When you go under the land down under, you’re in Tasmania.

The air tastes better there. And the water. And the salmon. It also technically counts as going overseas, because: A. You go over a sea to get there, and, B. Finding a public toilet, no matter how dank, fills you with immense gratitude.

After six previously cancelled scheduled holidays this year (which has left me with almost more flight credit than actual money), my visit to under the land down under last month was my first successful flee from the Gold Coast. And let me tell you, freedom tastes even better than Tasmanian air, water, and salmon.

The days leading up to my Tasmanian journey went the same way as every other trip I’ve had planned in the past year: impending cancellation. I have developed a knack for choosing holiday dates that align perfectly with covid lockdowns (FYI - Australian Health Officials, next outbreak is July… I have a flight booked). This time, all it took was one male stripper at a hen party whose body was just too smokin’ hot to stay 1.5 metres away from.

Queens-LockedDown-land.

I spent all three days before my departure saying things like “It could be so much worse!” and “I’m just so lucky to live in a country that’s trying to keep me safe!” which, whilst both absolutely true, didn’t spare me from sobbing dramatically in the shower.

It was four hours before my flight (luckily, not yet cancelled) when the announcement arrived:

Zero new cases. Lockdown lifted. Stripper in stable condition.

Tasmania was on, and the rest, as they say, is unprecedented history.

Friendly Beaches

My time in Tasmania was the most connected I’ve felt in a long time. Partly because of its natural, leafy embrace, but mostly because it was where me and my other half – Ellen – were reunited after almost two years of long-distance friendship. In my Melbourne life, El and I shared a wall in our ramshackle terrace house, as well as food, clothes, books, anything made of corduroy, friends, conversations - life. She is, as far as human interactions go, my soulmate.

Naturally, we did what any reuniting soulmates do when they go on holiday after years apart… we filled a 7-by-2 metre van full of hiking gear, Caramilk chocolate, and the tunes of Robbie Williams’ Escapology album*.

*For those of you who do not know me personally, Ellen and I are not a sixty-something year old lesbian couple. We’re just really cool.

Bruny Island Cheese Company, Bruny Island

There’s something pretty unique about driving yourselves and your beds and your bathroom and your smelly gear around an island. The regular anxieties of travel, like “Where will we sleep tonight?” are replaced with different ones, like “I hope we don’t hit a wombat today”. And whilst my concern for the wildlife of Tasmania remained on high alert, I felt a sense of control over the experience.

Control, when travelling, is a luxury. It is a luxury I enjoy, and a luxury I seek (...and a luxury that’s lost all attainability in a world where travel has ceased to exist for a while). I don’t succumb to the nomadic idea that “no plans are the best plans!” because the thought of having absolutely no plans is terrifying. I’m not immune to spontaneity, but I fear the expanse of zero control.

Tasmania, I felt in control of. We – Ellen and I – found the rhythm and we followed it. Sure, there were times we were lost, campsites that were full, a cancelled flight, and a covid scare. But in the van, we had a home; in each other, we had a team; and in the beauty of the island, we always had somewhere spectacular to be.