Crash Course in Caravanning (Literally) & My Kitchen Takeover

Just a bit of collateral damage by an offending pole.

Well, it finally happened. We’ve hit our first major caravanning mishap—literally. My husband, in an unfortunate but somewhat predictable turn of events, managed to run the caravan into a pole. Now, to be fair, these things are big, and spatial awareness isn’t always our strong suit (as evidenced by our earlier parking fiasco at Rathdowney). But still, there’s something about hearing that unmistakable crunch that really cements your status as a rookie on the road.

I won’t name names (cough my husband cough), but let’s just say that after the incident, there was a lot of standing around, scratching of heads, and muttering things like, “Well, we're in a bit of trouble here.”

Enter our saviour: a friendly grey nomad who had been watching the debacle unfold from the comfort of his camp chair. With a knowing chuckle and an air of someone who had definitely seen this kind of disaster before, he wandered over and kindly offered to help. Before we knew it, he had expertly guided us away from the pole and—bless his experienced soul—even reversed the van into a proper spot for us. He barely broke a sweat, while we stood there in stunned admiration, making a mental note to never attempt reversing without a crowd of seasoned nomads ready to intervene.

Later that day, we went for a walk along the water near the caravan to shake off the embarrassment. As we strolled, my husband suddenly stopped and stared at a bridge in the distance. “I’ve drunk beer under that very bridge,” he declared, as if making a profound discovery. Turns out, when he played footy in Inverell as a teenager, he and his mates would gather there post-game for a few sneaky drinks. Naturally, he felt compelled to recreate the memory—so he cracked open a stubby, and soaked in the nostalgia. The only difference this time? He didn’t have to hide from a coach or an angry parent.

While my husband has been busy assessing the damage, I took on a new challenge—cooking in a caravan kitchen. Now, I wouldn’t say I was a master chef before, but at least I had counter space and an oven that didn’t require a degree in engineering to operate. Caravan cooking is an entirely different beast.

For starters, every ingredient must be carefully planned and stored, or else it becomes an airborne missile the next time we hit a pothole. Meal prep involves a delicate balancing act of using minimal dishes (because who wants to wash up in a tiny sink?) and working around a stove that has exactly two temperatures: lukewarm and inferno.

Today we decided to take a break and visit the stunning Copeton Dam. Now, this place is no small waterhole—it has a staggering storage capacity of 1,354,000 megalitres, covering 4,600 hectares with a depth of 104 metres. It supplies water to riparian landholders along the Gwydir River, Nehi River, Moon Creek, and Cole-Gil Gil Creeks system for stock, domestic, and irrigation needs. But most importantly, it’s an absolutely breathtaking spot to unwind and forget, just for a moment, that we’re still figuring out how to drive our house on wheels without collateral damage.

So, in summary, we’re one dented caravan richer, my husband has learned a valuable lesson about poles, I’m slowly becoming a caravan cook extraordinaire, and we’ve seen some of the most beautiful spots this country has to offer. Who knew road life would be this eventful?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on dinner… and make sure no poles have mysteriously moved into our path.