Marvellous Maria 1: A Sweet Spot

I’m part of a chain of passengers passing luggage off the Maria Island ferry. I might note how apt it is using a chain-gang to get this job done, given the island is a former convict settlement. But I’m too busy chatting with the man next to me. I’ve discovered he’s a first-time visitor from Melbourne. So, like an over-enthusiastic travel agent, I’m busy selling the wonders of Maria Island.

Interested in wildlife? This place has it in abundance: kangaroos, wombats, devils, rare birds … (and on I go) … Like history? How many other places can you stay in a convict prison – in comfort – while learning all about everything from Aboriginal history to convicts and rogue industrialists … (but wait, there’s more) … Fancy a walk? Where do I start? (He’s probably wondering when I’ll finish!)

I can’t resist going on to mention the island’s amazing geology; its wonderfully untouched beaches; its stunning variety of vegetation. If only I’d be quiet for a moment, he might possibly experience the special serenity of this traffic-free island.

Okay, I don’t work for national parks any more, but it seems there’s no stopping this rusted-on fan from enthusing about Tasmania’s wonderful wilds. And marvellous Maria (pronounced like Mariah Carey’s first name), is one of our great national parks.

I eventually remind myself I’m not at work, and release the captive Melburnian. Our group wanders up to the Penitentiary, where we’ve booked a double dorm room. We claim bunks, unpack our bags, set up our cooking gear (there’s no power in the “Pen”) and make ourselves a cuppa. Then to the serious business: we settle on the verandah and let the quiet seep into us.

Fan-tailed and pallid cuckoos call; wombats stroll by; the sun shines; and in the distance waves whisper on the sands of Darlington Beach. Not for the first time on the trip I find myself believing the hype about this place. Thomas Lempriere, a convict era clerk of the Commissariat Store, called it “one of the sweetest spots in Van Diemen’s Land.” As we recline on the verandah, I wonder if even some of the convicts might have recognised they had it (relatively) better than those elsewhere.

Later in the afternoon we discover that Tim has never been to the top of Bishop and Clerk. So four of us head towards the 620m mountain “just for a look”. But I know two things: firstly that Tim will be determined to get to the top, and secondly that neither Mike nor I will bother this time, given that we climbed it last visit. Stefan’s attitude isn’t yet clear, though we suspect he’ll carry on with Tim.

[Walkers above Fossil Cliffs, with Bishop & Clerk behind] 

The walk first winds through beautifully open grassland, alongside high cliffs with vast views over the sea towards Freycinet National Park. Mike and I are cajoled into walking on “just to the top of the next rise”and then “just to the beginning of the steep bit”. The walk is so stunning, the vistas so grand, the birdlife so prolific, that it’s no trial to succumb. But eventually we divide into two groups, Tim and Stefan for the top, Mike and I for an amble back via another route.

The two of us, both keen birders, are immediately rewarded with a sighting of some swift parrots. Small, swift, green and endangered only begins to describe these lovely birds. The clearing of the forests on which they depend, particularly blue gum forests, is a major reason for their decline. So it’s a privilege to hear their high pitched tinkling call before they sweep off – swiftly – deeper into the forest.

[A wedge-tailed eagle soars overhead] 

No sooner have they gone than we’re visited by a curious wedge-tailed eagle. It circles a few times, before flying off at speed, pursued by a raven. Forest ravens are not small birds, having a wingspan in excess of one metre. Yet this one looks both small and brave up against our largest bird of prey, with its nearly three metre wingspan.

On our way back we stop to observe a common wombat: an animal seemingly at the opposite end of the speed spectrum from a parrot or an eagle. Yet I’ve heard that these rotund marsupials – dubbed the bulldozers of the bush – can, if threatened, run at close to human sprinting speed. To put that in perspective, a wombat can run at up to 40kmh; Usain Bolt can reach 45kmh.

[A common wombat, not running anywhere] 

We’re back at the Penitentiary and have been tucking into wine and cheese for some time before Tim and Stefan stagger back. They’ve made the top of Bishop and Clerk, ‘though the clouds have covered the peak and obscured all but glimpses of the amazing views. We raise a glass to them both, part commiseration, part congratulation. Better luck tomorrow?

[Relaxing in the sun near the convict-era chapel] 

Mountain tops, cliffs, wildlife and a place to relax together: and that’s just our first afternoon. This truly is a sweet spot!

The Bishop and the Ballerina

[Looking over Darlington Bay, Maria Island]

The first time I got close to a bishop I was around 15 years old. Apart from his “funny hat”, I remember the meaty weight of his hands, as he laid them on my young head and intoned “Defend O Lord this thy child …”. Since then I’ve been on friendly terms with a couple of bishops. Yet until recently I had somehow avoided meeting one particularly solid Tasmanian example.

Bishop and Clerk is a mountain, or more accurately a cluster of dolerite spires, that rises 620m straight up from the Tasman Sea at the northern tip of Tasmania’s Maria Island. Its name derives from a supposed resemblance to a processing bishop and his attendant clerk. From Darlington it’s a sometimes cloud shrouded backdrop, picturesque and prominent but never intimidating. It has always struck me as an easy peak to reach. Perhaps that’s one reason for us never having met, despite my dozen or so trips to this beautiful national park. Perhaps it’s also that the island holds so many other wonders.

But sometimes the ducks line up. A long weekend; a break in the weather; a few other walkers who’d never been to the Bishop, saw a group of us wandering up towards the stony cleric.

[Looking towards Bishop and Clerk] 

 620m doesn’t sound much. After all most Tasmanian peaks worth aspiring to are double that height or more. But I should have remembered my previous experience with Mount Rugby, in Tassie’s south-west. It rises just 771m above sea level: but sea level is the crunch here. Most Tasmanian mountains are climbed from foothills that are already several hundred metres high. With Mt Rugby and, I should have realised, Bishop and Clerk, you start at sea level. You have to gain the whole of its height using leg power.

[Looking towards the Freycinet Peninsula from Maria Island] 

For much of the way Bishop and Clerk is actually a stroll, and a spectacular one at that. You amble along through open pasture, climbing gently. To the left of the track are the spectacular drop-offs of the Fossil Cliffs. To the north are distant views of the mountains of the Freycinet Peninsula. Ahead are the rocky pillars of Bishop and Clerk, oddly slow to come any closer.

The track steepens, the woodland thickens, and still no summit. Finally the familiar sight of dolerite scree offers the hint that you’re getting there. You shouldn’t get your hopes up: there are more twists and turns to this summit bid than a Stephen King thriller. As we get close to the top of the scree, one previous summiteer reckons it’s only five minutes to go. Thirty minutes later, lathered in sweat, we grunt up the last airy boulders and we’re there. And I’m immediately wondering why I haven’t got acquainted with this bishop earlier.

[Sermon on the mount? Mike takes in Bishop and Clerk.] 

The views are superb: vertiginous beneath us, expansive and grand in most other directions. During an early lunch on the summit, it’s hard to choose where to look; difficult too to do justice to it photographically. Forest, cliffs, sandy beaches, glittering ocean and sea birds all contend for attention.

The descent feels even steeper than the climb, especially when one of our party loses footing and tumbles and rolls for several metres. Fortunately she suffers nothing worse than bruising and a big shake-up. We travel on a little more circumspectly, giving us time to take in even more of the island’s other wonders.

Ruins from the convict and industrial eras are everywhere evident, though some are being reclaimed by the bush. Wildlife is also abundant, and often quite unconcerned by human presence. On the way back a flock of Cape Barren geese flies in and lands nearby. I watch closely, intrigued by their spectacularly unlikely colour scheme: a grey and black body offset by hot pink legs and a fluoro-lime bill.

[A Cape Barren Goose on Maria Island] 

I am amused too by their shape, the flouncing ballerina bustle accentuated by their dance-like steps; deliberate, precise, a demi-plié perhaps, followed by a turnout. The wary eyes betray the possibility of a pas de chat when frightened. The bird’s gaudiness is such a contrast to the bishop’s dark and sombre tones. Yet somehow the two typify the amazing contrasts that are Maria Island.

A part of me can’t help wondering what the bishop might say to the ballerina.