FARMLAND KANGAROO ISLAND

I turned up to Kangaroo Island over New Year carrying the usual mainland delusions. That nature would be obliging. That the wind would negotiate. That I would remain dignified. None of this happened. The place clocked me immediately and got to work sanding me down.

The salt lakes felt less like scenery and more like evidence. Vast, white, unforgiving. The light was brutal and honest, leaving nowhere to hide, not even from myself. I stood there squinting, mildly dehydrated, questioning my understanding of landscape altogether.

The island opened like a musical ballerina jewellery box of surprises, and I was the 6-year-old kid. Eyes wide. Wild ocean. Limestone cliffs. Secluded beaches. Coves crowded with sunbathing seals. Caves thick with stalagmites and stalactites. Swamplands gave way to grasslands, then wheat, then sheep. Abundance layered over austerity.

Over 80,000 acres of untouched National park.

The scrub told the deeper story. Burned hard in 2019 and written off by anyone who mistakes destruction for an ending, it has returned thick and muscular. Green punching through charcoal without ceremony. Kangaroos moved through it like fire was a rumour. Echidnas shuffled on. Koalas got busy multiplying. Birds carried on loudly, unimpressed by human reflection.

I thought of the first farmers, optimists or lunatics, trying to coax life from sand, wind, and a sky that withholds rain like a grudge. They battled drought, isolation, and fire. I battled sunburn and no reception.

Kangaroo Island does not flatter you. It strips you back, fills your pockets with sand, and leaves you to decide what is worth keeping. I left quieter, tougher, and slightly embarrassed. Which felt about right.

Check out the close-up reel

Oil on stretched canvas / 70cm x 50cm / framed in Tasmanian oak.

* This painting is still drying and will not ship until late February 2026