St. Helena, the island prison for one defeated French Emperor, Napoleon    Bonaparte. We were excited to see this remote place when we first saw the two former volcanoes rising from the depths of the Atlantic Ocean through the dawn mist. How must this defeated soldier have felt after many weeks at sea to get his first glance of the island. It is dark, brooding, like layers of chocolate ice-cream slurping down precipitous cliffs to the cold water, but no gentle beaches here, it is uncompromising, stark and barren. Sailing round the island, just 10½ miles by 6¾ miles in size, you come across one gash in the cliffs where landing may be possible. There is no harbour, you are at the mercy of the weather and swell. You clamber down the side of the ship where you have to scramble into a small boat rising and falling with the waves, a few minutes later, when the sailors say “Jump”  you jump for land, grabbing the dangling ropes to give you some security of footing.

            Why had we flown to Cape Town then spent 5 days on RMS St Helena to travel to this tiny mid-Atlantic island? We wanted to visit The Briars, home of Bob’s 3x greats-grandfather, William Balcombe, who lived here from 1805 to 1818. It was two hundred years ago to the week that Bob’s ancestor, William’s fourth child Thomas Tyrwhitt Balcombe, had been baptized in the Jamestown church. When  Napoleon first arrived on St Helena, there had been so little warning of his arrival that there was no suitable place for him to live. William Balcombe offered his home and Napoleon and some of his entourage moved into the “Pavilion”, located in the grounds of The Briars. Here the former Emperor started to dictate his memoirs and enjoyed a few months playing with the Balcombe children in the gardens. Napoleon enjoyed the company of children as they were so natural and he didn’t have to  wonder about their ulterior motives. He played with the small boys in the garden, ordered his staff to make some toys, openly cheated at cards to tease them, conversed in French with the two older girls and became a benevolent “Uncle” to the children. We wanted to see what this place of family- legend was really like.

            St Helena is a British protectorate in the South Atlantic Ocean. The only way to travel there is by sea, it’s too far from land for helicopters and there is no airport for fixed wing planes. As we’d sailed along the coast we’d seen gun batteries perched on cliff tops on every possible place, and some impossible ones too, testament to the importance of the island in the days of the East Indiamen, the tall ships, square-rigged sailing ships which opened up the world to trade. St Helena had been a haven to call in for water and food, a respite on the two-year long journeys undertaken by those intrepid sailors, a haven well worth protecting. Rusting old cannon are found at the wharf, in every fort, on every cliff top.

            Arriving there is like a step back in time, you pass by the former moat, go through under the portcullis to enter Jamestown, the  castle to your left, huge fort on top of the cliff on your right and a single street of Georgian houses winds its way up the steep sided valley floor. As we walked up the main street we passed the police station and courthouse on the left, the tiny prison on the right. Library, park, church, museum then some shops, no large window displays, no neon signs, no advertising. There was a guest house, Wellington House on the right, our hotel The Consulate on the left. The town is overshadowed by the steep hillsides and we look in wonder at Jacob’s Ladder, 699 steps each nearly a foot high, a 45°+  angle up the cliff, a challenge in its very being. There are some vehicles on the  island; they are small and drivers are expert in  negotiating  tight  and  I do mean  really, really tight hairpin bends on cliff sides! Driving is not for the faint hearted, nor the deaf, sounding a warning horn as you  approach these corners is mandatory.

            The “Saints” are descended from European sailors, British soldiers, sailors and traders, the slaves from Madagascar, India, Malaya, and the indentured labourers from China. These 3000 or so inhabitants are so friendly. We were the only Australians arriving on “RMS”, the affectionate name given to their lifeline, and when any islander asked ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Australia’, their immediate response was ‘Oh you’re the Balcombe relatives, welcome home’.

            We spent time in the archives and have found much more about William      Balcombe, the man who later became Australia’s first Colonial Treasurer. Bob played a round of golf on the remotest course in the world; we planted Gumwood trees, endemic but close to extinction, in the newly established Millennium Forest. We saw the various places associated with Napoleon and the family. We climbed the steep old road up the hill past the heart shaped waterfall to visit the Balcombe’s former home at The Briars. We found the Pavilion, the house site, stables, stone walls and trees from the original garden and enjoyed the tranquility and scenery. We listened to the waterfall, birds and frogs, we talked to the ghosts and we swear we heard children playing in the garden and a bit of conversation in French. It was an emotional week.

 Caroline Gaden.