Tasmania was settled by convicts. In 1824 there were 12,556 Europeans in Tasmania of whom 6,261 were convicts. Living on the island was to be punishment enough, but convicts who re-offended were sent out to the Tasman Peninsula, a jut of land south and east of Hobart, which is the state capital and the island’s largest city. At Port Arthur, the penitentiary still stands, though with no roof, and tourists wander the beautiful British styled gardens, or at night tour the sight to feel the ghosts that haunt these hills. To be imprisoned in such a beautiful place would be a particular agony.

I was not sent to Tasmania as a convict. I was on holiday. There were lots of reasons I chose Tasmania, some of which I knew and some I had yet to discover. The main reason was that my childhood friend, Sonia, had written inviting me to join her family for the holidays in a house they had rented outside of Port Arthur. It did not take me long to say yes. In the months that led up to my departure, it occurred to me that I was embarking on a long trip to visit someone I did not really know. That is, the most time Sonia and I had spent together was between the ages of five and ten when we roamed the hills and valleys of Central Pennsylvania under the care and enthusiasm of her mother.  In 1971 her family moved to Australia. Since then we had seen each other twice, the last time in 1983. A lot had happened in the intervening years. On her side she had married and had two children, Nina, 14 and Frankie, 12. On my side—well, too much to tell on my side.