#175 Shackies

At the end of a dirty, sandy track stands a pod of shacks; the type of part-time residences that were once commonly dotted along Tasmania's coastline but are now as rare as hens' teeth.

Four-wheel drives with decompressed tyres, motorbikes and side-by-sides pass me in haste, determined not to have their path interrupted by a slow numpty on two, self-propelled, MTB wheels.

There is always a puddle to encounter blocking your passage but not because of rain, rather, as the result of pivot irrigators purging excess water that the pasture cannot drink, driven downhill by gravity to the lowest point.

Vertical boards with sump oil exterior decorating coupled with lath and plaster walls, ceiling cornice, and recycled carpet, these were the shacks that dreams were made of - a remnant of the class system where a summer crib was status.

"We're off to the shack", meant you had made it.

A simple dwelling perhaps handed down, shared, or acquired after hard-earned had been scraped together to take on a second mortgage using the family home as collateral, where friendships and making memories were life's simple pleasures.

A few morning hours by the beach before the wind set in and a late afternoon lawn mowing session to make sure the pitch was a tad shorter than the outfield, followed by a few mid-strengths to facilitate feelings of summer holidays or a long weekend.

But even before that time there were shacks simply erected in remote locations of Tasmania without care nor permit.

Generations of shackies simply passed on the non-existent title.

Shacks are few and far between these days. They stand out like (insert crass simile), once simple and plentiful, they are now overshadowed by three-storey beach houses with outdoor showers and decks for miles.

A shack is no longer a shack when it has its own Instagram page. Photographs and videos with high quality marketing telling us that we must book and stay to experience life to its fullest.

The Airbnb phenomenon has taken so-called shacks to the next level with designer everything adding an ambience that most of us had not thought existed when you add a lamp to a room housing a 4000-inch super high-definition television.

Reading a Kindle at the beach house is just as enjoyable as a well-worn novel but sitting in an upcycled chair with a device would have to be considered very modern.

When you see a shack, you think of possibilities. Romanticism envelopes my brain and I think of Richard Flanagan writing Narrow Road To The Deep North at his recently-sold shack on Bruny Island.

My mountain bike guides me to the point. I have a break and think about life, and shacks. "I could write my family's story sitting in there,'' I find myself romanticising.

Not in a manner akin to Mills and Boon, more a focus on childhood, nature, emotions, great characters and harnessing our imagination, determined to be free.

Alas the feeling of bliss does not last long and a dose of reality smacks me in the back of my head as a March fly awakens me from my dreaming.

The romanticism movement in art, music and literature was prominent between 1800 and 1850. The artists of the movement drew on emotion as their inspiration with descriptions of horror and fear and terror when experiencing nature their muse, creating works that were authentic and moving and reflective.

In writing, Austen, Bronte, Burns, Scott, Poe, Wordsworth, Byron, and Shelley defined the literary times and the movement, with Turner's captivating landscapes and Verdi's operas adding to the remarkable body of work defining the period.

Simplicity, isolation, repurposed sash cord windows, an open fire with a corrugated iron flue; an outhouse resplendent with spiders and cobwebs, a pile of magazines from 2016, and a print behind the door that was a gift from your mother-in-law.

Some shacks had an outdoor throne, only to be used for number twos with a bushy for a gentleman's wee the most proper of behaviour.

Part of the reason why shacks are no longer dotted along the coastline and in Tasmania's high country is because of environmental concerns.

With a greater understanding of the degradation caused by runoff, particularly sewage, something had to give, and regulation provided the pathway forward.

The shack removal project was wildly unsuccessful with the public response akin to attempts at controlling camping at Binalong Bay to resemble the highly successful Freycinet National Park setup.

In my romantic mind, the idea of an old-school shack was finally confined to the dustbin of history when in past months a house in the once-isolated but now-downtown mecca of Derby in North East Tasmania sold for $1.3 million on the 'dog and bone' at auction soon followed by another main street residence selling for more than $900,000.

I vigorously shake my head in utter disbelief and feel great concern for youngsters entering the property market in our once-affordable island state.

Caravans are the new shacks and just as lively on Insta but that is for another column.