Once upon a time, when our children were growing up, we had a magical holiday. It had everything – snow, sun, wild animals, misty mountains, crystalline lakes, black swans, the Cadbury chocolate factory. Are you there yet? Exactly. Tasmania. Jammed into a campervan, we circumnavigated that little island by road, and if that sounds like hell, amazingly, it wasn't. Certainly, there were spats, but as the days rolled by, the world got funnier and things that had been important suddenly weren't.
Those days are gone, our children are adults, but of all our family holidays, it was a highlight. So my husband, Rob, and I did the trip again, stepping back into the tiny footprints of yesteryear. We begin in Hobart, circling through the Tasman Peninsula, up the east coast, cutting through the historic midlands, Huon Valley, then northwest to Launceston.
First, the campervan. Maybe I've shrunk, but the sparkling automatic Apollo Motorhomes Mercedes four-berth campervan, sorry Euro Camper, which I'll be driving, looms massive, a far cry from the tin box of yore. No wonder an overseas family was so daunted recently they camped in the Hobart Apollo carpark, before shakily driving to nearby Seven-Mile beach for their week's holiday. They loved it, apart from the complimentary biscuits, which were, in fact, soap.
It's surprisingly easy to drive as long as you remember to take a wide turning arc and follow your mental checklist before embarking. Put the step up, the three vents down, retract the awning, close the pooh-box, lock the drawers/cupboards, secure the blinds, cases and TV, turn off electrical switches (except the fridge and something else I now can't remember).
For unlike our last little mobile home, this campervan has it all (except children). It has space, picture windows, microwave, full oven, stove top, reverse-cycle air-conditioning, TV, separate drinking-water tap, spacious shower and toilet, albeit still with the dreaded box plotting to spray its handler (Rob) with its fermenting contents.
Seventeen years ago, our trip began in a rickety Hobart cottage, decorated with tiny stick chairs and ancient dried flowers. In between heroic sneezing, our children, Georgia and Angus, bickered about furniture – that's my canopy bed! Well, this tiny stick chair is mine, OK? Then a posse of possums in the roof frightened the children into the parental bed.
The next day, Salamanca Place's Ball & Chain Grill, which served every item of food known to man, and still does, solved the inevitable food arguments. Spirits soared further with a visit to the evergreen Salamanca Markets and Battery Point lolly shop, reaching fever pitch when Angus scored a US Navy pin from a passing US sailor.
Now carefree, Rob and I trawl the Wooden Boat Festival, flash through the markets, picking up sourdough, Tassie cheese and wine for our trip, visit MONA and do the Battery Point Sculpture walk, stopping for excellent coffee and chocolate caramel slice at Jackman & McRoss before collecting our van.
It's a bit sad driving off minus kids rebounding off the walls on a sugar high, so we have to remind ourselves of some child-free benefits. Like never having to visit Maccas, or fending off the pleas for chips from a son whose heart's desire was a "chip shelf" in his bedroom; or making a beeline for the cloaca evacuation installation at MONA (though the first text Georgia, now a 28-year-old doctor, sends is: "Did you like the poo machine?" Once a kid…)
Our trip doesn't begin auspiciously when we arrive at 5.30pm at Port Arthur Holiday Park to find it full. Full! Nothing is Tassie is full, is it? On the contrary, overseas tourists have discovered the island. Timid ones take the bus tours, more intrepid ones the campervans.
Rob has also suddenly remembered that his first pooh-box encounter happened here, providing excellent entertainment for the kids as he "emptied" the noxious by-products of the Ball & Chain, a makeshift chip shelf and the lolly shop all down his front instead of into the "dump point".
We are guiltily jubilant as a frazzled woman bursts into the office to vacate her site because of an ill child. Time for leisure as other people's kids return from bush adventures and family barbecues fire up. We sleep in, formerly impossible with kids anticipating convicts.
Joining the serried ranks of parked campervans at Port Arthur Historic Site, we take our time among the haunting ruins, exploring the Isle of the Dead and imagining the Lord of the Flies world of the Point Puer Boys' Prison, some as young as nine. No haring around ghost tours, or fending off small people pouncing from darkened cells.
In the gift shop we buy a teensy pair of handcuffs, small enough to fit on a finger. These are for Angus, to replace the ones bought with his pocket money, but confiscated by a Launceston airport official who pronounced them a danger to the aeroplane.
Time has barely touched the extraordinary rock formations of the Tasman Arch, Blowhole, Devil's Kitchen and Tessellated Pavement though we view them minus the kid chatter, jokes and word games that were once as constant as the sound of the sea. We burst out of the peninsula, relieved to have escaped a second visit to the Tasmanian Devil Park.
There's a feeling of optimism on the road again, slightly soured by the awful ubiquity of roadkill. What must the tourists think when the echidna they've just photographed turns up flat on the road ahead?
The East Coast reels out before us, blue-gold, fringed by she-oaks and pink granite peaks. Bicheno was where we once stopped to sample "the best fish and chips in the world". What we got was an enormous, dead-eyed fish with Botox lips. "This isn't fish and chips," said Angus, aghast. "It's fish and lips!"
Sorry Bicheno, we're driving straight through to Swansea, where our site faces across Great Oyster Bay to the Freycinet Peninsula and is near a lovely Point Walk, which guides us through Aboriginal and natural history.
Some housekeeping is required, such as the filling of the water tank (never look into the nozzle when turning on the tap), the illicit emptying of the grey water (which pools on the pristine doorstep of the neighbouring grey nomad) and the pooh box. I shall say no more. We snuggle down for the night, it's turned cold, and remember earlier times when we gazed from our cassette recorder slot (aka the cabin-top double bed) at two apple-faced cherubs lying reading, not squabbling. It happens.
Coles Bay, Freycinet, St Helens and Bay or Fires pass in a lovely blur as we literally follow the sun, before turning inland to sail down the gorgeous, sometimes forgotten Midlands, through colonial sandstone villages rich in history, Campbell Town, Ross, Oatlands, Richmond, and back into Hobart. An old favourite, the Treasure Island Caravan Park is where we nab the same site overlooking the Derwent where perhaps not the same swans seek food from different kids.
The Cadbury's chocolate factory tour saw the kids' multi-pocketed cargo pants employed to great effect. Unfortunately, it was fruit and nut day. Never mind, eat around the fruit.
Our more adult fun includes Mount Wellington before lunch at Frank, the trendy South American grill on Franklin Wharf. Soon, we're heading northwest out of Hobart, through New Norfolk and Ouse, skirting the green wildness of the South West National Park, weaving between lakes and rivers and forests into my favourite part of Tasmania, the west coast and Alpine heart.
Lakes Gordon and Pedder are for another time. We pass Butlers Gorge and Lake King William with the King William and Denison ranges on our left, guardians of the Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers National Park. True Tasmania, magnificent, pristine. After Queenstown's moonscape, we're on the road to Strachan. Viewing the dense bush and inhospitable terrain we wonder was there ever a more browbeaten lot of convicts than those confined to Tasmania's wild west.
We'd all adored Strachan and tea-coloured Macquarie Harbour, particularly our boat ride to Sarah Island with Mario and his dog. Sadly, it is no longer operating. Mario gobsmacked the kids with tales of convict cannibalism and jailer threats that the harbour water would strip escaping convict's flesh. And he let our kids "steer" the boat. What a champ. We miss you, Mario.
Rob and I restrict our Strachan activities to walking Ocean Beach to the Hell's Gate opening, and dining at lovely Risby Cove, for we have relaxation on our minds (and the first England-Australia World Cup cricket clash). We're in Gull Apartment for two nights; they are spacious, elegant, with sunset water views.
As with all things Tassie, there's never enough time. We turn our trusty metal steed towards the heartbreakingly beautiful Cradle Mountain Lake St Clair National Park and our night at the Cradle Mountain Lodge. Memories: the delight of unseasonal snow, Dove Lake shrouded in silver, Angus's gigantic bubble bath.
This time, Cradle Mountain is clothed in a bunny rug, but wind shreds the cloud to reveal the mountain's jagged dolerite teeth. A brisk seven-kilometre walk on the Dove Lake circuit sets us up for a deep spa bath, followed by a fine lodge meal.
Then it's off to the Bass Strait coast and another favourite, Boat Harbour. This little coastal village is edge-of-the-world Roaring Forties but sheltered, and Harvest and Cater, its one little cafe, yields outstanding fish and chips and coffee. Though there's excellent free camping, we're in Stirling Cottage for two nights, so close to the water, you can see the shoals drifting eastwards and in the distance, Table Cape. Sundowners on the deck, snoozing to the sound of the sea. Legendary!
At nearby Stanley, we're up The Nut chairlift in a flash to experience this 30 million-year-old volcanic basalt monolith then we go in search of the cafe with the shiny Italian espresso coffee machine. Its promise of coffee had excited us years ago until we spotted the lady spooning in International Roast.
Fortunately, some excellent eateries have replaced it, and at Providore 24, you can stock up on local Tasmanian products, such as good wine, cheese, gourmet meats, jams and relishes as well as specialty tea, coffee and premium honey.
Another kid favourite, the chairlift, awaits in Cataract Gorge, Launceston, plus peacocks, scones and jam and the Alexandra Suspension Bridge. Too soon, it's time to farewell the fair isle. It's been good knowing you, again.
discovertasmania.com.au
Virgin Australia flies daily to Hobart from Sydney and Melbourne and from Launceston to Sydney and Melbourne. See virginaustralia.com/au/en
• Apollo Motorhome Holidays' Euro Camper 4-berth. Walk-through access, TV/DVD player, shower/toilet, heating/airconditioning. Pricing varies according to season and location. For quotes, contact apollocamper.com/holiday
• The Old Woolstore, Hobart. Double rooms from $201. See oldwoolstore.com.au/
• Gull Apartment, Strachan. From $190. See planbooktravel.com.au/accommodation/tas/strahan/gull-apartment
• Peppers Cradle Mountain Lodge. Chalets for two from $440. See cradlemountainlodge.com.au/
• Stirling Cottage, Boat Harbour. From $240 a night. See boatharbourbeachholidays.com.au/
• Peppers Seaport Hotel, Launceston. Double suites from $299. See peppers.com.au/seaport/
Alison Stewart travelled courtesy of Tourism Tasmania and Apollo Motorhome Holidays.
