For weeks now I've been nervous about travelling to Tasmania on my own. For twenty years I've been travelling in a partnership - physically, spiritually, psychologically. Whilst I adore my husband and every second with him is precious, so is my own sense of self, and my independence is important to me. Freedom is important to me - and it was never realised so much til we were all in lockdown and even my solo surfing trips were disallowed under draconian 5 kilometre travel laws.

On the last trip to Tasmania we had a wonderful time, yet still, I found myself frustrated by how little freedom I had even in my own relationship. When you travel with someone else, their needs are part of your own, and you must consider and discuss and consult with them. I found myself desperately in need of a solo adventure, not because I didn't enjoy travelling with him, but because I wanted to drive, I wanted to get up and go surfing or go for a hike or eat breakfast or not eat breakfast without making a discussion of it. I wanted to follow my own whim and fancy. The caged girl needed space.

It's so much less to do with him than my own personal desire to spread my wings. Perhaps I'm being selfish and intolerant. I know I'm terribly lucky to be with a man who is happy to give me such space.

In 2001, fresh out of a relationship and with a four year old child, I was staying at my parents the night before getting on a plane to Europe on our own. Yes, it was a crazy thing to do - I was a single parent with hardly any money. STill, I was determined to live a life. I remember drinking Rescue Remedy, an infused flower essence in brandy that was meant to calm you down. It didn't. Mum instead gave me brandy in chamomile tea. That worked a treat. I was so darn nervous I was crying. Still, I went.

I remembered that when I woke at 5 am to go to the ferry terminal in Melbourne. I'd been feeling sick for days, stretched thin with nervous exhaustion. I don't know why, exactly. I remember hearing someone say 'I used to worry about things that weren't even the worse thing that could happen', and it echoed in my head like a mantra all week. The worse thing that happened would be someone I love dying, or something as dramatic - not getting lost or crashing the car or any of the other imaginery tunes that were plucking at the strings of my heart. Even the terrifying traffic in the dark at peak hour surrounded by trucks and worrying I'd get into the wrong line was nerve wracking but not the worse thing that could happen.

And that's exactly why I do like to do things on my own, to throw myself into the unknown and prove that I can do it. I don't want my husband to come to my rescue or do everything for me. It's his nature to - he's a protector. He likes everything micro managed and it drives me crazy, but that's his nervous thing. I figure things out as I go along, he makes sure that it's all planned beforehand. It's sweet and endearing and as what happens in a marriage, you compromise and let thigns go. So on road trips I never drive and on long haul flights I never hold the passport. If it bothers him that much, he can do those jobs. Whatever. I don't need to do anything.

But for these blissful ten days, I'll be doing it on my own, and somehow it's worth all the nervousness and effort to be a little free for a while.