TRAVEL// Campsite rituals

A gradual gathering. People, pets and vans come and go. Set up a home away from home. Some with every modern convenience – barbecues are rolled out, awnings unfurled, furniture erected. Others, more modest in their constructions.

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A Willie wagtail pivots on a fencepost. Tail wagging back and forth. Eyes darting for insects or predators. A pretty little song bursts forth.

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I wonder what a conglomeration of caravans is called? Surely it can’t be a caravan of caravans.

Each group choosing their site, accounting for things like sunlight direction, creek proximity, the length of the walk to the bathroom. Firewood gathered, tinnies cracked – that familiar clunk, fizz ringing out.

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My own thoughts wander. Do I feel like a tea? Generally the answer is yes. A ritual commences. Fill water, boil, find teabag, pour. A hearty gulp from my bright red enamel cup – ah yes – all is right in the world.

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Wafts of woodfires emerge. A smokey haze across the horizon. Sun dipping below the trees, the golden light fading. Thoughts turn to dinner and showers – other daily rituals. People disappear into their temporary abodes.

The creek burbles. Water caressing the rocks, rushing through reeds and remnants of the old bridge. Glorious swirls of chartreuse, emerald and olives, flecked with ochre highlights. Sunset reflected across the surface.

Greetings are called from passers-by. Some – a simple nod of the head will suffice. Others stop to enquire your destination, how long you’ve been travelling, what size battery you have. A joke here and there. The look of surprise when you say you are travelling solo.

The wind rustles the trees. A chill hits the skin, goosebumps raised, as the sky begins its descent into darkness. You miss the sunlight already.

As the night closes in, all the people return to their houses on wheels and slowly the lights are snuffed out as they welcome in sleep.

Another day

Another campsite.

Rinse. Repeat.