“If They Can’t Find Us, They Can’t Ask Us to Mind the Kids”

MID NORTH COAST, NSW — Fed up with rising retirement home entry fees, and increasingly bold adult children, a growing number of local retirees are ditching the driveway life and disappearing onto the open road — one shiny white motorhome at a time.

“We told the kids we were heading off for the weekend. That was three months ago,” said Alan Jenkins, 68, while reversing his 'new' used motorhome into the last legal beachfront spot in front of the Town Beach apartments. “Every time we park up and have a cuppa looking out over million-dollar views, I think, ‘Sure beats a room in a facility that smells like boiled ham and despair.’”

Alan and his wife Lyn say life on the road is not only cheaper than a nursing home, it comes with fewer rules and none of the awkward bingo nights with Steve from Dune View who breathes through his teeth.

“We used to get cold at night, but not in here — we’ve got a diesel heater that’ll roast your ankles in under three minutes,” said Lyn, 66, patting the control panel like a beloved pet. “And during the day, we just park in the sun. In summer, it’s the shade. It’s like camping meets passive-aggressive climate management.”

That’s when Alan visibly perked up — eyes bright, hands twitching with the sheer potential of a solar monologue no one had requested.

“Solar’s a game changer,” he began, leaning forward in that dangerous way that signals a full technical breakdown is coming whether you want it or not. “Back in the day, you’d buy a deep cycle battery, couldn’t use more than 40% of it without killing it — basically carried a 100 amp hour brick for 40 amp hours of fear.”

No one had asked, but it was too late now.

“Now I’ve got two lithiums — proper lithiums — tucked under the bench seat, 200Ah each. Got a Victron charger, solar controller, and an app that tells me exactly how smug I should feel at any given time. Panels on the roof feed the whole setup. I can run the fridge, charge both phones, boil the jug, and still stream Landline off the Telstra dongle.”

Lyn gave a patient nod. “He’s been waiting all week for someone to ask about the battery setup. You just happened to be here.”

They found their motorhome at (sponsored) Roberts RV World , where the sales team nodded politely through Alan’s 20-minute battery talk and still managed to throw in a free gas bottle.

“We tried Facebook Marketplace,” said Alan. “Every second listing was some bloke trying to flog a 200,000km van for more than he paid brand new. Checked one out in Laurieton — said it had a small leak. Mate, the walls were so full of water it doubled the fresh tank capacity. Pretty sure it floated partway down the Hastings during the 2025 floods.”

The Jenkins admit van life has some challenges, but say the perks far outweigh the pitfalls. They’ve cooked damper at Lighthouse Beach, pulled up beside pelicans at Harrington, and — most importantly — dodged no fewer than four passive-aggressive babysitting requests from their grown children.

“They texted asking if we’d be around for ‘just a couple of hours Sunday’,” said Lyn. “I replied with a photo of Alan in a camp chair next to a sign that said Welcome to Nundle. Haven’t heard back since.”

“Only trouble is the rangers always seem to appear right after we’ve poured the second cuppa,” added Lyn. “Just checking we’re not staying the night, they say. As if we’d ever break the rules.”

When approached for comment, Ranger Pat said, “We know exactly what they’re doing. We just pretend not to. It’s part of the dance.”

The couple have no plans to stop, and encourage others to consider the mobile life.

“If you play it right,” said Alan, “you can save while living off your pension, and sleep wherever the ranger isn’t looking. It’s freedom, plain and simple. You’re untouchable — until the kids work out how to track your phone.”

Lyn smiled. “We turn it off once a week, just in case.”

✉️ Letters to the Editor

Neville B, Lighthouse Beach
Everyone’s banging on about “van life freedom,” but let me tell you — there’s nothing free about trying to level a motor home on a sloping street. I did one night in Laurieton back in ’09 and woke up with my dentures rolling under the fridge. Alan, if you want a proper cuppa, boil it on gas, outside, with the wind in your face and none of this battery nonsense.

Marjorie T, Port Macquarie Library, (retired)
Neville, I’ve read your letters for years and I must say: your stories list downhill faster than your dentures. Alan Jenkins’ quote about “a facility that smells like boiled ham and despair” is far more vivid than your whiting gutting anecdotes. Also: “motorhome” is one word, not two. If you ever bothered to proofread, you’d know.

Pam Holloway, Hastings Garden Club
I applaud the Jenkinses for escaping babysitting duties — I once spent an entire Saturday minding my granddaughter while my son “fixed a gate.” Three hours later he returned with a jet ski brochure. If I had a diesel heater and two lithiums under the seat, I’d vanish too. Alan, I recommend a small pot of basil in the glovebox. Adds class to damper and confuses the rangers.

Shazza from Koala Street
I saw the Jenkins parked at Harrington. Looked comfortable, but I did wonder how they manage when the rangers do the “knock and nod.” I usually tell them I’m waiting for a cousin to bring fish and chips, then slide the seat back and pretend to nap. Works every time. Also — Alan, no one’s asking about your lithiums, mate.