Exploring Seymour: A Day in the Life of a Taxi Driver

The alarm blares at 4:30 AM. I groan, fumbling for my phone in the darkness. Another early start. The rest of Seymour sleeps while I shuffle to the kitchen, desperate for that first hit of caffeine. Twenty years driving taxis in Seymour, and mornings never get easier.

My name's Jack, and this is my patch. Seymour might be small—just a dot on the map between Melbourne and the high country—but it's got character you wouldn't believe. And after two decades behind the wheel, I've seen it all.

The predawn air bites as I step outside. Frost crunches underfoot. My old sedan waits faithfully in the driveway, already prepped from the night before. I slide into the driver's seat, the leather cold against my back, and turn the key. The engine grumbles to life, reluctant as I am about the early hour.

My first pickup is always the same: Mrs. Harrington, 87 years young, heading to the train station to visit her daughter in Shepparton. She's been my Tuesday passenger for seven years now. Her husband passed away back in 2017, and these weekly visits keep her going.

"Morning, Jack," she says, sliding into the backseat with surprising agility. "Chilly one today."

"Sure is, Mrs. H. How's that grandkid of yours doing at uni?"

That's the thing about driving in a town like Seymour. You're not just a driver; you're part of people's routines, their lives. You know their stories.

After dropping Mrs. Harrington at the station, I swing by the hospital for the morning shift change. Three nurses pile in, all looking equally exhausted after their night shift. They chat among themselves about patients and plans for sleep, barely acknowledging me beyond the initial greeting. I don't mind—I'm practically furniture at this point.

Mid-morning brings a call from the local high school. A student's fallen ill, needs to get home. The school secretary knows me by name, doesn't even need to give the address. "It's Jayden Miller," she says, and I know exactly where I'm headed.

The boy climbs in, pale and miserable. "Sorry about this, Jack," he mumbles. His family moved here three years ago, city folks looking for a tree change. Now they're locals too.

Lunch hour finds me parked near the Vietnam Veterans Commemorative Walk. Tourist season brings a steady stream of visitors, many arriving by train without transport. A couple from Queensland approaches, map in hand. They're heading to the wineries out past Nagambie, and the woman mentions they'd called Wallan Kilmore Taxi originally but were redirected to a local operator.

"You're better off with me anyway," I tell them with a wink. "I know every back road and hidden spot worth seeing." They laugh, and I spend the next hour playing tour guide as much as driver.

The afternoon lull hits around 2 PM. I park by the river, roll down the windows, and unwrap my sandwich. A couple of cockatoos screech overhead, probably plotting to steal my lunch if I look away. The Goulburn flows peacefully past, brown and steady. After the morning rush, this quiet moment by the water keeps me sane.

My radio crackles. An elderly gent needs a lift from the medical center. I recognize the name—Mr. Peterson, retired school principal. His arthritis has gotten worse lately, and he's given up driving himself much to his frustration.

"Jack, my boy," he booms as he eases into the front seat. He insists on sitting up front, says the backseat makes him feel "like a bloody invalid."

"How'd the appointment go?" I ask, knowing full well he's about to give me the complete rundown whether I want it or not.

For the next fifteen minutes, I learn more about rheumatoid arthritis than any taxi driver needs to know. But I listen. Sometimes that's the most important part of this job—being an ear for someone who needs to talk.

The afternoon brings a mix of regular runs: shopping center pickups, medical appointments, and a few workers heading home from the industrial estate on the edge of town. Every face has a story, every journey a purpose.

As dusk settles, I get a call to pick up at the train station. The 6:15 from Melbourne has just arrived, bringing commuters home from the city. Among them is Sarah Jenkins, a lawyer who moved here five years ago but still works in Melbourne three days a week. She looks tired, her suit slightly rumpled after the long day.

"Rough one?" I ask as she sinks into the seat.

"The worst. Court ran late, nearly missed the train." She sighs, then smiles. "But now I'm back in Seymour, and somehow that makes it all better."

I know what she means. There's something about this town that gets under your skin.

My shift ends as it began—in darkness. Thirteen hours, thirty-seven fares, 240 kilometers on the odometer. Not bad for a Tuesday in Seymour. As I pull into my driveway, my shoulders ache and my eyes burn from the long day.

But tomorrow I'll do it all again. Because being a taxi driver here isn't just about getting people from A to B—it's about being the thread that connects the fabric of our little community. And despite the early mornings and long hours, I wouldn't trade it for anything.