I have caught some kind of travel bug, and seem to have infected my children as well.
I’ve been more places, and travelled more distance, in the last year than in the total of my thirty one years before that. Borneo. Bali. The Great Ocean Road. Every town between Melbourne and Sydney. The eternal sunshine of Cobram and Shepparton. The Snowy Mountains in New South Wales, the Alps in Victoria.
Last night we caught a boat to Tasmania. We’re going to the Tarkine- they say it’s one of the most remote, untouched places in Australia. One of the school mums got back from Tassie not long ago, and when I asked her how it was she replied in a hushed, reverent tone “Wild. Its wild, down there…”
The kidlets are excited, happy little travel bugs always ready to explore a new place, see new things. They are consummate little voyagers. I have supply-buying, packing, and hotel routines down to a veritable modern dance of flexibility, planning, and parenting.
I don’t think I did a lot of travelling as a kid, or as a teenager, or as a twenty-something uni student. It was always superficially a matter of cost, but it came down more to being afraid than anything else. I’m not even sure what I was afraid of exactly, and I didn’t want to admit to anyone that I was scared.
I want to give my kids the chance to not be afraid of travelling the way I was. Because going new places and seeing new things… it’s good for the soul.
So far, so good. As long as we can manage it, we’ll explore as far and wide as we can.
And as you’re reading this, we’re in Tasmania. A place we’ve never been before. The place where the wild things are.