Bizarre just became preposterous. I’m licking a soft-serve ice cream, playing minigolf beside an ancient rainforest, and about to wrap up the round with French champagne, Italian prosciutto and Tasmanian cheese before browsing a world-first art gallery. All of this takes place on one of the world’s smallest inhabited islands, 1,600 kilometres off the east coast of Australia. Here on Norfolk Island, life is a curious concoction of the past, the present and future.
Curiosity about this particular dot in the ocean began centuries ago. Polynesian seafarers came and went, Captain Cook claimed Norfolk Island for the British crown before pulling anchor, then convicts lived and died in two brutal penal settlements. Next came the Pitcairn Islanders, who descend from Polynesian wahine and the infamous Bounty mutineers, many of whom still live here. These days, the island welcomes tourists who fly in from Sydney and Brisbane, excited to explore Australia’s seventh external territory.
Art of extinction
I’ve already been slapped in the face. Sorrel Wilby does that to visitors. It’s an artist’s slap, though – one that hits as you push through the plush velvet curtain to her gallery, Nature’s Bounty. Her pastels pack a punch. Each one illustrates the who’s who and the who was of Norfolk’s flora and fauna, including, most importantly, the vulnerable and critically endangered. The knockout blow is delivered by drawings of species now extinct – the grey-headed guava bird, the local subspecies of the long-tailed triller, and the Norfolk kākā. These illustrations, Wilby tells me, have brought many to tears.
It’s the tip of a massive project. After winning a Churchill Fellowship, Wilby travelled overseas to examine preserved specimens lost long ago from the island. Now she is documenting and drawing them, and Norfolk’s burgled bounty is being brought home in a growing collection that is the artistic version of a lost-and-found box.
Getting lost is easy here. Coming in to land, the plane flies over hulking granite cliffs that plunge to tiny beaches, topped by Norfolk pines with fronds swaying like the arms of football fans. The pines are king here. At Emily Bay, Lone Pine poses like a supermodel, always ready for photos, while in Norfolk Island National Park tens of thousands of them mingle with ancient tree ferns and subtropical rainforest plants. All are part of an ecosystem that’s survived, evolved and adapted over millions of years.
I explore it with local guide Howie Martin, a direct descendant of the Bounty mutineers. He takes me on a three-hour hike through a forest called Palm Glen to the top of Mount Pitt, which is more like a hill at 318 metres. Then it’s onwards and upwards to Mount Bates, a whole metre higher. The chatter of birds is matched by Howie’s commentary; stories of his childhood playing in the rainforest, eating the wild fruit, and looking for mushrooms that glow in the dark, known as ghost fungi. Lining the trail is an inventory of endemic plants: the Norfolk Island hibiscus, Norfolk’s tree fern (the world’s tallest) and orchids, shrubs and ferns found nowhere else. We hear the ‘kek-kek-kek’ of the green parrot, which has been saved from extinction, and snack on a sweet island treat called plun, which is the local lingo for a small banana. Even at our low altitude, it feels like the top of a very special world and a sweet blast from a long-ago past, when the Pitkerners brought these fruits to the island.
Ancient language
Back in the village of Burnt Pine, the local women are hysterical with laughter. But this is a locals-only joke. They’re speaking Norf’k, known by fewer than a thousand people and one of the rarest languages in the world. It’s a charming, lilting mix of 18th-century English and Tahitian that makes every conversation sound like the greatest story ever told. To hear it is a snapshot of the South Pacific from the late 1700s. If you give it a go, you’ll be admired for saying ‘Watawieh’ (How are you?). Even more kudos comes from the reply ‘Kushu’ (Great).
I’m staying at a clifftop estate named Foot Nort, a fabulous 1970s home built by the late Canadian millionaire Eldon Foote. It’s all exposed timber and stone, brown tiles and slate flooring, brass fittings and cracked leather lounges, geometric rugs and retro prints. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear disco music playing in the Polynesian entertainment room with cork walls and rattan ceilings. In what would have been a huge flex at the time (it still is), there’s also an indoor squash court, tennis court, billiards room and a 19-metre resort-style swimming pool. My eyes, however, are wooed by the view. On decks level with the tops of pines, I watch the world’s biggest ocean throwing itself at the rocks 100 metres below.
Later that night, I head out on an adventure I’m told will test my nerves. At Kingston, amid the ruins of the old penal settlement, a ghost tour has me second-guessing every shadow. Brave hearts can also visit one of Australia’s most haunted houses: No 9 Quality Row. I’m a sceptic, but in one corridor my skin goes cold and clammy and hairs stand on the back of my neck, something I’d always thought was made-up content for Stephen King books.
During daylight hours, Kingston is an unlocked time capsule, so I join a tour of this UNESCO World Heritage site to learn more. In the ruins of the old gaol, towering walls enclose cells that each housed up to eight prisoners. Our guide invites us to squeeze in – only three will fit. No wonder Norfolk was once called Hell in Paradise.
A museum pass allows entry to four sites, including one dedicated to HMS Sirius, the flagship of the First Fleet, which in 1790 hit the reef, just metres away. The ship’s anchor, carronades, cannonballs and other treasures were salvaged and are on display.
Par for the course
Next, take your clubs for a walk around Norfolk Island Golf Course, where the game has been played for more than a century. It can feel strange to relax where convicts once laboured, but there’s a chance you’ll be punished by the South Pacific (a nasty water trap) and the island’s oldest resident: the howling wind. Don’t worry, the Norfolk pines, with fronds like baseball mitts, stand by to catch every sliced ball.
I’m late for lunch and a herd of cows is to blame. A dozen heifers are nose to kerb grazing on the verge, their hefty hindquarters a random traffic hazard on the road to town. But, on Norfolk, they have right of way and often stop mid-intersection to feed their calves. My feed is another platter of charcuterie at In the Wild café and bar next to Wilby’s gallery. I love that salami and champagne keep company with soft serve, minigolf, art and rainforest. Now this is a time capsule I’d fly back to open again.
Photographs: Susan Elliott; Chris Ciantar
