I used to write about property for a living. Now I have no fixed address
By Emily Power
The sun rose over a sodden supermarket car park in suburban Brisbane, the day after ex-tropical Cyclone Alfred hammered through. My boyfriend James and I slid out of bed and peeked past the van’s curtains. The storm had knocked out power at caravan parks and motels, so we’d slept in a well-lit shopping centre car park. Being mobile had kept us safe and dry, and we were luckier than many. Now it was time to go, before the shoppers arrived. But where? That’s the daily question when living on the road.
Of all the personality traits I have inherited, adventurousness is not one. Nobody is more surprised than me at the nomadic life I have chosen, after years of believing that buying a home and having a nine-to-five career were my tickets to happiness.
On our first date, James told me about his ambition to see the whole country.
I am anxious and conventional. But I’m also a dreamer. And four years after purchasing my own apartment, I am touring Australia in a campervan with James. I am a property journalist with no fixed address. I wrote a book on wiping out debt and buying a first home having given that life up for the chance to see what else is out there. I am leasing out my apartment, and we don’t know exactly when we’ll come back to it.
Home ownership as a single person amid rising property prices was a hard-fought goal that, I thought, would give me the ultimate sense of accomplishment. It was my Olympic Gold. I vanished into a rabbit hole of Sundays at IKEA, first-name tete-e-tetes with local baristas and body-corporate whinge-fests with my neighbours. I adopted a sugar-faced old greyhound and got on with taking care of us both. Our world was small.
Then, two years ago, along came James. And with him, the courage to imagine a world beyond those walls. Both 42, we knew we didn’t want children, so a larger home had no appeal. However, a bigger backyard – all of Australia – called to us.
I vanished into a rabbit hole of Sundays at IKEA, first-name tete-a-tetes with local baristas and body-corporate whinge-fests with my neighbours.
On our first date he told me about his ambition to see the whole country and we spent every Sunday morning thereafter watching YouTube clips of “van lifers” rumbling through red dust. A typical Monday for them was navigating the Oodnadatta Track. I was in.
The pursuit of a home deposit had dominated my 30s. I’d worked two jobs in journalism and broadcasting for many years. But now, James and I were content enough in our careers to make a colossal change. However, I’d never spent a night in a tent, let alone lived as a “gypsy”, as a cyclone-relief worker called me.
Our van was the Four Seasons on four wheels.
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.
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.
Get the best of Sunday Life magazine delivered to your inbox every Sunday morning. Sign up here for our free newsletter.