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Only two-hours from big city Auckland, Raglan is a great option for those looking for a little bit of bohemian luxury in rugged, natural surroundings while also being a haven for surf enthusiasts.
With a population of less than 4,000, Raglan retains a strong community feel, while openly welcoming the surfers, backpackers and tourists who come seeking a more unique New Zealand experience.
Before arriving in Raglan, the magic begins by taking a little detour on the way to Waireinga, otherwise known as Bridal Veil falls. The 55-metre waterfall is only a ten-minute walk through lush native bush and the view from the bottom is worth every step.
But once you’re in town, there is no shortage of delicious cafes and coffee spots to keep you fuelled for the day. The Shack is a sunny café on the main street corner offering a wide variety of classic Kiwi brunch options with a modern twist. Or you can head to the hole in the wall café, Raglan Roast which has now become famous in Aotearoa for its deliciously smooth coffee.
No Raglan visit is complete without popping into Jet, an institution in the town which has been operating as an artist collective for roughly 20 years. The small, funky store has an array of artworks, souvenirs and clothing, made by local designers and artists who take turns running the shop selling their wares.
Meandering on down to Te Kopua beach you will find Raglan’s much loved foot bridge, which at high tide during summertime will be filled with Raglanites, hurling themselves over the railings to see who can make the biggest splash into the water below.
If you’re not feeling brave enough to do as the locals do and take the plunge, head to Raglan Backpackers and pick up a kayak for the day to explore the town’s highly underrated Pancake Rocks on the opposite side of the harbour. From there you can paddle your way to lunch down the stream to Rock-It Kitchen, a popular café in a renovated barn with designated spots for kayakers to come ashore.
The food here is fresh with a variety of options to suit either the health conscious or those wanting to indulge in a gourmet burger and chips. With an enclosed backyard it is the perfect place to let kids run wild while the grown-ups relax.
When it’s time for a rest, Three Streams Retreat located a short drive outside of the town centre, is the perfect spot to check-in and chill-out. Ideal for either families or those looking for a romantic getaway, the self-contained, stylishly designed accommodation provides all the comforts of home with the luxuries of a glamourous BnB. With a wide-open living plan, two bedrooms, a fully equipped kitchen and a romantic outdoor bath, Three Streams Retreat is the kind of place you could easily stay for a week and not get homesick or restless.
When the sun is shining, it’s worth heading to Raglan’s famous beaches. Manu Bay is a popular spot for surfers, while Ngarunui is more swimmer-friendly and provides a stunning west coast sunset in the evening.
For even more epic views, take a slow drive on a gravel road to the Te Toto Gorge lookout.
A must do for foodies is new kid on the block Ulo’s Kitchen. This funky, family-run Japanese restaurant is undoubtedly the trendiest place to eat in the region, with a DJ deck, eclectic décor, fresh food, local craft beer and a diverse team of friendly wait staff. Although it has only been open a year, it’s fast becoming a favourite spot for locals looking for fresh, international food.
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La La Land is a must visit for sweet tooths and dessert lovers. Digging into one of their heavenly homemade mellow puffs should be your first priority, but the boutique chocolate café has an array of European style sweet treats and pastries that will keep you coming back for more.
If you’re looking for all the best things that Aotearoa has to offer in one tiny town, make sure you add Raglan to your list of must-see destinations.
The Mangrove Crab
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He won’t break a sweat hunting crocodiles, freediving among hammerheads or wielding a machete. He’s also totally nonplussed recalling the time he escaped the tsunami that struck the Solomon Islands in 2007.
But the memory of his first week in the modest, one-room kitchen of Oravae Cottage, (a family resort in the Western Province), still gets his tummy turning.
“I wanted the opportunity,” the self-taught chef explains. “But cooking for four or five people with so little experience on my part was probably one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.”
It was 2015, when Junior’s Australian-born aunty and resort owner, Naomi Baea, had to return home at the same time as Oravae’s head chef, which left Junior in charge of the kitchen.
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He can’t have been too bad in their absence, because the guests kept coming and just three-years later he beat 14 other contestants to win the Solomon Islands’ first-ever cooking competition, the Lagoon Cookoff, in Munda.
The win boosted his confidence and put prize money in his pocket.
Better yet, Junior scored a month’s work experience cooking under the head chef of Honiara’s Heritage Hotel, learning the basics of Western and Asian cuisines.
“It was a really busy kitchen. I worked all the stations, including the buffet. I talked to guests from all over the world; people from all kinds of backgrounds. I learned about food preparation, recipe planning, plating up and the importance of presentation,” he says.
A cooking scholarship to New Zealand soon followed and it was here where Junior learned about harnessing the best from local ingredients.
“There’s very little red meat in the Solomons’ diet,” he says. “Basic items such as spices can be really hard to find. We rely on fresh fish straight from the ocean. It’s our staple — I’m talking fish like trevally, Spanish mackerel, sweet lips, tuna and parrot fish.
“But I’m learning that’s a strength in our cuisine. People travel from around the world to enjoy fish straight out of the ocean in a unique island environment like ours,” he adds.
“Food plays a particular role in Solomon life. You have to work hard for it, but once you have it, it’s to be shared.
“It also forms the basis of so many of our stories. I love mangrove crab. But to eat crab you need to know how to get it safely. It’s also the food of the crocodile. To be a crabber is to move between a crocodile and his food source. Here, crabs and crocodiles live side-by-side in the mangroves. So, we’ve all got crocodile stories.
“Talk to my uncle Patson, who’s from Malaita, and he’ll give you practical tips on how to actually wrestle a crocodile with your bare hands and stay alive.”
Usually, tourists come to Oravae Cottage from all over the world to enjoy Junior’s food, but visitors have been rare due to the COVID-19 pandemic.
Junior has his finger’s crossed that global travel will return again soon — and with a stronger-than-ever focus on supporting small-scale, family-run operators.
“We look after guests differently here. We’re not your everyday resort. We want people to feel connected to this place by getting to know us, hearing our stories and enjoying Solomon Island hospitality. I like to think my food is an important part of that.”
Ingredients
● Mangrove crab
● Onion
● Garlic
● Curry powder
● Salt
● Sugar
● Chillies (finely chopped)
● Red peppers (roughly chopped)
● Fresh coconut milk
● Lime juice.
Directions
1. Fill a large pot with water and boil the crab for 20 minutes.
2. Lower heat to medium and add onions and garlic.
3. Add to the pot curry powder, salt, sugar, finely chopped chillies, roughly chopped peppers and the milk of a fresh coconut. Stir it all together and bring to a boil.
4. Reduce heat to low, cover and simmer for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
5. Add fresh lime juice 10 minutes before serving.
Gone for a song
According to oft-repeated hikers’ wisdom, cotton kills. It’s a dictum that rings true across most of Australia, as anyone who’s ever been caught out in a cold, wet t-shirt can attest. But on the Jatbula Trail, an outdoor-ed teacher named Elly has turned that belief on its head.
With the accumulated wisdom of a season spent in the Top End, she’s hiking across the southern edge of the Arnhem Land escarpment with an infectious grin and a cotton shirt that she drenches at every opportunity. “Cotton cools,” she says, extending her o’s with a laugh as she puts the sopping wet tee back on.
In nearby Katherine the temperature is close to 40 degrees. Here on the bare escarpment the rocky ground radiates the heat back up at us and it’s hotter still. For the first time I can recall, I curse my synthetic moisture-wicking shirt.
“You’re going to get pretty warm,” the grizzled ranger warned me at the compulsory pre-hike briefing. It echoed advice I’d already heard, but I’d also been told repeatedly that it was worth braving the heat for one of the most beautiful hikes in Australia. Our party of five includes Dan, a film producer from Sydney, and his German friend Anne, who lives up to the stereotype by being the most organised of us; Tom, a perpetually smiling hydrologist who has spent much of his career in the South Australian desert; and Chris, a Melbourne-based journalist who insists he’s not a hipster hiker, but who bought a new portable coffeemaker specially for this trip.
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Pre-warned of the soaring temperatures, we’re keen to get an early start and rise before dawn on day one. Skittish wallabies form a guard of honour by the roadside on the half-hour drive from Katherine to Nitmiluk National Park. A golden glow is creeping above the horizon and our windscreen frames the fast-rising sun directly ahead.
After a short boat ride across the Katherine River, we step off between broad trees and pandanus palms into knee-high grass that shimmers in the early morning glow. Closer to ground level, the view is slightly less magical. A disturbingly large pyramid of dung has been deposited in the middle of the path and, despite earlier voicing his hope for plenty of wildlife sightings, Dan takes one look at the giant mound and declares, “I don’t want to see a buffalo any more.”
The first section of the walk follows the base of the escarpment and we enjoy the shadow it casts even in the early morning cool. It won’t last long; as we walk, the sun creeps over burnt orange rocks, dry yellow grass and spindly white gums with crowns of green. Climbing out of the shade and onto the escarpment, the air seems to hum gently with heat and I’m grateful that the first day is a short one. With only 8.3 kilometres to cover we reach camp by 10am.
By then it’s already baking hot and the sound of running water is like music to my ears. Without hesitation I drop my pack, cast off my clothes and follow the sound to a series of small falls at Biddlecombe Cascades. Despite it being the dry season, they look anything but to me, and I gleefully jump in the top pool then scramble down over the rocks to get a strong massage at the bottom of the falls. Because we’re on top of the escarpment, there’s no need to worry about crocs – we checked, multiple times – but I still start when I hear Chris screaming my name. Rushing back to camp, I find a jagged hole torn in the top of my pack, muesli everywhere and even a few zips tugged open. I shake my fist at six red-tailed black cockatoos sitting watchfully in a nearby tree before a harsh, mournful caw behind me informs me that I’ve accused the wrong birds.
Having secured my bags more carefully, I head back to the cascades. With bubbling spas, placid pools ringed by sparkling sundew plants, rocks perfect for jumping off and even a small cave hidden behind a fall it’s like a private waterpark. And, for a few hours, it’s all ours. One of the great joys of the Jatbula is that it’s never crowded. A maximum of 30 permits are issued each day (15 for self-supported hikers, 15 for tour operators), but we’re walking late in the season and only have four other hikers with us at camp each night.
The trail guidelines ask hikers not to wear sunscreen because it damages the waterholes. Knowing this, we plan to take regular breaks in the shade, but camping next to the falls proves too tempting. After a day spent lounging by the pool, Hollywood Dan looks like a red-breasted robin and serves as a warning to the rest of us throughout the hike.
The waterholes provide much needed respite from the heat, but they’re far from the only highlights of the trail. During the days we walk through stone country, where rocks criss-crossed with fracture lines are surrounded by dry grass the colour of straw. Bloodwood trees ooze bright red sap that crystallises where it falls and sparkles in the sun like piles of garnets. We walk between termite mounds scattered like gravestones in a poorly organised cemetery – over six days they change with the colour of the soil from white to yellow and deep red before turning a tired, dusty grey. The clifftop views from the edge of the escarpment – rocky red bluffs that seem to glow in the early morning sun protecting a broad valley of dry yellow grass streaked with white gum trunks – are worth the days of walking.
Even more arresting is the rock art hidden under overhangs near the track, evidence of the area’s continuing importance to the Jawoyn Traditional Owners. This is unforgiving country and water is essential to survival. It’s why the Jatbula Trail follows a Jawoyn Songline, an ancient route that connects the permanent water sources along the escarpment. These magical spots have hosted countless generations and we get a sense of that longstanding connection at the trail’s most spectacular stop.
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The air in the Amphitheatre is still and muggy, but the wide natural bowl offers welcome protection from the sun. Water seeps through large hanging gardens of ferns before trickling down to a thin creek on the valley floor. On the surrounding rock face, more than a hundred open-air art galleries depict Jawoyn People, spirits and animals in ghostly white, mustard yellow and deep red ochre.
Some are recent additions, but others have been here for thousands of years. And they cover every available flat surface. It’s a place of wonder, but also great peace, and we linger for hours before resuming our walk, marvelling at the longstanding connection with Country in a place where past, present and future seem to fuse.
We take our time rearranging our packs before continuing, and our ever-smiling hydrologist uses the brief pause to whip out a book. His propensity to read at every drink break has earned him the nickname Two Page Tom, but there are times when the stultifying heat means I’d happily let him finish an entire novel before emerging from the shade.
On my map the Jatbula Trail looks like an easy hike. It’s mostly flat and the distances are manageable, but it’s absolutely crucial to take regular breaks because of the sapping heat. The 62-kilometre walk takes five or six days and, as we traverse the sandstone plateau, the environment becomes increasingly tropical. Dry buffalo wallows appear with increasing frequency, along with piles of fresh dung and wafts of pungent urine. It’s a wild landscape, a place where humans seem like the most temporary of visitors, and I keep expecting to round a corner and find a giant beast with wide horns ready to chase us out. But the stillness is broken only by the chirp of cicadas (whose “nit, nit, nit” call gives the park its name) and the attention-demanding screech of a sulphur-crested cockatoo. Occasionally a grasshopper buzzes in front of me, roaring like a biplane as it takes off.
We walk past sharp clumps of sword grass that threaten to slice any exposed skin, beneath lush palms and across bone-dry riverbeds. This is the paradox of the Top End in the dry season – it’s an incredibly fertile landscape with no visible water.
It makes us appreciate the waterholes by each campsite even more. At Sandy Camp, a giant circular pool is ringed by tall paperbarks full of birdlife and grevillea whose flowers resemble long, curling eyelashes. Scraggly blue-winged kookaburras, unrecognisable as relatives of their southern cousins, give a stifled laugh and the iridescent wings of rainbow bee-eaters catch the sun. There are even enough fish to attract cormorants, although they disperse as we gleefully dive in.
“How’s the water?” Elly calls out as she strolls into camp with a grin. It’s perfect, I tell her. A cotton t-shirt might be a surprisingly good outfit on this Australian hike, but fortunately it’s not the only way to stay cool on the Jatbula.
Hot Five Abandoned Places
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JAPAN
At the peak of its mining boom, and with more than 5,000 people calling it home, Japan’s Hashima Island – a tiny stretch of land only 480 metres long and 150 metres wide – held the record for the highest population density in the world. Now it’s a crumbling example of the country’s rapid industrialisation; a ghost island that looms eerily off the coast of Nagasaki. Also known as Gunkanjima, which means Battleship Island (for its resemblance to a Japanese battleship), it was bought by the Mitsubishi Goshi Kaisha group in 1890 and developed into a major undersea coal mine. Workers and their families were shipped to the island (some as forced labourers, a controversial part of Hashima’s history), where high-rise apartment blocks were built alongside a school and hospital. Then, in 1974, the mine was closed and the island was deserted, left to the mercy of the elements. Only in the past 10 years has Hashima reopened to visitors, and although access is limited there’s no denying the lure of its post-apocalyptic vibes.
ESTONIA
It may look like an idyllic swimming hole, but what remains of Estonia’s Rummu Prison offers an insight into its dark past. Located around 40 kilometres from the capital Tallinn, the prison was established in 1938 by the Soviet Union and soon housed almost 400 inmates, all of whom were required to work long, backbreaking hours in the neighbouring limestone quarry. When Estonia regained its independence in 1991 and the Soviet regime collapsed, so too did the prison. It didn’t take long for the quarry to fill up with water, submerging buildings, watchtowers and leftover mining equipment. Now it’s an eerie backdrop for those looking for adventure. On dry land you can wander past old cellblocks and barbwire-topped walls, while below the surface awaits a smorgasbord of prison paraphernalia. The clear, natural groundwater ensures great visibility, so it’s no surprise divers have flocked to the area, keen to take the plunge and explore this watery wasteland.
USA
Step back in time to a long-lost era of shoot-outs and saloons when you visit Bodie, an old gold-mining town hidden deep in California’s Sierra Nevada mountain range. It was 1859 when four prospectors struck it rich in the region, establishing a small settlement that would later form the foundations for a thriving hub. By the 1880s the town’s population had blown out to almost 10,000 residents. Banks, brothels, bars and a post office, jail and church popped up, with the mines producing a whopping US$34 million dollars in profit. But the boom didn’t last forever, and Bodie soon fell into a rapid decline. With no more gold to be found people left in droves, leaving behind everything they couldn’t carry. Today, it’s nothing more than a ghost town preserved in a state of arrested decay. It sits at the end of a remote dirt road and is made up of about 110 structures, some with bars still stocked, others with dinner tables still set, in a haunting homage to the Wild West.
SAMOA
Need a little reminder of just how terrifying Mother Nature’s unrivalled power can be? A visit to Samoa’s Saleaula Lava Field should do the trick. In 1905 Mount Matavanu in central Savai’i erupted, spewing a vast river of lava that would eventually swallow five villages before running into the sea. And here’s a truly frightening fact: in some parts, the depth of the lava flow was 120 metres. It defies belief to think that anything could have survived such devastation, but miraculously, not all was lost. Half-buried churches remain standing, with streams of swirly lava now set like cement on the floor, the imprints of trees or corrugated iron still visible. Then there’s the Virgin’s Grave, which belongs to a high chief’s daughter who died of tuberculosis. Legend has it she was so pure that the lava passed around her grave, leaving it completely untouched. As for the rest of the blackened land, it’s slowly being reclaimed, as greenery and plants assist in covering up the natural atrocity that occurred.
ENGLAND
Looking like something straight off the pages of a sci-fi novel, the forgotten Maunsell Forts are rusted reminders of the very real threat World War II posed to the United Kingdom. Originally erected in 1942 in England’s Thames Estuary, the seven stilted structures – each consisting of a central command tower and connected buildings – were part of a military plan to detect and destroy German aircraft, as well as prevent attempts to lay mines in the vital shipping channel. Each fort housed hundreds of soldiers and some impressive weaponry, which resulted in 22 planes and 30 bombs being shot down. After being decommissioned in the 1950s, the forts were once again commandeered in the 60s for use as pirate radio stations, before falling into various states of disrepair. You can still get up close to these decaying wartime relics (the ones that remain standing) by boat, otherwise your best bet is spotting them on a clear day from East Beach, in Southend-on-Sea.
Hot 5 Unusual Churches
Siegerland, Germany
When the only neighbouring attraction is a service station littered with truckies and fast food restaurants it doesn’t take much to stand out. Yet the Autobahn Church Siegerland goes above and beyond to demand the attention of every passing motorist, with a curious modern design best described as a large, white replica of Batman’s headpiece. Its interior is equally bewitching, with a timber honeycomb dome and simple, box-like chairs. Situated on the busy A45 in Wilnsdorf, an hour’s drive west of Cologne, this chapel offers travellers space to reflect and worship or just relax beside the frantic pace of the motorway. Although this religious edifice is not the only one of its kind (there are some 40 other autobahn churches in Germany), Siegerland is arguably one of the country’s most original. Ducking across the highway for a quick roadside coffee post-sermon will have you revived and ready to hit the open road once again.
King George Island, Antarctica
A crowdfunded Russian Orthodox Church perched at the top of a craggy hill, on an island at the end of the world. No your eyes do not deceive you – this tiny clapboard structure, shackled to the coast, can weather polar winters, and has done so since its consecration in 2004. Situated on one of the most isolated and barren stretches of land on the planet, Trinity Church is manned year-round by two priests who hail from the Trinity Lavra of St Sergius, which is said to be the most important monastery in all of Russia. Aside from delivering mass to the resident population (which fluctuates between 100 denizens in winter and 500 in summer) the clergymen stationed here are also responsible for the occasional baptism and even wedding. The surreal surrounds of this lone sub-zero church might just offer churchgoers a spiritual awakening.
Kutná Hora, Czech Republic
When life gives you human remains, make art. That appears to be the principle woodcarver František Rint followed when he revamped the Sedlec Ossuary in the 1870s. His interior design arsenal? Tens of thousands of bones. And the result? A spellbindingly macabre interior festooned with skulls, femurs and tibias. Even the imposing candelabras, coat of arms, chalices and bunting are fashioned out of skeletons from the plague of 1318. Located in the suburbs of the UNESCO World Heritage-listed city of Kutná Hora, about an hour’s drive east of Prague, this small Roman Catholic chapel was originally built in 1400. For anyone touring Europe and suffering from a serious case of church fatigue, this kooky house of worship will no doubt offer some respite.
Eureka Springs, Arkansas
Almost abandoned due to lack of funds, the glorious 15-metre tall Thorncrown Chapel is a feat of both persistence and faith. Back in the 70s, retired schoolteacher Jim Reed noticed tourists frequently roamed through his property to scope out the beauty of the Ozark Mountains. Rather than fence them out, he teamed up with renowned architect E. Fay Jones to develop Thorncrown, a place of worship immersed in a forest of oaks, pines and maples. As soon as it opened in 1980 the structure began raking in accolades, including the Design of the Year Award bestowed by the American Institute of Architects in 1981. Constructed with 425 windows holding 152 metres of glass and a roof soaring to the heavens, the building blends in with its surroundings so well that you’ll forget you’re inside a church. Settle into a pew atop the stone floor and worship at the altar of Mother Nature.
Zipaquirá, Colombia
Who would’ve thought that Berlin warehouse rave-style lighting and religious symbology could intertwine so harmoniously? Colombian Catholics appear to have stumbled upon this exact enlightened conclusion 25 years ago, while transforming an abandoned salt mine into an illuminating site of supplication. The glowing lights add more than a dash of the 90s to the cavernous space that featured a (rather more modest) holy site even in the 30s, when miners would pray before a day of hard labour. Now you no longer need to don a hard hat – or fear for your life – to journey to its depths, 180 metres underground. Instead you can simply marvel at its 14 small chapels and carved salt sculptures, such as a five-metre tall cross, all dedicated to Our Lady of Rosary, the patron saint of miners. Should you ignore basic hygiene and sneak a quick lick of the cathedral’s walls, you’ll taste 250-million-year-old salt. And if all that sodium’s left you thirsty there’s even Colombian coffee on offer in an adjoining subterranean cafe.
At Its Peak
The climb to overlook the jagged edges of Breadknife will leave you hungry for Vegemite toast, and begin to gnaw at your appetite for adventure, but will it satisfy? Perhaps not. The Warrumbungles warrant more than a mere day trip. It’s likely you’ve driven hours to be here – surely you don’t want to rush beneath the granite tors and whiz past every vista as you sneak a peek at your watch. This is one of the most scenic tracks in the state. Best to pack a tent.
With multiple bush-camp options along the way, plus the chance to catch sunrise from the summit of Bluff Mountain, an overnight hike is the only way to trek the Grand High Tops trail. Geology’s been at work for millions of years here – you can spare an extra day.
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Eyes on the Trail
The first few kilometres are a tease. Wandering through the shade of the surrounding forest, with only fleeting views of the erupting tors overhead and streams trickling and twisting below the elevated path, this is by far the easiest section of the hike. Savour it while it lasts.
As you begin to ascend, the dirt trail turns to pavers and the canopy overhead starts to dissipate. With eyes to the ground and one foot in front of the other, climbing the pavers is a toil, especially when carrying all your gear.
As you gain altitude, Belougery Spire begins to rear its head above the trees. Soon, staircases replace pavers and you realise you’re ascending straight up the guts of the grandest of high tops. Breadknife is on your right, Belougery Spire to the left. With each step up, another inch of them is revealed.
You’ll land right by the base of the Breadknife, so scramble up to its perfectly etched teeth to peer through to the vistas on the other side.
Round the corner and clamber up onto a rocky outcrop positioned between the Breadknife and Belougery Spire for a lunchtime view you’ll never forget. Find yourself a flat spot between the sloping rock to carefully balance your pack and aching body a while.
There’s one last ascent to the ridgeline, with a side of bouldering thrown in, and you’re delivered a panorama of the entire park – and the first sighting of Crater Bluff, a gobsmacking monolith with a plummeting sheer wall.
Take a breather, sit back and soak in the surroundings. This is what you came here for, after all. Crunch on an apple, but don’t let the sun punch you too hard – there’s no shade to hide in up here.
Forge Your Own Path
Although the Grand High Tops walk is a loop, few people follow the path the entire way around, choosing instead to retrace their steps back to the finish line. As the day trippers turn back to descend the stairs they just climbed, you’ll head down the opposite side of the ridge along fresh terrain.
Don’t miss catching the opposing face of Breadknife before you slip back under the forest canopy and out of the sun. The crowds who pour in to see the Grand High Tops vistas are gone and you’re left with the twittering of superb fairy wrens and the satisfying thud of your own footsteps.
After a few kilometres of forest wandering, you’ll arrive at your home for the night, Dows campgrounds. This small clearing at the base of Bluff Mountain teems with native birdlife. Although small, it’s a serene spot with firepits and a narrow creek.
The last stragglers pass the campground well before dark, and the distinct lack of human noise cements your immersion into the wilderness. This remote campground has only three pitches, so if you’re sharing the space it’s going to be tight. As you find a flat patch of green to raise your tent, gaze up through the twisting gums at Bluff Mountain. That’s your morning mission.
If you can will yourself to stay up late enough, wander back onto the path where the trees are more sparse and drink in the Milky Way. Warrumbungle National Park is Australia’s only Dark Sky Park, where starry night skies are exceptionally bright and there’s a concerted effort to protect it. Nightly stargazing is mandatory here.
Carpe Diem up Bluff Mountain
Today, you need to be up before the birds. While it’s still dark, tighten your laces and grab your drink bottle. Even better, grab some brekkie and kit to brew yourself a cuppa. The hike to the peak of Bluff Mountain is only 1.3 kilometres, but as you’re already at the base of this beauty, it’s all uphill from here.
The freedom from your pack will make it feel like you’re flying. Hike up giant sandstone steps and count the colours of the native orchids sprouting around your feet. Zig-zag your way up the mountain as the darkness begins to lift.
As you emerge onto the rocky ridgeline, the trees will fall away and the sun will send its first beams across the path you forged the day before. Bluff Mountain gives you a whole new perspective of the surrounding farmlands that hide in shadow, waiting for the sun to thaw them out.
Sit a while. You’re in no hurry. Make yourself a coffee and watch for wedge-tailed eagles circling the skies. When you’re ready, saunter back down to camp.
From Dows campgrounds, there’s six kilometres of the loop to complete with no elevation left to gain. Admire wax-lip orchids and paper daisies before turning back to see Bluff Mountain in its entirety, knowing that, not long ago, you sat atop its epic crown. The downhill track here is a bit rocky and unstable, which can be tricky to navigate when you’re carrying an almost full pack.
Once back on flat ground, breeze your way through the tall grasses that line the final stretch of trail and rock hop across the streams. It won’t be long before you’re back in familiar territory, with the last kilometre of the hike the same as the first. Proudly stride into the car park, as the day hikers begin their journey up the Grand High Tops trail, knowing you’ve just completed an epic 17-kilometre hike.
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your next wild adventure.
Splendid Isolation
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Bay of Islands, New Zealand
This is a place awash with restful, contemplative destinations. Throughout the 144 islands and many more beaches that make up the Bay of Islands, you can take your pick of places to put up your feet and admire easy-on-the-eye views. But few pack in as much to appreciate and contemplate as Matauri Bay. Off the main road (technically State Highway 10), you drive out through farmland to reach the perfect curves of the beach where tropical-blue water laps the coast and, occasionally, an idyllic wave rolls in for the surfers.
A few kilometres offshore are the Cavallis, a cluster of islands that beckons with more white-sand beaches. Between the Cavalli Islands and Matauri Bay rests the Rainbow Warrior, the Greenpeace ship bombed by the French Government in Auckland Harbour in 1985. The attack, which killed Greenpeace photographer Fernando Pereira, put paid to the Warrior sailing to the island of Mururoa in French Polynesia to protest French nuclear testing there. As a bombastic affront, New Zealand had never experienced anything like it.
Ngati Kura, the tangata whenua (people) of Matauri Bay, who have a settlement at one end of the beach, generously provided the final resting place for the Warrior and it was sunk offshore in 1987. It has since become a popular dive spot. The best place to appreciate all this (and then some) is at the lookout above the bay – the short climb to the top starts at the path just beyond the campsite. In addition to the views, one of the prizes at the top of the hill is the sculpture by New Zealand artist Chris Booth. The artwork was unveiled in 1990, stands more than 10 metres tall and incorporates a six-tonne central basalt column and the Warrior’s bronze propeller. The sculpture, which curves like a rainbow and casts dramatic shadows throughout the day, was funded by Ngati Kura and New Zealand China Clays, which harvests the local, highly prized halloysite clay for export.
From the lookout cast your eye out to the Tasman and your imagination back to 1814, when the Reverend Samuel Marsden sailed across from Sydney and made landfall at Matauri Bay. Marsden was so taken by his welcome from local chief Hongi Hika, along with the ensuing haka and feast, that he eventually left his mission in Parramatta to establish a new one in the Bay of Islands. – Jo Bates.
Okinawa, Japan
In the north of tropical Okinawa, just outside Nago City, Maha Kikugawa has been slowly building a sustainable retreat from scratch. Set in dense forest beside the Genka River, Treeful Treehouse EcoResort is a series of three luxurious and utterly breathtaking residences with beautiful views in every direction. But Maha hasn’t only gone all in impressing guests; she’s also undertaken regeneration of the land and waterways around the property to create an outpost of tranquillity on the island. The resort is due to open in the northern hemisphere spring, and we’re pretty sure there’ll be a rush on bookings.
New South Wales, Australia
Orange one day, a working sheep station deep in the dusty outback the next. Oh, and don’t forget to add a pit stop in Kangaroo Valley. If this sounds like one impossible itinerary, prepare to have your mind blown. It’s all achievable thanks to the team at Crooked Compass By Air, who organise personally tailored jaunts that are made all the more exclusive by the use of private planes. Yep, you’ll be jetsetting to remote wineries and secluded homesteads in the fixed-wing aircraft of your choice on the Winelands, Station Stays and the Wild Coast tour. Showcasing the best of regional New South Wales, the trip also includes a scenic flyover of the Blue Mountains, a two-night stay at the isolated Corynnia Station (pictured), incredible foodie experiences and a relaxing stopover at a property set in the rolling hills of the South Coast. Best of all, absolutely everything can be customised to your style, pace and budget.
Svalbard, Norway
Its real name is Juva Cabin, but lots of people refer to it as The Jewel. And it’s not hard to see why. Set in the wilderness and surrounded by snow-covered peaks, it will be a sight for sore eyes after you’ve spent all day on a snowmobile zipping around mountain ranges and fjords, all the while keeping watch for polar bears. (Don’t fret, because your Hurtigruten guide is an expert at seeing them against the white backdrop.) The cabin is cosy, with a living room, kitchen and three bedrooms, but it’s what’s outside that really captures the imagination. There’s a tube-formed sauna (pictured) with a circular window at one end so you can stay tuned for the appearance of the northern lights.
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Click to view gallery
Pumpkin Island, Queensland, Australia
While private islands are often in the realm of billionaires and A-list celebs, there’s a tiny landmass 14 kilometres off the coast of Yeppoon that offers a taste of barefoot luxury to us mere mortals. Pumpkin Island, hidden away in the southern Great Barrier Reef, is a blissfully tranquil sanctuary that’s home to just seven eco-friendly and self-contained beach bungalows. Arrival is by boat transfer only, and you’ll need to bring everything required for the duration of your stay – we’re talking clothes, food and drinks. There is, however, a licensed bar on the island for a cheeky sundowner. SUP boards, snorkel gear and glass-bottom kayaks are available for use when sunning yourself on the empty white-sand beach becomes too much, otherwise scuba diving and fishing tours can be arranged. With a maximum of just 34 people permitted on Pumpkin at one time, you can embrace full relaxo mode safe in the knowledge every other guest is doing the same.
Mount Barney, Queensland, Australia
Keen to explore Queensland’s Scenic Rim area? Well, there’s only one way to do it: by hiking Mount Barney. Now, first things first – to reach the summit (at 1,354 metres this is the second-highest peak in the region) you’re going to need to be match fit, because this is one tough climb. If you’re staying at Mount Barney Lodge, a sprawling property offering a range of accommodation options, there are experienced guides available who will lead you on the full-day hike. Not only will they share info on the plants and animals you’ll see along the way, but they’ll also ensure you don’t veer off the track and fall down a ravine. Don’t scoff – people have died attempting to reach the top. Before we scare you out of it though, know the rewards are plenty. The natural landscape is absolutely breathtaking, scrambling up and over boulders is really good fun, and the views will make you gasp out loud.
Gaua, Vanuatu
It toots its horn as the second-most populous spot in the Torba Province, which may not sound appealing if you’re looking to leave civilisation behind. Then you realise the population of Gaua is just 2,500 people and you relax again. By far the best reason to visit here is to climb Mount Garet, the island’s volcanic peak, from whose dizzy heights you can stare down into Lake Letas, situated in the crater. It’s not an easy climb, but Victor, the local guide, will go at a pace to suit – it’ll take between one and three days – stopping at villages along the way. If trekking isn’t your cup of kava, hopefully you’ll be able to catch some water music, a style of performance that goes back centuries and, through rhythmic splashing of the surface and singing, is the women’s way of telling their stories.
Mount Dare, Northern Territory, Australia
The thing about roads in the outback is they’re often fairly, well, rudimentary. That’s why you’re going to need a solid 4WD and a bit of planning to take on Binns Track. You can’t really call it a road trip because this 10-day epic adventure follows what is, as the name suggests, a 2,230-kilometre track. The starting point is Mount Dare, on the South Australian border, then the road follows the edge of the Simpson Desert to Alice Springs through old gold towns, past immense cattle stations and into the Top End before finally finishing at Timber Creek. Take your time because there’s heaps to do along the way, including visiting rock art sites and taking in the majesty of Karlu Karlu (Devils Marbles). If you’re wondering, Bill Binns was a ranger with NT Parks and Wildlife and spent much of his adult life showing visitors around Central Australia.
Yukon, Canada
Get ready for the perfect storm of fun and freedom. At Sky High Wilderness Ranch, there’s the chance to team up with man’s best friend. Well, a whole bunch of them, really. During the northern hemisphere winter, get hands-on during one of the property’s multiday adventures. You’ll learn all about your team of dogs – handling, harnessing, as well as general care – then start mushing as you come to grips with driving the sled. The first few days are spent getting used to it and the strain it puts on your body, with nights spent at the lodge. Then it’s out into the snow. You’ll explore ranges and lakes and watch for moose, before setting up camp for the night when the temperature can fall to -40ºC. Each trip lasts for between seven and 14 days, so you’re going to have to ask yourself: are you tough enough?
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Hinchinbrook Island, Queensland, Australia
This is a great test of your mettle and ability to plan ahead. Hinchinbrook Island’s Thorsborne Trail is (at least) a four-day foray that winds up mountains, through rainforests, along beaches and past waterfalls. Chances are you won’t see anyone else here either, because just 40 people are permitted to camp on the island at any one time.
There’s no doubt about it, Hinchinbrook is a beauty. Located just eight kilometres off the coast, about halfway between Townsville and Cairns, it’s part of the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park ensuring nature lovers won’t be disappointed. Dugongs swim in the shallow waters, turtles can be seen on the beach along from Ramsay Bay, mangroves play host to a vast array of marine animals, and brilliantly coloured butterflies often swoop across the trail. This is also croc country, so care needs to be taken around beaches and creeks.
On paper it looks simple enough: 32 kilometres along the island’s east coast, completed over a number of days, with nights spent at campgrounds along the way. Sure, you have to carry everything except a week’s worth of water – there are a number of places to refill on the trail – but it’s only for a few days. True, it doesn’t seem that far, but parts of the hike are very challenging. Clambering over boulders, crossing creeks and trudging through swamps is all part of the journey. You’ll need to be in good shape to take it on.
The payoffs, however, are enormous. Take the end of day two as an example. This is when you’ll reach camp at our cover star, Zoe Falls. Being up high, this is a perfectly safe spot to take a dip. Your only companions will be the yabbies and jungle perch in the water. In fact, we’d venture to say this is one of the most picturesque swimming holes anywhere in the country. As your aching body cools off in the pool, stare out over the forest and ocean. The only thing better is waking up early the next morning and doing it all again while watching the sun rise.
Falls Creek, Victoria, Australia
Most of us associate this part of Victoria with skiing, but summers in the High Country are set to 10 on the spectacular scale. (The spectacular scale isn’t really a thing – we just made it up.) Get away from the villages and immerse yourself in nature thanks to Diana Lodge’s alpine glamping experience. Perfectly suited to those who want to do some serious hiking or give their mountain bikes a workout, it’s equally appropriate for those who simply want to read, play board games or sit out in the dark and watch the stars. Everything’s provided, including tent set-up, bedding, a full meal hamper, portable phone charger and drop-off of your gear if you want to get there on foot or by bike.
Merredin, Western Australia, Australia
For those of us who don’t mind a touch of culture, the past 12 months have been a bit iffy. And even though the likes of museums and galleries are starting to open, we’re still not keen on standing cheek by jowl with other enthusiasts. Luckily, there’s another option: Western Australia’s Public Silo Trail that links Northam, about 90 minutes northeast of Perth, and the coastal outpost of Albany. So far there are seven sets of silos that have been transformed, including these ones outside the wheatbelt town of Merredin. Kyle Hughes-Odgers took 14 days and 200 litres of paint to create his interpretation of the town’s landforms and agricultural history. Now that’s one way to add colour to a road trip.
Kadavu, Fiji
It’s south of Viti Levu, the main island of Fiji, and erupts from the sea, all craggy mountains covered in lush rainforest. There are few roads on the sparsely populated island of Kadavu, which makes taking to the water the perfect way to get around. Led by locals, Tamarillo Active Travel’s private sea-kayaking adventures explore deserted beaches, turquoise bays and vivid coral reefs – ample time for snorkelling is given high priority. On dry land, hike into the mountains and visit local villages. Each night you’Il bunk down in small resorts with all the facilities. If there was such a thing as a perfect way to explore a tropical paradise, this would have to be it.
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Flinders Ranges, South Australia, Australia
Forget everything you remember about the dodgy family camping trips we were all forced to endure growing up – long sweaty car drives and crowded tents ring a bell? – and say hello to helicamping in South Australia’s rugged Flinders Ranges. Yep, this epic overnight adventure begins at Rawnsley Park Station with a chopper flight to the middle of nowhere. And when we say the middle of nowhere, we mean it – you will be dropped off somewhere along the Chace Range with no one in sight and nothing but a swag, camp oven and food supplies. Once you’re set up (aka the staff feel confident you’ll be able to survive the night alone), the helicopter departs and you’re free to go for a wander, cook up a feast and settle in for a night under the star-filled sky. The next morning you’ll be plucked from the wilderness and choppered back to civilisation, most likely wishing you’d negotiated a longer stay.
Matsu Islands, Taiwan
You could be forgiven for thinking you’re looking at a town on the Cinque Terre. This, however, is Qinbi Village, located on Beigan, just one of the 36 islands in the Matsu group. Stone houses tumble down the coastline towards the sea, linked by narrow laneways that are definitely worth exploring. Swim out to Turtle Islet to get the best view of Qinbi or check out one of the other deserted beaches. Also worth visiting is the fishing settlement of Qiaozai, where a number of small bridges cross gullies that surround the town. Most people visit Beigan for the day, having caught the ferry from the main island of Nangan, but there are basic homestays available if the quiet island lifestyle appeals.
Kia, Solomon Islands
Imagine this… An overwater bungalow (you’re shacked up in one of just two), collecting shells on the beach, catching a deserted wave, dropping in a line to catch dinner, and being looked after by a local family. Oh, and don’t forget your snorkelling gear, because you can step off your deck and plunge into warm, clear water filled with fish and coral. That’s the low-key, castaway vibe you get when you check in to Noguna Island Homestay. If you can drag yourself away, there’s the chance to go island hopping or visit the local school. If luxury is being able to focus on the moment and the beauty around you, this is the tropical equivalent of a palace.
Taranaki, New Zealand
You’d better tell your mates where you’re going before you head to this secluded spot, because once you get there they’ll be hard-pressed to track you down. Piwakawaka Family Hut is a 12-bed homestead at Pukeiti, a 360-hectare rainforest and garden property in Taranaki on the east coast of the North Island. It takes an hour on foot to get there and, when you do, there’s limited mobile coverage and no electricity. It’s back to basics here – bunk beds, a log burner and only the essential cooking utensils – but there’s a big payoff. The hut sits on the slopes of Mount Taranaki with expansive views across the rainforest canopy and to the Ōkato coastline. Our pick: sit on the deck with a cold one, where you can kick back to nothing but the sound of the native New Zealand birds who call the rainforest home, including the endemic kererū (New Zealand pigeon) and tūī (honeyeater).
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Click to view gallery
King Island, Tasmania, Australia
Does your isolation dream involve a private beach? Yep? Then this one’s for you. Even from within the chic living areas of Porky Beach Retreat you’ll have uninterrupted views of the Great Southern Ocean and its changing moods. It’s got four bedrooms so is just right for a group of friends eager to take a deep breath, enjoy the fresh air and get back to basics. Well, as basic as you can in a joint with an outdoor red cedar hot tub and beachfront sauna heated by Australia’s only glass-front coal fireplace that’s come all the way from Estonia. There are loads of walks, a cheese factory to be visited, fish to be caught for dinner and, if you like to swing, there are two world-class golf courses – Cape Wickham and Ocean Dunes – from where to tee off.
Surfing’s Last Frontier
There are already three dug-out canoes full of staring kids behind our boat. I wave and salute them with my coffee mug – enough, clearly, to bring them undone. They burst into long bouts of giggles, although the smallest kid just stares at me like I’ve got two heads. There are coconut trees, warm blue ocean and – except for the nine other blokes on this boat – not another surfer within a hundred kilometres of us. In 30 years searching for the best breaks around the globe, this is the first time everything looks exactly the way I imagined.
I’m on the only surf charter boat, the PNG Explorer, that operates full-time in Papua New Guinea. There is one other, the Indies Explorer III, but it’s only here for some of the season. The surf season in PNG runs between October and May, and for those eight months the PNG Explorer will ply its trade up and down New Ireland’s east coast and beyond, pausing at spots never before surfed by anyone who didn’t arrive on this vessel. There are 600 outer islands in PNG, so there are waves breaking right now that have never been seen by a foreigner.
Former skipper/owner Andrew Rigby started this business after stumbling accidentally on these swells. He was here working for his father’s trawler business catching lobsters, but after watching perfect wave after perfect wave go unridden he leased his dad’s lobster boat and started a surf charter business. He’s since sold it.
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Click to view gallery
This is very far from how it is in other less developed countries, where greed, over-demand and corruption rules the waves. The first time I ever took a surf charter overseas, I rode a boat through the Mentawai Islands in Indonesia. I went looking for waves I couldn’t find at home. What I found instead were boatloads of surfers with exactly the same purpose. The waves were as incredible as I’d imagined, but flotillas of boats had anchored beside them, and their occupants were taking it in turns to snatch each flawless break from me.
It got worse the better – and bigger – the waves got. A week in, I gave up the battle, settling instead on the deck of my boat with surf magazines full of stories about seeking out unmatched waves. In 1965, surfers Robert August and Michael Hynson travelled the world seeking out sublime, never-before-surfed waves, a journey captured in The Endless Summer. Their expedition provided the spark for 55 years’ worth of hardcore searching. Now it’s become big business. Surfers have found their way to every reef break on Earth then colonised them, putting up surf resorts, surf shops and bars right beside them.
Somehow, thank goodness, they missed PNG. Actually, thank Andy Abel. The Papua New Guinean has spent the past 31 years devising the world’s most innovative surf management plan. His reverse spiral model gives the power to host communities, rather than rich foreigners or the government.
“My lasting legacy, when I’m dead and buried,” he says, “is that in PNG we’ll always remember who’s the most important element in the surfing equation. Remember who owns the land and the fringing reef.
I didn’t want locals to be beggars and bystanders while westerners came in and took over.”
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Click to view gallery
I’m travelling up the east coast of New Ireland, 500 or so kilometres east of PNG’s main island. In terms of volume, variation and the biological significance of the fauna and flora, the only place that compares is the Amazon Basin. This is one of the most diverse and untouched regions left anywhere on the planet. The sea teems with creatures. Last night, as the sun set, I saw eight sailfish jump in 15 minutes; there was an orca nearby at dawn. If it was anywhere else, it would have long ago been conquered by Club Med or some other chain hotel brand.
I can’t tell you exactly where I’m surfing – there has to be some secrets – but the waves here aren’t of the bone-crushing variety you’ll find in Indonesia. Most of the blokes on board are of intermediate ability at best. But that’s the joy of PNG – there are waves here for the crazies (almost all break over reef and if you combine big waves with shallow reef, there’s always plenty of adrenaline involved), but you’re more likely to find surfers in their 40s and 50s, who don’t want to leave bits of themselves on rocks and coral.
Luxury in PNG comes purely from exclusivity: there are no cold towels or welcome drinks, and no one makes your bed. If you want overwater bungalows, day spas and French champagne between surfs, head to the Maldives.
I surf three times a day, till my shoulders ache, my ribs are bruised blue, and my nose turns red. Between surfs, I take tender rides up clearwater rivers and, on the shaded upper deck of the Explorer, feast on the fish we catch.
Just as important as the surf, though, is the cultural side of being here. One night we’re invited to a nearby village to take part in a celebration. It’s hard to see who’s under closer examination: us or them. PNG remains one of the most traditional places on Earth, and being here on a charter allows surfers to see lifestyles barely tainted by the modern world.
There are surf camps to stay at too, should you prefer a land base. The first camp set up here was at Vanimo, on PNG’s main island, close to the border with Indonesia. Kavieng – where you fly to from Port Moresby – is home to several low-key camps. There are also waves and camps on Manus Island, New Britain and the St Matthias Islands. Amenities are simple, yet comfortable and safe.
Now Abel has paved the way for surfers to ride waves in the formerly volatile, autonomous region of Bougainville. He says this is truly the new frontier.
“It’s taken a long time,” he says. “At every place where I see wave potential, first I need to see if the land owners want us to come. Then I have to see who actually owns the land and reef. I need to find out the genealogy, so that we know how the money will be passed out.
“When I was travelling around the world surfing, I saw indigenous Hawaiians – some of them with royal blood – living in Oahu as beggars in tents,” he adds. “It made me think this won’t happen in PNG.”
Turn Over an Old Leaf
We are on one of the shorter trails in Yakusugi Land, a 270-hectare nature reserve sitting at 1,000 to 1,300 metres above sea level on the island of Yakushima, part of the O¯sumi group. The only places further south in Japan are the Satsunan Islands and Okinawa. It means this tiny outcrop of land with its soaring mountains has an enticing number of ecosystems, from subtropical rainforest near the coastline to subarctic moors. For much of the year, its highest peaks are capped with snow.
These cedar forests, once a valuable source of roofing shingles but protected for the past six decades, are Yakushima’s most famous natural feature. Some of the trees are thousands of years old – from here in Yakusugi Land you can take a 12-hour round-trip trek to the 7,000-year-old Jamonsugi – but this one is revered.
“They say the enlightened can see Buddha in the tree,” says guide Cameron Joyce. I squint and look closer. “I can see a pug,” he says, pointing to a twist in the trunk.
“It looks a bit like the creature that bursts out of people in Alien,” I tell him. Fair to say there’s a long way for me to go in the enlightenment department.
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We amble off and stop to study a huge stump, one of the relics of long-ago logging. It is covered in mosses of different varieties, tiny ferns and scurrying insects. It’s as if a miniature forest has sprouted in the space of less than a square metre.
“Look behind you,” Cameron tells me. “See those two trees? They were planted when this one was cut down.” Even a hundred years ago, the loggers understood the importance of protecting this environment. And it has paid off in spades.
“There are about 600 species of moss here, so the Princess Mononoke animators used 600 different shades of green [in the film] to recognise that,” Cameron tells me. Studio Ghibli’s ties to the island have been one of the drawcards for the 300,000 or so tourists who arrive here each year.
“Ninety per cent of the tourists are Japanese,” he continues. “Westerners are a bit of a combination. Some hike, others dive, but there are also the comic book dorks who know about the island’s connection to Studio Ghibli.”
We are circumnavigating the island by car, a journey that, should you decide to tackle it without stopping, can take three hours. It’s only about 130 kilometres around, but there’s plenty to take in along the way, including the island’s two towns. Most people live in Miyanoura, but even during mid-afternoon its streets are quite deserted. Anbo, close to the hotel where I am based, is even smaller, but has a few restaurants and stores, including the island’s oldest craft business, Kashima Kougei, where woodcarvers work their magic on fallen cedar.
Considering the sparse population it’s a surprise to stop at Ohko-no-taki Waterfall and find a busload of kindergarteners – boys in blue shorts, girls in red – has beat us to it. With their teacher in the lead, they scramble across rocks towards the almighty torrent of water. As they squeal and tussle, we follow the path back towards a deserted beach covered in black stones. Kites soar above the waves, the cloudless sky a vivid blue behind them.
The locals joke that it rains 35 days a month on Yakushima, but the weather during early autumn is spectacular. Down by one tiny port, the warm water has the clarity of vodka. A man is sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of the concrete, basking in the sun and staring out to sea. Another is on his boat organising his fishing lines. My decision to leave my swimmers at home was a big mistake.
About 90 per cent of the land on Yakushima is protected, but some of it was given World Heritage status in 1993. Of course, there are plenty of regions in Japan that have achieved the UNESCO tick of approval, however most are recognised for their cultural and historical significance; Yakushima is one of the few identified for its natural splendour. While there are about 1,900 species of plants here, 94 of them are endemic. There are also four endemic mammals, including a macaque known as Yakuzaru and a species of sika deer. These two beasts are unexpectedly good buddies and, because they have no natural predators, neither gives a good goddamn about people and their cars.
We come around a bend in the road to find a family of macaques sprawled across the bitumen picking through each other’s thick coats. A lone deer walks among them.
“I once saw a male deer walking back and forward in front of three teenage monkeys,” Cameron tells me as we sit in the car observing them. “I thought, ‘He wants them to jump on his back,’ so I started filming on my phone and, sure enough, one of the monkeys jumped on to the deer and started grooming it.”
Lest you think him a fibber, it’s not at all uncommon and many locals tell similar stories. Pity none of them bother to warn the long-distance cyclists who decide to take on the island circuit about the monkeys. As we’re observing them, a bike rider appears in the rear-vision mirror.
“They don’t like bikes very much,” says Cameron. “Probably because bikes are quiet and sneak up on them a bit. We’ll just wait here a minute and see if this gets interesting.”
It doesn’t, but my guide has a wicked sense of humour, which is probably not completely unexpected. Cameron is originally from Rotorua, but has lived in Japan for years, first in Tokyo but then on the island when his wife became pregnant and they couldn’t imagine bringing up a child in the city.
Friends of his, who were hired to carry out a search and rescue mission on neighbouring volcanic Kuchinoerabu Island, told him about Yakushima and its incredible hiking. He organised a solo eight-day trek soon after and by the end of the first day was making plans to move here.
It is rather like a tiny version of New Zealand – rugged landscape, rainforest, gorgeous beaches with black sand on one side of the island and white sand on the other. DNA tests have also revealed that the oldest inhabitants of the islands are related to Polynesians. “Japanese people don’t really know about that, but it means I don’t get too homesick,” Cameron says.
We wind up our day with organic matcha soft serve at a teashop called Hachimanjyu Chaen, and a local tip for dinner: friends of Cameron’s own a bar called Riverside Cafe Sanpotei.
Louis Armstrong is playing when I walk in. There are thousands of CDs piled in both rooms and the barman hands over an English menu. The local delicacy in these parts is tobiuo (flying fish). The evening before I’d had it fried as part of the expansive set dinner at Yakushima Green Hotel. “Don’t eat the head or the bones,” the waiter had told me as he set it on the table. He seemed impressed when he came back and I’d demolished not just the fish’s body but also its fins and tail, leaving just the head and backbone. (Not quite as impressed as when I ate a small bowl of ‘turtles’ feet’, which are, in fact, a type of goose barnacle called kamenote.)
Flying fish is caught seasonally by fleets of two or more boats. Often men will jump into the water to set the fish ‘flying’ into nets stretched between the vessels. At Santopei, flying fish comes in fishcake form. There’s also juicy fried chicken and cocktails created using local liqueurs made from passionfruit and the big, sweet oranges called tankan.
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The following morning, armed with nothing more than some scant instructions on how to catch the bus, I head towards Shiratani Unsuikyo Ravine. As the bus labours slowly towards the snow line, I count eight other visitors on board, but they quickly disperse once we arrive at the ticket stand.
The Yayoisugi cedar trail is practically deserted. At first all I can hear is the thundering river, but it soon fades into the background. With no one coming up behind me, I decide to slow right down, taking in the sights, smells and sounds of my surroundings.
Although the forest is immense, you begin to see the details – the way the sun backlights moss on a stump, the glimmering web of an orb spider moving in the breeze, a single azalea bloom that hasn’t realised it’s November – when you slow your pace to a virtual crawl. The trickling of water fades, but I occasionally hear a crash in the bush. No matter how hard I look, I can’t see anything, and start to suspect the kodama (tree spirits) people talk about here are real.
Finally I reach the Yayoisugi. It’s growing sideways out of the hillside but has warped towards the sunlight. It is thought to be 3,000 years old, which I calculate in a more human way. If there is a new human generation, say, every 30 years, this tree has outlasted more than a hundred of them. Contemplate that, I think to myself before heading back down the mountain.
Away With The Birds
“You have to walk across the top of it,” Ben Isaia tells me as we set out. The ‘it’ he is referring to is makatea, razor-sharp fossilised coral that has turned this particular trail into a pathway of booby traps. It’s everywhere on Atiu, a tiny outpost in the Cook Islands 190 kilometres from Rarotonga. The makatea forms a ring around most of the island, rising in places to six metres. Elsewhere, like here, it’s exposed at ground level. A single wrong step can spell disaster.
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Ben and I are heading out on his tour of Anatakitaki Cave. When we arrive we’ll be looking for the rare kopeka bird, a type of swiftlet that is only found on Atiu and nests in the darkness of the caverns.
Despite being armed with a walking stick, crossing the makatea is far from easy. Ben is telling me an ancient story about Inutoto, who hid in the caves from her husband Pararo, and Tangaroa who eventually found her again, but sweat is dripping into my eyes, and I begin to unconsciously search out spots where I can ease my feet onto solid ground.
Seeing what are essentially blades of stone rushing up to meet you is a none-too-pleasant experience. Neither is the aftermath. I pick myself up, but there are cuts on my left knee and right hand. Ben inspects my hairline because he’s had the unfortunate experience of watching my head meet rock. Luckily there’s no damage, apart from the start of a shiner.
“Do you want to turn back?” he asks, crushing up leaves from a nearby bush and popping them on the cut on my knee. I like to think I’m made of tougher stuff, so we continue on, only this time I’m completely focused on averting another disaster.
Finally we arrive at the ladder that descends into the cave. Tree roots growing through the rock above create an entry tunnel. Soon the full magnificence of the system is revealed. There are grottos of greenery where the light pours in. Stalactites and stalagmites create impressive columns in the towering cavern. Some sparkle when hit by torchlight.
As we delve further into the darkness, the air cools.
In the quiet, there’s clicking and fluttering. Above us one of our rare feathered friends flits off a ledge. “You know they never land when they’re out in the rainforest,” Ben tells me, explaining the birds use those clicks as a type of sonar to find their way in the dark when they’re here in the cave.
We explore a bit more – I pass on the option of a swim by candlelight – and head back. “You put something on that,” Ben says, pointing at the dried blood on my knee as he drops me back at Atiu Villas.
There’s no one around, but manager Jackey Tanga has already told me to check the office if I need anything. The first-aid kit is easy to find and I slather antiseptic cream across the cuts.
This relaxed attitude to security is one of Atiu’s charming idiosyncrasies. It starts at the airport – really just an open-sided shed at the edge of the runway – where a sign reads: “Would passengers please hand their AK47s, bazookas, grenades, explosives and nukes to the pilot on boarding the aircraft.” There are jeeps and scooters parked out the front of the hotel, all with the keys in the ignition ready to go. Want to borrow one?
It’s yours, just let someone know so you can pay for the fuel. There is no key at all to my villa. There’s really no point since the best way to cool off at night is to leave both the front and balcony doors wide open. Plus, if I locked them how could cats Frazzle and Ginger drop by for a visit?
There’s another reason locks are the last thing on my mind: I am the only one here.
Atiu has a population of just 400, and when I get off the plane I am the only passenger not related to someone on the island.
It makes me easy to find, and Jackey strides across the tarmac with eagle-eyed focus and a garland of tropical flowers.
“Now don’t freak out,” she says when we jump in the car.
“You’re the only tourist on the island. That’s right, isn’t it?”
she asks, consulting her nephew Tutapu who’s in the back.
“OK, so there’s one other tourist on the island.” Turns out an American guy has been living in someone’s cottage for a few weeks.
We do a whistlestop tour, Jackey explaining Atiu is unlike the two big crowd-pleasers in the Cooks – Rarotonga and Aitutaki – because there’s no postcard-perfect lagoon just off the shore. Here, too, most of the locals live in the island’s interior rather than by the sea.
“I’m not sure why,” she says. “When the Christians came they pushed us all up here. Someone once told me they thought it was to get us out of our old ways.”
We stop by the harbour, built in 1975 using funds provided by the New Zealand Government. It allows fishermen to launch their boats without having to navigate the fringing reef. It’s also where the cargo boat docks and offloads the island’s supplies – air freight is far too expensive.
“We used to call it the checkout pool because we’d come here to check out who was hot,” says Jackey. “Do they still do that?” she asks Tutapu, who laughs and replies: “Just about everyone.”
We pass through the five villages, all linked by one main road, with Jackey pointing out the main points of interest: the church, the Super Brown store, a few government offices.
Back at the villas as I’m recovering from my makatea gutser, I meet owner Roger Malcolm. “Have you been to a tumunu yet?” he asks, before we set out to see if one is open. Tumunus – there are about six on the island – are the Atiu equivalent of a bar. Traditionally men’s places, they’re now less strict on who can drink there. They all operate different hours but bear other similarities. They’re places to talk it out over a drink or two. The drink in question is a homebrew that came into fashion about two centuries ago when European whalers stopped here and, none too keen on kava, showed the locals how to ferment local fruit into something that is drinkable if not altogether refined.
“There’s only one cup so you can’t take too long,” Roger tells me as we get out of the car. Consider my interest piqued.
Introductions are made and we take a seat in the semicircle. One man is in charge of drinks. He has a barrel of ‘beer’ between his knees. He fills the cup and hands it over to the first person who drinks it in one hit. The cup is handed back, refilled and passed to the next person. In between, there’s chat about what’s going on, people’s families and, not on this occasion but quite often, island business. You are simply one of the group and handed the cup until you bow out. We end up having about six cups. I wouldn’t say I was drunk – perhaps buzzed is the correct term.
The next day I get up early and, despite atheistic leanings, decide to spend Sunday morning at the Cook Islands Christian Church.
As I wait outside, a man comes over to welcome me, going straight in for a hug rather than a handshake. His name is Mu and he’s an assistant minister, a high honour for a layperson.
“Sit anywhere you like,” he tells me as we walk inside. This advice isn’t quite accurate. The women and children sit at the front of the church, the men at the back. I find a spot somewhere between the two.
The minister has a handsome, expressive face and commanding cadence and enunciation. If he hadn’t answered a higher calling he’d have made an excellent character actor in Hollywood. The entire service is carried out in the local language, but that I don’t understand doesn’t matter because the singing is sublime. The rich voices harmonise and resonate through the building. This is the imene tuki, a traditional hymn. Time stands still as the women, dressed in splendid white dresses and immaculate flowered hats, lead the congregation.
Click to view gallery
Click to view gallery
Still energised from the morning’s service, I meet up with George Mateariki or, as most people call him, Birdman George. Those cave-dwelling kopekas aren’t Atiu’s only avian attractions. This is a paradise for birdwatchers, and George is the man who can spot them from afar.
He works for the Takitumu Conservation Area, and was initially employed to protect 30 Rarotonga flycatchers that were released here between 2001 and 2003. Due to predation by rats (a pest not found on Atiu), they’d almost been wiped out. Now there are 750. Then there is the Rimatara lorikeet, almost extinct when 27 of them were introduced. The last time they were counted, in 2016, there were about 400 of them.
I stand in the back of George’s ute as he drives through forest and farmland, stopping in different places to look into the branches. We see plump Pacific pigeons and a chattering kingfisher that, despite its name, feeds only on insects.
“All the birds are now abundant,” George tells me, during one of our stops. “We eradicated myna birds [they take over nests and kill other birds’ chicks] between 2009 and 2015 by trading dead birds for money.”
George spots a golden plover on the school oval: “It should have flown off to Alaska by now, but the cyclone has kept it here.”
The cyclone in question is Timo, which has hit Fiji and Tonga hard, but hasn’t threatened Atiu. Until now, when black clouds fill the sky over the ocean. To avoid the weather, we set off towards the harbour. George has prepared a traditional umu (earth oven) meal – chicken, pork, taro, creamed spinach – and we take shelter in one of the quarantine sheds while the rain pelts down.
When it clears, we head off to where huge waves crash over the breakwater. George looks out to the horizon, searching for great frigatebirds. “Normally they are far out to sea, but the weather can make them come closer to shore,” he says. Unfortunately we can’t spot any.
On my final morning, I decide to walk down the hill to Matai Beach. One of the guys from the tumunu passes by on his scooter, but there’s no one else around.
Crossing a narrow ridge of makatea, I hit the white sand and look east, spying a couple of people fishing with nets in the distance. Then I turn in the other direction and there they are – about 20 great frigatebirds swooping and diving towards the sea. As I watch them they come closer and closer, until they are soaring around me, just metres above my head. I’ve never been so glad to be of larger stature. These birds are imposing, and it feels as though they are sizing me up as their next meal.
Deciding I am of no interest, they continue on their way, circling over the people with their nets, who’ve already discovered the motherlode of small fish. I could watch them all day, but the plane is taking off in a few hours. I silently wish the birds good fishing and turn back towards the villas, thankful for this final moment of island magic.
