Tassie does shacklife like nowhere else, especially when summer rolls around.

It’s the first week of summer in Sisters Beach on the north-western coast of lutruwita/Tasmania and all is quiet. The shacks lining the streets have their curtains pulled and only a handful of people toddle down to the sand each morning and afternoon.

In a few weeks’ time, eskies will be packed, relatives rallied, and the annual pilgrimage of Tassie locals will see its streets transformed. Cars will materialise on the grassy verge in front of each shack, kids will ride their bikes down the sleepy streets, and the smell of sunscreen will linger in the air.

I try to imagine the scene as I sit with a sundowner under the ancient pine tree, in the front yard of Arku House . The white A-frame is perched right on the dunes with the beach out front and the creek running past its side; its tannin-rich waters whispering of off-grid adventure. A rope swing dangles from a paperbark tree.

Built in the ‘60s, Arku has been tinkered with over time and was completely renovated inside by Sydney-based owners, Emma Woods and Charlie Whittaker-Smith in 2022. While inside it’s all Venetian plaster walls and Mediterranean-inspired curves, the humble exterior stands as a beacon of summer to the generations who have played in its shadow. It’s an icon, as etched in the memories of those who grew up holidaying here as the old dirt road in and the hot crispy potato cakes from the local shop.

The history of Tassie’s shacks

While they’re found in other states – usually in all-but-forgotten frontier towns – the shack is as quintessentially Tasmanian as Blundstones and scallop pies.

They started sprouting up in post-war years, when land was cheap – or in some cases, free. Often cobbled together with scrap materials, many had rudimentary amenities – electricity and plumbing were a luxury – and they were filled with hand-me-down furniture and mismatched crockery. The onus was on being outside, enjoying the natural environment, so it didn’t matter too much what they were like inside. As long as you had a place to sleep and knew how to catch a few fish, you were living the dream.

They were democratic back then, too. As great a leveller as the beach itself. You didn’t need to be rich to have a shack. Indeed the riches were found in the time spent there with family and friends.

“I grew up in a small seaside village in Northern Tasmania, the population around 1500 people, but during summer that number would triple with what locals referred to as “townies"," says Naomi Hume. “Everyone I knew locally would quite literally flee Boxing Day and head to their shacks."

Growing up with shack culture ingrained in the everyday fabric of her life, Naomi felt called to start photographing the original shacks she loved as a way to preserve them, after seeing them increasingly being pulled down to make way for larger, more modern homes. Even shack-filled hamlets like Sisters Beach aren’t immune to modernisation with beach homes slowly ballooning in size, syphoning off some of the nostalgic charm in the process. Thanks to some enterprising owners refurbishing old shacks and opening them up to guests, however, the Tassie shacklife dream is still alive and well today.

How to experience Tassie’s shacks

What started as a creative outlet for Naomi eventually evolved into the platform Tasmanian Shacklife in 2017, a directory showcasing her favourite guest-friendly shacks. It’s an inspiring homage to these humble hideaways, whose very simplicity invokes such potent and visceral wanderlust.

Those who feel the call are in luck — waterfront shacks are everywhere here. While there aren’t many places left in mainland Australia where you can find absolute waterfront positions (let alone afford them), that’s not the case in Tasmania. From the windswept streets of Nelson Bay on the west coast to east coast hideaways like Spring Beach and Verona Sands, and secret pockets of Bruny Island, original shacks are everywhere. And while simplicity is still the name of the game, it’s now typically accompanied by some carefully selected creature comforts — think wi-fi, linen sheets and designer coffee machines.

Shacklife has been a part of Naomi’s family for generations and it’s both a place and a state of mind she feels passionate about handing down to her own children. To her, it’s “being able to see your children play in the bay from the windows, being completely off-grid, getting up with the sun and going to bed with it, sand in the sheets, eating your own catch of the day, sunkissed skin, and stories made.

“I spent the first nine summers of my life in a perfectly imperfect waterfront shack of my great grandmothers in Dover," she says. “When she passed away in 1991, my family decided to see if we could find a shack for us, closer to home. We were lucky enough to find the one that we still have at Ansons Bay, quite literally where the road ends and the ocean meets."

The simplicity of shacklife

At the end of a similar road, the furthest south you can drive in Tasmania for that matter, Cockle Creek plays host to a shack community that has long called to me. It’s where an iconic blue shack sits with its feet all but in the water of Recherche Bay.

I make a pilgrimage to swim out front and look back at its peeling cobalt facade. I think about what life would have been like for Rose Adams, who lived in the old millman’s cottage for 70 years, staying on long after her husband, Walter, passed away in 1967. Drawn here during the Great Depression, Rose lived a life of coastal beauty and bounty without electricity or running water. Shacklife was life for her, right up until she moved to a nursing home in 2003.

These days, the privately-owned shack serves mostly as a backdrop for photos shared on social media – a marker of having made it this far south. Yet this Instagram fame is at odds with the true spirit of shacklife — whether it’s Rose’s weathered abode, Arku House, or any of the other rustic structures lining the shores of the Apple Isle.

These shacks remind us of a bygone era, where pleasure was found in simplicity, not social media status. It’s no wonder then that as the modern world accelerates, many of us — me included — find ourselves increasingly drawn to these relics of a simpler time. It’s not just because they’re beautiful places to stay; it’s because they’re portals to a way of life that we don’t want to lose.

Here are just six of the best spots to live out your shacklife dreams…

Arku House, Sisters Beach

With a private cinema room, yoga mats for sunrise yoga on the deck, and a welcome drink on arrival, the adults-only Arku House on Tasmani’s north-west shores has certainly elevated the shack experience.

Lil’ Blue Shack, Sisters Beach

Set on a street running parallel to the sand, entering Lil’ Blue Shack is like stepping back into the ‘70s, except with Netflix and a Smeg coffee machine.

Drift Beach Shack, Weymouth

The Mid-Century Drift Beach Shack is filled with all the ingredients for a simple summer sojourn – outdoor shower for rinsing off the salt, turntable to spin your favourite retro tunes, and a fireplace to light should mother nature forget what season it is.

Cray Shack, Flinders Island

It can be hard to retain the authentic shack vibes sometimes when mod cons are added, but even with Cray Shack ’s well-equipped pantry, outdoor baths and shower, and cosy indoor wood heater, the heart of this humble fishing lean-to remains intact.

Chambls Shack, Verona Sands

Looking out over Verona Sands beach, the three-bedroom Chambls Shack embraces the beauty of its wobbly bits and is filled with recycled furniture and vintage decor so you can slip into shacklife like it’s 1975.

House of the Weedy Seadragon, Eaglehawk Neck

Spend your days at ‘70s fishing shack, House of the Weedy Seadragon , beachcombing and relaxing in the cedar barrel sauna and nights around the fire pit.