After her father’s death, Sophie visited a random town, and discovered a surprise

The loss of her father lured Sophia Brammer to take an emotional trek, with some surprising twists. She tells her story below:

Losing Dad to cancer felt like losing a piece of myself. I hadn’t anticipated the profound weight of his absence, but it fractured my sense of who I was. After he had been diagnosed, my partner, Ben, and I had uprooted our lives in Surrey, United Kingdom, and moved to Bristol so I could become his full-time carer. It was a journey I could never have fully prepared for, both an honour and a test of resilience.

In the early ’80s, Sophie Brammer’s father had travelled around Australia on a motorbike.Credit: John White / Stocksy United

During that time, Dad and I often talked about travelling, me dreaming up new adventures while he reminisced about old ones. In the early ’80s, he had travelled around Australia on a motorbike with his then girlfriend, Jane. They carried only what would fit in a tarp tent – likely odd socks and pants with holes because, for Dad, it was always about experiences, not possessions. Years later, Jane, who’d married and had children, remained close to Dad and eventually self-published a travel memoir about her trip around Australia, hoping to inspire her kids. Naturally, as a main character in her story, Dad received a copy, a gift he kept close and cherished proudly.

After Dad’s passing and then years of dreaming, Ben and I booked tickets to Australia. We were in our 30s, established in our careers, and thought, “Why not take the gap year we didn’t do when we were younger?” Stepping outside the expectations of our age bracket, we sold nearly everything, stored a few keepsakes, and flew to Australia with only the essentials, embracing the freedom that came with letting go. I also tucked Dad’s worn, dog-eared copy of the travel memoir into my bag, never having read it. I kept telling myself, I’ve got to read the book. But for some reason I always held back. I figured that once in Australia, I’d open it when I had the time and the moment felt right.

We landed in Melbourne, taking our time to travel to Adelaide, staying with friends while looking for work. I felt an instant spark when I saw a couple of jobs advertised in Blinman, a tiny outback town in the central Flinders Ranges with fewer than 30 permanent residents. It wasn’t a destination on our original plan, but they needed to fill tour guide positions in the town’s historic copper mine. Dad loved spontaneity. Maybe I had a bit of that in me, too.

As I traced my fingers over a journey map in the book, I realised we were unknowingly retracing Dad’s journey.

Before leaving Adelaide, we chatted with friends about Dad and Jane’s adventures and for the first time I felt ready to open the book. I pulled it out of my bag, planning to give it a quick look, and flicked to a random page. There, looking back at me, was Dad’s smiling face. He looked just like an ’80s Ken doll, tanned and blond. I gasped when I noticed the photo caption, “Andy and Jane at the Blinman Charity Ball.” Dad had been to Blinman, the very place we were about to go.

As I traced my fingers over a journey map in the book, I realised we were unknowingly retracing Dad’s journey. He’d landed in Melbourne, travelled to Adelaide, then set out along the same highway toward Blinman. Was he right beside me, guiding me to the places he’d loved, sharing in my journey?

Unbeknown to me, Ben found a Blinman history group on Facebook and posted the photo, asking if anyone recognised Jane and Dad. Karen, a longtime local, said she remembered Dad and Jane well. The photo had been taken in her kitchen. We visited Karen, sharing stories in the same place where Dad had stood years before. She recalled how the pair’s motorbike had broken down, forcing them to limp into town just in time for the charity ball held in the memorial hall. With nothing to wear, they’d borrowed clothes from kind, inviting locals.

In such a vast country, realising we’d travelled the same roads and met the same people was profoundly moving. Having always believed that spiritual energy surrounded us all, I felt Dad was here in some form, present and guiding. Being in Blinman might not have been a direct path to my healing, but it felt aligned with both my journey forward and his memory.

Our trip was about seeing Australia, but it was also a way towards finding myself. Through the beautiful coincidences of the travel memoir, I felt Dad helping me discover the new me through travel and adventure, things that were at the core of who he was.

So, did I want to read the whole book now? Part of me has hesitated, fearing it might control the journey, taking away some of the surprises – like seeing behind the magician’s curtain and losing the magic. At the same time, there has been a quiet beauty in knowing that wherever I stand next, Dad might have stood there, too, taking in the same view. So I have remained undecided, but I trust the book will call to me when the time is right.

Now that I have seen the map in the book, I know we’re not exactly following Dad’s path. From Blinman, he travelled further north, while we’ll soon head east. Yet there’s comfort in knowing that, even as our journeys diverge, our paths may cross again, like two threads in the same story weaving back together.

And in the moments when my path seems unclear, and I’m unsure whether to go left or right, there’s this gentle nudge, as if Dad’s still here, saying, “Keep going.” And so, I do.

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