After the heavenliness of the east coast, I needed to see Tasmania proper. Real life and more typical landscapes and so on. Also, rain was forecast and I didn’t want the fragile illusion of paradise shattered.

My first lift from ‘the village’ was in a bright yellow camper van with dream catchers, from a cheerful tanned blond family as Ozzie as you can get. Then at St Helens I struck gold: a lift straight to Devonport, further than I’d ever hoped to go that day. It was from an Englishman who’d taken a detour (just a little one) after finishing a film lighting job for a commercial for the Ashes – Hobart was standing in for England. He had great stories of skydiving and living in a camper van on Bondi beach while being an extra at the Sydney opera house. We stopped off at a cheeserie for tasting, then he left me by the side of the road. Third item lost: my nice little pink water bottle with filter.

30 seconds later, I was picked up by a mother and daughter. ‘We don’t usually stop for hitchhikers,’ she kept repeating, and the journey passed like a job interview. But they gave me lots of recommendations and went out of their way to take me to Penguin.

I’d wanted to see penguins in Penguin, and I saw plenty: rubbish bins moulded with penguins, penguin murals, penguin logos, penguin barber and ice-cream figures, and a 3m tall fibre glass concrete penguin, the town’s pride and glory. But no actual penguins – you had to go elsewhere for them. I did find a shop giving away spinach for free though.

Looking for somewhere to camp, I got a lift from a builder just returning from a job for his nan, who in return had made him a massive shepherd’s pie. I had to hold it the whole way, gazing at the warm, crispy golden crust, the smell wafting up so, so temptingly. He suggested a camping spot: Fern Glade, a quiet spot along a river where you have one of the best chances of spotting a platypus. I did indeed see two, bills exploring the smooth water before their sleek slimy bodies dived under again. But it was an eerie place, an echoey valley given a sinister feel by the distant industrial sounds and the bird calls which sounded creepily human. I pitched my tent behind a block of toilets and tried to ignore the quiet thuds and pants of wandering pademelons.

It rained all night so the next day  I caved in and went to a hostel. Burnie is extremely small and quiet. It markets itself as a crafty place, but there’s not much to it. But at last I got to see some penguins! They’re tiny creatures, about the size of a rabbit, and every evening the chicks wait around for their parents to arrive home and feed them. The adults, however, seem to have little interest in their children, and just sit on the rocks for half an hour or longer, letting the chicks squawk and fight among each other. Perhaps they’re trying to toughen their children up.

The next day I went on a drive with an English ecologist, who showed me how many of the plants and birds around are actually British. The whole landscape and ecology has changed so much in the last three hundred years. We stopped off at an aboriginal cave, a 50 foot cleft in a rocky outcrop. There are three major headlands in that area, and the story told is of three older children who were left to look after their younger siblings. The older children got carried away playing and allowed the younger ones to wander  off and die. When the parents returned, they cast out the older children. The three children can still be seen in these three outcrops. Overlaid onto this story was the geological story of the rock – just another story to add to the rich history and readings of the landscape.

Finally we reached Stanley (now achieving even more local fame as a set for the Hollywood film ‘The Light Between Oceans’). It is very quaint, with several chocolate shops and B&Bs advertising ‘colonial accommodation’. The Nut, an extinct volcano (and another outcast child), was very bizarre, and, jutting out into the treacherous Bass Strait, was of course extremely windy (where isn’t it windy on this island?).

The ecologist left me outside Stanley, bidding me farewell to the sound of sky larks. And that was as far as I got along the north coast, the most populated part of Tassie. It was grey and quiet, even though it was in some ways busier than anywhere else I’ve seen here. It felt a lot more connected to the mainland, both in terms of trade and tourism. Waiting on the roadside, with low heavy clouds overhead and not a building in sight, I felt closer to the world than I’ve felt for a long time.

The East Coast of Tasmania is full of quiet ‘retreats’ – places to hide away from life, to get married on a beach, to escape one’s hordes of admirers in the endless bays of white sand and emerald seas.

So I also retreated into the Freycinet Peninsula: three days of total loneliness walking through snake-ridden bush and across deserted beaches of paradise. It was hot and there wasn’t a cloud in sight the first few days. The water was clear as glass, so transparent you could almost miss the waves until they knocked you under. In the calmer beaches, alone with the seagulls and oystercatchers, swimming became a kind of floating, drifting over ripples of white sand.

The first camping spot had posters up about disease-carrying mosquitoes, which made me somewhat concerned about the 30 bites on my left leg and massive swellings on my arms. Not much I could do though.

Just before sunset sunset I walked down to the southernmost beach and saw a few boats bobbing around. These beaches were clearly the preserve of filthy hikers and the filthy rich.

The following day was a 6 hour walk across the peninsula. It was hot and agonising, and my suncream dribbled down in dirty smears all day. The shade disappeared and the path turned into steep boulder scrambling. At the top of Mount Graham all I could do was lie with my back arched over a rock trying to breathe. On the way down I waited for a snake to pass (all you need to know here is that all snakes look the same, they’re all poisonous, and they all have the same antidote), and finally caught a glimpse of Wineglass Bay, the picture postcard shot of Tasmania – a perfectly curved beach enclosed by forested hills. I ran down (until I fell over), then at last dove into the water and floated fully clothed.

However… there was no drinking water. It was the first time I’ve ever had to worry about water: I only had a litre left to last the next day’s walk back up the hill. Following a coffee-coloured stagnant creek until I found a hint of running water, I boiled some for soup. A few plops of rain began so I left out my saucepan to catch some rainwater, but it was bone dry in the morning. I dreamed of streams and babbling brooks.

In the end it was alright, despite waking up with a throbbing ankle which was neither the colour nor shape it should be. I had the bay to myself and swam  in the crystal water until I was so cold there would be no chance of me sweating.

Back at the car park I started hitchhiking. The first lift I got was from a Chinese family in a people carrier. As I crammed myself in, I realised I was bleeding onto everything I touched and so surreptitiously began sucking my thumb. But when we got to the visitor centre my door wouldn’t open: my bag’s buckle strap was caught in the door. We all tried heaving and pushing and pulling but it wouldn’t budge. Eventually, after much collective heaving and huffing, we managed to free my bag and inspect the bent metal of their hire car. They were extremely kind and said it wasn’t a problem, but I walked away extremely embarrassed. A brilliant start.

Recounting this story to some fellow walkers got me my next lift, and then I was picked up by a motorcycle enthusiast in a ute, driving to manage his 24 holiday houses. First item lost: suncream.

The next lift was from a car of English pensioners from east London… We exchanged travel stories of Kyrgyzstan and the Trans-Siberian, and they tried to find me a career path. Our ways parted on a cliffhanger ending in my journey from Russia to Mongolia. I then got a bizarre lift in a completely silent car with two other hitchers. Passing the time blackberrying, I was then picked up by a seasoned, ex-hippy sort of traveller who was very concerned about my lack of suncream and made sure I bought some more. My final lift of the day came from a mother and daughter who not only drove out of their way to take me to the nicest campsite, but drove me around ‘the village’ until I’d found a spot. Second item lost: my big water bottle. Another night of semi-dehydration.

The Bay of Fires had even more beautiful beaches, with massive bright orange rocks. It took an hour’s walk to find a swimming spot, past another snake, but the people from whom I asked for directions lent me their snorkelling gear so I had a fabulous time looking at strange seaweed and shells – though I didn’t see a single fish!! It was horrible returning to dry land and felt all wrong.

It was easy and effortless travelling – perfect.

On the twelfth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Twelve possums playing
Eleven lizards leaping
Ten wombats washing
Nine crocs a-snoozing
Eight dingoes dancing
Seven emus laying
Six sharks a-surfing
Five kangaroos
Four lyrebirds
Three wet galahs
Two snakes on skis
And a kookaburra in a gum tree

Superb winds meant cheering in the fastest yacht in the world at 3am, shortly before drenching the millionaire accountant skipper in champagne and rolex watches. The rest of the boats did their best not to go backwards.

Launceston is a surreal city, with some beautiful, if melancholic, Japanese residents in the park.

33km of Strahan beach. Nothing between us and South America. The purest air in the world. It’s enough to make you do cartwheels.

What would Christmas be without a trip to MONA, the Museum of Old and New Art, or temple of Atheism, Sex and Death?

And Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a trip to the Great Moscow Circus of course!

And now I’m coming home.