Selling my house to live in a van and tour Australia

James blooded me with long weekends in a tent in caravan parks, which he impressed upon me was not “real camping”. National parks with drop toilets followed. Finally, he took me to the bush, where we’d cool off in creeks and stay until the Esky ice melted. My hairdryer, eyelash extensions and former fashion-editor wardrobe were temporarily retired. I’d always been hard on myself; suddenly, I felt confident in nothing but sunscreen. That’s what can happen when you become a woman who knows how to crank a ratchet strap.

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Then, our lovely greyhound died and our last tether to the city dropped away. James bought an ex-delivery van and installed a queen bed and fold-out kitchen. We threw in T-shirts, shorts, thongs and a frying pan and officially set off from Brisbane in February. Our only plan was, and still is, to chase the sun until we tire of it. We’ve slept on the sand at Rainbow Beach, dodged bush turkeys at Inskip Point as the barges came back from K’gari, watched dolphins at Wategos Beach in Byron Bay and stargazed in the Noosa Everglades.

The reliable little van will soon be swapped for a motorhome that James has designed, with a toilet, shower and washing machine. But to me, it’s been the Four Seasons on four wheels. It taught me that a dry bed and the one you love will get you through almost any night.

We are itinerant by choice, but we cross paths with good folks for whom van parks and free wayside camps are the only option. In Hervey Bay, a curious kid of no more than 12 swung by our site, asking how long we were staying. “We are permanent,” he told us. “When you are permanent, you can stay until you die.”

We know we are fortunate. This is not just a lap of Australia – it’s a lifestyle. We regulate our days, clocking on at 9am for remote work, doing the washing and paying bills. Of course, much is different. We collect firewood like we once did the dry cleaning, and there is more time for beach walks, campfire conversations and pub feeds.

I’ll always remember the sunset in 1770, at the southern end of the Great Barrier Reef. We took our camp chairs to the water’s edge, hanging out like it was a lounge room. Our home base might be a six-square-metre campervan, but we have unlimited freedom.

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