A Visit to New Norfolk

A week or so ago we drove north from Hobart following the road that follows the River Derwent to New Norfolk. Though it’s undoubtedly changed over the years, that road is the first built in Tasmania. It was constructed by one Denis McCarty, “ex-convict, constable, farmer and grazier, roadmaker” according to E.T. Emmett in his charming Tasmania by Road and Track, published in the 1950s.

Our first stop was at Pulpit Rock Lookout (thank you Lonely Planet for pointing us to it). Kevin had seen the sign to the narrow sandy road but had never driven it—and you wouldn’t want to drive it in wet weather. The road--if you can call it a road--is steep as well as narrow, with hairpin turns, but in fine weather it’s worth the occasional breathless moment for the stunning views up and down river.

The Derwent from Pulpit Rock

New Norfolk from Pulpit Rock

Tasmania’s convict past made New Norfolk. In the early 1800s small grants of land in the Derwent Valley were given to convicts who had served out their sentences on Norfolk Island. They named the district, and eventually the town, New Norfolk. In the 1820s, Willow Court (named for a willow planted by Lady Franklin) was built outside the town to house invalid convicts. Through the 19^th century New Norfolk’s convict origins made it, to Hobartian eyes, part of the “Van Diemonian lower orders” (James Boyce, Van Diemen’s Land*).

The convict hospital, which eventually became a state mental hospital and functioned as such until 2000, is in the process of being restored, with the buildings put to new uses. The Willow Court Historic Site now includes a hostel, a café, and some shops, among them an extensive antiques place.  

We had a fine lunch at the Patchwork Café. It has garden as well as indoor seating. We opted to stay indoors, in spite of the sunshine, where we were surrounded by quilts made by local quilters. You can buy batches of patches as well as notecards and some cookbooks, at the café. And of course food. They serve a variety of ‘toasties’—mine was chicken, avocado and brie—salads, and fine coffees, iced chocolate, luscious-looking desserts.  

The antiques shop sprawls throughout the old nurses’ quarters—in a series of rooms full of furniture and housewares, books and videotapes, jewellery, knick-knacks, and oddments. Like the hairdryer that Kevin, mistaking it for a lamp, wondered who on earth would want. Some of the old cupboards or wardrobes were huge, demanding high-ceilinged rooms. The oldest things I saw were a pair of large and heavy wooden doors labeled ‘Tasmanian prison doors’.

Hair dryer masquerading as lamp--or vice-versa

Tasmanian prison doors

In a couple of rooms enlarged photographs of the nursing staff are mounted on the walls—the building acknowledging its history.

Don't you wish you could hear their stories?

New Norfolk has not always prospered. Tasmania’s complicated relationship with its convict past has hung over it, and that reputation was not enhanced by the years when it was known as the town where the lunatic asylum was. Fairly recently it has begun re-inventing itself as a centre for antiques. In addition to the shop at Willow Court, there are a large number of dealers downtown.

We walked the main streets and peered in windows, discovered a notice about tree martins nesting in the roof of a shop on the main street, and saw one fly in and out. We gave in to the temptation to prowl through The Drill Hall Emporium. It specializes in French antiques and household items, including a couple of cabinets of curiosities and the handsomest linen aprons I’ve ever seen. I especially like this kind of browsing where the distance I have to travel home means I’m not tempted to buy. Though I did think for a moment that a linen apron wouldn't take too much room in a suitcase.

Or I’m mostly not tempted to buy. On the main street in New Norfolk is a shop called Flywheel, a ‘vintage office, stationery & letterpress studio’, states their card. The interior is crowded but elegant in spite of it. A display of notebooks and cards around a vintage typewriter sets the tone.

Irene and I spent a lot of time looking at cards, posters, giftwrap, notebooks, pens, pencils, superb leather school bags, and drawers of metal type. And we spent a bit of cash, too. I left with a handful of notecards and a box of coloured pencils tucked into a small brown-paper shopping bag. 

Done for the day, we were ready to head home. On the road back we shot past a cherry orchard, then doubled-back. 

We bought a kilo of cherries and cherry ice cream cones, made to order by a lovely woman wearing a cherry apron, in a machine that mashed the fruit into delicious Valhalla vanilla ice cream.

We’re not allowed to eat ice cream—or anything drippy—in the car (not a bad rule), so we stood beside it, soaking up the sunshine and blue sky, watching cars negotiate around each other in a steady stream. It seemed everyone on the road that afternoon was ready for cherries and ice cream.

*Boyce’s book (published by Black Inc, 2009) is a superb and superbly readable history of both convict and settler presence in Tasmania.