In numerous daily press conferences over the past few weeks, Premier Peter Gutwein has been urging Tasmanians not to go to their "shacks" because of the coronavirus pandemic.

For Tasmanians, that statement is completely sensical, though disappointing, especially around Easter time when shacks are frequently put to good use.

But many people living interstate — or 'mainlanders', as they're somewhat affectionately known — had little to no idea what he was talking about.

What's a shack?

A shack, as defined by former University of Tasmania lecturer and architect Paddy Dorney is a basic structure.

Some believe the term was derived from 'ramshackle', on account of their typically run-down appearance.

"After the war we got the Australian dream of a three-bedroom home on a quarter-acre block, a lot of Tasmanians suddenly decided to buy a place near the beach or in a lake community in remote places with no facilities, no infrastructure, no power, no sewerage and spend as much of their time there as possible," says Mr Dorney, who has spent years researching Tasmania's beach-side shack communities.

Ashley and Sue Popowski's family shack, pictured in the 1960s. ( Supplied: Sue Popowski )

Back in the 1940s and 50s, shacks were built by their owners, who often had little in the way of construction skills on land they found and claimed for themselves instead of formally buying.

The resulting structures were often little more than glorified tents, with no plumbing, electricity or heating.

Long-drop toilets were common for decades, and any household rubbish was simply burned.

"It wasn't until the 1970s that people even started painting them. Up until then we were surrounded by salt-grey buildings with lead roofs," Mr Dorney says.

He says the term 'shack' has also been used in South Australia and Western Australia, but has become an essentially Tasmanian word.

"The word 'shack' was used in a derogatory way in the United States and Canada to describe a cabin that was really sub-standard, but here it became a reason for pride."

The shack as a symbol of equality

So you're probably thinking shacks don't sound that pleasant, but Mr Dorney says the appearance and practicality of the buildings themselves was largely beside the point: it's the lifestyle surrounding them Tasmanians so desperately wanted to attain.

"Certainly in Tasmania, it became common, even iconic to have a shack," he says.

"The shack itself is unimportant because people spent all their time recreating. The shack merely sheltered you at night."

You were just as likely to find yourself next to a butcher as you were a surgeon when you visited your shack. ( ABC News: Rick Eaves )

He says it's likely more Tasmanians owned a shack than people in other states because of the island state's low population and therefore higher availability of vacant land.

Mr Dorney sees shack communities as "egalitarian places", and a sort of anti-authoritarian response following the controlling environment of World War II.

"You might have an ear, nose and throat surgeon living next door to a butcher living next door to a builder. They'd all come down, go fishing and then go back to town," he says.

"Shacks are places to escape all the pressures of status like the shiny front door and the perfect garden.

"I strongly suspect a lot of those people who had tough times during the war just wanted their children to experience something else. It's a gift to family, really."

'Half the adventure is getting there"

Sue Popowski says her grandkids have already laid claim to the family shack. ( ABC News: Rick Eaves )

Ashley and Sue Popowski live in Smithton in the state's north-west and own a shack in Nelson Bay, down the west coast.

Their shack has been in the family for four generations, with the first cement foundations laid for it in 1952 after Ashley's father, Louis, asked for some land from the government.

The government said simply, "take as much as you want".

"It was more like a men's shed. Louis and his brother, Eddie, would go down there and go fishing and shooting and live off the land and they had just this little tin humpy for shelter," Ms Popowski says.

"It used to take hours to get there. There were some sealed roads but when they got to the Arthur River, of course there was no bridge across there then, so they had to use a punt to get across the river with a Bedford truck, loaded to the hilt with whatever they wanted to take down.

"Half the adventure was getting there, especially after they'd called into the Marrawah pub for supplies."

Popowski men and friends inside the shack in the 1960s. ( Supplied: Sue Popowski )

The men eventually opened up their oasis to their wives and children, and even to a cow for milk, cream and butter.

"They had a little wooden boat and they could go out in the bay and catch anything they wanted, abalone, fish, crayfish," Ms Popowski explains.

"And they lived off the land with wallabies so the big joke was you could take a loaf of bread and a pound of butter and live off the land.

"It was a real bonding time for them, it was after the war and a lot of war mates stuck together and the place was total isolation for them."

Where are all the shacks now?

The Popowski family stops for supplies at the Marrawah Pub. ( Supplied: Sue Popowski )

Shacks, as described here, have largely disappeared from the Tasmanian landscape.

While they're still called 'shacks', the properties themselves are now more likely to be full-blown houses and almost definitely have power, heating and running water.

Mr Dorney says that's partially due to council regulations starting to be imposed in the 1970s, so the properties had more value and councils could then charge more for rates.

"Shacks were never valued for anything other than their social and cultural value but once people realised where they were on the coast, they were worth a lot of money, so suddenly how much money you spent on it became important," he says.

"We've seen the advent of the beach house rather than the shack and the term, even in Tasmania, is sneaking in a lot."

Ashley Popowski's father laid the foundations for their shack in 1952. ( ABC News: Rick Eaves )

But Tasmanians have changed a lot too, and while some may be happy with more basic shacks, many of the dwellings now have a lot of the creature comforts suburban homes do.

"How we live in them has changed and that's the whole point, it was all about a lifestyle," he says.

"These buildings were focusses for the way we lived rather than retreats ... they were an excuse to live within the environment, and that's been altered greatly.

"It's been a sad loss, I think, the sort of naive innocence of the old shack community is long gone."

Shack culture still very much alive

While it's evolved from a couple of shanty-houses to entire urbanised suburbs, the idea of having a shack, and escaping to it every long weekend, school break or holiday period remains a quintessentially Tasmanian ideal.

And we're not ditching the much-loved colloquialism anytime soon.

"Shack just means a basic structure, and the fact Tasmanians now use the word shack to describe their architect-designed showpieces is ironic, really," Mr Dorney says.

"Clearly our concept of what a shack is has changed a fair bit, but it's not going anywhere."

The Popowski shack has come a long way. ( ABC News: Rick Eaves )

Ms Popowski says the sense of community once attached to shack ownership has changed, but they still dearly love their piece of paradise.

"In the early days, it was a little community with all these shack owners and we found everyone had a skill, someone was an electrician, someone could fix motors, someone was a plumber, so we all helped each other. It's totally different today," she says.

"But it's our heritage, part of our legacy.

"The grandkids have already claimed it, so we know it will stay in the family when we pass away. So, that's how much it means to our family."