Our pristine parkland is a barometer of who we are and who we were and its worth fighting for
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| Constables Cottage in the trees in centre of the photo at beach level, currently unobtrusive but could be the lynchpin of a development in Watsons Bay which brings 2000 guests a weekend to the small village and historic beach . Photo SMH |
Just over a century ago, a Mr J. Barracluff farmed ostriches on Sydney's South Head. The notion seems laughable now. Ostriches, on one of Australia's most iconic sites!
Out there among the bush of the national park, birds rule the airwaves – kookaburras, lorikeets, wagtails, wrens, galahs and honeyeaters chorus. The Pacific crashes against sandstone cliffs and thumps onto tessellated rocks where seals bask and dive. Inside the Heads, waves lap the sand of Camp Cove, a soundtrack for the to and fro of Manly ferries.
I have no argument with development or with brides – there are plenty of both in Watsons Bay.
Sharp-eyed visitors note the plaque at Camp Cove, marking where Arthur Phillip first landed in Sydney Harbour on January 21, 1788. They're usually amazed, knowing only the later landing date. Others ask about the original inhabitants who lived and fished the cove, which they called Kutti, and about reports of rock art in the area. Questions about banksias and Sydney wattle, magpies and cockatoos, are asked in many languages, while selfies taken beside the cannon on the convict-laid cobbles are despatched to all corners of the globe.
Now this fragile ecology of history, heritage and nature is threatened. A proposal has been made for redevelopment of former military buildings within the National Park, and of two heritage cottages by the beach, so hundreds of wedding guests can party until midnight or be ferried in minibuses between venues.
I laughed when I first read of it. Surely this was a joke, as daft as ostrich farming would now be in a national park?
But it would seem not.
Dollars may prove more enticing than birdsong, though kookaburras will find nothing to laugh at above the din of late-night disco or the sight of picnickers being shunted aside by those who can pay the prices of high-end caterers and restaurateurs.
I have no argument with development or with brides – there are plenty of both in Watsons Bay. It's a hard-working little patch where hotels and restaurants cater for all comers. A balance between commercial and public, expensive and accessible amenities has been achieved there, but it's delicately poised, and such an intensive commercial usage of the parkland will destroy the very thing that makes it special – enduring nature in the middle of a crowded city.
I am not making a cry about the excessive car traffic this will bring, or the noise and rubbish pollution that may ensue. I make a cry for parkland. For what we offer to those who come in search of inexpressible beauty in our city.
It is the gift of public parklands to allow visitors space and time to ask questions, of themselves and of the landscape. Parks tell us much about who we are and who we were. They are mental as well as physical health zones; places for the spirit, if one dare speak of such things in cities. It's why we designate them as "heritage" – treasures we pass on to future generations, as unspoiled and intact as possible.
South Head has greeted visitors for centuries, long before Phillip nosed through the heads. Its majestic sandstone cliffs still emanate timelessness, yet it's smack in the metropolis of modern Sydney, only a short stroll from the ferry wharf where hundreds regularly disembark.
For decades, I was one of those ferry-riders, drawn by the history and drama of the place. Four months ago, grieving the loss of my husband, I moved into a flat in the area. I've become convinced that the parkland of Gap Bluff and Camp Cove is sacred, as I've stood at the railings where others have ended their days, telling myself I choose life; I choose the side of the fence that is for the living, for as long as I may.
I often meet tourists who tell me they've come looking for healing or beauty; for pause. Inevitably, they turn to make the pilgrimage through Gap Bluff and Camp Cove to the headland, silenced by the birds and sea, the city a mirage on the horizon.
Let's not put our heads in the sand, like Mr Barracluff's ostriches. Let's put them together to dream better ways to subsidise the restoration of the park's heritage buildings.
Parks are arks. Let's keep them that way.
Ailsa Piper is an author and playwright.
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