I quickly discovered two important things when recently taking a three week drive over several thousand kilometres in an electric car. The first is that “range anxiety’’ is very real. The second is that veteran EV drivers are often there for us neophytes.

First, some background. I’d always planned to get an electric car eventually – but then, just before Christmas, the petrol engine of our 17-year-old second-hand Subaru finally cooked itself after 360,000-plus kilometres.

Our house has largely been powered by solar panels and batteries for some years; the power company pays us a pittance for all the energy we export to the grid. Most of our driving is done in the city. It made sense to get an EV and charge it at home.

You know what happened next: America and Israel declared war on Iran without an exit plan, the strait of Hormuz was shut and the global oil crisis sent petrol and diesel prices through the roof.

Our timing was fortuitous: we hit the road with a full battery just before Easter for our long drive. The highways were notably quieter than usual. It was hard not to take notice of the fuel prices at the roadhouses we passed – just as it was impossible not to keep a wary eye on the digital gauge that measured our car’s range in kilometres and battery charge percentage.

You quickly learn that it’s somewhat arbitrary when the range gauge says 500kms and battery charge at 100%. Rapid acceleration and stopping and starting, air condition, vehicle load, roof racks and boxes can quickly diminish the range by 40 or 50km, even if you’ve not driven nearly that far.

But you also learn to modify acceleration to the topography, and that on the open highway the sweet spot for kilowatt usage is about 100km per hour.

Did all this make me anxious on that first long trip? Yes. I have a tidy desk. I like certainty. Routine. Planning. Our first planned charging stop was 350km south of Sydney. I was worried. By the time we got there, our range was down to 125km.

I was tempted to stop earlier and top up. But then, like many other anxieties, range anxiety can only be conquered by staring it down. So, we drove on. The app led us directly to the bank of chargers. Two of the four were vacant. After some initial faffing around (and a quick phone call to the provider’s help desk), we set the car on charge.

We walked the dog. Had lunch. Returned 35 minutes later to a full battery. It all worked. It felt like a small triumph.

We drove on to a far-southern seaside town where there were only two ancient chargers. We went to plug in the next day. We had trouble with the lead and the app. A friendly bloke who was at the end of his charge helped us out. (This charger was glacial, by the way, but we’d planned a swim and a long walk – this was a holiday – so it didn’t matter.)

Our helper was a pioneer, having bought his EV six years ago and still found ways to re-juice it when Australia was a veritable electric vehicle charging desert.

“Those days,’’ he said, “were tough.’’

We talked chargers and apps – best and worst. And he asked our story (EV story, that is, which it struck me is rather like talking canines in the dog park – you ask a lot about and admire the dogs of others but don’t really inquire much about their people).

We had many similar interactions at other charging stations – conversations I’m sure will soon be nostalgic, just as articles like this will be amusing anthropological exhibits. Ever more fast chargers will be rolled out to meet burgeoning EV uptake and the cars (with more used ones on the market and prices for new EVs getting more competitive) will become an increasingly prosaic part of everyday lives.

I wonder, though, if the electric car might fundamentally change the way we do road trips. We planned, stopped and turned off the highway to charge at many small towns by-passed by highways. Re-charge. Wander. Visit a local café or pub or craft shop. Feed and walk the dog. Chill out. Half an hour or so is all it mostly took.

More and more places will invariably cater to unique charging “experiences‘’ that rival for congeniality the highway roadhouse pitstop, with so-so coffee and fast food and where, let’s face it, you do often have to queue for fuel too.

My trip had an off-highway air of wistful reminiscence about it – like those “motoring’’ or “touring’’ holidays with Mum and Dad in the 1970s when we’d stop to “refuel’’ and drop into an “award-winning’’ bakery (they are still in every small town) for lunch.

It took a little longer than the traditional petrol stop on the highway. But it also felt more considered. Present. Engaging.

• Paul Daley is a Guardian Australia columnist