Field Guide to Falling in Love in Tasmania

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  • People Who Live on Islands

    People Who Live on Islands

    It is is morning. I have been up for hours, although only now did I just serve myself my first cup of black coffee. I suspect a second isn’t far off. Now I have settled in to a morning of writing. I’ve been commissioned to write reference material for walking guides who will begin working on the Three Capes track in south-eastern Tasmania in spring. I have laid my hands on surveys, maps, and specialist reports. “The Tasman Peninsula has a coastline of around 323 km in length and an area of 473 km2,” I begin.

    The anomaly in the situation is that I’m sitting in a hiker’s shelter underneath the volcano Eyjafjallajökull, in Iceland. I woke up this morning on a pass between two glaciers. It was one of those ugly wet-tent pack-downs. I suspect it was about 4a.m., and I began to head north, off the mountainside and into a verdant valley populated by handsome birch trees. North: further away from Tasmania.

    I believe I’m about 17,000 kilometres from the Three Capes track, but that won’t stop my head from spinning with the Latin names of Tasman Peninsula flora (as per the ecological survey of Wapstra et alia). Mixing this in with the Icelandic vocabulary I’m trying to muster up, I’ve got a wild porridge here. But how pleasant all these words are. If you listen carefully (and with some imagination) you can hear some similarity between Eyjafjallajökull and the word ‘eucalypt’, I think.

    There is no familiarity in volcanoes and glaciers, in the young black rock that washes down murky rivers like soot. But there are numerous commonalities, in the size, the population, the sense of distance, the islandness. The ptarmigan in its dappled winter coat puts me in mind of a favourite bird back home, the Bassian thrush.

    Not the least commonality is how we both sit aloof from our continents, far north and far south, sparsely populated. It’s possible to find days of solitude. Icelanders and Tasmanians may both take the beauty of our home places for granted, and yet we both may identify with it and romanticise it too.

    Icelanders and Tasmanians, we live on islands. What was it that the poet Louis Macneice came up with? “There is only hope for people who live on islands.” Macneice had his reasons, but there seems to have been a truth to it when he said it. Overpopulation is perhaps the great threat of the planet’s future, and we seemed, for a time, to be immune for it. But people are now looking to disperse to the islands.

    In a fjord off northern Iceland there is a rock-island called Drangey, which is famous in Nordic literature. Here an outlaw named Grettir the Strong lived out his last days. It can’t be an easy swim out there, but in the saga written for him in the 14th century, we read that he managed to do it. It’s a story that relates to my research. Archaeological evidence of Aboriginal activity has been found on Tasman Island, off the southern tip of the peninsula where the Three Capes runs. A skull discovered there by early European scientists was disregarded as being that of some ‘accidental adventurer’ stranded there, somehow.

    Now, we’re rather more sure that the Pydairrerme ancestors did indeed visit the island often enough, swimming and boating out there. Only, unlike the exploits of Grettir, we don’t have any written stories of who these swimmers might have been. As is so frequently the case in Tasmania, we don’t know the heroes of our island’s history.

    In Iceland, writing about Tasmania. Maybe it isn’t so strange. Last night, eating polenta and mushrooms from the billy-pot, I took account of my appearance. The possum fur beanie was a gift. My woolly jumper was from a charity store in Zeehan. The shorts I wear most days of my life (even in the waist-deep snow of the Fimmvörðuháls track) are from an op-shop in Queenstown. My pink socks were given to me by an overly friendly lady in Tullah. My soggy hiking boots were from the Deloraine op-shop, $15. We drag our homeplaces with us.



    The connections between Tassie and Iceland also involve a 19th-century adventurer.

  • The Tooth and The Blade

    The Tooth and The Blade

    Earlier this year, Andy Szollosi and I found ourselves suddenly spending a few days wandering here, amidst the compact Durmitor mountain ranges in northern Montenegro. We had planned the Balkan rendezvous only a couple of days earlier. Andy had taken a 17-hour bus ride (across several eastern European countries) to meet me.

    We scrambled up to several summits in those days. Although it was summer, patches of snow lay prone on the shady sides of limestone slopes. Our victuals included a large package of bacon, and a bottle of
    rakija. This strong beverage may have inspired a conversation one evening, looking up at the pyramid peak of a mountain known as Zopćy, ‘sharp tooth’: Andy suggested we should wake at 5a.m. to see if we could ascend it.

    Of course he did.
    This is the same bloke who co-ordinated an expedition to Federation Peak in July 2016, convincing a troupe of climbers and film-makers to set up camp for seventeen miserable days before climbing Blade Ridge. As Andy wrote in the weeks leading up to the Blade Ridge mission: “When an idea arrives at the right time, we have no choice but to pursue it, to see where it leads, no matter how terrifying, irrational or ludicrous it may seem.” This is quite a useful insight into Andy Szollosi’s mind.

    Blade Ridge seems a geological miracle. This unbelievably narrow slice of quartzite runs up the north-west face of ‘Fedders’, diabolical and dangerous, and yet striking and stunningly beautiful. Federation Peak was described by Edmund Hillary as “Australia’s only real mountain”; as far as we know, it was first summited only a few years before Everest. The first party made it up Blade Ridge in 1968.

    But mountaineering history in Tasmania is not widely known (not many Tasmanians even realise that Edmund Hillary visited Tassie, tackling a few bushwalks and praising its landscapes). Not many would even recognise the profile of Federation Peak, or the Eastern Arthur Range, in which it belongs: a series of jagged peaks, myriad ‘sharp teeth’, made of hard and mangled metamorphic rock.

    The film
    Winter on the Blade has been screened twice now, to packed rooms at the State Cinema in North Hobart. It’s excellent. Film-maker Simon Bischoff has struck the right tone, extracting humour from the tedium of being tent-bound for a fortnight. Mud slurps beneath the expeditioners’ boots, and the Vandemonian juxtaposition of harsh conditions and exquisite beauty – found in every change of weather, in the vegetation and in the rock – is unmissable.

    Now
    Winter on the Blade is off to Banff, for one of the world’s great outdoors-themed film festivals.

    Andy and I made no film of our early morning ascent of
    Zopćy. We didn’t even take a photograph. We startled a chamois on the horizon, scrambled up a gully of chossy limestone, perched ourselves on the pinnacle, and breakfasted on a handful of roasted almonds. Then we went back down.

    On our way out of the Durmitor mountains that day, we came across a party of walkers with their guide. We were in high spirits,
    jaunty, and chatty; upon telling the group that we were from Tassie, one of them replied that he’d been to our mountainous island so far from Europe. “Tasmanians are hard,” he said.

    Andy and I grinned. So, a reputation. But our European friend had no idea just how hard Tasmanians can sometimes be.



    There's more mountain-climbing in the south-west with mates: read all about 'the Abels'.

  • Steaming Tea-Pots of Gigantic Capacity

    Steaming Tea-Pots of Gigantic Capacity

    A few weeks ago, I was here, in southern Austria, in the vicinity of the Carinthian mountains. Gustav Weindorfer was born in the midst of these mountains, upon the river Drau. Later in life, he would become a pioneer of Tasmanian environmentalism; it was he and his Tasmanian wife who first campaigned for Cradle Mountain to be protected.

    It was near this mountain that Gustav and Kate Weindorfer built a chalet of sorts, named Waldheim. Waldheim is a fascinating building: two different vernaculars meet in the one building, with the practical improvisations of Tassie bush architecture meeting the long-standing traditional style of Austrian alpine huts.

    Within those cosy king billy confines, Gustav and Kate entertained a number of guests: once again, the
    Gastfreundschaft on offer was a melange of cultures, with (for example) Viennese-style coffee and desserts following wombat stew. He even managed to entice two Austrian skiiers as visitors, Franz and Julius Malcher, who regrettably showed up too early for snow.

    These were not the first proponents of hospitality in Tasmania. I cannot speak much on the practices of the first Tasmanians, but welcoming guests quickly became a key skill in the life of colonial Van Diemen’s Land. Not too many laudab le qualities are credited to the Vandemonians, but “the traveller was sure to meet with a kind reception wherever he went”, recalled Dr. Ross. To provide food and drink to those passing through was “the custom of the colony”.

    In Van Diemen’s Land, to be in a remote location was to be extremely vulnerable, to the predations of bushrangers or the retaliatory attacks of Aboriginal bands. Yet the reputation endured: the early east coast resident Louisa Meredith spoke of how readily a visitor was greeted with “a steaming tea-pot of gigantic capacity”, which no doubt was always gratefully received by those who navigated the hills and forests on horseback, on their arduous routes towards elsewhere.

    Kate and Gustav Weindorfer had a different motivation for their hospitality. They wanted to have guests in their forest home near Cradle Mountain, in order to showcase the superlative values of the landscape. They trusted that those who had a firsthand experience of the area would be struck by its significance and smitten with its beauty, and thus assert the need for it to be left as it was. They were largely correct, and it largely has been. More than 200,000 people visit the Cradle Mountain region each year.

    Around one hundred years later, the Ressmann family took me into their lakeside hotel in Carinthia. They fed me schnitzel and wheat beer, and during the day I was free to explore their mountains. Certainly, their kindness allowed me to enjoy the peaks of the area in a way that I wouldn’t have otherwise been able to. They are not campaigning for Carinthian conservation, but to see me returning from a day on a limestone summit and cheerfully praising the beauty of their area seemed to satisfy them. They asked for nothing more.

    All these observations make me wonder – what is our hospitality in Tasmania like these days? I work in tourism hospitality, serving up lamb ragout and pouring pinot noir at the end of a day’s bushwalking, in the same vein as Gustav Weindorfer. As tourists appear in greater numbers, though, how do we learn to respect them individually? How do we need to shape our tourism industry so that Tasmanians and visitors can maintain a fully human relationship, rather than simply a commercial one? How do our tourist operators, and our Airbnb hosts, represent us?

    What about our international students? Are there tea-pots unfailingly waiting for them? What do they see of Tasmania during the years they pass here, at the expense of thousands of dollars?

    Tasmanians are an interesting lot. On some occasions we can be rather open, expressive, and charming; in other ways, we are awfully circumspect, suspicious, stingy, and solitary. I actually like that we have both aspects, but I still maintain we could be a little more welcoming, to be less inclined to suspect every stranger of intruding and doing harm.

    So I look hopefully to venues like the Inveresk Tavern, which puts on a special menu every Sunday: the pub invites a different migrant community to run the kitchen and serve the punters throughout the afternoon. This is a double act of hospitality: with the tavern’s permission, migrants are allowed the chance to host those with whom they share a town. Sudanese or Bhutanese or Afghani, they certainly appear to relish the opportunity. For the rest of us, the blend of Tasmanian and migrant cultures continues to be appealing.

  • The Lawless Loveliness of the Landscape

    The Lawless Loveliness of the Landscape

    I recently wrote of Denmark: at last, I hinted, we may have held up our end of the bargain in an intercontinental exchange. In the 1820s a colourful Dansker came to Tasmania; in the year 2000, a love affair between a Tasmanian and the Crown Prince of Denmark began. Where we once received Jørgen Jørgensen, we gave away our Mary Donaldson.

    But actually, Tasmanians are still one-up over the Danes. Because in 1891, another Danish migrant would arrive to Hobart and also make a significant mark on our island’s culture. This was the novelist Marie Bjelke Petersen.

    She had been brought up in the outskirts of Copenhagen, but moved with her whole family when she was a teenager. They arrived in the spring. In her reminiscences at least, the scenery was instantly affecting: it was “a paradise of untouched beauty”, she said. “When I saw all these mountains in Tasmania, I embraced it on the spot.”

    Certainly the mountains would have been impressive. She’d have seen a number of them whilst still at sea, and Mount Wellington must have have struck her as imposing. Denmark, after all, is rather flat; its highest point is 170 metres above sea level.

    At first she tried to transmute her feeling for the Tasmanian landscape into painting, but she soon converted to writing. Her first three publications were religious works, but in 1917 she wrote
    The Captive Singer. The plot featured a guide who took tourists into the caves around Mole Creek, and sang well, and charmed a woman. It sold 150,000 copies in Australia – and 40,000 in a Danish translation.

    It kicked off a steady stream of words, and sales. In
    Dusk she wrote of a love affair in the mining town of Queenstown; in Jewelled Nights she narrated a close friendship (which became a love affair) at a prospectors’ camp on the Savage River. In total Bjelke Petersen sold more than a quarter of a million books in English and many more in the six languages into which they were translated. For an Australian author of her era, this was an enormous success.

    The novels don’t necessarily age well. Their
    plots are sometimes frivolous, and Bjelke Petersen’s religious didactism doesn’t read well today. Today, her prose comes across as overly romantic, breathless and out-of-control. But one thing is certain: Marie Bjelke Petersen’s writing about Tasmania (and mainland Australia, in which she set a couple of novels) showed an original view of the landscape. Where other authors painted Tasmania as “bleak and cheerless”, Bjelke Petersen raved about the “lawless loveliness of the landscape.”

    Perhaps for Bjelke Petersen, excursions into the bush gave her liberty. She travelled far and wide into western Tasmania researching her plots. Her other career was as a teacher of physical education; she strongly believed in its virtues. She went places that few women of European background had been.

    You may be familiar with her nephew, Joh Bjelke-Petersen, who would later become a Queensland politician. His aunt was also religiously conservative, but Marie was nevertheless a forward thinker in society. I’m not sure if she ever thought of herself as a feminist, but she certainly wasn’t willing to be constrained by expectations of gender roles. The novelist refused to be married, and instead lived with her close friend Sylvia Mills. (Plenty of tongues have wagged about what their relationship might have been, but I have little gossip to contribute.)

    Marie Bjelke Petersen was also an environmental conservationist. “It is really a matter that brings tears to my eyes to see the way our beautiful forests are being wantonly burnt off,” she declared in one public address. Her enthusiasm for the bush wasn’t confined to her literature. (“The jungle was a riotous confusion of strong growing things, which clung savagely together and almost strangled each other in their fierce passionate embraces!”)

    This is a recurring theme in Tasmania: so many of the activists who have spoken in praise and in defence of our landscapes have originally come from places like Denmark, Austria, Germany, Romania, Lithuania and Latvia. Although today I think some Tasmanian-born individuals have at last begun to understand and respect their surrounds, for many years we relied on those who had come from the outside to point out just how special it all was.

    Likewise, Marie Bjelke Petersen was a special character in Tasmanian cultural history – another Dane for whom we can be grateful. She died as an old lady in October 1969.



    Another fascinating literary figure from Tasmania was the Glenorchy-born author Christopher Koch.

  • Our Mary

    Our Mary

    I met a Danish lass last week. It took me precisely 30 seconds to bring up the two things I always mention when I meet Danes. They are my favourite connection points between Denmark and Tasmania: Princess Mary and Jørgen Jørgensen.

    I have spilt much ink about the latter, so let it suffice to say that my new friend Ulrikke had never heard of her countryman Jørgensen – as is the case with every Dane I’ve ever met. Also, she told me (not for the first time) how badly I was mispronouncing his name.

    But Princess Mary? Oh yes, she was quite fond of Princess Mary.

    Mary Donaldson was born in Hobart in February 1972, her parents both staff at the University of Tasmania. Her own schooling would lead her to UTas as well, via schools in Sandy Bay and Taroona; she studied a combined Bachelor of Commerce and Law.

    After graduation, she would move to Melbourne; from what I can tell she didn’t live in Tasmania after that point. But she’s still
    our Mary.

    In a story that has been retold countless times, Mary met Crown Prince Frederik at a bar in Sydney during the 2000 Olympics. (The bar was called the Slip Inn, surely one of the worst recorded names for a drinking establishment.) Apparently he didn’t use his royal title as a pick-up line, to his credit. They embarked a long-distance relationship; in 2001, the Danish weekly rag
    Billed Bladet – no doubt highly respected – revealed Mary as the prince’s girlfriend; in 2003 Queen Margrethe II gave the green light to their marriage. A very romantic story.

    Once upon a time people said that it was every girl’s dream to become a princess. I really don’t know if that’s true, and I have strong doubts that a young lady growing up in Taroona would ever harbour serious hopes to become such a thing. Royalty generally isn’t sourced from Taroona, or any neighbouring suburbs.

    Then again, Taroona’s pretty bloody lovely. There is fine swimming here at Hinsby Beach, for example. The D’Entrecasteaux Channel is making good progress towards the Southern Ocean; the eastern shore takes on a golden hue in summer. Eucalypts stand tall on the cliffs. Their branches abound with birds, the refreshing breeze heavy with the pullulating screech of rosellas and wattle-birds.

    It’s a far cry from Copenhagen, where Mary now lives. Maybe it suits her better; not every Tasmanian loves its landscape as much as I do, I’ve discovered. Maybe she likes the flat, broad boulevards of the Danish capital. It certainly is a beautiful city. But I don’t envy her life. I would prefer to anonymously duck into the surf at Hinsby Beach (perhaps completely unclothed, with mates and wine, late at night) than to have to maintain palatial etiquette at a ceremony in Kongens Nytorv, for example. Then again, no princess has tried to woo me into being her Crown Prince; perhaps if the opportunity came knocking, I’d plunge in. Royal life might suit me better than I think.

    Whatever the case, it is good that the Danes love our Mary. She is wonderful. And she dresses very elegantly.


    I once met a bloke who claimed he snogged Mary before she was betrothed to Crown Prince Frederik. I suspect that there are quite a few blokes who say such things. I am content to say that I occasionally swim at the same beach that Mary presumably also visited – and to go on using Princess Mary as fodder for conversations with Danish ladies.

    I
    do like to think that Mary Donaldson heard, at some point in her younger years, the story of Jørgen Jørgensen; perhaps, that famous night at the Slip Inn, when Frederik said that he was from Denmark, Mary mentioned Jørgensen, mispronouncing his name dreadfully. I know I would have.

    Probably Frederik has never have heard of him either.

  • A Human Comet

    A Human Comet

    A sailor's life leads many places.

    I have spent part of this year visiting certain locations that bear the memory of a man named Jørgen Jørgensen (1780-1841). Jørgensen's frenetic behaviour and multiplicity of careers led Australian novelist Marcus Clarke to describe him as 'a human comet'.

    It was a life that saw him visit Iceland twice, once as a merchant, and a second time as a would-be revolutionary, in 1809.

    It would also have him wind up in Tasmania as a convict, where he lived his final days, trying his hand at everything from clerical work to police work, farming to exploring.

    Jørgensen also spent considerable time in London, particularly at a certain pub named the Spread Eagle Inn, on Gracechurch Street.

    As part of his nautical career, he had stopped in ports in the Baltic Sea, South America, South Africa, Australia and New Zealand.

    He sailed the South Seas on a whaling vessel, and wrote a treatise on the work of missionaries in Tahiti.

    He may have even worked as a pirate in the Americas.

    Briefly, he went to Spain and Portugal to escape his gambling debts; and later was employed by the British Crown to operate as a spy in continental Europe, making a colourful journey on foot. He lost almost everything (including, literally, the shirt on his back) in Parisian casinos, and accidentally committed to a marriage in Frankfurt - a vow that he was never to fulfill.

    But what of Jørgen Jørgensen's hometown? The son of the official watchmaker to the Danish Crown, Jørgensen grew up on the street in this photograph, Østergade, just by one of the city of Copenhagen's main squares.

    It was from this vantage point that an adolescent Jørgen witnessed a great conflagration in the harbour city. King Christian VII, considered a madman, had to be removed from his burning palace. Unfit to rule, tension brewed between the Queen, the Prince, and the King's physician over the issue of power.

    Jørgensen left Copenhagen to work on British ships from the age of 14, but returned when he was 27, in December 1807, to find 'my native city bombarded'. The Danes had sided with Napoleon Bonaparte against the British. It was a painful time for the returning sailor. In Jørgensen's words, 'a considerable portion of the best city in Europe was destroyed'. He was put in charge of a vessel, the Admiral Juul, which was captured in short time off the east coast of England.

    He would never return.

    His compatriots came to consider him a possible traitor. Jørgensen himself seemed to hint at this in some writings, but passionately denied it in others.

    During his time in Iceland, his lack of a national identity was attacked. 'Avoid Denmark, there you won't find a grave,' one of the prefects from the south of the island wrote to him, abandoning mildness. 'Every
    where you will be cast away, hated, banished, cursed. In the end you will be suffocated in an ocean of hate.'

    He would sporadically write letters to family members, and described an intense suffering at being far from them, especially his mother. His Danish fell into disuse. Roaming the wildernesses of Van Diemen's Land, where he did indeed find a grave (although in the cemetery of a religion he did not belong to; and these days a school as been built upon it) he must have felt as far as possible from where he was born.

    One can only hope that as he married, and bounced between occupations, and came to know different parts of Van Diemen's Land better than most colonial settlers of his day, that he felt somewhat at home in that land where Aboriginals, convicts and bushrangers mingled beneath the forest canopies and mountain silhouettes.

    But perhaps, at times, he felt regret: having left his family, their trade, his language, and that elegant city.

    One can get sentimental about home, though, especially after having seen so many places in this world.

  • We Remember Jorgen Jorgenson

    We Remember Jorgen Jorgenson

    Recently, I wrote about an old bridge in the centre of Tasmania that portrays one of its residents as a caricature of a king. Jorgen Jorgenson, as he came to anglicise his name (after several changes throughout his life), was born in Copenhagen and died in Hobart and careered his way through the world in between.

    It is in Iceland that he is most remembered today. There, he is cheerfully clept Jörundur Hundadagakonungur: ‘Jorgen, the Dog Days King’.

    For it was in the days when Sirius (known as the ‘dog star’) was seen in northern night skies, during the summer of 1809, that Jorgen Jorgenson installed himself as the Protector of Iceland.

    It had begun as a mercantile excursion. Jorgenson and some British businessmen went to Iceland in the dark and cold of December 1808 and tried to organise some trade with the local merchants there. It was thwarted; Iceland was a Danish colony, and Denmark refused to trade with the British, the two countries being pitted against each other in the Napoleonic War.

    Jorgenson – the Dane caught up in British affairs against his own country, in theory employed only as a translator – was furious. He declared they would return to Iceland to make business, by force if necessary.

    So it was that he returned in 1809 and did not come unarmed. He and his men stormed into the house of the Danish Governor of Iceland, Count Trampe, and kidnapped him. And suddenly, Jorgen Jorgenson was in charge.

    The Dog-Days King instituted some quick changes. Prisoners were released. School facilities were upgraded. A new flag was designed: three split codfish on a lavender background. Jorgenson was ready to move Iceland into independence. And with five ‘life-guards’ (probably the prisoners he released), Jorgenson took off over the country, at what may have been record speed, to meet the merchants and administrators in the northern port towns, where he believed the peasants were being manipulated and oppressed by the wealthy factors.

    In 1809, Iceland was one of the poorest countries in Europe. Settled by Vikings in the 800s, who invented a type of commonwealth and parliament to ensure peace and order on the island, they had lost their independence after a few centuries, first to the Norwegians and then to the Danes. Agriculture was difficult, and Icelanders were fishermen and sheep farmers, and little else. Harsh winters required much preparation and were often fatal, and volcanic eruptions could have a devastating effect on the life of the people; in fact, a volcano eruption in the decade of Jorgenson’s birth had caused a devastating famine.

    As Jorgenson travelled the country, and saw this reality combined with colonial oppression, he was moved to try and change the circumstances of the Icelanders.

    And yet when Jorgenson was deposed as autumn began, by a British naval captain (it turned out that Jorgenson was supposed to be a prisoner there), the people were as indifferent as they had been to the removal of Count Trampe.

    Jorgen Jorgenson had crossed a land of blueberry heath and scattered lava stones, the country of Viking outlaws, edging between glacial mountains and towards the Arctic Sea. In a colony on the edge of the European consciousness, Jorgenson had tried to effect political change on behalf of farmers and fishermen who in fact had never asked for his help. In a time of political turbulence, Jorgenson marched into the middle of the powerful forces of Europe and hoped to stage a revolution.

    Boldly, brazenly, and probably naively, he expected it.

    Jorgenson went back into the British penal system, although he was not long after to be found in Germany and France, working as a spy for that same nation.

    Iceland gained its independence through a homegrown hero a century later. Later in the 1900s, a musical was written about the Danish usurper. In it, Jorgenson taught a young woman how to sing, which probably didn’t happen in the real history. But the play was called Þið munið hann Jörund: ‘We Remember Jorgen Jorgenson’.

  • The Former King of Iceland

    The Former King of Iceland

    This bridge tells some stories.

    Not only because it is the third-oldest functioning bridge in Australia; not only because of the colonial context in which it sits; nor because of the geographical milieu that made its existence necessary. Nor, even, just because of the convict labour that made it happen, the quarrying of rough stone, the arduous efforts of construction, the curious interaction of government supervision and forced labour.

    But also because one of the convict stonemasons carved portraits into the rock.

    And one of the carvings has a crown on his head.

    It is not the noggin of Lieutenant-Governor Arthur that is crowned either. Instead, the decoration sits atop the chiselled scone of a man who was working for the local police at the time, in the constabulary around the town of Ross, in central Tasmania, where this lovely bridge still conveys traffic over the Macquarie River every day.

    Jørgen Jørgensen was born in Denmark in 1780 and died in Van Diemen´s Land in January 1841. What happened in between spanned the whole globe, and a dazzling variety of careers. He sailed into ports in Brazil, South Africa, Australia. He whaled in the Pacific Islands. He was a spy in continental Europe. He wrote treatises about economics and religion, as well as fiction and plays. His friends were at times important historical figures, such as Sir Joseph Banks. He also frittered away his money at the casino and the inn.

    He also was the so-called King of Iceland, for two months of 1809.

    And he wound up a Vandemonian lag, a convict in that hellish island gaol. There, even with his freedoms heavily restricted, he embarked on a series of careers that not only would make good cinema, but are at the centre of a vortex of global forces, colonial expansions and political revolutions and economic reforms and scientific developments.

    Into all of this, Jørgen Jørgensen charged like Don Quixote at a windmill.

    For this, he has been mocked, as on the side of the Ross Bridge, his nose chipped off and washed away by the Macquarie. And it is true, his life was tragicomic. His vices were his undoing. He wrote too much, in a second language. He was naive and idealistic. Quixotic.

    But could it be said to have been worth it, just to be known as the former King of Iceland? To have been, after all, remembered?

     

    This is not the first time I have written about Jørgen Jørgensen. Nor will it be the last.