Traffic is thick on the highway as I head out of Brisbane on my way to the invitingly named Sunshine Coast. I suspect the traffic is always thick on these roads that pump vehicles in and out of the city like haemoglobin into a beating heart. After spending time in the company of a new found friend it’s a little quiet being solo again. Though I’m not entirely alone, my GPS is talking to me, keeping me company for this short drive to the coast that promises me sunshine aplenty.

The road from Brisbane to the Sunshine Coast is straight forward and uneventful. Even the chattiest GPS would struggle to commentate on the journey. So as she didn’t feel overlooked, I deliberately took a few wrong turns so my GPS could interject with some timely advice.

“In 150 meters turn left, then stay in the left lane.”

My GPS is female, she talks to me with an Irish accent and never complains when I take a turn that is contrary to her directions. In calm and measured tones she speaks to me like some kind of road therapist. Occasionally, in her soft Irish brogue that shows not a hint of frustration, she asks me to make a U turn where possible. Her guidance is clear and concise and she never unravels into dramatic shrieks if I drive too close to the car in front or slightly overlook the occasional speed limit.

We’ve shared the trip with each other, and perhaps in years to come, when she’s in a bar somewhere in her mother country, she’ll recount stories from the road: the sights, the sounds, the detours and distractions. I picture her telling those tarmac tales while sipping a dram of whiskey that she drinks neat and without ice. She’s Irish after all, and I’m pretty sure my GPS girl takes her whiskey straight up.

For the first time in quite a while the roads felt somewhat familiar as I drove into the coastal town of Coolum. This wasn’t the first time I had visited the Sunshine Coast. I got a taste of the place in the summer of 2009 when I visited a friend of a friend here for a few days.

Back then I flew in from Sydney, magically transported through the clouds and thereby missing the graduated transition that you get as you travel overland from one place to another. Planes are great, but they often sterilise the journey by removing much of the travel from travelling.

After the buzz of Brisbane the Sunshine Coast is sleepy even at its most animated. Waves lap golden beaches and the sun wanders across the sky content to do little more than stretch the shadows late into the evening.

If this place were a coffee it would be a latte to Brisbane’s cappuccino. It’s enjoyable enough, but if you’re used to that familiar rush of caffeine then the Sunshine Coast might feel a little milky. However, there’s no denying the appeal of a latte while you unwind and let the hours that might have otherwise held you captive just wisp away like smoke in the breeze.

Winter in Queensland feels much like a British summer, or at least the British summers of my imagination, where the sun shines and clouds are decoration in an otherwise plain blue sky. The reality is that a Queensland winter is better than most British summers, a fact that makes me never want to return to my homeland, or at least be in no hurry to return to its shores anytime soon.

As usual I’ve paid no attention to tourist guides telling me about the places I must see. Instead I surrender myself to the randomness of discovery, allowing the Sunshine Coast to find me rather than the other way around.

I suspect I miss a few things travelling in this rather lackadaisical fashion, but I figure that the must-sees will still be here when I’m old enough to worry about my step and where the next bathroom break will be.

For now I’m content to miss a few things that I don’t happen to catch around a random corner or stumble upon while following my curiosity down some winding road. I’m not here to tick boxes, I’m fine just making my own way to wherever I end up tomorrow.

—

I’m finally back in Melbourne and trying to catch up with my blog from the road. I’ve got loads of stories and great pictures that I’ll be sharing in the coming weeks. If seeing that sounds like your cup of tea, please consider subscribing or joining the 100% junk-mail free email list to have new posts sent directly to your email inbox. Click here for more details.

On this road trip greetings and goodbyes are the punctuation. I’m constantly meeting new people and seeing new places, then after a few days I say my goodbyes and I leave them to continue north. If there are any moments of this ongoing adventure that I don’t like, I suppose it would be the string of goodbyes that fade in my wake. But then, just a few minutes later as the road stretches before me, I get that buzz that only the road ahead can give you.

There is a romance in a life spent on the road, a life that’s been simplified down to the essentials with little need or accommodation for the spoils and complications of a bricks and mortar day-to-day. Tomorrow could be anywhere and next week could easily be as far away in miles as it is in hours.

As I drive north on the Pacific Highway consuming distance and time like candy at the movies, I feel less like the driver and more like a passenger. I’m looking at the scenery passing me by with the kind of interest that routine gleefully smothers, but unlike the traffic around me, I’m in no rush. Instead I’m content to let the suits scurry by, jockeying for positions in their race to get home for dinner.

I’m on my way to Brisbane and I’ll get there soon enough. 6 o’clock, 9 o’clock, it doesn’t really matter. I’m just driving, listening to music and the hum of the road beneath me as the sun beats a familiar path to the horizon.

For the first time since Sydney I’m greeted by a somewhat familiar face, Vanessa, one of the people I met in Byron Bay. As a fellow couchsurfer she’s kindly offered to let me stay at her shared house for a few days. It’s a young house, full of students in their twenties, mismatched furniture, and washing up piled in the kitchen sink like a work of modern art.

Looking around takes me back to the myriad of such places I’ve called home in years gone by, back when my hair was longer and my most important possessions were records and CD’s. It’s hectic but welcoming, no airs or graces, just somewhere to come as you are, somewhere to be. When you’re home is a van and your address is the road, the offer of a couch, a warm shower, and a fews days to stop is always welcome.

The pair of us head out for something to eat then Vanessa takes me to Mount Coot-tha to see a spectacular panoramic view of Brisbane and it’s surroundings. The mass of lights spreads before us like a carpet of fairy lights under the fluorescent glow of a dazzling full moon.

It’s a warm evening, mellow like a warm bath or time lost in your favorite armchair. A group of japanese tourists are posing for pictures. They’re excited and chattering away amid a shower of camera flashes that freeze their smiles in time as they give the obligatory V sign with their fingers that all Japanese people seem to do.

The next day as Vanessa went to work I went exploring. Brisbane isn’t a huge city, it’s significant, but manageable. As Queensland’s capital a few tall buildings climb to the clouds, but they fall short as if conscious that no other buildings around them are being so ambitious or outlandish. It’s an unassuming city that doesn’t scream or shout about itself, happy not to fight for the limelight but quietly confident that people will find there way here and discover a city that is relaxed about it’s place in the world.

I wandered around the tree lined streets in Paddington and Latrobe Terrace with it’s eclectic mix of antique stores, cafe’s, bars and boutiques. The Paddington Antique centre was a fascinating bazar. Small stall holders occupy the old Plaza Theatre that was opened in the 1930′s. Today the ornate stage surroundings are still in place along with the deep blue painted ceiling. Traders sell furniture and trinkets from old telephones and televisions, to old books their pages musty and browned with the passing of time.

The city takes a big breath of fresh air with its botanical gardens that house some beautiful lush plants and trees. Vanessa laughed at me when we visited there because I was so excited about the awesome spreading Banyan trees, one of which was home to a family of possums that peered out at us as if they were the tourists and we were the attraction.

I’m not really one for diving into a city and consuming it’s poster tourist attractions. Museums and galleries are fine, cruises and tours are okay too, and I’ll do them if they take my fancy. But generally I just like to wander into a city and allow it to introduce itself to me without the aid of a glossy brochure or map.

I enjoy getting a little lost in order to see what I can find, and what finds me. I suppose this tactic means I miss some of the ‘essentials’ but I don’t mind that. I’m not trying to be alternative, I just like allowing a place to unfold before me without the pressure of a timetable of glossy expectations.

I like melting into a city, like slowly walking into a swimming pool allowing your skin to adjust to the temperature of the water. I find cafe’s here and there, order a cappuccino and watch the world go by while maybe catching up with work (or my blog) on my laptop. I actually find this activity very relaxing, and I was pleased to find that Brisbane is an easy city to melt into.

On Saturday I wandered around the West End market in Davies Park where farmers bring their fruit and vegetables to sell as they shout the prices to wandering shoppers. Locally made crafts were being poured over by tourists and locals alike, while massage therapists treated people in tents and musicians played on the grass by the river. Such markets are common and very popular in Australia. It’s still winter here, but sunny and warm, a perfect summers day by my British standards.

A couple of hipsters were selling coffee from a beautifully restored VW Kombi van. Called the Coffee Koffien the Kombi van had been lovingly converted into a travelling cafe that tours around the Brisbane area selling fine coffee at various events. I admired their Kombi for a while, took some pictures, then walked along the river sipping my cappuccino and watching jet skiers jumping small waves made by passing boats.

As with everywhere else I’ve travelled to on this road trip, I could have happily stayed in Brisbane. I would have liked to get to know the city like I know Melbourne, to spend a few weeks finding its soul and discovering its hideaways. But after nearly a week, again longer than I had planned to stay, I had to one again take to the road leaving another city, another friend, and another goodbye in my wake. Such is life on the road.

As I crossed the state line from New South Wales into Queensland I was welcomed to the ‘sunshine state’ by the Gold Coast. Sitting in traffic amid the towering hotels and apartment blocks all trying to catch a glimpse of the sea, I found myself feeling penned in by the concrete that seemed to be swallowing me like it had surely swallowed the very things that once earned this place such an alluring name.

People had told me that the Gold Coast was something of a soulless place. “It’s like a little bit of America got marooned on the southern beaches of Queensland,” said one Australian I met, and in some respects I can see why they came to that conclusion. With names like Palm Beach, and Miami strung together at the end of the Pacific Coast Highway, the place does indeed seem a little like America, or at least the scene of a collision between the two countries.

It’s not pretty. It feels fake, like the girls who adorn the billboards for local tattoo parlours. Like a film set upon which at any moment a tire screeching car chase might come careering around the next corner with bandits hanging out of car windows shooting back at police cars in hot pursuit, their sirens wailing.

The city of Surfers Paradise reaches into the sky and claws at the clouds like any American city you can think of. It’s a bland city, that stands undistinguished like a glass of water at a cocktail bar. If shopping at stores you can find anywhere is your kind of thing then I’m told Surfers Paradise is great.

Nobody outside Australia knows about this city. It lacks the international charisma a city needs to stand on the world stage and be noticed. Instead Surfers Paradise seems to be gorging on concrete and steel as if comfort eating to offset the pain of watching its siblings, like Sydney and Melbourne, get all the attention.

In theory the Gold Coast is wonderful. In reality though it seems to be a mess. A blend of ordinary beaches with buildings that stand like headstones in tribute to the dead dreams of commercially minded planners who thought they could find their way to the bottom of our pockets by giving an ugly place an attractive name.

I wish I could tell you something positive about the Gold Coast. I’m sure there is something, but perhaps unfairly, I didn’t hang around long enough to unearth it. As soon as I got to the Gold Coast I found myself looking for the exit. I stayed as long as I thought was polite, then I left.

It could be that my impressions were colored by the fact that I found these concrete caves as I emerged from the mellowed out haze of the tree houses and Byron Bay. Perhaps if I had descended into Surfers Paradise from a jet plane, transported from one mass of concrete to another, my first impressions would have been kinder. Maybe the Gold Coast is an acquired taste, but I can’t imagine that I’ll be going back anytime soon to find out.

—

I don’t know who it was, but someone told me that I would love Byron Bay because it was “full of hippies and tie-dye T-shirts.” I’m pretty sure that was a sideways jab at Byron Bay and myself, but it was enough to tweak my curiosity about the place. Not having done the slightest bit of research or even read even the merest of descriptions about the place, all I really knew about it was that it was a backpacker hot-spot with an alternative vibe, located in the far-northeastern corner of the state of New South Wales.

I saw two VW Kombi vans for sale as I rolled into town. Both were road weary battle beaten wrecks that had been decorated by their former owners, and both were typically over-priced. I slowed down to look at them then tapped the steering wheel of my old Toyota. “I only have eyes for you Vicky,” I said to van which the previous owners had named on account of the fact it’s registered in the State of Victoria. I laughed to myself. I’m talking to a van for heavens sake!

A cute girl in a small denim skirt walked along the street wearing a bikini top and a towel around her neck. She waved at me, or at least she appeared to. I waved back. She had probably mistaken me for someone else she knows who own a beat up old Toyota van. Though, I prefer to think this is just how Byron Bay welcomes it’s late winter visitors, with a wave from a pretty girl wearing bright smile and not a whole lot else.

As the low sun flickered through trees flashing across my dusty windscreen my stereo played ‘Let’s Get Together‘ by The Youngbloods. I smiled and shook my head at my iPods random selection of this track which I have no recollection of ever downloading.

Leaning forward across the wheel I looked up at the sky and the clouds. This was another one of those times that I call a ‘soundtrack moment,’ where the music playing seems to to fit the scene so well that you’re not so much living your life as you are watching it.

I found my way to the beach. But not the main beach where all the Wicked and Jucy camper vans were parked in front of skateboarders whooping at one anothers stunts and tumbles. That’s not really where I was in my head, I was looking for something a little more mellow, a bit more chilled out, something that would suit the pace of the slowly sinking sun as it made its way to the mountains across the bay.

I found Clarkes beach, just a couple of minutes away and closer to a rock perch called ‘The Pass’ that looks down upon the most popular surf break on the northeast coast.

Walking out onto the beach my feet sank into the sand as I strolled towards the low rocks around The Pass. They were too jagged to find a good place to sit, so I stood there looking out across the water at the surfers, and listening to the sound of the waves that mixed in the air with the strains of distant music and the muffled shrieks of children playing in shallow water not far away. “Nice to meet you Byron Bay,” I said out loud as the sun disappeared behind the mountains.

There might have been things I should have seen at Byron Bay, some tourist essential that I missed. But as touristy as the place is, it doesn’t really feel that touristy. Or at least it didn’t then, at the end of winter, when the evenings were still chilly enough to require a coat or at least something more than just a tie-dye T-shirt.

I cruised around the small town, perusing the shops at speeds that would have frustrated a pensioner, and sampling the various cafe’s where strangers chatted with one another with the familiarity of old friends.

As my first full day there came to a close I had diner in a cafe listening to live music performed by Garrett Kato, a Canadian with a swirling husky voice. By day he’s a clerk in the store next door and by night he’s a singer songwriter in this town that feels like maybe everybody is a nighttime singer songwriter, if only in their heads.

While Garrett sang I struck up a conversation with some young people who were also visiting Byron Bay. One of them, Vanessa, was keen to do a dawn walk up the lighthouse in the morning. Her friends seemed less psyched about the plan, but they were going along with it. Being a fellow ‘couch surfer‘ and embracing the spirit of Byron Bay openness, Vanessa invited me along.

I don’t much like mornings, and the only time I ever see dawn is when the conclusion of the night before is running late. That or when I have a perilously early flight. But Vanessa’s youthful enthusiasm and excitement at the prospect of watching the sun climb over the horizon was enough to convince me to join them. “Great!” She said with a big smile “We’ll see you at the YMCA in the morning then.”

A few hours later my phone alarm was chirping at me like a baby bird begging its mother for food. Snooze… My other alarm started to beep. I sat up in the back of my van, tweaked the curtain and cursed the darkness. Doing this was a good idea in the beer hours, but it was now hangover o’clock, maybe not for me, but you get the point.

It was early, in fact it was even too early for last nights drunks to be hiding their heads in an effort to evade the inevitable hangover that’s contracted by reality to make them pay for their excesses.

I rub my eyes and step out of the van, my bare feet dancing on the cold ground as I look for my shoes. I get myself a quick bowl of cereal and sit in the van boiling water for warmth and a cup of tea to give me the pick up thats essential for these still dark hours.

Everywhere is motionless, as if time itself is on pause. But the quiet is interrupted as my phone beeps again. A text message. I didn’t even need to look, I knew what it would say. Youthful enthusiasm is the better looking sibling of incorrigible unreliability.

“We’re still in bed,” Read the text message. “Of course you are,” I said to myself shaking my head. I’d gone to the effort of battling early morning gravity so I decided to go anyway, only I would drive. The walking part would be easier on four wheels I concluded.

After the sunrise Vanessa called me. She told me about how they had found another bar after meeting me. The others were still tired and maybe a little fragile, but she was keen to do the walk, so we walked along Wattage beach and the coastal path. We chatted as we strolled, stopping to take pictures and point out dolphins and whales to one another.

Eventually she left to meet up with her friends and go for a canoe tour or something. I went off in search of sushi and a good place to sit and drink something refreshing while I watched the world pass by.

Byron Bay is a friendly town, even by Australian standards it’s unusually friendly. I only spent the first night there sleeping in my van. The next evening, back at that cafe, a local shop keeper called Jason was chatting with me and the cafe owner as the staff began stacking the chairs and closing the place for the night.

“So where are you staying?” Jason asked me. I pointed at my van parked out front and explained that I would probably drive to Wattage beach and sleep there. “No dude, forget that. I’ve got a spare room at home and you’re welcome to crash that if you like.” And so I did. I mean why not? I’m a couch surfer, and I’ve come to learn that strangers are never as strange as you might think.

Another evening I met a woman called Zen. That wasn’t her actual name, it was her “Byron Bay name” she told me. “The young people like to call me Zen. Maybe because it’s short. We’ll have to give you a Byron Bay name darling.”

So I met ‘Zen,’ a lady unaware of how outlandish her behaviour was when she corralled the entire cafe to clap along to the live music as the cafe’s owner looked on with a nervous smile upon his face. “I love her. She spends loads of money,” he told me. “But you never know what she’s going to do next, you know. And not everyone is into that.”

We both looked over to her as she hugged a complete stranger she’d spent the last few minutes chatting to. “You’re divine,” she told them while clapping little opera claps. And it seemed to me that the stranger, her best friend at that moment, lapped it up. They even posed for her while she took a picture of them. “I’ll find you on facebook,” she said as they walked away.

Zen called everything and everyone “divine” and after chatting with me she told me I “had to” stay at her place that night. “Darling, you can couch surf with me,” she said after I had explained the concept of couch surfing to her. Again I accepted the kindness of a stranger.

“I should tell you, I’m not a vegan, but darling I don’t do dairy,” she said with a serious tone in her voice, as if that fact would somehow change my mind. I looked over the cafe owner who smiled and raised his eyebrows. “I can go dairy free for a night I’m sure,” I assured her, and that news was apparently worthy of more little opera claps.

The live music, the friendly locals and colourful characters made Byron Bay unforgettable. Its ‘cruisy’ laid back vibe born out of a hippie history gives this place a truly unique flavour. I’m told that in the summer it’s a far crazier place, and I suspect that I wouldn’t have been so taken if I had visited the place then. But for me Byron Bay was a true road trip landmark, and a landmark in time too.

My takeaway moment came one evening when I was sat at Clarkes beach again. As I watched surfers bobbing up and down in the water waiting for the perfect wave, the clouds above them began to change color as the sun made its way toward the someone else’s dawn. First pinks, then yellows, then fire oranges and reds. Pretty soon the entire sky was engulfed in a magnificent blanket of fire so awesome it seemed that, for a few moments at least, everyone just stood there silent and awestruck at this majestic and spectacular moment of wonder.

So I don’t know who it was that told me that I would love Byron Bay because it was “full of hippies and tie-dye T-shirts.” But whoever it was, they were at least right about one thing. I did indeed love Byron Bay.

—

I was a passenger in a stranger’s four-wheel drive making its way through a dense forest at night. Outside the headlights illuminated the rough and challenging road that climbed, dropped, and twisted before us. I was somewhere near Byron Bay in the far north east of New South Wales, but really I had no idea where I was with any degree of accuracy. In fact, right there in the darkness as I looked across at the stranger driving, it occurred to me that nobody else knew where I was either.

I’m a couch surfer, and as such I’m familiar with meeting strangers in far flung places, then staying in their homes as a guest for a night or two. To some the notion of sleeping under the same roof as someone you only just met online is nothing short of complete madness, similar perhaps to buying strange substances from sketchy characters in dark allyways.

In fact, there are those who might argue that if anything, the purchase of strange substances from sketchy people in dark allyways is safer than staying in the home of a complete stranger. However, those people wouldn’t be couch surfers; drug users maybe, but certainly not couch surfers.

The driver of the four-wheel drive I was in was Robin, an friendly Australian ‘chap’ with British roots and a decidedly English accent. He was my couchsurfing host and by no stretch of the imagination could he have been considered a sketchy character.

As he expertly navigated his way along the narrow and winding road in near total darkness, he pointed out trees briefly lit by the headlights, talked about deforestation, and pondered aboriginal history. “There is a shorter way,” He tells me. “I just thought you would appreciate the scenic route.”

One more sharp left hand corner and we were arrived at his house, the ‘treehouse’ as he called it. Nestled into the hillside, standing in the company of tall trees and palms, Robin’s hide-away forest home looked like something from a Tolkin novel as the lights from inside shone out into the night.

I gathered my things and some of the groceries he had bought, then followed him up a few stone steps. “Let’s get everything inside then we’ll start a fire,” he said as we walked through the door from the veranda into the main room of the house.

Built out of wood and adorned with artefacts that revealed something of who Robin was, the house had something of a magical, almost mystical feel to it. Maybe that was exaggerated under the cover of night and the seemingly difficult journey to get there, but still, the first impression left me in no doubt that this place was wonderfully unique.

A large open fire at one end of the main room was surrounded by musical instruments and and impressive sound system. A huge set of animal horns rested on the mantle above the fire next to a carved wooden tribal face and candles. Couches looked out onto the veranda, while at the other end of the room was a small wood stove, a dining room table and chairs, and the kitchen.

Robin gave me a tour, up stairs, through doorways, down stairs, and more doorways. As he pointed out various things telling me plans for the future or quick story of the past, I got a sense that this was a place in a permanent state of evolution, built as much out of love and devotion as it was wood and stone.

He then showed me another small ‘treehouse’ style cabin which would be mine for the duration of my stay. As we climbed the steep ladder into what would be my bedroom I couldn’t help but smile broadly to myself. I’ve couchsurfed in some amazing locations around the world, but this already topped that list.

Back at the main house, we lit a fire in the wood stove, then relaxed with warm drinks in our hands as we chatted. Just a few hours before we were strangers, but the evening’s banter brought familiarity and ease as our conversation weaved a path through the hours like the road to the house had weaved its way through the forest.

The next morning the light poured into my ‘treehouse’ room from daybreak. Through closed eyes I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face, stirring me from a good nights sleep. I sat up in bed, and for the first time saw the view across treetops out to the South Pacific ocean that set the horizon straight.

Walking out onto the small veranda I just stood there for a few moments feeling the cool morning breeze dance around me and listening to the call of birds that still sounded unfamiliar to me with their tropical song. I asked myself how I would describe this scene, indeed this whole feeling. “Amazing, amazing, amazing.” I said out loud. A poor description perhaps, but as I went back into the room to get my camera I knew this wasn’t a scene that would easily translate itself to the picture or the page.

I wandered up to the main house in search of coffee, toast, and the shower which Robin had pointed out to me the night before. It was an outside shower, stood on a slate floor and underneath the house amid the large wooden trunks that support the veranda above. In front of the sprawling vista and a small statue of Buddha I showered in rainwater collected in massive tanks then heated by gas from large bottles.

Robin’s house is essentially ‘off the grid’, with electricity supplied from a mass of batteries charged by a generator. Open air showering might feel odd anywhere else, but here in the forest it felt entirely normal, like this would be the only place you would put a shower in such a house.

The location, while not really that far from the small village of Billinudgel, felt more like it was days away from civilisation. Cocooned in the forest and hidden on the hillside, the ‘treehouse’ is gloriously removed from the everyday world and the things that busy our days. The abundance of seemingly never-ending lush green vegetation and sapphire blue skies made every breath feel calmer and more relaxed than the last. It’s fair to say that I didn’t so much relax as much as I simply dissolved into the surroundings, becoming wonderfully entangled by its mellow and laid back charm.

Later on, as we needed to venture out in search of firewood, Robin decided to combine the excursion with a tour of his land by four-wheel drive. Driving along tracks that it seemed only he could see, Robin ploughed through vegetation that was often times far taller than the little Suzuki we were bouncing around in.

Deep within what he called ‘the secret forest’, Robin showed me a further two cabins. Time and nature was getting the better of them, but with a little attention they could easily be home to someone, and Robin, as ever, had big plans for them.

As the tour continued we stopped at various points to clear the path, or take in a view. I photographed two rusting old vehicles that had been long since abandoned. They were slowly disintegrating into the forest, disappearing bit by bit, hour by hour, soon to be nothing more than part of the beautifully chaotic forest floor.

At one point went in search of a little hidden waterfall on the edge of a seemingly forgotten National Park. Long neglected by visitors and concealed among the trees and trailing vines, the waterfall was a place of pure tranquility. I picked up some large wooden seeds and put them in my pocket. Gifts from the forest, I told myself.

Byron Bay itself a travellers’ hot spot, but Robin was keen for me to experience the hinterland area which is often overlooked as the masses make a beeline for the beaches. Driving along small back roads that he said reminded him of rural Britain, Robin enthused about the landscape and the local culture.

Stopping at one of the many makeshift stalls outside a house, we took home grown mandarins, oranges, and bananas then left money in a little ‘honesty box.’ I suppose it was probably my romantic imagination, but those mandarins seemed juicier and more tasty than those I’ve had from supermarkets.

It must be great to be able to grow your own fruit, I thought to myself, allowing my thoughts to wander to a world where somewhere like this were my home, where I too might have a little table upon which I leave my fruit for passers-by to purchase.

Along the way we came to the Rainbow Temple, an impressive four storey hexagon-shaped pagoda that is a kind of off the beaten track hostel/retreat. With a large community kitchen, a vast open living/sleeping area, large stage, and lush gardens, the place had a real sense of calm and sanctuary about it. My inner hippie wanted to stay there, to meet and spend time with the people who find their way there. Perhaps in the future I’ll have the opportunity to do just that.

I had planned to spend just two or three nights at ‘the treehouse.’ But such was Robin’s hospitality, and the allure of his wonderful hillside haven, I ended up staying for a week. I found myself caught up in the wonder of it all, seduced by the forest and warmth of the fires we sat around at night.

It was hard to leave, but as I looked out across the treetops to the South Pacific Ocean for the final time, I felt the rest of the journey calling me.

—

I’ve driven more than one thousand three hundred miles (nearly 2,100 kilometres) from Melbourne along the coast next to the Tasman Sea and the South Pacific. In British terms thats the same amount of distance from London to St Petersburg in Russia! I’m not entirely sure where ‘there’ is, but by my calculations that puts me a little short of being half way there, though something tells me that’s entirely unimportant.

Australia is a big country. I already knew that, but driving it really puts the distances into perspective. Reviewing my progress on a map of Australia is a little daunting. I drive for hours then look at a map showing the whole country only to see I’ve barely moved. It’s a long way north, in fact, it’s a long way anywhere in this vast land.

That aside, this is surely the best way to travel. I could fly, but where’s the fun in that these days? There was a time when flying was exciting, even glamorous, but it hasn’t really ticked those boxes for a long time now. These days it’s often about getting the lowest fare, then being herded like cattle onto a no-frills low cost airline that will get you there, squashed, stressed, and vowing to never fly with that airline again (a promise that your pocket will probably insist you break).

LEAVING MELBOURNE

Leaving Melbourne felt good, though I’ll admit that when I set out onto the highway I felt a hint of sadness too. Behind me I was leaving friends, familiarities, and the city which had inspired me to leave the UK six months before. I was heading into the unknown, and while that unknown wasn’t particularly scary, it was nonetheless unfamiliar.

My first night was spent in the warm welcome of a friends house near Wilsons Promontory. To wake up in a house, albeit someone else’s house, made my leap into the unknown feel somehow less blind, almost well planned. However, soon enough I was behind the wheel again, driving up the Victorian coast feeding my van the mile upon mile of road.

It wasn’t long before I reached the border of New South Wales and my first overnight stop in the van at a place called Eden. It seemed like a fitting place for what was effectively the true beginning of my venture into a somewhat nomadic lifestyle.

The next morning I woke early to the sounds of waves from the Tasman Sea. I threw open the side door excitedly, forgetting that despite the sun it was still winter and cold at that time of the morning. The warm air that had cocooned me overnight was chased away by the chill of the morning breeze that rushed around me like excited children running onto a playground at recess.

It was a bright crisp morning so I took time to walk along the beach at Eden, picking up shells and throwing pebbles into the surf. The early start afforded me the luxury of time ahead of another day of driving and my scheduled arrival in Sydney that night.

SYDNEY

I’m no stranger to Sydney these days. I might not know it as well as I know cities like London, Boston, or Portland, but Sydney feels familiar to me, like a co-worker I might chat with by the photocopier or water cooler. (I wonder, do offices even have photocopiers anymore?)

Darkness fell as I neared the city. The illuminated sprawl bled Incandescent colors into the night sky as snakes of red and white lights oozed their way along asphalt arteries that felt like treacle to drive. It was late rush hour, but like any global city in the world, there’s hardly a time when this city isn’t in some kind of a rush.

It’s a dazzling place though, and even if you’ve never been here you know Sydney, and it knows you do. As radiant and aloof as a supermodel the city wears its magnificent harbour like expensive designer jewellery. You can’t help but be impressed when you come to Sydney. Somehow the city absorbs you, charms you, and includes you in its on-going tale of sound and fury.

I spent a relaxing week in Sydney staying at a friends house and frequenting cafe’s in Paddington, Newtown, and the city. I people watched, chatted with strangers, and listened in on conversations that melted into the air around me.

The winter in Melbourne was very quickly a memory as the sun warmed the days enough to make wearing a coat a fashion choice rather than a necessity. As I watched people swim in the ocean and sunbath on the beaches, I felt like a fugitive on the run from the winter that was somehow struggling to assert its jurisdiction here.

MAPS

The day I left Sydney I picked up the map my parents gave me for Christmas and laid it out on the floor of my friend Kim’s apartment. It’s not really that useful for serious route planning, but it’s good to get a sense of what’s ahead of me. I’m still looking for a suitable road atlas, something more tangible than Google maps and detailed enough to navigate the back roads.

I like maps. I like the feel of the paper in your hand, and the way you slowly move along the page. I like how a worn and weathered map hints of the tales beyond the topography.

For the first time in my life though, I own a GPS. I figured it would make life on the road easier, and I suppose it does. However, there’s no magic in that little screen, no chance of getting lost then navigating your way back and making discoveries along the way, no chance of finding yourself on the crease of the page. I’ve taken to switching it off and allowing myself to drive without the terse interruptions of my irritated digital companion. I like it better that way.

Driving the Pacific Coast Highway 1 from Sydney to Byron Bay I peppered the journey with stops in various places. I spent a few days in Newcastle to just catch up with work while the weather worked through its issues. I slept overnight in my van at Crowdy Head that was anything but crowdy at the time. And in Port Macquarie I met a couch surfer called Beth. Together we spent the evening chatting and coming up with ideas for her own world trip before I went in search of a spot on the South West Rocks to spend the night in what turned out to be the company of Kangaroos who stood around the van like monks vowed to a life of silence.

In a tiny town called Sawtell I tasted chilli’s at their annual chilli festival then got excited at the sight of banana plantations at Coffs Harbour. Two days disappeared in a place called Nymboida with a couple of couch surfers, Greg and Richard, and a lady named Phred (yes with a Ph). Then I was back on Highway 1 picking up hitchhikers as I made my way toward surf town, and hippie hotspot, Byron Bay.

I think I’m getting into the rhythm of being on the road. Every passing mile, every new town feels like a background change for this adventure. The people I meet feel like characters that have been written into a story, my story; the story of a nearly-nomad. There’s a long way, and a whole lot of who knows what still ahead of me yet.

—