Tasmania was chilly mornings, empty beaches, dramatic coastlines and warm hearts. The weather got wild and ocean wilder. It's a forgotten piece of raw Australia and should be at the top of your next list of destinations. Here's a clip from my trip to get you excited. #tasmania #travel #vlog #adventure

Solo travel is a very peculiar thing. It’s like the adventure doesn’t even lie in the activities that you engage in. It’s breakfast with strangers, or the time you went into a weird association club with a Portuguese Angolan guy and had to sign for secrecy while you watched 10 DJ’s that had never met make music in a room at the bottom of a spiral stairway while all you could think about was the blisters on your feet from walking the lumpy, narrow streets of Lisbon. But the re

It's funny how easily we forget pain. Mothers always say it, so do people with tattoos. At the time it hurts so much, but then the torture is over and soon after we find ouselves doing it again. Having another child. Getting more ink on our skin. It's the same with people who leave. I remember thinking, when I touched down 10 months ago to the day, in Perth, broken from seven of the best months of my life in Africa, how on earth do people do this? How do they go through the h

I’m sitting in the shack in Broken Head again. The walls have been painted a crisp white and different rope formations hang on the walls. It’s warm. My back is burnt. My friends have gone back to Sydney in Connie the van. Again I didn’t go with them. We drove up Thursday in the hail. Not just any hail but the kind of hail that left us aquaplaning across the highway, white sheets in our eyes, pulling into the Maccas carpark in a random town and waiting in the congestion fueled

I found myself in Byron again on the weekend. I went for three days and stayed for a week. My feet lagged slightly behind my body, heavy with the build up of dirt and water on my badly designed shoes, eyes peeled in the darkness, a twitch of panic in my stomach, searching for the back of a head I had just lost sight of in the 40 000 thick crowd carrying me. Splendour in the Grass was ridiculous. In the end I didn’t even care about the grindy echoes of Tame Impala or too much

I bet it’s the sounds of the city that drive people crazy. Not the hours spent in traffic or constant trudge, robotic, staring at screens, to and from grey jobs. Honestly, lying in bed in the morning, blocking the sunlight, forlorn at the thought of leaving my warm bed – overly excited birds squawking in a desperate preparation for a chaotic day of flying, cars braking over and over, the bin truck heaving and gasping to and from the curb and the faint ocean sounds fighting t

Two hours into a ten hour drive to Sydney we decided to head an extra day up the coast to the famous tropical hipster land of Byron Bay. Byron is this intoxicating blend of bearded, long-haired people publicly announcing their alternativeness, driving vans full of unusual shaped singlefin boards, German backpackers and dudes that moved here back in the day to live in a commune and escape the mainstream condemnation of their spirit. Now lingering in the hinterland of Bangalow

The pictures on my skin remind me of certain things. Certain times. Some drawn on. Some imagined. Certain people. They remind me to do away with my own suffering, to be the broad shoulders that share the burden of others. And to know my own pain. To feel the fever of a past life. To know the place of a curve ball. And allow myself to wallow in the dark cavities of my own mind. Of abstract sadness. To mourn the loss of someone already gone. Disorientating. Maybe this is why I

Today I felt like I had brain junk I wanted to get out. Addicted to the page. But I don’t really have a whole lot to say. In earnest. No travel story. No fodder for thought. But, after a decision to embark on a spontaneous afternoon road trip, I think I learnt something of great importance. The weather outside reached hyperthermic levels, the wind doing great things for jacket sales in town and my stubborn refusal to don pants in attempt to drag summer out for as long as poss

I touched down in Bali at one in the morning. A small guy, probably called Made, flagged me down and drove me into the wet streets of Denpasar and eventually a dark complex somewhere vaguely near Dreamlands. I was greeted in the driveway by Renet, Plettenberg bay native and stewardess of international waters and Melanie, Spanish surfer babe and longtime resident of Tofo, Mozambique. I didn’t really want to be in Indo. To be frank. There were a gazzilion other destinations wit