, she too had been drawn to the siren song of the Yolla Tavern. In that moment, we realised that this life of travel, this nomadic existence, wasn't as solitary as we had imagined. It was a tapestry woven with threads of chance encounters, shared experiences, and the comforting hum of belonging, no matter where the road led.

    The Yolla Tavern wasn't just a pub; it was a microcosm of the world we were exploring, a haven where music flowed freely, stories found a welcoming ear, and strangers became companions beneath the shared sky. It was a reminder that magic often hides in the most unexpected corners, waiting to be discovered by those who dare to explore, and that even on the loneliest road, connection and community can blossom in the most unexpected places.

    Other times we have stayed here ->
    https://findpenguins.com/salandanth/footprint/6…    Read more

  • Sal and AnthNomadic Narratives
    Day 40–41

    Myrtle Mysteries: Hellyer's Brief Stay

    February 12 in Australia ⋅ ☀️ 23 °C

    After the vibrant tapestry of music and stories at the Yolla Tavern, a question mark hung heavy in the air: where next? Southward we steered, drawn by the whispers of emerald embrace - Hellyer Gorge, a free haven nestled deep within a forest's leafy arms.

    We burrowed deep into the verdant canopy, finding solace in the cool shade. Though sunlight eluded our thirsty solar panels, we basked in the assurance of our built-in reserves, confident enough to call this place home for a night.

    But paradise wasn't without its tiny terrors. Swarms of march flies, notorious for their voracious appetites, descended upon us, relentless in their quest for a meal. Thankfully, the sturdy screens of our bus proved an impenetrable fortress.

    However, the lush foliage also cloaked our Starlink connection, severing the digital lifeline to our work. This, coupled with the persistent fly brigade, made our decision swift - a one-night stand it would be.

    Undeterred, we sought solace in the whispers of the forest. The River Track unfolded along the Hellyer River's gurgling banks, a well-trodden path echoing with the rhythm of countless footsteps. Yet, we yearned for something less familiar, something hidden.

    As if guided by serendipity, we stumbled upon the Old Myrtle Forest Walk, a lesser-known gem tucked away from the crowds. Its entrance, veiled by dense foliage, whispered tales of secrets waiting to be unraveled. And what secrets they were! The towering ancient myrtle trees, draped in emerald moss and whispering secrets through their leaves, transported us to a world lost in time.

    This hidden path, revealed by a geocaching treasure hunt, became a metaphor for our nomadic adventure itself. Just beneath the surface, hidden in plain sight, lay adventures waiting to be discovered, stories waiting to be told.    Read more

  • Sal and AnthNomadic Narratives
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    Day 41–45

    Chores, Shores & IceCream

    February 13 in Australia ⋅ 🌬 20 °C

    Freedom pulsed through every mile, but even open roads hummed with chores. Town Day in Wynyard arrived, a symphony of errands – a box arriving from yesterday's life, pantries overflowing with replenished bounty, water tanks quenched, laundry tamed, and our bus gleaming anew. Even arriving late at the Myalla Community Oval's free campsite couldn't dampen the day's satisfaction. After all, the journey wasn't about speed, but savouring the miles. This first diesel fill-up in three Tasmanian weeks was a reminder; a year stretched before us on this island, an invitation to slow down and truly explore.

    The next morning, serendipity strolled in. Ros and Mike, fellow nomads we'd met at Lake Kara, now retired Tasmanians, materialised with open arms and an invitation. They whisked us to the charming seaside town of Boat Harbour Beach. Coffee became a tapestry woven with travel tales, their stories echoing our own nomadic symphony.

    Work, a necessary counterpoint, filled the third day. But the ocean, an irresistible siren, called. With practiced ease, our bus transformed from office to chariot once more, our wheels humming back towards Boat Harbour Beach again.

    The water, an impossible cerulean dream, whispered of tropical havens sans the stifling heat. The sand, impossibly white, stretched wide and welcoming. As we explored, fate, a playful pup, nipped at our heels. Helen, a caravanning sage with 23 years and 10 Overland Track treks etched on her weathered map, offered wisdom and warmth, guiding us towards some of her favourite hikes in Tassie.

    As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in farewell hues, Sal, the resident sorceress, conjured her magic. Banana-choc chip pancakes, infused with the power of protein ice cream, became the perfect coda to a day that sang a familiar truth: adventure hides in the folds of the ordinary, waiting to be unearthed by hearts that dare to open and minds that thirst for exploration. The road, our ever-present companion, hummed with the promise of new stories, each bend a whispered invitation. We were nomads, and the journey, our ever-evolving home.    Read more

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