You see things in a different way traveling with a deliberately indefinite plan. Secondary roads preferred. Paved country roads being the best, gravel next and highways avoided as much as I can. The aim is traveling to be here, not concerned about being 'there'. In Australia the here is out there. It's such a big place with so few things between that feeling of isolation brings with it a curiosity of the people and places that do cross your path. You could be driving a couple hours down a gravel road only to pass from one paddock to the next, or a couple days with landscape unchanged. Not knowing how far till the next petrol station, no service for maps, watching the needle drop lower and lower - all the while wondering when you last saw a car or truck pass and calculating how long you'll have to wait for a lift. Signs are seldom necessary as locals are the only ones using these roads, navigating by memory alone. This makes it difficult to know if the junction you turned down some kilometres back will lead off bitumen, into a single lane, then a goat track to a pasture or more embarrassingly into some farmer's backyard. Long unplanned trips down these unmarked roads make the towns between them that much more significant. Each one an oasis where I can refill or at the very least ask a local where the bloody hell I've ended up. With a lack of pressure to "get somewhere" it works out well, and I end up exactly where I should.

Not all regional towns are equal. For me they can be separated into three uniquely Australian categories: coastal, out there, and way out there. In each of these you have the big-small towns. Hubs of business & culture for the surrounding area. Places like Ballarat or Bendigo. Here you're likely to have options for your weekly food shop at a Woolies, Coles or Aldi and aren't hard pressed to find cheap supplies to fix any issues with the car. People met are a cavalcade: locals proudly born and bred who tell me "this place is not like it used to be", out of towners looking for work or affordable living (often blamed for the changes to town), and travellers pitstoping through via the near major highways - which filter traffic away from back roads and smaller towns in an effort to get people directly where they need to be going. People are friendly, diverse, but busy enough that like the city eye contact is promptly met with a quick awkward diversion of gaze - sometimes a wry smile and polite nod. You can't say 'hi' to everybody so best to avoid contact all together. There's a rush - not the same as the scramble of a city but a hum to each individual. A rush to be somewhere. Often too busy to interact with things that aren't part of the plan to be 'there'.

Then, there are the genuine small towns. I'm talking about those with one road in and out. The ones with single story sandstone or brick house affairs if they're 'out there'. Weatherboard terraces washed of colour with rust-stained corrugated iron roofs if they're 'coastal'. Where the main town strip usually starts with a Lutheran church and finishes in a Methodist. Neither flaunting pompous gothic motifs, instead single-building chapels are the most common and stand out from the surrounding houses by their hitched roofs rising only a meter or two taller. With the buildings lying so low it’s easy to get the atmosphere from just about anywhere in town; a quay floating in agricultural land or surrounded by dense bush. Separating these small towns are trips down the long white line. Dodging potholes and mangled kangaroo carcasses. Hard shoulders on each side of the road press the world right against you; fences whizz past whilst tableland fields of mono-culture crops fade into the boundless country. Disturbed only by swollen grain silos gleaming silver. Once on the main strip of town you're sure to find a pub, a petrol station with only one or two pumps, and an independent grocer (occasionally attached to the petrol station). At 3pm the town closes, all stores shut and the already sleepy strip looks abandoned by early afternoon. You're spending the night if you need anything.

The residents of these small towns are present and ever adapting. A product of seasoned unpredictability where a plan doesn't mean much in the way of floods, droughts, fires, and rodent infestations. They might be sceptical upon arrival, but they are genuine in conversation. Curious out of themselves.

I was driving into Gaffney's Creek - an old gold-mining settlement only accessible by one road. Gravel. Winding steeply up and down Victoria's high country, each climb watching the fuel gauge plummet as my soccer-mum car struggled to haul 'howls moving castle'. Like many roads in Australia, potholes were everywhere. These ones particularly severe; perfectly camouflaged by the streaks of shadows filtering through the thick snow gum canopy. Like hidden mines it's already too late by the time you realise that shadow under your tyre is actually a pothole to the seventh layer of hell. I passed two souped up 4WDs that had tragically suffered pothole pigeon toe. One front wheel dead straight, the other turned almost 90 degrees inwards. At first a little gleeful it wasn't me, then uncomfortable at the more than likely possibility it could be me.

Coming along this lonesome road I was relieved to see up ahead a sign: "welcome to Gaffney's Creek". What I was met with wasn't very welcoming however. On the main strip - the only strip - three plaid shirted locals sat out front the petrol station/grocers. The moment I drove into eyeshot they stopped chatting and spun about. Dead pan. Staring at my coming along (I hear banjo's duelling). I rolled past, window down, arm out, smiling at the sun-hardened faces squinting back at me. Thought I'd break the tension by asking "you got 98?" - which from the remoteness of the place I knew my answer already.

"We've got diesel or petrol."

"Right, easy as. Do you know where this road takes me?"

The hardened exteriors and scepticism quickly turned to genuine curiosity. Asking where I've come and where I'm going. Conversations tend to be longer than shorter. Relaxed and present.

Even though most people from small towns are an open book the right questions still need to be asked, more so to the right people. If the towns have them, skip the information centres. Wander through and pop into whatever shops are open. With no pressure to make good time the emphasis ends up on 'good' not time. What you lose in minutes you make up for in characters met and unfiltered local knowledge acquired. You won't learn much asking for "things to see in the area". Most often suggesting what they think you'll be interested in, or what most tourists come to see - which much of the time has little to do with the town itself. Instead, conversation is necessary. Finding out what the town means to them, which brings with it a perspective that can only be gained by a lifetime (typically generations) spent in a community.