The Best South Australian Wines

Torbreck: In terms of wine tasting, Torbreck was the highlight of my experience in the Barossa, with the best wines overall (and, as it turns out, the prices to match). Despite my hangover, I finished nearly all of my reds. If I could afford it, I would have shipped home a case of The Steading (one of my favourite white wines) and The Struie.

5 Unforgettable Experiences in the Barossa

“Are you okay, love? You’re going a little white there,” John asked, concerned.

His eyes never left the undulating road winding up into the Barossa Hills. Outside, the pale yellow leaves were slipping from the trees.

“Do you need me to pull over?”

“No, I’m fine. Really,” I insisted, stubborn but polite. Professional even. I rolled down my window a crack and let the crisp autumn air wash over me, providing momentary relief.

But it wasn’t until we stepped in Lyndoch butcher shop that I realized the true error of my ways. As I was led behind the counter (“Lutherns use everything but the oink—they’re very frugal people,” John explained, holding up various cuts of meat for my inspection), across a freshly washed floor (presumably from where the morning’s offal had been washed away) and into the back area (where the smoker showed me the lemon-scented and blue gum tree chips he uses in the smokehouse), the nausea came back with renewed ferocity.

It was going to be a long day.

In the Barossa, South Australia’s top food and wine destination, I learned my lesson early on—do not, under any circumstances, spend the night before a wine tour drinking whisky until the wee hours of the morning at Adelaide’s Exeter Hotel with two young filmmakers from Sydney and a man who spent a portion of his varied career inside the Fat Cat (think Polkaroo, but Australian) suit. It’s just a bad idea.

Instead, here’s five ways to truly enjoy what the Barossa has to offer:

A Journey Up the Mackenzie Highway

Mom, my brother, Andrew, and I on vacation in Nova Scotia, 1994.

Early on, it wasn’t clear whose child I was—I wasn’t my father’s and I certainly wasn’t my mother’s. Well into my early teens, I was insolent and prone to quick fits of tears. The smallest challenge would make my nerves quake and knots form thick in my throat. I was teased merciless for being a scaredy-cat. I was the last kid in the neighbourhood to learn to ride a two-wheel bike and I preferred reading to sports. Even something as simple and intrinsic to childhood as sitting around a campfire and roasting marshmallows scared me because (and it pains me to admit this) a spark might fly up and hit me. Any molehills in my vicinity were unconquerable mountains, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to try and climb them.  This comes as a surprise to most people who know me now. As an adult, I’m the type of woman who shoots guns. I travel alone, I’ve lived happily without electricity and running water, I’m not afraid of spiders or snakes and I’m reasonably (although not entirely) comfortable shitting in the woods. I am, by my own standards (because no one else’s matter), fearless and self-reliant. I credit most of this to my mom.

Northward Bound: Cold Lake, Alberta to Yellowknife, NWT

Tomorrow, my mom and I are starting the first leg of our two-week journey to the Northwest Territories.

Truth be told, I'm not sure whose brilliant idea it was to spend two weeks straight in a RV together; she claims it was mine, I claim it was hers. Either way, it's probably a terrible plan--but I figure that I can probably sell a feature on "Why I Killed My Mother" to some magazine, so at least it will be a profitable endeavour.

Be sure to follow me on Instagram (@WynneLockhart) to watch relationship quickly deteriorate through a series of neat filtered iPhone photos. It'll be fun. And visually appealing. I promise.

Wildlife Adventures on Kangaroo Island: To Grow in the Open Air

It’s safe to say that there have been very few moments in my life that I’ve been grateful for being prone to motion sickness.

In fact, the majority of my time spent travelling in vehicles has been with my head over a plastic bag and my eyes locked firmly to the horizon. It’s a condition that's largely limited to car rides where I’m a passenger—I’m totally fine on planes, and on boats there’s a solid chance that my natural seafaring ways will kick in. But when it comes to bus rides, I’m doomed. (Despite the number of times I’ve tried it, motion sickness medication does nothing for me. As a teenager, nausea persisted even after having liquid Gravol pumped directly into my veins.)

So when I saw the bus when we arrived on Kangaroo Island, I knew I was in for a long journey. The back was separated from the front and the huge wheels were indicative of a bumpy ride ahead.