Tasmania Day Three Island Accomplished

We agreed to get up stupid early to catch the ferry to Bruny Island, and at the time it sounded like a perfectly reasonable plan. You know the kind—optimistic the night before, borderline ridiculous when the alarm goes off. Still, we were committed. Bruny Island was the prize, and the only way to make it happen was to be moving before the sun even considered showing up.

I knocked on Lyn’s door at 5:15 a.m. so we could all be in the van by 5:45. That was the deal. No lingering, no “just five more minutes,” no wandering around looking for a missing shoe. We were going to be efficient, disciplined travelers—at least for one morning.

By 5:40, Lyn, Doug, both Jims, Lenore, Amanda, RJ, Shawna, and I were out at the van, doing that early-morning shuffle where you’re awake enough to function but not awake enough to be cheerful about it. The air had that cold, pre-dawn bite, and everything felt muted—voices, footsteps, even the way the van doors closed. We were counting heads, mentally checking off names, and then we realized we were missing one.

Michael.

We called. We texted. We called again. The kind of calling that starts polite and quickly becomes the “Are you kidding me?” variety. We stood there in the dark, watching the minutes tick by, and eventually we reached that point where a group has to decide whether they’re going to be nice or practical. We were right on the edge of agreeing not to wait when Michael appeared—calm, unbothered, and somehow perfectly timed.

He was exactly on time.

That’s the thing about time: you can be technically correct and still feel morally wrong. But we were too tired to argue philosophy at 5:45 in the morning, so we piled in and headed out.

The drive from Hobart to the ferry terminal was long and winding, the kind of road that feels twice as twisty when it’s dark and you’re trying not to think about how early it is. Lyn drove like she always does—confident, steady, and completely unfazed by conditions that would make other people grip the armrest. The rest of us stared out into the blackness, watching occasional headlights sweep past, and tried to convince ourselves we were going to be rewarded for our effort.

We made it to the little shop near the ferry with a solid half hour to spare—plenty of time for coffee, in theory. In practice, there was one person working the counter, and watching them serve coffee was like watching a slow-motion documentary about patience. It took twenty minutes to serve six people. I was grateful mine was already in my thermos. I’d learned my lesson about early departures: if you’re leaving before sunrise, you bring your own caffeine and you don’t gamble on someone else’s pace.

Eventually, we lined up with the cars and semi trucks to board the ferry. The whole process was surprisingly easy—on, parked, and then off again after a smooth twenty-minute ride across the channel. It felt almost too simple, like Bruny Island was letting us in without a fuss after the previous day’s ferry delay drama. The water was calm, the air was crisp, and everyone had that quiet, hopeful energy that comes with finally getting to do the thing you planned.

Once we hit the island, we committed to the classic strategy: first stop farthest away. We were heading to the lighthouse at the southern tip, which meant a decent drive and a lot of road ahead of us. Almost immediately, we started noticing roadkill—large stuff. Wallabies. Possums. Wombats. It was sobering, and it made us all a little more alert. Then, as if the island wanted to balance the scales, we started seeing the living versions too—wallabies actually running across the road, and even hopping along near our van like they owned the place. Which, of course, they did.

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Somewhere along the way we passed a little farm with miniature cows—tiny, adorable, almost cartoonish. We all reacted at once, pointing and laughing and making the same promise: we’d stop on the way back. It became one of those group agreements that feels important, like a vow. Bruny Island had already offered us miniature cows; we weren’t going to ignore that gift.

Then Tasmania decided we needed more time on dirt roads.

The pavement ended, and suddenly we were on a remote, dusty surface that made the van rattle and our confidence wobble. It wasn’t terrifying, exactly, but it had that “Are we sure this is the right way?” feeling. The kind of road where you can’t help but imagine what happens if you get a flat tire and your cell signal disappears. Still, we kept going, because that’s what you do on an island adventure: you trust the route, trust the driver, and pretend you’re not thinking about how far you are from anything.

I’d found online that there was a A$40 fee for entry to the national park that contained the lighthouse. I tried to purchase the entry ahead of time and failed—one of those online transactions that should take two minutes but somehow refuses to cooperate. When we arrived at 8:05 a.m., we discovered the park didn’t even open until 9:00.

So we walked in.

No gate. No ranger. No one to stop us. Just us, the cold air, and the kind of sunrise that makes you feel like you’ve stumbled into a private showing of the world. Mist hung low over the landscape, softening everything. The light was gentle and pale at first, then slowly warmed as the sun climbed. It was beautiful in that quiet, remote way that doesn’t need a soundtrack.

Wallabies wandered the grounds around the keepers’ cabin like they were part of the staff. It was cold—cold enough that you could feel it in your fingers—and we were the only ones there. That solitude made it feel even more remote, like we’d reached the edge of something.

The climb up to the lighthouse was hard. The structure dates back to 1836, and it sits up on a hill that makes you earn the view. I remember the effort in my legs and the wind in my face and the way the air felt sharper the higher we went. But when we reached the top, the views were majestic—ocean stretching out in every direction, cliffs and coastline and that sense of standing at a true southern edge.

And then, in the middle of all that—wind, history, sunrise—my phone buzzed.

Ellie had sent me something to sign online.

It was our New Zealand marriage license Apostille. This would make us legal everywhere.

Cool and sad at the same time. Official. Real. A milestone. And yet Ellie wasn’t there with me. She’d stayed on the ship to ensure her health, which was the right decision, but it didn’t make it feel any less strange. I signed it right there near the southern tip of Tasmania, and I celebrated a little—because how could I not?—but the celebration had a quiet ache in it. I wanted her beside me. I wanted to turn and share the moment, not just text it back across the water.

We eventually piled back into the van and started working our way north again. It seemed to take forever, partly because the roads demanded attention and partly because the island has a way of stretching time. But eventually we reached the miniature cows again, and we kept our promise. We stopped, took it in, and enjoyed the simple joy of seeing something so unexpectedly charming in the middle of a rugged landscape.

Next stop: roadside bread.

And yes, that’s exactly what it sounds like. Three refrigerators on the side of the road, magically refilled with famous island bread. It’s the kind of thing you’d assume was a joke until you see it. We pulled up, excited, and found them empty. A sign said “10:00 refill.”

So we did what any reasonable group would do: we went in search of more sights—and butter and jam.

Adventure Bay had the only store on the island, so we headed there. We grabbed butter and jam, and four butter knives, and maybe a magnet too, because travel logic says you can’t leave the only store without buying something small and unnecessary. Magnets less needed, but the butter knives would be necessary very very soon. Then we started working our way back toward the bread site, keeping an eye out for seals along the way.

That’s when the van started complaining.

We heard a ding from the dash, but there was no clear indicator of what the problem was. For about ten miles it was just an annoying mystery sound, the kind that makes you squint at the dashboard like it might confess. Then it became obvious at oneof our stops. Steam came from under the hood.

Overheated engine.

We sat for a bit and took a short cooling break. People got nervous in that practical way—no panic, just immediate problem-solving. Water bottles appeared. Someone donated drinking water. We shifted into management mode: assess, cool down, figure out the next move without turning it into a crisis.

Back to the store we went, because the store was the only reliable source of supplies. We bought a ten-liter box of water—one of those bladders inside a box, like wine, except this was the least celebratory purchase imaginable. Still, it gave us confidence. With enough water, we could keep the radiator topped up and continue our adventures without constantly worrying we’d be stranded on a dirt road with wallabies as our only witnesses.

We followed a slow car the two miles back to the bread site, and sure enough, he pulled in too. A couple more cars were already there. The refrigerators—previously empty—were now packed with bread and Anzac biscuits (Australian oat cookies with chocolate and coconut). It felt like we’d arrived at the exact right moment in a tiny, delicious ritual.

The honor system was in play. Cash went into a box for whatever you took. No cashier. No cameras that we could see. Just trust and baked goods.

Two mini sourdough loaves and a few Anzac biscuits, please.

Back in the van, we didn’t even pretend we were going to wait. We tore into the fresh bread immediately. People either stuffed it straight into their mouths or slathered it with butter and raspberry-cherry jam before doing the same. It was worth the trip—really good, chewy, the kind of bread that makes you stop talking for a second because you’re too busy appreciating it.

From there we stopped at the narrow strip between the north and south parts of the island and climbed up to get a good look. Bruny has that dramatic geography where land pinches and water surrounds you, and standing up there made it feel even more like we were moving through a place shaped by wind and sea.

Then it was a quick stop at a honey shop before our reserved cheese tasting at the Bruny Island Cheese Company. The tasting was fun and well presented—five different cheeses, each with its own personality, and clear favorites emerging as we went. It was also, frankly, too much to eat. We tried to take leftovers back to the ship later and they were refused. Ship regulations. Nothing like being told your contraband cheese cannot cross the border.

Last stop: oysters.

A few people wanted to go back for honey, so we split up. I’ve had oysters maybe once or twice in my life, and I’ve never been the person who craves them. But I gave in and tried again. Lyn got them three ways, and the best—by far—was raw with a little lime and hot sauce. Clean, briny, sharp. I won’t pretend I became an oyster fanatic on the spot, but I understood the appeal more than I ever had before.

When our honey hunters returned, we hit the road back to the ferry—after adding a bit more water to the radiator. The van had become a character in the story at that point: slightly dramatic, occasionally steaming, but ultimately determined to get us where we needed to go.

Lyn drove fast enough for us to catch the early ferry and get back to our Odyssey in time for departure. It was one of those satisfying endings where everything could have gone sideways—late bread, overheated engine, missed ferry—but didn’t. Once again, we adapted to challenges and still had a great day.

It just would have been better if Ellie was there.