Why Weekend Getaways Shouldn’t Be Reserved for People with Boyfriends: A Girl-Date in Penguin

There’s a cultural myth that still lingers in the background of every “romantic getaway” ad, every couple’s Airbnb post, and every smug #Weekending caption on Instagram, the idea that weekend trips are for people in relationships.

That if you’re single, you’re meant to wait around for some hypothetical partner before you book the Airbnb with a view, pack the cute dress, and sip prosecco on a deck somewhere.

My partner in crime Dixie, and I decided that’s absolute nonsense.

So instead of waiting for men who may or may not text back, we packed our bags, cranked up the playlist, and took ourselves on a girl-date getaway to Penguin, Tasmania, a seaside town celebrating 150 years of being small, quirky, and irresistibly charming.

And honestly? It was the most romantic weekend I’ve had in years, and not a boyfriend in sight.

The Great Girl-Date Road Trip

The plan was simple: drive from Hobart to Penguin and make every pit stop count. Because when you’re two single women on a mission, the journey is half the party.

Our first stop: Campbelltown, for some old-school op-shopping. Nothing bonds women like unearthing forgotten fashion relics. Dixie scored a jacket that screamed “rock-star divorcée on parole,”

Next: Perth (TAS), for bubbles and pokies. Because nothing says freedom like day-drinking and pretending you’re in Vegas when you’re actually next to a meat raffle.

Then Latrobe, where we ducked into Reliquaire, Tasmania’s most whimsical labyrinth of curiosities. It’s part antique shop, part museum, part fever dream. We left with trinkets we didn’t need and grins we absolutely did.

By the time we rolled into Penguin, the sun was setting and we were feeling smugly untethered.

The Bottle Shop Flirtation

Naturally, our first official act upon arrival was to hit the bottle shop.

Enter: a handsome, long-haired, blue-eyed man handing out free wine and beer.

He locked eyes with Dixie, and the temperature in the room spiked five degrees.

The flirtation was instant, a dance of hair flips, laughter, and thinly disguised innuendo over cab sauv samples.

When we left, I told her, “Slip him your number.”

And because Dixie is chaos wrapped in lipstick, she marched right back in and did.

We hadn’t even unpacked and the weekend already had a subplot.

Shots, Sparkles & Star-Gazing

We toasted our arrival at the Penguin Beer Company, which became our spiritual home base for the weekend.

Shots. Bubbles. Banter. Repeat.

Later, we cooked dinner at our Airbnb, changed outfits, and because self-control isn’t part of the girl-date charter, went back to the Beer Co.

When the lights went up and the music faded, we wandered to the Airbnb for margaritas, and a little dancing under the stars. Somewhere between the tequila and the twinkle lights, we started talking about how good it feels to design a life that doesn’t hinge on someone else showing up.

We didn’t need boyfriends.

We had each other, a sky full of constellations, and matching hangovers waiting in the wings.

Trinkets, Joints & Henna Queens

The next morning, slightly bleary but full of purpose, we hit the local shops.

Penguin is a treasure trove of vintage, handmade, and “I absolutely didn’t need this but look how cute it is” finds.

Dixie, social butterfly that she is, made instant friends with every shopkeeper.

The highlight? In a crystal shop, she absent-mindedly walked out without paying. Realising halfway through a sentence, she turned back to the owner and said completely deadpan:

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to rob you, I just smoked a joint.”

The owner laughed so hard she nearly dropped a chunk of rose quartz.

Later, we hit the Penguin Street Party, the town’s 150-year celebration in full swing.

We got matching henna tattoos, danced to local bands, and somehow found ourselves giving unsolicited life advice to a group of 16-year-old girls in the queue for henna.

“Remember girls, you are the prize. If he’s not treating you like a queen — dump him.”

They stared at us like we were a feminist TED Talk wrapped in sequins. Maybe we were.

Conversations that Restored My Faith in Love

That night back at the Beer Co., I met a lovely older gentleman who shared that his wife had passed from breast cancer two years ago. The way he spoke about her, with such reverence and warmth hit me right in the chest.

It reminded me that real love isn’t performative. It’s not the couple selfies or the matching robes. It’s the quiet loyalty that lingers long after the world stops clapping.

Later, we met three incredible women in their sixties at the pub. Within minutes, we were back at their hotel, shoes off, wine in hand, talking about love, marriage, regret, and that universal longing for someone to simply say:

“I really fucking love you.”

It was raw, funny, and deeply human, the kind of connection that doesn’t need context or chronology. Just women, talking honestly about what it means to be seen.

The Final Twist: Enter Lionel

Eventually, we began the long trek up Penguin’s unforgiving hills toward our Airbnb. Somewhere along the way, we stumbled upon a house party, music spilling out onto the street.

I was ready for bed. Dixie was not.

So off she went to charm strangers while I slipped into my pyjamas, proud of her stamina and slightly worried about her location.

At 4 a.m., I heard the door creak open and soft giggles fill the hallway.

The next morning, she emerged with coffee and a grin, introducing Lionel a 28-year-old photographer from Brisbane.

Dixie, my darling, had officially entered her Cougar Era.

The Drive Home: What We Learned

We left Penguin with sore cheeks from laughing, henna fading on our wrists, and hearts full of that rare combination of exhaustion and contentment.

Somewhere between the highway turns and half-eaten servo snacks, we agreed that weekends like this shouldn’t be reserved for couples.

They should be mandatory for women.

Because friendship deserves the same ceremony that romance gets, the effort, the adventure, the photos, the memories.

And maybe that’s what being single at forty really means: reclaiming joy without apology. Not waiting for love to justify living beautifully.

Final Thoughts: Redefining “Romantic”

Our Penguin weekend wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense, but it was intimate.

We flirted, we feasted, we found meaning in strangers and magic in small moments.

If that’s not romance, what is?

So here’s my hot take:

Weekend getaways shouldn’t be a reward for being coupled. They’re a rite of passage for being alive.

Book the Airbnb.

Make the playlist.

Buy the matching henna.

And if you meet a handsome man handing out free wine ……well, slip him your number.

Because love might be fleeting, but girl weekends are forever. 💋