Mooching around. Napping. Reading for hours. Strolling. Flipping through a coffee table book about modern rustic design. Thinking. Making another cup of tea. Journaling. Watching a movie.
All of these restful activities are things I could do at home. So, when it comes to holidays, why do I find it so much easier, so much more enjoyable, to rest somewhere else? There are answers, but the main thing is that my mum and I have learned this about ourselves: for us resting means doing relaxing things in a space other than the one we normally occupy. Hence the last two nights of our holiday at the Blythe River Boathouse.
The little weatherboard house has a peaceful outlook — and it was so generously stocked that we hardly needed to go out for anything. Somebody with great taste has created a space full of light, warmth and beautiful things. It was the perfect place to rest.
I read my book in the bath, and fed the ducks with the same earnestness and glee as my six-year-old self used to do. We kept the fire burning the whole time, snacked on cheese and chocolate biscuits whenever we felt like it, and devoured about seven episodes in a row of a favourite comedy.
On the last night, we had another meal of local seafood. We talked about the week and about life. I’m so grateful to have shared adventures in Tasmania’s Western Wilds with my kind, wise, beautiful mama.
I’ll post one more instalment about my travels, in which you’ll read of adventures I’ve been having on my own since my mum flew home. It’ll need a different name, though, because the next part of the story takes place on Tasmania’s east coast…