Somewhere in the Tasmanian highlands, the lake was so cold it felt like it reached into your bones. The tent smelled faintly of damp eucalyptus, sunscreen, and wet socks strung up to dry. My daughter dangled a crust of bread into the water, convinced she was feeding fish that weren’t there. Our car had turned into a rolling pantry. My son had built himself a hat from a cereal box and looked feral in a way only weeks of camping can produce.

This is the magic — and the occasional madness — of road-tripping Tasmania with kids.

And while I’d love to tell you it was all serene picnics beneath stringybarks and quiet hikes with wombats as companions, the truth is… we had some of that, yes. But we also survived leeches on Tarkine trails, showers that blasted ice water, and a late-night possum raid that ended with the bread bag shredded across the campsite.

Here’s what we learnt, and why Tasmania is such a brilliant backdrop for family camping.

At Lake St Clair, the kids skimmed stones until their fingers froze. At Fortescue Bay, they roamed like a pack, disappearing down sandy tracks to the beach and returning with tales of “secret paths” and hermit crabs. On Bruny Island, it was the bikes — long circuits around the campground that turned into their own expeditions.

Campgrounds create natural boundaries: enough freedom to feel wild, enough safety for parents to relax.

Tip: Look for sites with nature on the doorstep — beaches, bush tracks, or lakes. And if you can, take bikes. They turn the whole place into an adventure.

Pitching the tent, chopping vegetables, washing dishes in a bucket — none of it glamorous, but all of it strangely fun when it’s outside. The more ownership the kids had, the happier they seemed. One became obsessed with hammering pegs. The other took control of washing up with the zeal of a kitchen tyrant.

Tip: Resist the urge to do it all yourself. Slower, yes. Messier, yes. But they carry the pride of it.

We quickly learnt that bakery stops are essential. Country towns across Tasmania hide treasures — apple slice in the Huon Valley, sourdough in Cygnet, still-warm bread in Bicheno. Our ritual became simple: pull over, buy too much, and make lunch wherever we landed. Roadside tables in Tassie are often shaded by gums, with a view of mountains, water, or both.

Tip: Pack a decent esky. A spontaneous picnic always beats a rushed café stop.

Hours in the car are inevitable. What saved us were audiobooks — the kids devoured adventure stories and, strangely, convict history podcasts. By the time we reached Strahan, they were arguing over which was harsher: Port Arthur or Macquarie Harbour. Not the debate I expected, but far better than “are we there yet?” on loop.

Tip: Line up podcasts and audiobooks before you go. Signal is patchy, and silence is priceless.

The most memorable parts weren’t the big-ticket sights. It was stumbling across a glow-worm cave in Mole Creek, or watching dolphins arc through the water on the ferry crossing. It was the kids’ shrieks when a pademelon hopped straight into our camp kitchen, or the impromptu dip in a river so cold it left us all laughing.

Tip: Don’t overplan. The unexpected is what sticks.

We began in Hobart, camping just outside the city at Seven Mile Beach. The markets, the harbour, even the ferry to MONA gave the kids their first taste of Tassie’s mix of wild and civilised. From there we drove the East Coast, stringing together nights at Friendly Beaches and Bicheno. Penguins and blowholes trumped Wineglass Bay for the kids — apparently epic views can’t compete with water exploding out of rocks.

The Bay of Fires was the turning point. White sand, granite boulders, and rockpools that swallowed hours. We stayed at Swimcart Beach, lulled to sleep by waves that felt close enough to crawl into the tent.

Cutting inland, we reached Launceston and the Tamar. Cataract Gorge became a playground, and in between the walks and cheese tastings we found small pleasures — like watching a platypus at twilight in a roadside creek.

Then came the big landscapes. Cradle Mountain was a jolt: alpine air so sharp it stung your lungs, wombats grazing by the tracks, the kids’ awe at Dove Lake broken only by their obsession with leeches. We carried on west to Strahan, sandboarding at Henty Dunes and drifting quietly on the Gordon River.

The loop closed in the Huon Valley, south of Hobart. After weeks of icy rivers, the thermal springs at Hastings felt like salvation. We picnicked under apple trees, let the kids run until dusk, and spent our final night around a campfire, smoke drifting into the stars.

By the time we rolled back into Hobart for the ferry, the car smelled like damp shoes and bakery crumbs. We were tired, filthy, and oddly reluctant to stop.