Longford Mania in Tasmania

  If I said that I never really cared about my name, which I doubt I have, that would be because of two things. The first is that when I grew up most people had close approximations to the Bible for names such as Phillip, John, James, Luke, David and Roger and so although I was down the pecking order Stephen was ok. The second was that I rarely heard it. I heard “Shorty”, from my Dad, “Idiot” and “Stink” from my brothers and sister, and either “Longy” or my favorite, “Longschlong” at school, so it didn’t matter.   Mum called me Steven, or Kay, or Wayne, or Robbie, depending on what she was doing. Add to this I am a tall blue eyed blonde male that took German in Grade 8, I was comfortable telling everyone my heritage was German and without invoking the Aaryan call   (which I didn’t learn about what that even meant until the second year of training at the police academy) I felt superior enough that it could end there. That’s what Toowoomba can do for you. Again, two thing...

  The chances of us coming back to drive ourselves around the central highlands of Tasmania in a rolling Hilton is about the same as any Kiwi in Australia not currently playing first class Rugby claiming, after a few beers, that they, or their brother, were an All Black triallist. The chances of us doing anything more than driving though Rosebury on any subsequent journeys, is roughly about the same as any of the said Kiwis, or their brothers, having actually trialed for the All Blacks.  It is such a stark contrast to the effort, clear priorities and care that have been put into the hundred kilometers we travelled before, that I am still struggling to reconcile the difference.  It has a really cool gold and zinc ore bucket rope conveyor with rusted buckets on it as you enter town that, based on the drive in, comfort you, thinking that this mining shenanigans obviously was not happening anymore. One kilometre later, and acres of desolation open up showing you just how wron...

Twilight-Strahan Here’s some things I’m learning about campervanning:  • Any ad you might see that portrays people lounging at bench seats and tables in the back of the Campervan, whilst the Campervan is mobile, is a fantasy – they are having their fillings shaken out, particularly on the roads in the “Wild West” of Tasmania.  • If you lose something in the Campervan, you are not finding it again until the end of the trip when you unpack the van.  • Even if you pack really lean, like we did, you will end up wearing items of clothing for three days because it is too hard to get a clean item out of what ever hidey hole it's been packed in.  • Under no circumstances should anyone use the onboard loo unless it is absolutely necessary, drawing straws for who is going to empty the bog tank, becomes increasingly nerve wracking. Public toilets and campground toilets are your go to option, every time.  • Whatever slope the van is on for a night, that’s how your bed is sl...

  No one wants to read about how if you make it to the Qantas check in and you have already bag dropped three bags, but the bag drop time closes and you can’t take the fourth bag. Nor do they want to read a story about the fact that there are no taxis at Hobart airport. I’m certain there is minimal interest in just how little information you are told at your briefing by Val, when you pick up your 457 tonne motorhome. And admittedly they are little things – how to get hot water to work, how to avoid blowing up from LPG while on the road, how to make sure the things that stop your shit from stinking in the toilet don’t get a bit wet, because apparently, they are are water soluble. So none of that, just some high quality lessons for a nice relaxing Tasmanian holiday. I’ll start by saying that driving a 6 berth motorhome is a lot like playing Fourza 4 after 8 beers, 6 bourbons and pizza.   It seems like you are doing so very well, but in fact, you are just a head tilt away from ...