by Bill Arnott
A roaring Dash-8 took us northeast from Sydney over the Tasman Sea. Two hours of flying surrounded by nothing but blue—bright cloudless sky with deep open water below. The closest piece of land was a thousand kilometers east—Norfolk Island, the former penal colony and eventual home of the Pitcairn Islanders, descendants of the crew of HMS Bounty. I gazed into the blue, feeling anything but, recalling their story as we travelled the mutineers’ route.
After serving as Captain Cook’s Master on the Resolution, William Bligh took command of the Bounty, his task to gather Tahitian breadfruit—a cheap, plentiful food source to feed slaves in the Caribbean. Bligh was meticulous in his mapping and research, a skilled navigator, cartographer, and botanist, displaying the best traits of James Cook and Joseph Banks.
The breadfruit work took only a few weeks, but the crew of the Bounty stayed on Tahiti for half a year. The time was productive, Bligh gathering volumes of scientific information, but eventually decided it was time to leave. The rest of the crew, however, didn’t share the captain’s sense of urgency, feeling their time would be better spent enjoying Gauguin scenery, eating roast pork and sleeping with dark-haired Polynesians. Who could blame them?
Following the mutineers return to Tahiti, some stayed to live the good life, taking their chances with the long but very slow arm of the law, while Christian and a few others sailed on, escaping to Pitcairn Island. Remarkably, they destroyed everything, trashing moai heads (viewed as false idols) and burning their ship, ensuring they were all in their predicament together, albeit marooned a thousand miles from anywhere. At that point, I suspect a few good months of hedonism on Tahiti before passage to England and hanging may not have seemed so bad after all.
(In a lonely museum in Oamaru, New Zealand I saw the only moai head that survived the mutineers ravaging on Pitcairn. It wasn’t one of the monsters that litter Easter Island, but a simple little guy the size of a garden gnome that got missed, or possibly hidden by some less puritanical member of the mutineer crew.)
By the time I was in the area the only appeal to Norfolk Island was a haven of duty-free shopping which I was happy to give a miss and instead go directly to quiet, isolated Lord Howe Island. The twin turboprop banked sharply, giving us a steep view of the island—a narrow, seven-mile atoll with a flat-topped mountain at each end, holding it in place like two craggy pushpins jammed in the sea.
Dash-8s need about a thousand meters of runway to stop, we’d been told. Lord Howe’s bitumen airstrip was closer to nine hundred, all that could fit in the compact space between sand and sea. But apparently, factoring in headwind and a sharp descent, this can do in a pinch. Plus, we learned, the runway grew a bit in hot weather. I doubted it grew a hundred meters, recalling a Woody Allen line that treacherous flights made him particularly uncomfortable, being an atheist. Our landing, however, was fine, the pilot nestling the plane between grazing goats and a couple of cows, methodically munching grass by the runway like glassy-eyed lawn mowers.
Accessing Lord Howe, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, was strictly limited, the number of guest beds—a few hundred, roughly equalling the number of residents. Our lodge owner greeted us at the open-air shelter that served as a terminal, fronted by a white picket fence. Tossing packs in the back of his beat-up ute, we bumped across the island, stopped at a store to buy groceries and overpriced Victoria Bitter, then carried on to our lodging.
From the window of our simply appointed room we looked onto a horse paddock where two chestnuts stood nose to tail. There was a grass tennis court and a concrete shuffleboard area, which made me feel we were aboard a hundred-year-old ocean liner, playing alongside passengers dressed like Mark Twain. After a few games we felt odd, new muscles straining in our sides, and gimped our way to the beach before supper, where a leathery old man stood in the sea, feeding bloody offal to a swarm of silver kingfish, thrashing around him like piranhas.
A massive Moreton Bay fig tree grew from the shore like a squat old castle. A knot was tied in one of its thick, hanging vine-roots, which I used as a stand-up swing, doing an impression of Tarzan, albeit with more clothes and less muscle. As sun slid down, the ocean changed colour, moving through the spectrum like a watery rainbow.
We dined family-style in a casual eatery adjacent to someone’s home—platters of salads and fresh fried kingfish – this peaceful setting a far cry from the violent display these gamefish put on an hour earlier. Following sunset, the island was cast in blackness. Generators stopped for the night. We couldn’t see a thing, but a friendly local walked us home with a torch and we learned to always carry a flashlight to dinner.
Next day we golfed. The island had a simple nine-hole course, every hole with ocean views. The only structure was a small, open hut at the first tee with loaner clubs leaning outside. There was an honour box for greens fees, and other than a guy riding a mower up and down one fairway we were the only ones there. Later on, we trundled down the little island on ancient, single-gear bikes and made our way to secluded Lovers’ Beach, where we lay in the sand and gazed at the Tasman. Norfolk pines threw some shade, but exposed sand was hot as a griddle and I hotfooted it to the water like a dancing chicken.
The sea was private, an endless expanse of sapphire and freedom. At least I thought it was private. I splashed around, porpoising in shallow dives until a snake wound past, bobbing at the water’s surface. It looked about two feet long, but with all the S-curves was probably closer to three. It had black and white bands like a monochrome barber’s pole and an open, angry mouth of teeth that somehow made it look dimwitted, like a small, mouth-breathing barracuda. I did my best to back-paddle, a graceless thrashing of arms and legs, the way I had while swimming in the Okanagan when a deer emerged from shoreline trees to enter the water. I’d swum in from an anchored boat, enjoying the encounter with a real-life Robert Bateman painting, until the deer pissed in the water like a garden hose on full nozzle. The only thing impeding my rapid retreat was my laughter, trying to keep my mouth shut as I swam back to the boat, head craned from the water like a turtle.
Back in the Tasman, I managed to avoid the bobbing sea snake and splashed my way to shore. The pull of the surf moved the serpent in a southerly direction, and it seemed unlikely it would hit shore anywhere nearby. At a little beach hut down the road that rented snorkel gear and beach paraphernalia, I asked the guy about the snake, describing what I’d seen.
He nodded.
“Are they poisonous?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said in soft Australian twang. I was relieved, wanting to get back in the water. Then he leaned in and added, “Not poisonous, mate. Venomous. You bite him, you should be fine, but he bites you; well, then yer’ f*cked.”
If You Go:
Lord Howe Island is 600 km northeast of Sydney, Australia. Qantas flies from Sydney and Brisbane. The climate’s temperate year-round but remember June, July and August are winter, with less favourable weather. School holidays are December and January and can be busy. Most spots are unpretentious; dress is casual. The UV factor’s high. Do the Aussie slip, slop, slap – slip on a shirt, slop on sunscreen, slap on a hat. There are plenty of good swimming beaches; watch the surf report for tides and any danger. The entire island’s ideal for birdwatching, fishing, and scuba. Try the kingfish any chance you get – grilled, fried or sashimi. When you’re asked if you want salad with your burger, it can mean beetroot and carrot in the bun (rather than lettuce and tomato); yummy, but foreign to most North Americans
Reference resources:
Lord Howe Island
A History of Lord Howe Island
Death By Muttonbird: A Lord Howe Island Murder Mystery
About the Author:
Author, poet, songwriter Bill Arnott is the bestselling author of Gone Viking: A Travel Saga
Photos by Bill Arnott
Norfolk Island, a self-governing territory of Australia is small, only 8 kms by 5kms. Two hours from Auckland and two and a half hours from Sydney by air it was a popular holiday destination in the 1970s and 1980s for Australians and New Zealanders keen to have a relaxing holiday and do some duty free shopping. The shops are still there, now rather jaded, but what drew me to Norfolk was its history, in particular its history as a penal colony and as a second home for the Pitcairn Islanders.
The second penal settlement on Norfolk Island was built in 1825 on the same location as the first. It lasted until 1856. During this period Norfolk was used as a punishment destination for the most hardened criminals and conditions were harsh. The UNESCO World Heritage site of Kingston has many remains of the stone buildings of the second settlement. These are extensive and you can wander around at will; there is no admission charge.
Walking up Quality Row, where the free men and their families lived, we saw the women working at their needlepoint and tending their gardens while close by convicts toiled, chained, often hungry and ill-treated. One of the houses in Quality Row has been restored and decorated to reflect what it would have looked like during the second penal settlement. A pretty little house set in a cottage garden it is light and airy, no doubt quite a contrast to the conditions in which the convicts were housed. It is one of a number of museums that give an interesting insight into not only Norfolk Island’s convict past but other aspects of its history.
In 1856 the British troops, convicts and free men were taken off the island and Norfolk Island was given by Queen Victoria to the Pitcairn Islanders who had outgrown their tiny island rock. Some of the Pitcairners later returned to Pitcairn but most remained and many of their descendants live on Norfolk Island today. The Pitcairn Islanders took over the buildings that had housed the convicts and their captors. Not all are ruins. Government house, the military barracks, several homes and other buildings still survive intact.
A fascinating slice of island history can be seen in the graveyard, framed by large Norfolk pines and overlooking the sea. The days we had on Norfolk were gloriously mild and sunny but many of the headstones bore testament to harsher weather. In the graveyard there is no distinction between free and captive. All are buried here, convicts, gaolers, military, men, women, children, Pitcairn Islanders, and their descendants. The cemetery is still used today and for those fascinated by the Pitcairn story like me it’s fascinating to trace the generations of Pitcairn names like Fletcher, Quintall, Nobb and Buffet.
New South Wales used the British ‘standard gauge’ of 4’8″; in Victoria, they preferred the ‘Irish’ gauge of 5’3″, which was probably best for the distances involved, as it allowed for larger and more powerful locomotives. Queensland and Western Australia opted for the narrower, 3’6″ ‘country railway’ gauge, as they could use lighter, less expensive trains. And, South Australia, with borders to all, used all three!
However, the line from the south did reach Alice Springs, and there it terminated. The first train to run along it was called the ‘Afghan Express’, after the Afghan camel wranglers who pioneered the route, and carried goods along it before the railways came. With usage, this became simply known as the ‘Ghan’.
So, usually, the train rarely got above 17 mph, even in the best of conditions. The railway people like to tell the story of the young lady who approached the conductor, and asked when the train would get into Alice Springs, for she was heavily pregnant, and didn’t want to give birth on the train.
There were no direct trains from Adelaide. Owing to the three gauges in use at the time, intending passengers would travel to Port Pirie on a broad-gauge train; transfer to a standard gauge one to Maree, thence on to the narrow gauge Ghan. That situation was to change in 1980, when a new, standard gauge line came into use. This line was laid well to the west of the troublesome flood plain, and on concrete sleepers, so the termites wouldn’t eat them. The old line was abandoned, and all that remains is the name.
In 1867, gold was discovered on the banks of the Mary River, in Queensland, about 170 miles north of Brisbane, the capital. A mining settlement grew into the town that is now Gympie, and it was decided that the best way of bringing in essential supplies, and maintaining contact with the outside world would be a railway line to the nearby port of Maryborough. This railway was opened in 1881. Because of the growing importance of Gympie, it was decided to connect it to Brisbane by rail also, thus doing away with the need for a sea voyage to Maryborough.
But, the residents of the valley began to agitate and lobby for a rail service, and, in 1911, work commenced, the first section of the line opening in 1914, and the next section a year later. A third section of the line was approved, but never completed.
Near the Old Station, the Railway Hotel looks just the same as it did for most of the 20th Century, and the stations along the line have been preserved, too. We only actually saw one, at Dagum, where the train halted for a while, so volunteers could show us the produce … mainly wine and cheese, made right there in the Mary Valley.
