I've flown into Norfolk Island from Sydney on my Islands Around Australia Adventure .My landlady is a blow-in, a Kiwi who holidayed here and kept coming back. She whisks me off to her B'n'B cottage and a hire car ready and waiting. They’ve told me to mark any scratches on the diagram on my paperwork and hand it in later. I figure I’ll wait till I’ve finished my driving before I do it…
Next, a tour, with my host, for orientation purposes. It takes about ten minutes to view the cluster of wooden buildings that is the only town, Burnt Pine, and the south western historic district around Kingston, which is a tiny but designated the capital of Norfolk Island. This is the administrative centre of the island.
And I’ve already come from the airport in the southeast. The island is only five kilometres by eight kilometres in size. Then I’m off on my own exploring. It’s an exceptionally rewarding small island. The grass really is emerald green; the pristine sandy bays are dotted with craggy islets and the waves are crashing in a deep ultramarine sea. Elegant and beautifully symmetrical Norfolk pines frame the backdrops, marching across the velvety hills. The solitary tree at the end of Emily Bay (known as Lone Pine of course) was mentioned in Cook’s dispatches. I'm going to be singing that Laurel and Hardy song the whole time I'm here.
The feral chooks ensure that I wake up early. My very hospitable and efficient host has suggested I join the Tag Along Tour of the World Heritage historic area. I've driven down there in my hire car. Nowhere on Norfolk Island seems hugely far away.
My guide greets us in Norf’k Speak: 'Wataweih yorlyi’ (Hello and how are you?) and announces, with a grin, that she is a Pitcairn descendant (as are nearly half the inhabitants of the island). The settlement is the second-oldest in Australia, founded a little over a month after Sydney. The renovated Georgian buildings house, amongst other displays, a multitude of relics that the Pitcairners brought with them when they journeyed across the Pacific – this includes a cannon from the Bounty. Their legacy is reflected all around the island, with names like Fletcher Christian Road. The shops even proudly display Bounty bars. They're most picturesque seen from the hill top above. It's a bit of a scramble, through a glade of Norfolk Pine trees. The Norfolk Pines, casting lacy patterns against the sapphire sky are ubiquitous. (See Norfolk Island in a Nutshell.)
It’s gorgeous sun interspersed with heavy winter rain showers today, so I’m zipping around trying to take in all the views without getting drenched. There are several hills to climb for wonderful views across bays and one of the most southerly reefs in the world, where HMS Sirius was wrecked, bringing much needed provisions. Instead, they lost the supplies and doubled the population. The country lanes form a maze, rather than taking you round the edge of the island and navigation is interesting. The roads are more hole than surface. No-one has attempted any major repair since the Americans built them during the war; they just patch up the worst bumps
Mottle-faced cattle wander the potholes. It’s mandatory to give way to the animals. I’m also having to weave to avoid the feral chickens (brought in on the first convict wave). But it’s very quiet,, hardly any traffic and no parking meters. You can generally just pull up by the side of the road.
Landlady has instructed me to raise a hand at anyone I pass. This is known as the Norfolk Wave, she says. Not everyone returns my greeting, although no response is better than some of the gestures I’ve seen offered to others. The Pitcairners delight in insulting each other. I think it's all done with a sense of camaraderie.
There’s a sign on the point at Crystal Pool, informing me that the road is impassable when it’s wet. I scramble up the steep tussocky hillside to look down on basalt formations , creating boiling pools in the ocean. This path too has warning signs and is booby trapped, with holes once created by nesting petrels. The indentations must be old - the starving population ate all 170,000 or so of the petrels after the Sirius wreck. Tasty eating - I’ve read - the locals called them mutton birds. I can see dark clouds rolling in from the west, so I hurry (carefully) down to make my escape, before the rain reaches the road.
Another day, some glorious sunshine and a bus tour - it is free - to make sure I haven’t missed anything. This guide also proudly traces her ancestry back to Pitcairn; she is a seventh generation descendant. As one would expect, their versions of the mutiny story depend on their lineage. Lynne assures us that her ancestor, Quintal, (the name features on many of the businesses), was not a pyromaniac and alcoholic. Though that's what legend says. The older families know everyone else of course and most are known by nicknames. There’s a page in the local phone directory: 'Faasfain Salan Bai Dems Nikniem'. Favourites are: Dar Bizziebee, Geek, Gumboots, Honkey-Dorey, Lettuce Leaf and Pooh.
It's mostly bays, like Anson Bay, with great views and the ornate St Barnabas' Chapel. Its built of sandstone with stained glass. This was the mother church of the Church of England’s missionary work in Melanesia, between 1867 and 1920. During that time thousands of students from the Pacific Islands came to the Mission College to live and study. In 1920 the Mission headquarters were moved to the Solomon Islands.
As we are driving alongside the airport Lynne tells us that the island is subject to unpredictable cross winds. Some of the locals give the pilots marks out of ten for the quality of their landings.
Delicious creamy prawns in a café; the food here is unexpectedly tasty. The islanders raise livestock and grow their own produce, but much has to be imported, via the ship that docks every six weeks - if they are lucky - and it’s calm enough for it to land. Landlady says she’s seen fights in the supermarkets.
Even more stunning views in the north of the island. Gorgeous coves and bays beckon from precipitous lookouts, though at an air temperature of 18 degrees I’m not tempted into the water. I’m also hesitant about attempting the steep ascent of Mount Pitt in my car, (one metre less than Mount Bates, but you have to walk up that one). However, the car park at the bottom is occupied by snoozing cattle so that settles that. The reward is a wonderful 360 degree view of the whole island and the islets. Next Captain Cook Memorial and Captain Cook Lookout. On my return, I take in the botanic gardens, (actually a disappointingly gloomy rainforest trail).
Landlady takes me down the Bowlo (Bowls Club), which is packed out and does surprisingly good food - prune stuffed chicken from a Vanuatuan chef.
I’ve decided to drive down every road on the island. There’s Cascades, which is estate agent speak for a trickle of water over a cliff. Prince Philip Drive and Queen Elizabeth Avenue tie British heritage in with that of the Pitcairners. Then there’s a Country Road thrown in for good measure. What else to call it? The cemetery, up a dead end of course, is a fascinating wander. There’s the grave of Collen McCollough, the author, who lived here (so did Helen Reddy – one of her awards is on display in the tour office). Also, of course, all the Pitcairners and a row of epitaphs commemorating sailors’ executions - there seem to have been more than the average number of mutinies around here.
There are numerous other cul-de-sacs, though one way or another most of the narrow, steep byways, eventually lead to Burnt Pine, the cluster of wooden buildings in the centre. It might act as the Rome of Norfolk Island, but it’s named after a pine stump that was used as the local noticeboard. This is a genteel neighbourhood, with cafes and shops rooted firmly in the last century - there’s an eclectic variety of wares on sale. One place is even called The Norfolk Emporium. And of course, it’s attendant service at the petrol station.
The islanders boast about the absence of snakes and other predators. Instead, I’m noticing an abundance of large spiders (some have a vicious bite but aren’t life threatening is the semi-encouraging tag). Their webs form glistening canopies along the streets. There’s a lot of property for sale. Many islanders have no cash to pay the new taxes and so they’re leaving. Houses are generally sold complete with all contents - for obvious reasons.
Finally, a four man play (the posters show six people, so they’re economising here too) which runs me through the island history, just in case I’ve missed anything. The acting isn’t exactly Oscar standard, but it’s armchair seating - and a good place for a doze after all that fresh air.
I’m darting around trying to avoid the rain, which is back with a vengeance . I’m destined for a watery comeuppance whatever. The bottle of water I bought has leaked all over my bag. The brand is Two Drips. That’s about all I’ve got left. It seems as if I’m not going to be able to eat lunch either. Most establishments (and businesses) close in the early afternoon. At least that gives me an excuse to try the fish and chook shop this evening. The local fish is called trumpeter.
Tomorrow I fly to Niue via Sydney and Auckland.
Read more about Norfolk Island here
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