Monday, September 22

 

I'm a bit slow about getting to this task this morning; My normal routine is: breakfast while watching a Youtube video, usually about Donald Trump at the moment, followed by writing to the blog if I can think of something relevant.  Marilyn came through a little earlier than usual and we found ourselves watching a longer video about a ferry trip from England to Haarlem in The Netherlands, while we had our coffee.  I regret sometimes that we were never able to visit Europe when we were younger and fitter but we would never have given up our trips to Japan or the great times we had in the Philippines.

The story I've attached today was written in response to an exercise at one of the groups I belonged to

(This is blog post #1990.)

THE BEACHCOMBER                                                                    23 JULY, 2021

Let’s think for a moment about becoming a beachcomber.  There are some basic questions that would need to be answered before you commit yourself.   The first question, obviously is Why?, and following on from that Where? and For how long?  Is it something you aspire to or is it an occupation you fall into? Is being a beachcomber an end in itself or is it simply a vehicle to satisfy some inner longing?  Can you make a living at it or doesn’t that matter?

If you can be satisfied that beachcombing is really what you want to do, we need to look at the question of ‘where’ because not all beaches might be suitable for this activity. You don’t want to be too close to civilisation, because solitude might be something you are seeking, but you don’t want to be too far away, either.  If you really want to comb the beach, what will you do with the gleanings of the beachcombing activity? If you intend to sell them, it would be helpful if you’re not too far from civilisation?  Nowadays, of course, most beachcombers don’t bother combing the beaches for items that may have some value – their time is better spent in other activities.

You need to think about climate, too.  Black Beach on the southern coast of Tasmania might seem attractive but the unreliable weather could be an issue. Further north is probably best.  Perhaps one of the sparsely-inhabited islands off the Queensland coast – possibly South Molle or Dunk Island.

Dunk Island, as it happens, was the home of a man who gave up the pleasures of modern civilisation and lived the simple life on the island for over 25 years.  His name was Edmund Banfield, but he is now better known by the name of Beachcomber.

He was trained as a reporter and worked on the Melbourne Age and the Sydney Morning Herald before joining the Townsville Daily Bulletin in 1882.  Although he took his professional responsibilities seriously, he felt, in his own words, that he lacked ‘those qualities which make for dutiful citizenship’.  He happened to camp, on one occasion, with some friends on Dunk Island; he was enchanted by the place and, in 1896 applied for a thirty-year lease of part of the island.

His health was not good: he had tuberculosis and had suffered a nervous collapse, so he resigned from his job and, partly blind, with a palsied hand and a deaf wife, he settled on Dunk Island at the end of 1897. His health improved enough that he was able to set about growing maize, vegetables, coffee and fruit, and he kept farm animals.  Although his farming activities were reasonably successful, he was not able to support his household - which consisted of himself, his wife, an Irish servant and occasional Aboriginal helpers - without the assistance of provisions from passing ships, which he received from time to time.

He kept an ‘erratic diary’ of nature observations, and this became the basis for frequent articles, the sale of which brought in some welcome income.  Many of his articles were written under the nom-de-plume, Beachcomber. He corresponded with naturalists throughout the world and a species of rat found on the island was named after him. 

Later, he wrote several books, including The Confessions of a Beachcomber and My Tropic Isle.  He was surprised by the widespread interest in his simple life, describing himself as a ‘sedate and determined man’ who resented violations of his privacy.  At least one enthusiastic reader of his books arrived unannounced and was certainly not welcomed.

Edmund Banfield or Beachcomber died in 1923 of peritonitis, and his wife was alone for three days before her signals were noticed by a passing steamer.  Banfield was buried on the island which has now become one of the most popular of Queensland’s tourist destinations.  A cairn has been built over the grave and a commemorative plaque installed.