News From Norfolk Island

Attractions for the Tourist

From Our Own Correspondent

Norfolk Island, Dec. 23.

WITH the promise of a much better steamer to replace the old Mak ambo, from Australia, a regular pas senger service from New Zealand and the persistent rumour of a first-class residential hotel to be erected shortly at Kingston, where our attractive golf course lies beside the sea and our best bathing beach is situated, we live in hope of a renewed and continuous in flux of visitors from both countries.

This article, therefore, is frankly tourist propaganda, and, it is hoped, will catch the eye of many a holiday maker who is wondering how and where he can spend his time and money to the best advantage.

Years and years ago, in a very dif ferent part of the world, this writer read a wonderful description, by some wanderer about the Pacific, of this little magic isle. He spoke of small sweet grapes growing in secret valleys . . . of the eternal roar of surf rolling in upon the encircling reef ... of the tumbled prison ruins, relics of the cruel convict days of a hundred years ago that lay, grey and harsh beneath the sun ... and of the enchanting race that lived, sufficient unto themselves, within the blue boundaries of the sea.

The sea still frets upon the reef; the prison ruins—cold, narrow cells, still reeking of human grief and misery, the rough bulk of the stone-built gal lows, and half a wheel that was the treadmill, rotting in the twilight of a semi-subterranean cellar still litter Kingston shore; the happy, hospitable islanders still live their simple life only moderately complicated by contact with the oversea settlers, who are here in their hundreds now digging and ploughing and planting by day and, by night, dancing, playing bridge or list ening-in with their wireless sets to the restless world so far away.

There is a charm about our island that is difficult to express; an atmos phere, a something different from every other place. One cannot put it into words, but there it is. Of the actual tropics, beautiful and sensuous, one sickens in time; but “Norfolk” mingles tropical charm with the calm reasonableness of the temperate zones.

The summer is very hot but cooled by the breezes that blow over endless leagues of sea; the winter is warm and a joy to visitors from colder climes. A wood fire in the evening is a luxury and a concession to habits formed in other lands.

Every bright flower blooms all the year round given sufficient rain every kind of vegetable does well in all but the four hottest months; coffee grows, and pawpaws grow, though they are rather poor specimens after the luscious globes, squeezed with lemon and sprinkled with sugar, eaten every morning' for breakfast in the real tro pics.

In the deepest depths of the deepest valleys sugar cane grows, but not com mercially; and, on tall, neglected trees, oranges, lemons, figs, peaches and hard, sweet pears hang and are to be had for the picking. But the grapes are gone.

Five days in the week we work hard —harder, many of us, than we have ever worked before —but on Saturdays, unless the steamer is in and we have

to ship away our produce, we play.

We play golf and tennis and cricket and football, and we go for picnics to Emily Bay and Anson Bay and to sweetly named Bamboras.

And on Saturday evenings we go to the weekly pictures; silent on the screen, but loud with laughter and appreciation in the body of the hall.

High Class Theatrical

Performances.

And at present and for so long as our clever young English actor stays with us we have real, professional theatrical performances every few weeks. A box plan is opened at two of the stores and seats are eagerly re served by a public to whom even that simple preliminary is a novelty. And on the night every car and lorry on the island, bulging and brimming with playgoers, rushes over the dark or moonlit roads, with their sentinel pines reaching into heaven, and parks outside the public hall at Longridge.

It is useless to arrange any private entertainment for that evening; every body will be dressed in their best and away to the theatre.

We thought nothing dons by amat eurs coulct beat our first three shows, “Mr. Pirn Passes By,” “The Family Upstairs” and “Tons of Money”—an three comedies, and most excellently put on; but our very last, “The Char iot Revue” (and wouldn’t M. Chariot, the pride of London and Paris, be sur prised to land) suddenly and see his name plastered outside our shabby country hall and billed upon our simple country stores!) has left us open-mouthed and round-eyed with wonderment at the deniction of life as it apparently is lived in cities.

We “Waited for the Bus” with Mai sie Gay, we sat forward, tightly grip ping our benches, through the horror of “The Monkey’s Paw,” we witnessed with our own eyes the broadcasting of a wireless programme from a radio station and, personally, I shall never believe again in the youth or truth or beauty of a single broadcaster; we compared the modest honeymoon con duct of 1890 with the brazen boldness of 1930; we underwent a dozen shat tering experiences with only the space of a “blackout” between them in which to draw cur breath.

And the life and soul of every sketch was Bobbie Jarvis. He played every variety of part and was equally at home as man or woman, in panto mime or bubbling with speech. A great character actor is taking shape within his energetic young body, and, some day, when he is crowding theatres in the biggest cities in the world, we still dreaming on our little island, shall re member him with pride and Bobbie will cast his mind back and tell tales of us that will bring tears of laughter to the eyes of his audience.

Beautiful Mt. Pitt.

To return to those hordes of tour ists we are bent on luring over. No visitor should leave without having climbed our Mount Pitt, a thousand feet high and rising, as near as no matter, in the centre of the island, with bush-clad slopes falling away on every side to the sparkling sea.

There, upon the topmost grassy peak, one surveys with the eyes of the mind the kingdoms of the earth, while actu ally viewing nothing but a waste of waters; a waste unbroken by sail or smoke stack. It makes one feel in credibly small and lost and lonely— as though disaster had overwhelmed all the rest of the world and left us sole survivors upon Ararat.

Half way up the mountain, at the junction of two wandering, leafy roads, is situated “The Mountain Store,” with its swinging signboard and rich with the scent of new lumber, chocolate, cheese and light, hot bread. Only re cently built, and intended primarily for those tourists of whom I have been speaking, it was quaintly opened and advertised by the holding of a mon ster auction sale, to which everybody, with anything to sell, contributed. We bought some envied articles from our neighbour and sold her something on which she had long had her eye; and a marvellous, superlative afternoon tea was carried round by Mrs. Hopkins, whose own particular venture this is and whose husband runs a very popu lar store down in Burnt Pine.

At “The Mountain Store” the pick nicker can stop and buy all the mater ials for his lunch and, on the way down again, call in for tea and home made scones and cakes; and, if he is a reader, he will walk around the turn of the wide verandah and into the little Book Club at the far end. There he will find a small but modern and up-to-date library with books in it that he really wants to read.

Imports into Norfolk Island for the year ended 1929-30 were valued at £46,776. Of this amount, £34,600 worth came from Australia and £11,713 from New Zealand. The imports for the previous 12 months totalled £55,894.