Everyone has their own travel horror stories but I’d hate for you to miss ours: I was unable to check in online, so we get to the airport extra early to find most other people couldn’t checkin either. In addition, a zombie apocalypse had wiped out all Air New Zealand staff, leaving a planeload of confused passengers wondering why they hadn’t booked a different airline. Even better, on arrival at Melbourne three Customs agents attempt to screen approximately 10 plane loads of passengers, something akin to squeezing toothpaste through a pin hole.

Minor problems in the greater scheme, I know. I feel for anyone flying over the Christmas period this year, as this is still early December. We have the weekend in Melbourne then head down the Mornington Peninsula and pick up the caravan. On discovering there is a ferry that runs across the entrance of Port Philip Bay from Sorrento to Queenscliff, we rejoice: we won’t have to run the motorway gauntlet back through Melbourne to Geelong to catch the ferry to Tasmania.

The coast at the end of the peninsula is lovely. You can see on the map it is very narrow, and beachside campgrounds run from north of the charmingly named Rosebud, down to Sorrento. There are very, very few people here yet, but I envisage the chaos it must be when the hordes arrive after Christmas, with kids, boats, jet skis, too much booze and entitled attitudes. When we arrive at our site just out of Rye it is so hot (32C) we fall into the ocean, limp with gratitude.

However, that’s possibly our first and last swim if current weather is anything to go by.

The ferry the Spirit of Tasmania runs across Bass Strait from Geelong to Devonport, a small town on the north coast of Tasmania. The trip takes between 9 and 11 hours, and the ferry itself is reassuringly massive: almost 200 metres long, 11 decks, a max capacity of 1400 passengers, 750 berths, 500 cars, plus 110 trucks (trailers).

We are on an evening sailing, departing at 6.45pm but they check you in, do a Agriculture check for forbidden fruit and vegetables (Tasmanian border control) then you sit in a queue for ages. We’re almost the very last on and a deckhand indicates a skinny lane – walls on each side – on the vehicle deck. Cue drama as Scott runs too close on one side and touches the wall. As he backs up the scraping noise sounds like a tribe of banshees wailing and I fear we’ve wiped the side off the caravan. In fact the damage is negligible, a scuff at best, but I’m sure you all won’t let that stop you ribbing him.

Our Deluxe cabin comes with a bottle of rather nice Pinot Noir which we drink with a rather average dinner. Over the course of the night I wake a few times as the ship thumps through what must be a bit of heavy sea, but it’s not enough to worry about. A wake up call comes at 5.45am – groan – for disembarkation at 6.30, but I get the feeling we have been in port for a while. Devonport still sleeps.

The virtue of being last on is we are first off – we’ve arrived. Tasmania.