Caravan Culture

Last night was my first in the back of the car. It was the best sleep I've had in a long time. I've always preferred smaller spaces for sleeping in; there's something comforting about sleeping in your own personal, little cave. With the curtains (old jeans with Velcro on them) tacked across the windows and with my new doona wrapped up tight around me I was in heaven.

I wake in a grassy caravan park to the sight of the Glasshouse mountains looming over me. An odd array of caravans and campers surround me. Although all are mobile by design, more than a few are now firmly rooted in this quiet little camp.

A couple of old buses line one corner. Missing wheels and pot plants on the window sills remove any doubt that these once free wheeling families are going anywhere. They bear little practical difference to traditional suburban homes. Perhaps it's the idea, rather than the reality, of being free and unfettered that keeps these folk bound to their motorised homes.

At only 364m Mount Tibrogargan is barely a hill by any standards but it juts out from the ground like a spear head, giving it a dominating presence over the surrounding landscape. Many years ago I climbed this hill with my mate Glover and an American guy working with us at the time. For nostalgia's sake I climb it once more. The climb is as enjoyably challenging as I remember. The views from the top however, now contain more rows of monotonous pine plantations than memory had alloted.