I remember once passing a hitchhikeron the highway, stars and stripes on his backpack, sock and sandals on his feet, and in his hands a sign saying ‘The Reef’...

The sound of a bamboo flute enters my dreams and floats, lilting and fluid like a falling leaf, before gradually stirring me awake. Poking my head out of the tent I find the night broken only by the smallest purple crack on the eastern horizon. 

After travelling 1600 kilometres in three days, our caravan has moved only 15 kilometres in the last two weeks. It’s a pace much more suited to the ‘less is more’ holiday experience I prefer.

Arriving at the long anticipated Mission Beach, I had a postcard picture in my mind – a deserted white sand bay fringed with coconut palms, the ocean clear and bathtub warm. Pulling up in a private leafy campground, we would string up the hammock, pack the shoes away and spread out our towels side-by-side...

This morning I woke to a bristly cold breeze and worrisome thoughts of things to do and problems to solve. Contemplating staying in bed, a bird lands on the branch outside my window and calls incessantly, as if demanding I come play...

Far North Queensland – the phrase doesn’t suggest being wrapped in layers of wool. But that’s exactly what I’m wearing as I sit with a hot tea at the retro-orange of my caravan table to write the next northern adventure instalment...

I’ve long fantasised aboutsetting off on a horseback journey;the morning saddle routine, the smell of horse on my skin, the sounds of their snuffly breathing as I sleep. Donkeys could be fun too, my belongings swaddled and strapped to their flanks, the click clack of their hooves down a pilgrimage path. Perhaps it’s an inspiration borne of my first read of Robyn Davidson’s Tracks, the tale of a solo woman’s journey across the Australian desert with camels... 

I approach the patch of weeds gingerly, gloving up both hands. The tall stems are so green they are almost incandescent, and shiver in the biting breeze. I begin to chip the earth away from around one plant with a digging stick, finding the ground contracted and reluctant. Not wanting to break the tuber, I de-glove to coax the fleshy white root free. Ouch! My efforts are rewarded with a sharp sting on the back of my hand...

Running late this morning, I headed out to the back garden rather than the park. Seated on a log with my cup of chai I was almost hidden by a small forest of leafy greens – rocket, pak choi, curly lettuce, silverbeet and broccoli. The Italian parsley has rebounded well since I cut it back and my tongue waters at the thought of pesto.  After ten minutes exchanging oxygen with my garden, I calmly head inside with a bouquet of leaves for lunch...

The third is the smooth-barked angophora marking the start of the Awabakal Nature Reserve on the Dudley side. Standing alone at the fork of two trails, the knobbly pink limbs have been given ample room to extend their full curly glory. A good friend Lou introduced me to this tree, on one of her regular visits to Awabakal, during wildflower season when the flannel flowers were out...

Last weekend I received an sms invitation to birthday drinks – a ‘wee small fireside affair’. It was a particularly cold night and hibernating at home was tempting. But as well as wanting to celebrate the occasion, it was the promise of a fire that lured me out...

I greeted a friend at my door recently to find a bunch of flowers outstretched towards me; a generous posy of old-fashioned roses nested within silver fern-like foliage and spires of mauve salvia. “They’re from my grandmother’s rose bushes,” Kate said gently cupping the full blooms of pale pink... 

“Is that a weed?” my walking companion asked as I bent down and picked a handful of greens growing on the side of the path. 

“Well, that depends on your definition,” I replied, munching into a dandelion leaf. Back at home, I steamed more dandelion, along with plantain and chickweed leaves and...

Pulling up on a dark rainy night in an unfamiliar forest and needing to set up camp is never much fun, especially when the tent is new and fandangled to the point of Rubik’s cube complicated. Even less enjoyable, as I discovered last weekend, is bending down to shift a rock from the tent-site to find instead a scaly-backed cane toad... 

Last week I spent three days at Newington boys college in Sydney, speaking to the senior boys as part of their school literary festival. Driving in the stone gates I felt like I was at Hogwarts, half expecting to see a game of quidditch being played on one of the three immaculate sporting ovals...

I once movedin to a house with a couple of keen gardeners who had a lovely if somewhat shady vegetable garden, but nothing seemed to be doing particularly well. Lack of sun was a contributing factor, but it wasn’t enough to explain the timid kale, the yellowing tomatoes, and the threadbare parsley patch. Even the comfrey wasn’t particularly robust...

It’s a misty autumnal morning in the hills outside Melbourne, and for this northerner it is the middle of winter – but in the most delicious ways. The last of the apples lie fallen on the ground overnight, not yet touched by the feathery golden leaves releasing one by one into the stiff wind. Fist sized, they fit neatly inside my palm. Pocketing one, I bite into the other, crisp as the air...

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has noted the sizeable pod of dolphins hanging out just south of the Newcastle Beach flags recently - at least a dozen last count...

Recently I found myself profoundly lost - inside my head. A difficult decision had sent my mind running around and around on a mousetrap of pros and cons, all of them leading to the same dizzying confusion. Indecision turned into worry, then sleepless anxiety; inside and outside blurring into a featureless grey...

Growing up there were two main topics of conversation around the dinner table – gardening and rugby union...