The alarm clock chimed. It was Monday morning at 4am and Anne and I were to be once again leaving an apartment and heading into the unknown. Albeit not the great unknown as before, this time we were simply jumping on a 1 hour or so flight across the Tasman Sea to the island of Tasmania, Australia's 6th state.

We had been residing and working for the prior seven months or so in the Central Business District of Melbourne and had most definitely settled into Melbournian life, once the initial struggles of finding a home and employment had subsided. In fact, it was now hard to remember life before arriving in the city; it just felt as though we'd always been there. Travelling memories seemed distant enough but it was as if we had to trawl back for decades to recollect our life in Manchester. Melbourne was now home, for that point in time at the very least. However, as Anne and I had only Working Holiday Visas which were due to expire in 4 months, we had a big decision to make; do we leave in May 2013 and continue on with our travel plans towards the Americas or do we complete the required 3 months 'regional work' in order to extend our Melbournian lifestyle for a further year (and potentially save some additional funds to expand our onward plans). Simple choice really, isn't it?

So, we had both left our respective jobs on the Friday, said our goodbyes to friends over the weekend and now we were to be leaving the apartment with some of our possessions (we had somehow managed to accumilate 3 medium-large sized boxes of important bits & bobs which were stored at our friends, Jay and Melissa's house for when we return to the city - thanks again guys). Before heading to the farm we had chosen in the quaint town of Apsley, a few kilometres from the Victoria / South Australia border, we decided on a week-long break in Tassie, as our hosts were away until the following week anyway and so it felt like a good opportunity to take a campervan around the most southerly point of Australia. So despite booking flights with another notorious airline, Tiger Airways (see the Jetstar debacle in The Great Australian Roadtrip - Part 1), we arrived in Hobart at around 10am, completely unscathed. I had also received a call from my mum to inform me that her, my stepdad and my little brother & sister had booked flights to visit us in late October. It was all very exciting.

We were picked up by our friendly Devil Campers rep and taken back to his HQ where we picked up Harold, our van for the week (just for clarification, we named him this as he looked like the older brother of Henry, the van which was occupied by the J's in The Great Australian Roadtrip - Parts 1 to 4. Probably for the best if you just read or re-read the whole Great Australian Roadtrip saga at this point and then I won't have to keep referencing).

I was in my element as I was finally driving a manual transmission in Australia, although I had forgotten crucial techniques such as pressing the clutch in when stopping to avoid stalling the engine... However, after the third or fourth incident, I was finally back in the zone and we were cruising.

After a brief stop for breakfast and a provisions load up, we were on our way to Freycinet National Park, which was to be our first destination out of the three on the east coast that we'd picked for the week. As we had set a New Years resolution of drinking less (more of a requirement than a desire), we initially had decided to not bother with buying any alcohol for that night. This all changed after driving for an hour or so and we came up with a plan to have three designated drinking nights through the week - we were on our holidays after all. So, after a quick pit-stop in Swansea, we bought a couple of beers and a bottle of wine to go with the Scotch Fillet Steak that we were to be consuming that night.

After arriving in Freycinet mid-afternoon, we parked up and walked the length of the nearby Muirs Beach (roughly 2 kms / 3 miles) before heading back to our van for Surf & Turf (Steak & Prawn with a Melon/Avocado/Feta salad - amazing). Living out of Harold was such a joy compared to our previous van in The Great Australian Roadtrip (I suppose I shouldn't have to reference again as you should have definitely read this by now. If you haven't, then seriously, go and read it before continuing on as there will probably be more reference points). As Harold was a pop-top, it meant that all 6ft 2/3in of me could stand fully upright inside, as opposed to having to put on my pants horizontally in Laika Virgin (told you).

As we were both exhausted from our early start and just general wind down from the havoc of tying up the loose ends in the previous week, there wasn't much to report from that night or the following day for that matter, save for a walk around the local town and a thrilling game of catch on the beach. This then takes us to Day 3 and our 11km (7 miles or so) walk around one of the Freycinet National Park circuits. According to the guidebooks, this was a difficult walk only to be completed by competent and accomplished walkers - we were probably neither and most definitely unfit, but we decided to have a crack at it anyway. The first section was predominantly uphill to the lookout point across Wineglass Bay (Google Image search it, it's stunning). From there, it was a steep decline to the actual bay itself, where Anne made friends with an actual wallaby which had stumbled onto the beach. From here it was a level cross over to Hazards Beach (not as stunning) and then a few inclines and declines back to the car park. The estimated 5 hour walk took only 3 and a half - perhaps we were fitter than we thought. Back at the campsite, after a lunch of leftover hard boiled eggs from breakfast (approach Heston's Perfect Soft Boiled Eggs Recipe with caution) we headed to the local pub for a game of pool and a deserved pint (the three designated drinking nights had been extended to four in recognition of our magnificent feat that afternoon).

The following day we headed north to the Bay of Fires. Despite initially intending on roughing it at one of the many free sites along the bay, we had decided on booking into a Caravan Park in nearby St Helens. I managed to pick up a new cap as my newly shaved head was quite vulnerable in the Aussie sun, which led to Anne remarking how much I resembled a dad-on-tour with my shaved head, cap, shades, polo shirt and slightly protruding gut. Perhaps I'm subconsciously readying myself for fatherhood? I've already inherited the s*** dad-joke sense of humour too... Scary thoughts.

As we had only had a couple of pints each the previous night, we decided to utilise the third of our fourth drinking days and bought some wine to sip whilst we played cards and listened to music right through to the evening, when we watched one of the films which Alex, Jay and Ash had loaded onto our newly bought hard drive for us (definitely a wise investment for any traveller with a laptop and thanks once more, chaps).

We spent our final day in the north east exploring the many white sand beaches along the Bay of Fires. Despite being rather nippy for this time of year, I still decided to brave the waters in order to be able to add to all the different seas and oceans which I've swam in; I'm a bit weird like that. The afternoon was spent checking out the Peron Sand Dunes and wolfing down Fish & Chips on a boat in St Helens, then back to the site for another film and early night, as the next day we were heading back south to Port Arthur, home of one the most famous historical convict sites in Australia and allegedly, one of the most haunted too.

We had great weather for the 4 hour drive back down the eastern coastal roads. After stopping for some more provisions at the same supermarket that we started our trip, we continued on through the worst hit area of the recent Tasmanian Bush Fires. In fact, the road which we were driving on had only just been reopened when we arrived in Tassie. It was quite humbling sights; scorched trees and land for about 10 miles before we passed through Dunally, the worst hit town. It appeared as though every third building had burnt down and we watched in disbelief as people rummaged through the charred remains, hopelessly trying to salvage what they could. Some people had set up a tent next to their burnt down home, but most had taken shelter at the temporary camp site next to the local pub. Truly heart wrenching and surreal to see.

We reached the campsite late afternoon and after pottering about until early evening, we headed to the Port Arthur Historical Site for what we had anticipated as our highlight of the week - The Paranormal Investigation in some of the most haunted buildings (allegedly) in one of the most haunted sites (allegedly) in Australia. Despite us both being highly sceptical of the existence of ghosts, it was something that we had both wanted to do for years, I suppose to just substantiate and confirm our beliefs.

The investigation began at 10pm and we, along with the 3 other couples on the tour were led to the previous mental asylum (now a museum/cafe), which was to be our base. There were two 'Lead Investigators' who were to each take a group of 4 to various points which had been subject to apparent paranormal activity.

I suppose now would be a good time to fill you in on Port Arthur and it's purposes over the years. It was initially built as a timber station for the British Empire in 1830, but was converted just three years later to a penetentiary for the worst of the worst British & Irish convicts, along with some petty thieves et al (for those of you who didn't know, several sites across Australia were used by us Brits to house our numerous convicts in those times). Reoffenders from other penal sites on the Australian mainland were often relocated here as it's remote location on the south east peninsula offered little chance of escape for the prisoners. As time went by, the penal colony extended past the converted timber factory and other buildings were erected, such as:

The Commandants House
Built in 1833 (on the fringes of the penal settlement) as a befitting residence for the first Commandant, Charles O'Hara Booth. It was extended over the years to incorporate further rooms for servants et al, and now has a main central corridor with a dozen or so rooms branching out from it. Charles reportedly haunts the place and his presence was first felt (allegedly) around the turn of the 20th century, when tourists first flocked to the site. There's also a rocking chair in the far back room (known as the Nanny Chair) which has been known to start swaying as if someone was sat in it (allegedly).

The Separate Prison
Built in 1850 with a wing either side of a central intersection where the chapel and exercise yards stood opposite each other, it's purpose was to house the worst criminals in solitary confinement for 23 hours a day, with the other hour being for solitary exercise and trips to the chapel. Prisoners were not permitted to speak and guards & prisoners alike wore masks so that the latter were unable to see another human face for the entirety of their time there. The Separate Prison system was founded by a theory from a chap called Jeremy Bentham in which he felt that by omitting the distraction of human contact and punishing the offenders psychologically, rather than the physical lashings they were previously subject to under normal judiciary / penal laws at the time, the person would become rehabilitated sooner, rather than just harden and further resent after constant whipping. If prisoners were to break the rules, they were placed in one of two punishment rooms, which were 5ft x 5ft cells sur
rounded by 4ft thick walls behind 3 doors which cumulatively allowed no light or sound in. Needless to say, this system led to an increase in mental health issues and within time, the mental asylum was conveniently built right next door. Numerous poltergeist activity has been recorded in the Separate Prison (allegedly), along with a group sighting of a man who was mocking a tour guide by making faces behind his back from inside a cell (allegedly). Apparently, his face was picked out from the wall of convicts photos as a convicted paedophile who was once housed in the prison.

The Parsonage
This building holds the accolade of being the most haunted building in Port Arthur (allegedly). One of the sites previous Reverends, George Eastman is said to be the one who continues to frolic around (allegedly). Story has it that he died in one of the upstairs bedrooms and because he was such a large man (in height and width), his coffin had to be removed from the upstairs window instead of being carried through the front door. Unfortunately, one of the ropes they used to lower the coffin snapped and the Reverends corpse tipped out and landed in the gutter. Eastman was very orthodox in his ways and was apparently quite a feared man in life, so it seems befitting that he is credited with the mysterious activity that has occured (allegedly) since the late 1870's when Port Arthur was closed and renamed as the village of Carnarvon (The Parsonage then doubled as the village Post Office). The upstairs of the building has now been closed off to the public, apparently due to the number of unpleasant happenings. Builders who were staying in the building whilst restoring it in the 1980's have noted several incidents from seeing curtains being flung from the wall across the room (allegedly), to seeing the apparition of a woman in old fashioned clothes (allegedly), to one of them being strangled in their sleep (allegedly).

These were the three buildings which we were to be exploring that evening.

After pairing ourselves up with Paul and Bec (who incidentally are from a town called Penola which is just down the road from Apsley) and our guide/lead investigator Lindsay (male), we set off to The Commandants House for our first investigation of the evening. Once inside, we armed ourselves with EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomena) Readers, Voice Recorders, Video Cameras - it was all very Most Haunted-esque. We turned off all the lights and Lindsay proceeded to do the first call out of the evening. I have to admit, that even though I am hugely sceptical, I was a little nervy at this stage. However, Anne and I soon got into the swing of things and took more of a Derren Brown approach to things, rather than a Derek Acorah. For example, when calling out we'd repeat questions to avoid the potential coincidence in noises coming through the voice recordings that were just somebody coughing or shuffling their feet, but which were mistaken for responses to the questions we'd asked. Especially as Lindsay seemed intent on pottering about in the next room. After not even hearing a creaking floorboard for twenty minutes or so, we decided to move onto The Separate Prison.

Despite it being without doubt one of the most eeriest places I've visited, unfortunately, there were no occurences in The Separate Prison either. We performed call-outs in the hallway, in the cells, in the exercise yards, the chapel, even the punishment room, but sadly, there was nothing. To ensure the EVP recordings were accurate when they eventually are reviewed, we adopted another one of Derren Brown's techniques in all of us stating our name, then asking any potential ghosts to name the person to the left or right etc. After hearing some stories from Lindsay of the most sceptical of people being scared s***less in the Separate Prison, we headed back to the meeting point for refreshments and a catch up with the other group. Anne and I did hear a low-pitched deep sigh which seemed to come from one end of the building on our way out but this could have been anything as we were all moving at the time.

Back in the Mental Asylum, Anne and I were both keen to hear from one of the other couples in particular, whom I shall call Derek & Cora (see what I did there?) as they struck us as being quite interesting. They started the evening off by proudly claiming their experience in the ghost hunting field and shown us a number of photographs which could be nothing other than paranormal evidence. It wasn't. They had started in the Separate Prison before moving onto The Parsonage. Derek claimed there were a few things which happened but nothing substantial. I was slightly disappointed.

After the catch up, we headed onto The Parsonage via a quick stop in the Chief Surgeons basement, which apparently was the stage for many medical experiments, however there was no factual evidence to support this. Needless to say, nothing happened again and so as we entered The Parsonage, both Anne and I were completely convinced that ghosts are merely just the work of over-active imaginations. In the Parsonage, we were advised of the front room fireplace being another area of high activity, as the Reverend apparently took offence to anyone standing in front of it. We must have been accepted by him though as we passed through freely without any resistance. It was beginning to become farcical at this point, all four of us were beginning to grow tiresome of the lack of activity and so we half heartedly conducted one final experiment in the back room. All of a sudden, my EVP reader started going mental, I quickly ensured that it wasn't close to any other electronic equipment and after realising that it wasn't, all of a sudden I was beginning to ever so slightly wonder if I might have been wrong after all. As it happens I wasn't; this was merely the work of the switchboard in the wall behind me. We trundled off to the meeting point happy enough with the experience but slightly saddened that there wasn't even one unexplained occurence (save for the sigh in The Separate Prison which I am definitely writing off).

Back at the base, Derek was full of stories of lights swaying and bedding waving in THe Commandants House. All fairly explanatory but he was having none of it. We headed back to the car park at just gone 2am and drove back to the camp site. As luck would have it, we bumped back into Derek & Cora as we were heading to the toilets before settling down for the night. They once again repeated their tales of the unexplained, which now included him being scratched in The Separate Prison and seeing an apparition in The Commandants House. I was compelled to ask why he felt they had more of an experience than we did, to which he responded that he could communicate with ghosts. This was too good. He proceeded to detail how he was once visited by his wife's Aunt Theresa who gave him information about his wife that he wouldn't otherwise know and when she asked him how he knew this, he told her to feel his right knee, which was apparently freezing due to the fact that Aunt Theresa was sat on it (dirty b****). After that delightful tale, we were treated to more photographs which couldn't possibly be anything other than ghostly activity, as well as learning the fact that 12am to 4am is apparently the witching 'hour' and activity is heightened during these hours (ghosts deserve to have 20 hours off each day in my opinion), and finally concluding with him revealing his Tasmanian Devil tattoo, who was proudly sporting a belt with the letters IRA on it (evidently a four leafed clover wasn't enough to honour his heritage). This confirmed it, Derek was definitely a mad-man.

The next day began with a late start and a hearty breakfast, followed by another trip back to the Historical Site to see everything again in the daylight. Before we were to jump on the sheep-herded tour of the harbour and main buildings, I wanted to scope out a point of the site which had become famous in more recent history. On 28th April 1996, at the Broad Arrow Cafe, Martin Bryant, armed with automatic guns, murdered 12 people and injured 10 others within the space of just 15 seconds. Bryant was to kill 35 people in total that day, including two sisters aged just 3 & 6, whilst injuring 23 others. Most of the murders happened in the cafe, gift shop and car park of the historical site, with some others occuring in nearby towns. It was truly shocking reading about it and almost unreal when we were stood in the remains of what was the Broad Arrow Cafe, which has since been stripped to just a shell of a building with the cafe car park now a memorial garden.

After doing our classic whistlestop tour of the site (something we've adopted from the European leg of our journey), we retired to the Fox and Hounds, a local English Tudor themed pub for the last supper and a pint. Despite being quite expensive, they were hearty portions for which we both enjoyed and we headed back to our site for a bit of wine and an earlyish night.

As our flight back to the mainland wasn't until the evening on the following day and because we had until 4pm to return the van, the entirety of that day was spent wasting time in and around the Capital of Tasmania, Hobart. We stopped off for a gourmet burger and drove to a few lookout spots around the bay before dropping Harold off just before the designated time. It still meant that we had a 4 hour wait in the airport, as our flight was slightly delayed but we arrived back in Melbourne unscathed.

We were to be spending the next two nights at a hotel in the city centre before embarking on a 7 hour train & bus journey to Apsley, which was to be our home for the following 3 months. It felt good to be living the travellers life again; sort of refreshing and curiously like a subtle reminder to do things a little differently when we return to Melbourne instead of living within the perimeter of home/work/pub. Whilst we're on a Working Holiday Visa, we're also on a Working Holiday Visa, something which can be easily forgotten when you slip into the office-life routine, living solely for the weekend, which was ironically what we were trying to escape from when we left Manchester. I suppose the difference here is the little feeling in the back of my mind, telling me that it's all temporary anyway, that there's a bright illuminated end to this particular tunnel, a safety net of an escape route which will thrust us back into the great unknown when we've got enough financial backing to ditch the home comforts once more, and that there are more adventures in store just around the corner. This is why I came travelling; for the uncertainty of not knowing where in the world you'll be in 3, 6 or 12 months down the line, just living each day as it comes. I think the lesson we've learnt from having to leave Melbourne temporarily is that we can't let the 'travelling life' feeling become so foreign again, as for me, nothing can really compare to it.