An Overnighter in Devonport, Tasmania
Today, Lark and I jumped into the Corolla-copter with a loose plan and an overnight bag – just in case.
I’ve made it a mission to spend our days together doing something different. To get out, see the world, and build a bond stitched from laughter, puddle-jumping, and stories we’ll retell for decades. I want to be a loving and consistent presence in her life. To raise her into a secure, confident little human. And I reckon sometimes the best way to do that… is to pack snacks and head for the old highway.
Literally the old highway – B54, aka Meander Valley Road – where the speed limits fluctuate through little towns now bypassed by the “new highway” built in the 90s. But forever new, in the way New York will always be new — no matter how long it’s been since the concrete was poured.
The route – by far more scenic – passes through Hagley (past my old primary school), Westbury, Exton and into Deloraine. It felt like driving through the footnotes of my childhood.
In Deloraine, we pulled up at Frank and Lotti for a babycino and brewed masala chai. They serve St Ali coffee — Melbourne’s trendy bean royalty — and the counter held a glorious carrot and walnut cake, smothered in cream cheese icing. We took two spoons, obviously.
We cheers’d our proportionately sized takeaway cups, I pressed play on Lark’s favourite Watermelon Sugar by Harry Styles and we took off towards Elizabeth Town.
Rain, Regret & Retail Therapy
Just past Ashgrove Cheese Farm, the rain came down – and so did Lark’s babycino. All over her lap. She pumped her arms in the air to the road trip tunes, loving every minute of the messy ride!
In a classic parenting twist, I had packed an overnight bag… but no trousers. For the child.
When we entered Devonport, we entered: Kmart. Rescuer of all pant oversights.
Three pairs of pants, one new Bingo plushie (a non-negotiable) — thank goodness for $4 pants and cheap plushies — and we were back in motion.
Me, quietly flirting with the idea that this spontaneous adventure may extend into days.
Oh, the freedom.
Secret Car Wash & Sheep Shed Fever Dreams
The Corolla-copter was dirty AF, so I pulled into a secret car wash. And let me tell you, have you really lived until you’ve blasted Pink Pony Club loud enough to be heard over the high-pressure water and spinning foam belts? Amplified by neon foam visuals.
We missed the Don River Railway for today, but a better detour revealed itself:
Prickly Mo – part vineyard, part rustic bar in an old shearing shed, part bushland hills fever dream.
A roaring circular fireplace anchors one lounge area, surrounded by barrel tables and drum stools. Stained glass. A view over the vineyard. And two dogs trotting around like locals. Family-friendly and deeply charming.
Lark wasted no time making the place her own. She downed a fruit box, made fast friends with the two old, gentle dogs trotting around the bar, and claimed the space like it was her birthright. Meanwhile, I sipped a glass of Prickly Mo Pinot Noir in full parent content mode.
Then came the invitation:
Would we like to help feed the ducks?
Absolutely, we would.
We wandered down to the pond with a bucket of premium scraps — crackers, watermelon, banana, and pesto. A duck degustation if ever there was one.
The ducks came in hot pursuit, waddling and quacking like tiny feathered food critics hungry for their next review. Chickens joined the commotion, inviting themselves to the dinner party. And naturally, once the feeding frenzy subsided, we collected the eggs – like seasoned farmhands who’d earned our keep in grape juice and gumboot joy.
Prickly Mo, big fan.
Sea Breeze & Sausage Sizzles
The afternoon sun and sleepy eyes told me it was time to decide: head back to the farm or find a place to stay.
Not ready to finish the adventure, I booked a room at the Novotel Devonport – just across the river from where the Spirit of Tasmania docks – and pointed the Corolla-copter in its general direction. Lark’s eyelids were heavy, her little body melting into the seat, barely able to muster excitement for the train we briefly drove alongside – a scene that would've thrilled her an hour earlier.
I let her sleep and detoured to Mersey Bluff — a place I used to visit as a little girl. Devonport is mostly industrial (if that’s your thing), but the Bluff is seaside-quaint. More river-meets-ocean than classic beach, with a sliver of sand when the tide's in.
The playground is a kids' wonderland. The air is fresh. Still sleepy – clinging to me like a little koala to a gumtree – I carried Lark down to the beach, pointing out places on the horizon and naming them like old friends we hadn’t seen in a while.
Before long, I caught the familiar smell of sausages sizzling on the breeze. A barbecue run by three Gen Z lads — cooking snags, tossing crusts to seagulls, not a beer in sight.
Wholesome kings.
We video-called RaRa from one of the many spinning objects, and checked in with the other half of our heart.
Two Beds, No Sleep
Check-in was breezy. The Novotel room clean and crisp. Lark sniffed out the minibar KitKat like a tiny hotel snob with a sixth sense for contraband chocolate.
We kept dinner simple – Noodle Box cartons, which felt very Chinese takeaway in a 90s American rom-com. Lark was delighted. So was I. There’s just something about eating noodles out of a box that makes you feel like anything could happen next.
Except in the world of parenting, “anything” usually means washing the grub off your toddler’s face, hosting a bubble party in the shower, and wrestling someone into pjs – just in time to wave at the Spirit of Tasmania as it sounded its horn and sailed off into the Bass Strait at exactly 6:41pm.
We watched it from our window, waving like locals and tourists all at once.
The room had two queen beds — some kind of special — and I thought this would be perfect for Lark and me. Except I was so worried she’d roll off, I pushed one up against the wall and slept on the edge, acting as a human barrier for a toddler who insisted on sleeping horizontally.
Ahhh, sleep. That thing you do when footloose and cub-free.
Bubble Wands & Wholesome Buffets
The night was… well, a night.
Lark is surprisingly tall when lying sideways.
We were up at dawn, surprised to see the Spirit of Tasmania had already returned — a twin sister ship I suspect, passing through like ships in the night.
We attempted the buffet breakfast, which felt more like a dine-and-dash — except it was prepaid, and Lark’s red curls make her far too easy to pick out in a line-up.
I’d give it a solid 8.
Scrambled eggs? Fluffy and legit.
Crispy tater tots? The highlight.
Baked beans? Consumed by the fistful, no cutlery required.
It was chaotic, joyful, and extremely on-brand.
One amused onlooker offered a warm smile and a nostalgic story. Her daughter, just as spirited as Lark, had grown up to join the air force. She warned me not to squash the spark.
I pushed the pram into the streets. Devonport is compact and surprisingly walkable. We explored a sleepy mall and eventually found an open Toyworld – apparently attuned to toddler sleeping patterns.
Lark bolted up the stairs to the scooter section and immediately assigned helmets: Paw Patrol for her, pink for me.
She peeled price stickers off the bikes. When I gently explained why we don’t do that, she nodded, retrieved two random stickers, and stuck them back on unrelated bikes (which I quickly removed).
The heart was there. The understanding… less so.
She dreamed of owning various toys. A baby in a pram? Of course we must match.
A horrifying unicorn gremlin egg? No thank you.
But in the end, she chose a purple bubble wand for $2.99.
It was the negotiation of the century – bartering down the loot to something reasonable with no tears or tantrums. I considered it a win.
Steam Trains & Sticker Crimes
We checked out, jumped into the Corolla-copter, and made our way back to the Don River Railway.
This place — lovingly restored by legends like Colin — is an interactive museum of Tasmania’s passenger rail history. Steam trains. Intricate wood-panelled interiors. Deep green leather seats with gold trim. An old signal house. A platform that whispers stories from another time.
As an adult starved of magic in a world of video calls and machine scanners, this place pulls you back into the tangible world. Where attention was analog. Where magic had mass.
The ride to Coles Beach was quaint and delightful through the eyes of a child.
Watching Lark proudly offer both paper tickets for the ticket master to hole punch –
watching their faces light up as they connected over something so unnecessary, so analog, so essential –
made me feel a joy that was laced with a quiet grief.
A reminder that we’re automating away the very moments that make us human.
Two Spoons, One Purple Stick
No trip to the train museum is complete without an ice cream for the road.
Also known as: a bribe.
Lark had set up shop on a set of vintage scales and had no intention of leaving.
“Where are the ice creams?” I asked.
“I think they’re inside…”
Off she raced – scanning every corner of the gift shop until she found the freezer.
Not a Dixie Cup. Not a Milo tub.
Then she saw it. Cadbury purple.
The colour that reminds her of her Nandad.
Just like it reminds me of mine. His dad.
The same purple colour that used to appear from the top drawer in my grandfather’s dining room –
where one square of chocolate would be ceremoniously broken off and handed out to eager little hands.
A ritual I fully intend to continue with Lark’s children too.
Because some traditions – the good, messy, melty ones – deserve to outlive us.
She held the ice cream with both hands as I carried her back to the car.
Relieved I wouldn’t have to wrestle the toddler-shaped boa constrictor back into her seat.
I sat beside her and took lovingly huge bites – my own grown-up version of sugar rationing –
while she turned the chocolate stick at impossible angles, trying to eat it upside down and inside out.
And just like that, our spontaneous overnight in Devonport came to a close.
We’d unlocked the Don River Railway.
Fed ducks. Danced with bubble wands. Pushed beds. Dined on tater tots.
And discovered all the gentle treasures tucked inside this compact little industrial town – home to the Spirit of Tasmania.
Buckle up, Boo.
The magic’s still out there –
even if it’s slightly melting… and comes on a stick wrapped in Cadbury purple.
