NOTEL is an airstream destination. Located in the middle of Melbourne’s CBD on the rooftop of a Flinders Lane car park, these top-of-the-line airstreams come with their own decked area, queen size bed, and a virtual concierge.
NOTEL may not be a traditional hotel, it’s a unique accommodation option in the heart of this vibrant city. The basic airstream experience offers free Wi-Fi with complimentary minibar and air conditioner. Of course, you can also count on all the basic amenities you would get in a hotel, going from a comfortable queen-sized bed to a full-size shower.
NOTEL also provides upgrades on the basic airstream experience. The upgraded experience comes with your own private deck and a private sapphire spa for only a small increase on the price.
Getting lost on an island with just one sealed road and only 45 square kilometres of tropical land is no small feat, but it happens almost immediately upon my arrival at Tubuai. To lose my way, I pole across the lagoon to the surf-foamed outer reef, feeling stately and over-confident on an 11-foot paddleboard.
Polynesians famously explored the far-flung corners of the Pacific using only the stars as their guide. It is one of the most remarkable achievements in human navigation as Polynesia’s perimeters are as broad as Russia and its islands merely dots in a vast blue expanse. But as I glide about Tubuai, idly appreciating the skills of the ancient way-finders, I eventually arrive at an unfamiliar landmark with one pressing question: where the hell am I?
I paddle to land to find a pig, a horse and then a road, which can only be the road. With my back stained in saltwater streaks, I pass giggling school kids who point me further down the way toward the wipa, my family-run pension. In Tahitian, Wipa can mean wind or island, but locally it’s used as an emphatic greeting accompanied by a karate-chop hand gesture, all because of a man by the name of Willson Doom.
Willson is a silver-haired patriarch with a big belly laugh and infectious teenage enthusiasm, and my host at Wipa Lodge. A former big wave surfer, he took up skateboarding in his 40s when he returned to his home island where he would counter the lack of suitable surfaces by piloting his modified skateboard deck down mountain passes at breakneck speeds. “Yeah man,” he assures my disbelieving expression, “seventy kilometres an hour straight down.” In my mind, I could picture it, as a middle-aged man flies past startled livestock, his life hanging in the balance, and the tropical air filled with a bellowing “WIPE-AH!”
Tubuai is part of French Polynesia’s southernmost archipelago, the Austral Islands. If you’ve never heard of them, you’re in good company. Most of Tahiti’s visitors rarely stray from the popular tourist islands (Bora Bora, Moorea and Huahine) where paradise tends to be refined, enhanced and expensive. Loved up honeymooners and cashed up billionaires are catered for with extravagant dining, over-the-lagoon bungalows and attentive staff. Johnny Depp, Barack Obama and Tom Hanks are among the A-listers rumoured to have visited in the previous month alone.
Tahiti is so associated with luxury and glamour it is often dismissed as being exclusively about these things. The reality, however, is quite different. If you’re keen on unscheduled adventure, fresh fish, world-class diving and a blueprint for paradise, then French Polynesia’s abundant beauty offers a variety of rarely visited islands that can be enjoyed on a modest budget.
Tubuai, the largest of the distant Australs, has two mountains, a placid lagoon that’s almost twice the size of the island and a handful of small atolls, which hug its perimeter like pilot fish. The people of the island live simply, farming in the rich volcanic soil and fishing for protein and sport. There are just two pensions available to travellers, but I appear to be the only current visitor, which means boat rides out to the atolls for snorkelling and fishing are off. Instead, I’m forced to nose about, talk to strangers and get to know Willson. Turns out, I get to experience a lot more of the island this way.
At Wipa Lodge, I find a rusty paperweight that I’m told is a cannonball from the HMS Bounty, and I feel the heavy weight of history in my hand. It was found nearby at Bloody Bay where a mutineer, Christian Fletcher, and his followers clashed with locals on their ill-fated attempt to establish a rebel Eden. The Tubuians became hostile and managed to send the mutineers packing after five months, but not before many of them had been killed and far deadlier diseases introduced.
The cannonball is not a lone historic artefact here. Fish hooks and other ornaments Willson has found in his yard adorn the lodge, and as my host explains their likely origins, he becomes animated. Suddenly, he leaves the room, reappearing with an antique spear, which he throws expertly in my direction. Before I know it, we’re in his wife’s car gunning down the road. There’s something Willson would like me to see.
We come to a stop in a grassy field, surrounded by mango trees. Willson’s face becomes serious as he instructs me to choose three wildflowers in silence, and then invites me to lay down my offering in a cleared area beneath jungle foliage. We are alone in an ancient marae, a public sacred space used on the island as a place to consult gods and make offerings. Willson adopts an earnest tone and a stage whisper as the shadows deepen. He tells me about the gods, demons and visions, and tells me that all around me, babies were born, elders buried, spirits awoken and gods placated. This is where origin stories and hard-won knowledge have been passed down through the generations.
Before I say my goodbyes to Tubuai, I go for one last blurt around the island with Willson, who I discover was chosen to be the custodian of Tubuai’s cultural heritage, an honour that he says has transformed his life. In a final moment of solidarity, he farewells me with a bear hug and a small rock, “A piece of my island for you,” he says. I give him a final wipa salute and the special moment leaves my arms prickled with goose bumps. I leave the island with a newfound understanding of Tahitian culture, spirituality and history, but it’s the personal connection with the charismatic Willson and his passion for his cultural heritage that stays with me.
On Tahiti, the Heiva festival is in full swing. It’s one of the longest-running festivals in the world and the two-week celebration of Polynesian culture is celebrated with dancing, music, and sporting contests. I make the most of the festivities, and as I watch Tahitians dance, soar and sashay feathers and plumes across Papeete’s harbor-side auditorium, I quickly understand why European sailors risked rebellion and refused to leave this bountiful island chain.
From feathers to scales, I wing over the Pacific to Ahe, an island in the Tuamotu Archipelago. These low-lying, lightly inhabited atolls are known for their world-class diving and fishing. Ahe, a former pearl farm, is shaped like a necklace and encircles a large lagoon. White sands, aquamarine water and arched palms indulge my wildest escapist fantasies. The water is gin-clear, blood-warm and teeming with life and within hours of my arrival I’ve managed to hook a fish, sight a shark and feed a ray.
“The best fishing in Polynésie Française,” a smiling Tahitian tells me, loading our boat with supplies for our diving adventure. Unlike my soloist trip on Tubuai, there are ten of us staying at Cocoperle Lodge, one of only two pensions on Ahe. Everyone is either French or Tahitian, but they adopt me, the only English speaker, like an endearingly dim pet. I’m grateful for the translations but just as happy to let the conversation wash over me.
The boat takes us across the lagoon and through its narrow opening, the gateway to the outside reef. As my French companions and I splash into the iridescent blue and kick towards the inner reef, we see schools of bright fish and a black-tipped reef shark above a rainbow of hard and soft corals. Many dive experts rate the Tuamotus as the best place to snorkel in French Polynesia, as their lagoons and healthy reefs harbour a symphony of colours and creatures.
The fishers on our boat haul in a seafood feast as we attempt to outrun the storm dramatically building behind us. There’s a chance to return after lunch but I’m happy to laze away the afternoon, wading into the lagoon whenever my skin dries and daydreaming about absconding to Tahiti. That’s exactly what my French host, Frank, did in the 80s when he married a local girl and built Cocoperle up from the jungle.
It’s not hard to see why so many have fallen for Ahe over the years. From my hammock in the Tuamotus, the real world seems harried and hard-edged. I wonder if I could live out the rest of my days here, practising French, learning to dance and raising my children as spear fishers. Instead, I settle for bringing a little of Tahiti home with me. Along with my rock from Tubuai and local recipe for salade de poisson cru (raw tuna salad), I leave this pristine part of the world with an enhanced appreciation for the beauty of the natural world and a newfound relaxed attitude to schedules.
As my plane banks, I steal one last look at this beautiful family of islands. They become mere specks in the distance, and I reminisce, in awe of all I’ve experienced on my visit to French Polynesia’s hidden gems. My window’s view is filled with blue ripples of the Pacific Ocean, and I think to myself how wonderful it is that we may be cultures apart, but it’s the very same ocean that laps at my local beach and connects me to my new Tahitian friends.
I’m butchering an oyster in a rookie attempt to shuck my waterside snack. The shell splinters as I clumsily try to crank it open with a knife, narrowly avoiding skewering my hand in the process. Eventually it hinges open, revealing a plump nugget bathing in a small puddle of the purest Tasmanian ocean water. My salivating taste buds are not disappointed when I slurp down the freshest, saltiest oyster I’ve ever eaten.
Our delicious bounty was plucked minutes ago from Ford Bay’s shallows by Tom, one of our guides on the Bruny Island Long Weekend food and walking tour. The private farm on the island was started by a Sydney stockbroker who decided to try his hand at growing oysters after the global financial crisis of 2007. We have exclusive access to these self-serve oysters, and it’s a delicious way to cap off our first day. Tom shucks as fast as he can to keep up with the all-you-can-eat demand, but eventually he admits defeat and declares the pop-up restaurant closed. It’s a natural protein shot following the day’s five-hour hike.
Bruny Island Long Weekend taps into the beloved institution of the three-day weekend, offering a mate’s insider tour of the island’s gems. Beyond the tourist trail, it combines three days of hiking with premium local food and wine. I’m here to taste it all and hopefully burn it off. The trip is ambitiously labelled as calorie-neutral but that seems unlikely faced with the prospect of all the fine produce.
We arrived this morning via the Derwent River, skirting down the coast on a roaring spin onboard Pennicott Wilderness Journeys’ giant inflatable craft. A swift 45-minute jet ride from the Hobart docks, Bruny Island is a miniature copy of the Tasmanian mainland. It has a unique microcosm of diverse weather, wildlife, terrain and food, packed within 362 square kilometres. Today’s walk covers 12 kilometres along a squiggled coastline bordered by rugged bushland, leading us to the peak of Cape Queen Elizabeth.
Tom and our second guide, Dave, lug weighted packs, a heavy comparison to our much lighter daypacks. The group settles into a cracking pace and within minutes of leaving the van we are deep in the wilderness and totally off the tourist grid. As the sandy path gives way to a steep rubble goat track, it’s evident that this weekend is no leisurely stroll. The terrain varies between muddy sludge, crumbling rock and knee-jarring sand. I focus on negotiating my steps up the lung-straining incline over the first cape, wary of stepping on an agitated jack-jumper or a slithery surprise. It isn’t long before a piercing yelp ahead halts the group. A venomous copperhead snake blocks our track but while I fight my urge to flee, it graciously gives way.
Bruny Island treats us to four seasons in one hour. One minute my skin is sizzling under the searing Tassie sun, then rain and icy winds force a pit stop to layer up. Before long, I’m steaming and overdressed as the sun makes its return. Thankfully, bushwalking funnels your focus on just the few metres ahead, making life’s complexities and woes vanish. It’s very cathartic finding a rhythm and I let my mind drift off with the muted roar of the waves.
We are mere specks measured against the epic surrounds. The summit exposes a dramatic panorama that seems impossible to even partially conquer in just three days. Layers of peaks wrap around us, while below dozens of bays cut into the mainland. It looks remote and inhospitable under moody skies, but transforms as the sun escapes the clouds and lights up the turquoise waters and blinding white sand.
We traverse down the ocean side and hit rolling sand dunes. Sheer cliffs of mudstone and Jurassic dolomite drop straight into the water, and tessellated sculptures, beaten by centuries of weather, decorate the beach like an open-air gallery. Our shortcut home is blocked by the tide and we’re at an impasse with the cliff base, but rather than backtracking we opt for a little off-roading, climbing up and over the precarious rock formations pounded by the waves. The pace lifts during the final stretch, a silent collective push to bring forward happy hour.
The camp is tucked deep on the south island within South Bruny Forest, the island’s oldest forest. Four basic apex tents host luxurious king-sized beds within their canvas walls and a toilet hut features a long drop toilet with a dignified modern throne on top. A cubby-house nestled on the lush forest floor is in fact the outdoor shower. It is liberating being exposed in, and to, nature. Immense eucalypt trunks tower past the open front with the rustling canopy high above. I huddle under the steaming blanket of water with a front row seat to the feathered entertainment of this twitchers’ paradise, not wanting to turn the water off and give the next person their turn. I relinquish the urge to stay, knowing happy hour awaits our arrival in the dining room: a serving of Bruny cheese, crisp Sauvignon Blanc and a roaring fire. Tom and Dave impress with a feast of fresh scallops in white wine, lamb rump with chimichurri, and leatherwood honey panna cotta, filling our bellies for a night of slumber surrounded by nature.
My body awakens like a seized-up Tin Man, but is swiftly remedied with a morning shower to soothe it into submission. Today is a 15-kilometre hike through the South Bruny National Park, which starts with a long walk along Cloudy Bay. To the eye, the beach appears a short stroll, but an hour later we are still plodding along the coastline. Reaching the base of East Cloudy Head, Tom breaks the news that we now face a two-hour uphill slog. The terrain is distinctly more mountainous and rugged. We push through sharp, attacking thicket as we follow a mostly concealed overgrown track. It’s definite bush bashing with the landscape serving up its fair share of back-handers and kneecapping.
We plod one foot after the next, starting to hope each rise is our final hurdle. In my mind’s eye, our ant-line formation resembles the Von Trapp family fleeing Austria in the closing scene of The Sound of Music. It feels extremely isolated with either looming mountains above or sheer cliffs below. The powerful aura of hiking a dramatic coastline that has remained unchanged since the first European explorer, Abel Tasman, reached its shores in 1642, isn’t lost on me. At the pinnacle of the climb, I struggle to pinpoint our origin in the distance. What we’ve covered feels expansive, but in reality we’ve only trekked a tiny portion of the map.
We retrace our steps downhill in record time. Along the descent, chatter of ‘wine o’clock’ propels us forward, and a proposed ocean plunge divides the group – it’s a chilly venture considering the polar neighbour down south. I hurriedly change behind a tree, then sprint and dive before second thoughts kick in. The temperature is shocking, numbing and then outright painful, but also energising.
We collect some renowned smoked pork from chef and host of SBS series Gourmet Farmer, Ross O’Meara, before we head back to debrief on the deck. The Bruny oysters, pork rillettes, cheese and wine are fine examples of how this small island, and greater Tasmania, has firmly stamped its place on the global gourmet map. The weekend definitely tipped over into calorie-positive mode, but who am I kidding? I was never here to balance that line.
Water is pouring in from both directions, steadily rising as if someone forgot to turn off the tap. Streams of bubbles catapult past us with the speed of bullets. One moment we’re tossed around like bath toys as the swell effortlessly scoops up our neoprene-clad bodies, the next we rise and fall as if we were on the belly of a sleeping giant.
We’re in the eye of an ancient basaltic dike archway, moulded by the winds and ocean over many millennia, and there’s no other way to go now but through.
The third and final bubbling swell pours into the narrow fissure. My teeth clamp hard onto the rubbery plastic breathing tube, sucking in air fast and deep as the ocean’s unseen hand reaches for us once more. The torrents push and pull and rush all around us, yet we move neither forwards nor backwards. Every finned kick and stroke is seemingly useless against the deluge and I’m almost certain I’ll be sucked off into oblivion as we attempt to cross through this veil between worlds.
Then the swell breaks and we’re released, crossing over to the other side to glide through open waters and over a stunning seabed of temperate corals. We’ve just swum through the Eye of Roach, an islet among the Admiralty Islands and the oldest geological formation on Lord Howe Island.
Flashes of bright butterfly fish and iridescent blue hellion wrasse shimmy in and out of coral-crusted fractures. Later on, we enter an ominous cave where the ocean floor disappears from view altogether and I get a close look at a Galapagos whale shark as it idly glides along, unaffected by my presence. Prior to swimming through the Eye my guide, Aaron from ProDive, explains that the archway channels the ocean from both ends, the water rising further to squeeze into the gap. The sea is a blue unlike any I’ve seen before. It’s 16 metres to the ocean floor where we plunge off the boat, yet I find out later that the archway is the shallowest point – just four metres deep at its heart. I dish about my up-close encounter with the Galapagos shark.
“They get a pretty bad write up if you google it,” he chuckles, “but they’re inquisitive, so they’ll come up and have a look. The water is so clear out here they’re not going to mistake you for something that’s on the menu.”
It’s one of the magical anomalies of the world’s southernmost reef. We swim over but a handful of the 500 fish species and 90 types of coral to be found among the reefs here. To the south where the crescent-shaped isle of Lord Howe lies, twin peaks Mount Lidgbird and Mount Gower – two thirds of the island’s landmass and the youngest geological formations on the island – are the unmissable bastions and useful for orientating yourself in the unlikely event you’re lost.
For the uninitiated, it’s easy to underestimate the number of things to do on an island that measures just 11 kilometres long and two kilometres wide, but don’t be fooled – the roads that fan out across the landscape lead to more than just sandy beaches and Tiffany-blue water.
Ned’s Beach is home to a friendly mullet population and snorkelling gear is available to rent via an honesty box. The Old Settlement receives regular visits from the local turtles that catch a ride in during high tide and surfers can ride the waves at Blinky Beach. Beyond the golden sands, more than 30 kilometres of root-riddled trails fringed by palms and mellifluous birdsong – ranging from leisurely stroll to lung-heaving climb – snake across the mainland, many with sweeping views of the island. Foodies will adore dining at the restaurants (produce is always local and fresh) or, better still, tucking into a lavish picnic by the water. The isle’s charm lies in its diversity as much as its beauty: a laid-back holiday can be dialled up to an adrenaline-pumping adventure and back again all in a day.
Conservation is taken seriously by the 350-resident island community. The island was listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1982 for its rich biodiversity; 75 percent is protected park reserve and 145,000 hectares of the surrounding oceans are a marine park. Conservation projects include capping the island’s visitors to 400 at any one time, recycling and waste reduction, and the removal of noxious weeds. Native flora and fauna are regularly chronicled and studied by resident naturalists and the island’s history is immortalised by the Lord Howe Island Museum. Ian Hutton, a naturalist of more than 20 years and curator of the museum, explains that the introduction of non-native animals in the earlier years – cats, dogs, pigs and rats – was devastating for the local wildlife. Native flora was destroyed, the endemic woodhen faced extinction, and providence petrels and black woodies were pushed off the island. The Lord Howe Island phasmid was declared extinct, although it was later rediscovered in 2001 on Ball’s Pyramid. The gradual removal of introduced species over time has slowly remedied this issue and not only seen flora and fauna return and survive, but thrive.
“The animals here evolved over millions of years without any predators. This is an example of what the world would’ve been like if mammals hadn’t evolved. That’s why there’s a huge impact once rats or other animals get onto an island because the animals living in isolation have no instinctual mechanism to protect themselves,” says Ian. It’s also the reason why the wildlife is so calm and friendly in the presence of humans.
Much of this endemic flora and fauna can be seen on the longest, toughest and best day walk: Mount Gower. Towering an impressive 875 metres, Gower is Lord Howe’s loftiest peak. Its unmarked trails are only accessible with a licensed guide – of which there are only two on the island. One of those guides is Jack Schick, a fifth-generation resident of Lord Howe Island. Following in the footsteps of his grandfather and father before him, Jack has been making the challenging 14-kilometre return trek to the summit of Gower on a biweekly basis for more than 20 years. If that wasn’t impressive enough, in the final weeks of 2017 he completed his 2000th hike.
As first light cascades across the island in dreamy golden waves, I arrive at Little Island gate on the south end of Lord Howe at 7.20am sharp to meet him and my fellow walkers. After a brief rundown of the safety procedures, Jack ends his explanation with this: “Hope you enjoy it all and don’t hate me this afternoon.”
While I personally have nothing against Jack post-summit, my burning thighs and stiff knees do. The ‘walk’ begins with a leisurely stroll along the coastline before disappearing into a forest of towering kentia palms. We’re then confronted with a wheelie bin of hard hats which we don to shimmy along the narrow trail of sheer basaltic cliff that traces the rope-lined fringes of Mount Lidgbird. It’s a 100-metre drop into the drink below. It’s not long before we get a taste for the steep ascent, though, and soon we’re clambering over boulders and negotiating steps of thick and twisted tree roots. The beauty here is undeniable.
We emerge from beneath the frond-filled canopy into blazing sunlight. “I like to call this the Wow Saddle,” Jack smiles. He nods his head toward the view behind me. Mount Lidgbird rises up from the ocean, framed by crystal waters on either side. From here, we can see all the way out to Lagoon Beach and I feel my mouth form the word. A bit further along the track, we glimpse the rugged profile of Ball’s Pyramid, too. We’re more exposed now and I feel my skin sizzle as we reach what’s known as ‘The Get Up Place’. A single rope hangs down a sheer wall so high I can’t see its end. The extreme factor is heightened as we cross the thinnest of escarpments to reach it. I swallow hard and remind myself of Jack’s earlier story about his cousin, Phil Whistler, who did the trail at a run – up and back – in one hour and 41 minutes. I grit my teeth and edge my way across.
Our efforts do not go unrewarded as we reach the cloud forest summit. Moss blankets the ground and ferns fan out like enormous green flowers. Jack points out the little mountain palm that, like almost 20 percent of the island’s endemic plant species, can only be found on the upper slopes and the peak of Gower and Lidgbird. Through the foliage, we glimpse the piercing gold eyes and glossy black feathers of a currawong perched high up in the trees, and the elusive brown woodhen probing for worms and insects beneath an umbrella of ferns. The cloud that often passes through the upper reaches of the mountain transforms the forest into an ethereal hinterland pulled from the pages of a fantasy novel. Today’s beaming sun, however, means we miss this beautiful sight. But as we step out from the foliage on Gower’s summit we’re greeted by the most spectacular view of the island and an unrivalled lunch spot.
The next day, I take it easy with a slow walk to the top of Malabar Hill. At the lookout, I can see across the entire island and I can’t help but imagine my next trip here, as though it’s already a done deal. This mindset seems to be a recurring theme of the people I meet on the island; they’re either repeat visitors or have become so deeply enamoured with the island and its lifestyle that they’ve packed up their lives and moved over.
“It’s our fifth time here,” a man from our Pro Dive snorkelling jaunt tells me. And we met a German couple who are staying for the next six weeks!”
The tale that inspires me most though, comes soon after my morning walk. I’ve just returned my bike to the hire shop after a swim at Ned’s Beach, and make for Joy’s General Store for a cold drink. I lament to the cashier that it’s my last day and admit I’m not quite ready to leave. He can sympathise: “I came here for a week in October last year and loved it so much I didn’t want to leave. I’ve actually just deferred my uni degree so I can stay. You only live once, right?”
As I wait to board my flight home, the bloke’s words still ringing in my ears, I think back to that moment in the water on the flipside of the Eye. The swell had begun building again and our group rallied as they prepared to make the cross back over. “You coming through?” Aaron asks as we draw nearer to the arch. I could have taken the boat. But as the swell begins to suck us in, I realise that it’s too late: I’m hooked. And I’d happily stay that way. I smile. I’m ready. “Let’s go.”
If there’s any one type of photography that has opened up to the masses in recent years it has to be taking images underwater. No longer do you need to own expensive, heavy equipment to jump in and take a snap of the charming manta rays you’ve travelled halfway around the world to see.
For me, getting beneath the surface is one of the most interesting ways to take photographs. It involves putting yourself in a completely different and unusual environment, and allows you to share your experiences and perspectives of a world rarely seen by others. It might not be the easiest of places to take a camera into, but these basic tips will hopefully inspire you and help you capture better photos when you’re floating in the big blue sea.
What Camera?
As an Olympus Visionary I am fortunate enough to have access to high-end professional cameras and dive housings, but that doesn’t mean you can’t take good underwater photos with much less. There is a whole range of small cameras that can be taken underwater without any extra housing. With technology improving at rapid speed, these gadgets can take excellent images, plus they’re much more compact, easier to use and don’t distract as much from the experience.
I recommend the Olympus Tough series if you want a camera that can be taken on every adventure into all kinds of environments. The latest model is the TG-4. It weighs about 250 grams, is shock proof (just in case you bump it on rocks or a jetty as you’re getting in – investing in a silicone jacket is always a good idea though) and waterproof up to 15 metres, so it’s perfect for snorkelling, surfing and most dives. These point-and-shoots really take the complications away and allow you to focus on what you’re actually supposed to be doing: having fun!
You might also want to invest a few dollars in a neoprene wrist strap. Even if you manage to let go of your camera before you safely slip your hand through the loop, this will float it to the surface of the water for easy retrieval.
Let There Be Light
If you’re not diving in the clearest water on the planet you might find that there isn’t much light below the surface. Most compact cameras have a little built-in flash that can help bring out colours and add the extra light needed to capture the underwater scene. Be aware, however, that straight flashlight can illuminate all the tiny particles floating between you and the subject. As well as making your image look as though it’s covered in tiny, bright dots it can confuse the camera’s auto-focus. Which leads me to my next tip…
Fill The Frame
There are two types of underwater shots you should concentrate on perfecting when you first have a go at the medium. The first one is close-up (macro) shots of fish and details in coral. Get as close as you possibly can (it’s even better if you are on the same level as them) to reduce the amount of water and floating specks between you and your subject.
Then there are scenic underwater landscapes taking in corals, kelp forests or any other interesting feature below the surface. Obviously you’ll need to be in really clear water for these kinds of shots. Try shooting these types of images with the flash off. Like most compact cameras, the in-built flashes on these waterproof models aren’t particularly strong and the light doesn’t travel very far through the water; it will also eliminate the glowing particle issue mentioned before.
Choose Your Conditions
You don’t need a dive certificate to take underwater photos. I don’t have one. I just train my lungs and shoot a lot while snorkelling shallow reefs. And, in fact, when you’re getting used to how your camera works underwater it’s better not to have to be thinking about how much air you’ve got in your tank. Standing on a sandy bottom while you’re playing with settings isn’t a bad way to get started either.
The main factor to remember is that sunlight is your friend. Slather on the SPF 50 and get in the water when the sun is high overhead. It will shine right down into the depths and help light your underwater landscapes naturally.
It’s also better to shoot up-current as you will reduce the amount of sand you might have kicked up from the ocean floor.
Safety First
It’s easy to get distracted taking pictures underwater, but you should make sure you never put yourself in any danger. Always be aware of the current, waves, tides, the reef and your surroundings above and below the surface. I keep a reference point or two so I know when I’m drifting off course.
Remember you should never touch the coral reef, but if you can find a good sturdy rock at a comfortable depth, grabbing hold of it with one hand (wear lightweight gloves to avoid cuts) can help you steady yourself while you’re taking photos. Above all, stay within your comfort zone – taking pictures can be quite distracting, and if you’re also worried about being dragged away by a rip you won’t have fun or take any good photos.
Get Creative
There’s more to shoot underwater than what, at first, you might think. Mostly, I’ve mentioned fish and coral, but you should push the boundaries a little. Dive a little deeper, quite literally, and shoot back up towards the surface, or bring subjects or objects with you into the underwater world. For instance, a person wearing a red rashie will be a startling contrast to the blue world around them. Why not shoot some surfers or waves from below the surface? There are other ways you can experiment too: try taking your camera into the water at different times of the day or when it’s raining to see how the changing light and conditions affect your photos. You can also buy yourself a little dive torch to add some artificial light that doesn’t come from your flash. In this digital age, you should just go ahead and shoot as many experimental frames as you like, just to see how the camera works and what you can do with it.
It takes ten minutes to reach wilderness – a spectacular canyon in the Kaimanawa Forest Park near Taupo bounded by huge rocky ramparts and ancient forests. Like much of New Zealand, it is vast and sublime and leaves me feeling as small as our helicopter, now a speck in the big blue sky.
In these parts, helicopters are like taxis: a quick way to get from A to B. In this case, the B stands for backcountry, the kind that, in this instance, is only accessible on foot. The spot where I land with Robin, my guide from Chris Jolly Outdoors, overlooks a ravine the colour of army fatigues. Traversing it would be a two-day hike as opposed to a quick trip by helicopter.
We’ve arrived at the start of the Oamaru Trail, a challenging one-day trek for experienced hikers that winds through majestic forests and plains, and ends almost six hours later near the perimeter of luxury lodge Poronui, where I’ll be spending the next few nights.
Oamaru is one of four trails in the park that loop between public huts (basic fit-out with bunk beds, drop toilets and no artificial lighting) and private huts (with power and hot showers), which are available for rent and popular with hunters and fly-fishing enthusiasts.
While most visitors to Taupo trek the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, a dual World Heritage area with dramatic scenery and active volcanoes (it’s considered one of the best one-day hikes in the country), there is something to be said for the North Island’s unsung backcountry trails.
The 77,348-hectare Kaimanawa Forest Park is home to deer, wild Kaimanawa horses and trout. The breeze tickles the leaves and moss clings to the trees like topiary. We see fallen trunks as big as houses and feathery ferns like burlesque fans. There are golden prairies so vast and empty it makes the heart ache with happiness.
We set off for the Ngaruroro River down a trail thick with flaxen tussocks. This squiggle of blue is one of two-dozen rivers we’ll cross today. It’s also the biggest. Measuring 164 kilometres in length, the tributary winds through three mountain ranges before turning east and emptying into Hawke’s Bay. It’s knee-deep where we cross and the undercurrent is surprisingly strong. Other crossings we traverse are shallow, bridged by fallen logs or dotted with natural stepping stone rocks, and easy by comparison.
We soon trade the immense surrounds of the Ngaruroro Valley for the dark forest canopy, a quiet and cool hinterland alive with birdsong and the burbling of rushing water. Lunch is by the river, a simple meal of sandwiches, cake and hot tea. We hear the high whistle of a deer as it darts off and see the rutted furrow left by a wild pig. It’s late afternoon before we see another soul – two anglers casting off, thigh-deep in a river – and even then they’re way off in the distance.
It’s magic hour by the time we reach Oamaru Hut, the end of the trail where our helicopter will take me to my cabin at Poronui. The sky is streaked with pinks and purples, and the river below, curved like a snake and surrounded by low-lying scrub, is iridescent blue. Far off, the gentle dromedary humps of mountain ranges bathe in the last rays of daylight. It’s beautiful, and I pause to take a picture in my mind’s eye.
There are three luxury lodges in Taupo but only Poronui wears its hunting and fly-fishing stripes with pride. Nestled in the heart of Taharua Valley, the seven-cabin lodge sits on the doorstep of the Kaimanawa Mountain Ranges and is the cast off point for fly-fishing and hunting trips. Ranked one of the world’s top 10 fishing lodges, the property is awash with fishing inspiration. The walls are hung with reels and rods, stuffed trout and animal trophies, and the main lodge overlooks the rush of Taharua River – one of two rivers on the property where wild trout lurk.
From October to May, anglers from around the world come to cast their lines in these solitary backwaters, lured in by incredible scenery, private rivers and, of course, the trout that are shaped like torpedoes and as easily spooked as they are to spot in the gin-clear waters. Guests can don waders and set off to stalk and cast in wilderness without ever stepping off the property.
On a four-wheel drive tour of Poronui that ends at Blake House – a private villa on a promontory with panoramic views of virgin beech forest from the back patio, and another of the property’s fine lodging options – we see the Taharua River again. It’s a brief appearance through dense foliage, and a spot where red deer have also been sighted by those stealthy enough.
To the south of the house, manager Eve Reilly tells me, are the wild manuka forests where Poronui produces their premium-grade manuka honey – a sweet side project packaged as Taku Honey, which fetches up to AU$165 a kilo at the market. It’s low-impact, too: the hives are flown in and out by chopper at the start and end of the flowering season, a brief six-week window where the mountains are blanketed in white blooms. “It’s our white Christmas,” says Eve.
The honey is extracted in Turangi, a small town on the banks of the Tongariro River. It’s also where I spend an adrenaline-charged day mountain biking and white water rafting what is one of New Zealand’s best Class 3 whitewater rapids – a two-hour journey along narrow gorges lumped with volcanic boulders that are relics of the volcano that exploded here 27,000 years ago.
Back at Poronui, I visit the shooting range at the foot of a green valley dotted with trees. It’s a fun two hours spent pinging metal birds, balloons and other targets, and also where I discover two things: I’m a crack shot at clay pigeons and rubbish at throwing an axe. Archery is no better, but I like to think it’s the cute 3D animal targets that put me off.
As entertaining as the range is, I’m really only killing time until my horse is saddled up and ready to go on a half-day horse ride. Set on 6500 hectares of forest and grazing land, Poronui is criss-crossed with 45 kilometres of rivers and streams. A ride here is a chance get up close to the local wildlife, including Arapawa sheep, feral goats, deer, wild turkeys and an array of native birdlife.
My guide Skye leads the way, past the equestrian centre where eventing and horse riding lessons are available, and on to Wounded Poacher, a road so-named after a poacher accidentally shot his brother here.
Texas, a handsome black and white pinto and my ride for the day, has an easy gait and sure-footedness on the uneven terrain. He pricks up his ears at the slightest command and changes his gait quickly. Trail horses these are not. Nor is this an ordinary trail ride. In fact, it’s been years since I was in the saddle, and having Skye along for the ride means I have the opportunity to finesse my skills during a private lesson.
Birds call out to one another from up high in the virgin beech trees. We see wild sheep grazing by the river and deer, graceful and skittish in equal measure, nonchalantly eating grass on a sunny rise, unaffected by our presence. “On horses, they can’t tell we’re people,” explains Skye.
We stop for lunch in a spot overlooking a valley and feed the horses apples and carrots. For one magical stretch we gallop, the wind in our faces as we barrel along a narrow ridge flanked by lush paddocks and dusky blue hills. Spring is in the air and there are farm babies everywhere; just-hatched ducklings trailing their mothers, newborn lambs unsteady on their feet and cute black-and-white calves.
For guests with more time, there are high country horse rides with an overnight stay at the Safari Camp, a secluded glamping spot of Poronui, and the chance to experience a traditional Maori kai waho (outdoor barbecue). After a full afternoon in the saddle, though, I swap hoofs for wheels and roll up to the Safari Camp in a four-wheel drive.
Tucked behind a screen of manuka and beech trees, the secluded glampsite is situated near the banks of the Mohaka River and is both cosy and private, with hot showers, solar lighting and a private chef. The sound of the river is so soothing it almost lulls me to sleep.
We dine at dusk on barbecued seafood and venison kebab paired with local wines (guests of the camp can help themselves to the cellar). There is a wintry chill in the air, even for November, so the pot-belly stove is lit and a hot water bottle placed in my double bed.
And then I’m alone. I find my way back to the riverbank in the moonlight. The Mohaka River bends here, tumbling and frothing like creamy soda over the glistening rocks – a wondrous cacophony of clashing, splashing and crashing that drowns out everything else. Above, the night sky glitters like a starry web. Miles from anywhere, this slice of wilderness is like nothing else.
When you think of the Australian landscape, thoughts of stunning beaches, the desolate outback, Kakadu National Park and the iconic Uluru often spring to mind. It’s places like the incredible Karijini National Park however, that get forgotten about.
Karijini National Park is one of Australia’s most beautiful and unspoiled destinations. The park is approximately 1,500 kilometres north of Perth, in Western Australia, and is known for its spectacular and unusual landscapes and the dramatic gorges which were formed over 2,500 million years ago. The park is the traditional home of the Banyjima, Kurrama and Innawonga Aboriginal people.
Waterholes and waterfalls can be found throughout the park, and make for ideal places to cool off, go swimming and relax. At Fern Pool you’ll be able to float around in turquoise water surrounded by amazing greenery and incredible rock formations. At Dale’s Gorge you can take a short walk around the rim and check out Fortescue Falls – the only spring-fed waterfall in the park. There’s also some great hikes through the gorges to explore, and it’s an amazing experience to wander around in chasms up to 100 metres deep.
You will spend three days and three nights camping at Karijini on our Perth to Broome Overland trip, which gives you the opportunity to fully immerse yourself and get the most out of this incredible part of Australia.
Alice Springs and Uluru are a must-visit for anyone visiting Australia. Uluru is a UNESCO Wold Heritage-listed site, and is incredibly sacred and important to the traditional Aboriginal landowners. It’s one of the largest rock formations in the world and one of Australia’s most iconic landmarks, and there are many ways to experience it and Alice Springs. From culturally immersive experiences to those that will get your adrenaline pumping, here are 13 ways to experience Australia’s Red Centre.
1. What better way to explore the outback than on the back of a camel. Saddle up and pick a hump and ride over the red dirt as the sun rises behind Uluru.
2. No trip to Uluru is complete without witnessing a sunrise and sunset. There are a number of viewing areas around the park accessible by tour or car, so pack some snacks and a camera, and get snapping.
3. Get the blood pumping and see the Rock from a whole new perspective with a skydiving thrill.
4. If you’re keen to get a bit of fitness into your trip, then you can hire a bike and cycle the 15-kilometre journey around Uluru. It can be easily completed in three hours, or you can take your time and soak in the scenery.
5. Field of Light Uluru is an exhibition light installment by celebrate artist, Bruce Munro. Finishing in December 2020, watching the rhythms of colour light up the desert is a sight to behold.
6. From atop the sandstone walls of Kings Canyon, the climb will be rewarded with spectacular views across Watarrka National Park’s 71,000 hectares.
7. Getting to Uluru is all part of the fun. You can opt to fly, if you want to spend the dollars, but the best way to get there is cruising the Aussie Outback roads. Jump into a four-wheel drive and really explore the region, or stick to the sealed roads and take in the sights along the way.
8. You might be in the middle of Australia, far from the coastal beaches, but that doesn’t mean swimming is totally out of the question. Surrounded by towering walls, Ormiston Gorge is a great place for a dip and scenic walk.
9. Situated 132 kilometres from Alice Springs in the West MacDonnell Ranges, Glen Helen Gorge offers a great overnight spot with plenty of natural attractions, a swimming spot, and an abundance of local wildlife.
10. For swimming, picnicking, walking and camping, take a visit to Ellery Creek Big Hole. This waterhole is surrounded by stunning red cliffs, a sandy creek and plenty of options for walkers with its connection to the famous Larapinta Trail Walk.
11. The sky is one of the best vantage points to appreciate the vastness of Uluru and its surrounds. For a truly unforgettable view of this landscape, an open-door helicopter ride is bound to impress.
12. For a sky-high experience that’s a little different, a sunrise hot-air balloon ride over the red landscape is bound to impress as you peacefully drift with the wind.
13. To immerse yourself in the ecology, culture and astronomy of the centre of Australia, Earth Sanctuary offer award-winning day and evening tours. From delicious lunch and dinner options, to astronomy tours, this is one experience that’ll leave you captivated.
Beanies, beer cans and black metal. Territorians love a good festival! Here’s our pick of some of the Northern Territory’s quirkier events.
Alice Springs Beanie Festival June
Alice Springs Beanies, berets, and toques – they’re all here at the Alice Springs Beanie Festival. Yep, it’s a whole festival dedicated to knitted headwear in the middle of the Australian desert. From the flamboyant to the fashion forward, you’re bound to find a one-of-a-kind piece to keep you warm this winter.
Uluru Camel Cup May
Uluru All class and no grass – Uluru Camel Cup is like the Melbourne Cup, with some extra humps thrown in. Enjoy all the racing action and fashion you’d expect from a trackside event, against a stunning desert backdrop in the Red Centre.
Darwin Lions Beer Can Regatta July
Darwin The Beer Can Regatta is the event that combines recycling and building boats in a spectacular way. Build a ‘tinny’ from tin-cans and set sail on an epic maiden voyage from Darwin’s Mindil Beach. When you’re ready to dock, grab a feed next door at the famous Mindil Beach Sunset Markets.
Henley-On-Todd Regatta August
Alice Springs No water? No problem! Hosted in a dry riverbed, the Henley-on-Todd Regatta is as close as you’ll get to a seaside escapade in the desert. Join a team and man a bottomless ship with your legs, in Flintstones style.
Blacken Open Air April
Alice Springs Black is the new black at Blacken, a two day heavy metal music festival in the centre of Australia. Spend your Easter weekend camping out and thrashing out to some of the best acts in the Aussie metal scene.
Imagine stepping out of a bungalow straight onto talcum-soft sand. Now make that a reality at Paradis d’Ouvéa. Set among gardens on an atoll boasting a UNESCO World Heritage-listed lagoon, this cluster of bungalows features high ceilings, polished wooden floors and verandas.
With the island’s main beach spanning more than two-thirds of Ouvéa’s length, stray coconuts and the occasional sea creature represent the only competition for a prime position by the Pacific. When you’re not playing castaway, survey caves, visit the shark nursery and snorkel with manta rays. But don’t get too chummy with the wildlife, though – you can’t beat a dinner of lobster plucked fresh from the sea.
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