The first thing you notice is the waving. Everyone waves at you when you’re driving on Norfolk Island. It catches you off guard at first. Your brain second-guesses it: Oh, they must think I’m someone else. But then it keeps happening. Every driver (and sometimes even the passengers) either raises their finger in a steering-wheel salute or pumps their whole forearm like a windscreen wiper.
Within minutes, you’re doing it too — at first feeling slightly awkward, but pretty soon with the same friendly gusto as the locals. It’s such a small thing, but the shift it signifies is real: you’re no longer just a visitor; you belong. You’re a real, proper Islander.
This warmth from the locals is genuine, and begins from the moment you touch down in the small but spotless airport – a blip in the ocean around 1600 kilometres from Sydney; a short two-and-a-half-hour flight. The ground staff are smiling and joking in a way that you just don’t see at bustling city airports, while an immigration officer chats easily with the passengers milling around the luggage belt. When he ambles my way to ask if I’ve got anything in my bags that I shouldn’t, I say no. He grins: “Promise?”
Outside, the air smells clean — part ocean, part pasture — as we jump into our hire car and head toward our accommodation. The road is lined with Norfolk Pines standing tall like sentinels. I’m used to seeing these majestic trees studded methodically along the beaches of south-east Queensland, but seeing them grow wild here, cascading down their native hills, is something else entirely.
It’s not just the pines that are plentiful; there are also cows — so many cows — lazing along the roadside, moving only when the mood (or a car horn) demands it. Meanwhile, seabirds glide casually overhead while chickens stalk around like they own the place. The whole island seems to move at its own, unhurried pace, and you can feel your body syncing to it almost instantly.
We’re staying at The Ridge, perched up high just outside the main town, with views that stretch across the Tolkien-esque hills to the ocean beyond. Owners Phil and Teneille bought the hotel and renovated it with slow, sustainable living in mind. Phil grew up on Norfolk Island but met Teneille while travelling overseas. After a few years living on the Sunshine Coast, they decided to move back to the island to raise their young family. It’s a story we’ll hear again and again over our week-long stay: the locals who manage to wrangle themselves away from Norfolk Island for a spell can only resist her call for so long before eventually coming home. And honestly, I can’t blame them.
On our first morning, we make breakfast and eat it on the balcony, watching the sun spill into the folds of the hills below. Even with a full day of exploring ahead, there’s no rush to move. For those of us used to the structure of calendars and to-do lists, the sudden absence of urgency that comes with a holiday can feel disorienting at first; like your body hasn’t gotten the memo to exhale. Sometimes it takes days to adjust, the stress clinging like an itchy cardigan even as you try to “relax.” But not here. I can feel my body unclenching already, the impulse to hurry or check my inbox quietly slipping away. In its place comes something new… maybe stillness? Contentment? I’m not sure yet, but I know I like it.
Eventually, my husband and I head out for our first proper look around the island. We’re told you can drive from one side to the other in 20 minutes, so although we’ve downloaded Google Maps, we decide to just follow our noses. The local radio station plays old-school hits as we cruise along the ridge line. Every so often, the host jumps in with announcements: someone’s found a pair of sunglasses on the beach; the post office will close early today; a local couple is celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary.
It’s charming and disarming all at once. Like we haven’t just left the mainland; we’ve left the 21st century too.
Navigating by nose pays off, and every time we turn a corner we’re confronted with something new and spectacular — a hidden cove, a tangle of pines, green hills rolling straight into the sea. There’s something so freeing about having no plan, just a picnic basket and the feeling that we’ll know the right place when we see it.
Something that stands out is how cared for everything is. The island feels loved. Lawns are mowed, the lookouts are immaculate, and there’s not a piece of rubbish in sight. You get the sense that everyone here takes quiet pride in keeping Norfolk Island beautiful, not because they have to, but because it’s home.
Later in the week, we have our first rainy day — the kind of misty drizzle that makes you wonder if it’s worth leaving the warm comfort of the couch. But we decide to be brave and go on the hike we’d planned at Hundred Acres Reserve anyway, and as soon as we arrive, we’re so glad we did.
The walk starts just off Headstone Road, beside a line of enormous fig trees with twisting, snake-like roots. We follow the track as it winds through the largest remaining coastal pine-and-oak forest on the island. Many of the trees are hundreds of years old, their trunks rising arrow-straight toward the sky. This forest is one of the largest protected areas of its kind here, and even with the happy trills of nesting seabirds, it has an undercurrent of stillness that feels almost sacred. Everything is damp, green and somehow glowing, and the rain only makes it better. It quietens everything, brings out that earthy forest smell, and turns the whole place into a woodland fairytale.
Afterwards, when we venture into town for some much-needed caffeine, I’m expecting the forest-induced zen to wear off, but it doesn’t. It’s clear that everyday life here simply runs at a different pace. Whether you’re hiring a car or ordering coffee, everything feels easy. People chat. They laugh. They take their time. It’s spacious; the opposite of rushing. And it makes me wonder if maybe we’ve all been doing life the hard way back home.
Another thing that often puzzles mainlanders is the sense of trust on Norfolk Island. People leave their cars unlocked, often with the keys still in the ignition. I can’t quite bring myself to join in (old habits die hard), but the idea of it is lovely. (Side note: does this mean locals never lose their keys? Maybe they’re onto something!)
People also help where they’re needed and wear more than one hat: our booking advisor, Tania, works at the visitor centre as well as DJing on the local radio; Zach, a photographer we meet, also works at the airport and a retail store. There’s a real culture of everyone pitching in to keep the island running.
This same ‘make-it-work’ mindset carries through to the island’s food scene too. On the mainland, restaurants talk about cooking seasonally; here, they don’t have a choice. Most produce is grown locally or shipped in when the boat or plane arrives, so chefs simply work with what’s available.
Dinner at The Homestead takes that spirit and turns it into an art form. It’s run by husband-and-wife team Jill and Kurt and set in what was once Kurt’s family home — now a warm, rustic restaurant surrounded by their own gardens. Jill welcomes you like an old friend, while Kurt is out the back picking herbs for the night’s menu. When we visit, he’s cooking local flame-tail snapper with greens made from sweet-potato tips (something they used to feed to the pigs, until he found a way to make them taste incredible). Nothing goes to waste, and every ingredient has a purpose. Neither of us want the meal to end, not just because it’s delicious, but because you can feel the care in every detail.
The next afternoon we hire one of the little Iwi trucks from NIHH Rental Cars — the kind everyone drives here. They’re perfect for Norfolk Island’s winding roads and even better for pulling over, climbing into the back, and sitting with a glass of wine, looking out at the sea. It’s such a simple pleasure, but it sums up the island perfectly: relaxed, practical, quietly joyful.
We also venture out for a swim at Emily Bay. When we pull up, the water is the kind of turquoise that feels almost unreal; like someone dialled the saturation all the way up.
We swim out to the pontoon, scrambling up the bright yellow sides to stretch out in the sun. I can picture kids having a blast pushing each other off the platform in the high season, but right now, we have it to ourselves. The sun shines on our salty limbs, and the gentle bobbing is so hypnotising, my brain does something miraculous: it stops chattering. It’s one of those rare moments of pure, uncomplicated happiness, where the world feels exactly right.
Something else we unexpectedly love about the island is that it’s one of the few places left where you can completely switch off. Like, literally. There’s no Telstra signal here, so unless you buy a local SIM (which I wouldn’t recommend), you’re off-grid the moment you leave Wi-Fi. I never thought I’d say it, but it’s surprisingly freeing. When you can’t scroll or “just check one thing,” you’re forced — in the best possible way — to be exactly where you are.
The extra space I seem to have in my brain when I’m not tethered to my phone leads us to certain activities I would never normally do. One afternoon, I lie on the grass above the cliffs and just observe. The wind rustles the pines, the waves break on the shore, and I am present for all of it. At the risk of sounding like a flower-crowned influencer, it feels… restorative. And deeply needed.
Another day, we walk down to Anson Bay. From the top, the view is spectacular — golden cliffs, a curve of sand far below, and the ocean stretching endlessly beyond. But curiosity gets the better of me; I want to see it closer. The track looks steep but turns out to be an easy, winding path through mown grass, each turn offering a teasing glimpse of the bay below. By the time we reach the beach, it feels like we’ve stepped into another world. Where other parts of the island have felt distinctly Lord of the Rings in their green lushness, this gorge-wrapped bay with its spiky rocks feels pure Pirates of the Caribbean. And once again, we have the whole glorious place to ourselves.
When our week is up and it’s time to leave, I’m genuinely sad — not just to part with the stunning scenery and glass-clear water, but to say goodbye to the people and the gentle, unhurried tempo of island life. As the plane lifts and the green hills fall away beneath us, I settle into my seat. Instead of reaching for the phone stowed in the duffel bag, I pull out the second-hand paperback I’m halfway through. I came to see if Norfolk Island really is the most relaxing place on earth. And while I can’t speak for the rest of the world, I haven’t felt this peaceful in years.
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