TRAVEL TREND

Not everyone loves the sunshine

KNOW THIS MUCH, they are not spectres; they exist. They move among you. Unknowingly, you may even know one. I am one. In the idyllic summer months, we cast no shadow because we live in the shadows. Invisible because we lie low when the sun doesn’t. Our predilection is inexplicable to the ‘normal’ Australian, sloth-like worshippers of that great unquestionable sandy summertime sanctuary, the beach. To them, we are vampires, pariahs, bridgeless trolls. Miscreants so unfathomable that no one even speaks of us, not even in the deepest of subreddits, because we have no name, no status. Until now. Confession time: I am a SASSE (Sun-andSand-Sea-Eschewer). In plain Stralyan, I simply don’t do beach holidays anymore. I’ve intentionally (and ungrammatically) reverse-engineered the acronym so SASSE will be pronounced “sassy”. I’m sick of being holiday-shamed and I intend to ‘own it’. Eschew with attitude, if you will. Don’t get me wrong, I positively adore an uplifting morning dip in the heaving, healing ocean swell; it’s my go-to hangover remedy, curer of miscellaneous malaise. However, a full day, let alone two weeks, imprisoned on a teeming, steaming strip of sand is equivalent to force feeding me a double helping of deep-fried kryptonite with a side of badly boiled brussels sprouts. Full disclosure, I am a member of one of Australia’s most openly discriminated against minorities, the southern hemisphere ranga, but it is not just we of the easily caramelised ginger genus who find the idea of a sunny, sandy Christmas break repellent. SASSEs hail from every nail on the melanin chocolate wheel, as I discovered last December, when I drove, very much against the traffic flow, to Victoria’s verdant High Country. Passing through Mount Beauty, the village equivalent of a sleepy-eyed kitten, my coldand-peace-loving heart was lightly flambéed by the intimate group of well-rounded, lively eyed couples and families choosing adventure over idleness. As I wound up the mountain to my SASSE sanctuary, Falls Creek ski resort in repose, I wound down my windows, which in turn wound back the year exactly one season, to early spring. While the multitude Sunday-roasted themselves in 40-degrees on the continental outline, basted liberally in unswallowably high humidity, I energetically bounded into a freshly picked Granny-Smith-crisp alpine day, which peaked at 20-ish and dipped into openfire-friendly single digits post-twilight. Next, I partook in a day hike, which at sea level would have delivered a medical-journalfront-page-making case of dehydration. The further I walked up past the ski lifts, then the tree line, the more the wildflowers waved their pretty little tushies at me, jockeyed by strange shiny green disco beetles (not their actual name). Valley after valley offered themselves up as scrumptious eye-pastries. I swigged from an above-the-pollution-line stream and splashed some of its naturally refrigerated water on my slightly sweating face and neck. Heart restarted, the next day it was time for some shuttle-assisted mountain biking down shady trails that barely interrupt the forest’s narrative. On the return shuttles back up the mountain, I interacted famously with my chatty fellow SASSEs, my peeps, a different breed from the sea levellers, who right now would probably be street fighting over a car space five metres closer to the beach. Before sunset, under a snow gum’s seductive shade, I unfurled a backpack picnic, my alpine charcuterie spread not clumped together by the usual summer clamminess. I looked back down over those magnificent valleys and tried to imagine the millions of humans simmering in the bubbling-over pot below. This was the precise moment I embraced my SASSE-ness. You don’t have to go overseas or climb as high as Falls Creek for a SASSE-friendly summer escape, but altitude is key. Anywhere in the Snowy Mountains is a good place to make a beeline for: either side of the divide, from Jindabyne (NSW) to Bright (Victoria). You can find respite in the most unlikely spots – even in the Sunshine State itself, in places like Tamborine and Lamington national parks on the Scenic Rim; the stew of Surfers Paradise far below. Or, alternatively, just buy a holiday home in (or indeed move to) Tassie. The average summer high in Hobart is around 20°C, and that’s before you ascend into the brilliance of classic SASSE-scapes such as Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park. Be forewarned, however, high-country hibernation is not a seamless affair because some who live in the mountains also like to flee to the sea. It’s their low season and things will be closed (always ring ahead) and dining options limited (be prepared to pack a lunch). Like beach holidays, booking well ahead can land you a killer bargain, especially compared to the horrendous-value rates charged for any structure within cooee of the sea when schools are boarded up for the year. Did I hear a ‘that sounds nice’? Perhaps you are one of the unchosen few, a little bit SASSE. It’s time to follow your internal temperature gauge and go your own way, as Fleetwood Mac suggested, instead of following what is hot, physically and trend-wise. This summer I recommend packing up the trusty chariot with a different cargo and driving against the grain, out of the lonely shadows, just like I did. Make sure to wave proudly at the bumper-to-bumper rosy-cheeked sheeple, most of whom will be wondering which great inland beach you are heading for. We are girt by sea no longer. Rise up, fellow SASSEs, your time out of the sun has come.

Before sunset, under a snow gum’s seductive shade, I unfurled a backpack picnic, my alpine charcuterie spread not clumped together by the usual summer clamminess.