Tag Archives: History

Devonport: A Hidden Gem in Tasmania’s History

Devonport’s history begins with the joining of two settlements, Torquay and Formby, on either side of the Mersey River. These small communities, founded in the 1850s, were independent at first. In 1893, the towns merged to become Devonport. The joining of these two settlements was meant to symbolize unity. But in truth, rivalry remained beneath the surface for many years.

On the east bank, Torquay was built by the hands of fishers and farmers. Their focus was always on the river, where the fish were plentiful, and the land was rich for crops. Formby, on the west bank, grew from merchants and traders, who saw the river as a route for business. Devonport, therefore, was born from a union of necessity, not necessarily of shared values.

In 1907, Devonport became a municipality. It was the first step towards modernity, but it wasn’t until Prince Charles of Wales visited in 1981 that Devonport was declared a city. By then, it had grown into Tasmania’s third-largest city, with a population that reflected its newfound urban status.

Despite its small size, Devonport’s people were innovative. Around 1901, the Finlayson family made history by building what many believe to be the first steam car in the southern hemisphere. Their foundry, small and modest, soon gained a reputation across Tasmania for its forward-thinking designs.

Later, in 1934, the Holyman family established a shipping business that would eventually evolve into Australia’s first airline to connect the mainland with Tasmania. Their story is still told today, a testament to Devonport’s pioneering spirit.

But Devonport’s mark on history wasn’t just industrial. It was also political. The town became the birthplace of Joseph Lyons, Australia’s tenth Prime Minister, and his wife, Enid Lyons, the first woman elected to the House of Representatives. Enid’s achievements were monumental. After Joseph’s death, she continued to serve her country, inspiring generations of women to follow in her footsteps. Today, their home, “Home Hill,” stands as a museum, a symbol of Devonport’s place in Australian political history.

But the most remarkable story in Devonport belongs to a woman whose name has largely been forgotten, though her deeds were far from ordinary.

The Story of Alice Gurney

Alice Gurney was a local shopkeeper. She ran a small general store that sat on the corner of Torquay Road. By all accounts, she lived a simple life. No one would have expected her to play a key role in solving a crime that gripped Devonport in the 1950s.

One evening, a young boy went missing. His name was Matthew Reid. He had gone to the riverbank to fish, as many boys did back then, but he never returned. The town searched for him for days. The police, the townspeople, even those from neighboring communities came to help. But there was no sign of Matthew.

Alice watched all this from her shop. She saw the men leave each morning with hope in their eyes, only to return at night with nothing to show for their efforts. On the fifth day, Alice noticed something. There was a man, a stranger, who had arrived in town the day Matthew disappeared. He had claimed to be a traveling salesman, but something about him made Alice suspicious.

She watched him carefully. He would sit at the local pub each night, talking with whoever would listen. But he never seemed interested in selling anything. Instead, he asked about the search for Matthew. Alice found this odd. She kept her distance, listening, observing, until one night, the man said something that caught her ear. He mentioned the riverbank, describing a detail about the rocks there that only someone who had been at the exact spot where Matthew was last seen would know.

Alice went to the police the next day. She told them about the man. At first, they dismissed her. After all, she was just a shopkeeper. But Alice insisted. “Watch him,” she said. “He knows something.”

Reluctantly, they agreed. The police began to follow the man, watching his every move. And sure enough, he led them to Matthew’s body, hidden in a shallow grave near the river. The man had killed the boy over a petty argument and had been pretending to help with the search all along.

The town was in shock. No one had suspected the stranger. But Alice had trusted her instincts. When the man was arrested, the townspeople couldn’t believe it. Alice had solved the crime.

Years later, people would still talk about the boy who went missing. They would speak of how he had been found, and how a quiet woman had been the one to bring justice to his family.

The Twist

But there was one thing Alice never told anyone. Not even the police. She had known the man from long ago. He wasn’t just a stranger. He was her cousin, a black sheep of the family who had left town years before. She had recognized him the moment he walked into her shop, but she had kept quiet. She had waited, biding her time, knowing that eventually, he would reveal himself.

And when he did, she made sure justice was served.

Alice’s secret died with her. She never spoke of it to anyone. But in her quiet way, she had protected her town, all while hiding the truth that would have made her part of the very crime she helped solve.

Faith and Discovery: Hamilton’s Early Settlers

Hamilton was settled by the 4th Waikato Regiment Militia in 1864. Captain William Steele led them. They arrived on the Rangiriri, a small steamboat, on 24 August. As the boat came up the river, the local people stood on the banks, watching quietly. Among the passengers was Teresa Vowless. She held her baby in her arms but passed the child to another woman as they neared the shore. Without a word, she leapt into the river. Teresa wanted to be the first settler to set foot on this new land. Some said it was her faith in God that drove her. She believed she had been led there for a reason.

The land, however, was far from what the settlers expected. Much of it was swamp. They had been promised fertile ground, but many struggled to farm. By 1868, most of the settlers had given up and left. Hamilton’s population dropped from 1,000 to 300. Those who stayed had to rely on faith that somehow, their future would improve. In 1875, hope came in the form of a brickworks that opened in town, offering jobs and a sense that Hamilton could grow. But for many, faith was the only thing keeping them going.


In 1882, Eliza Beckett came to Hamilton. She was a widow with three children, and her life had been hard. After her husband died in an accident, she had little to her name. A distant cousin had told her about Hamilton. “Go there,” they said. “They need workers, and you’ll find a fresh start.” Eliza believed it was God who had guided her path. She had been praying for a way forward.

At first, she found work at the new brickworks, hauling clay. It was back-breaking labor, but she was thankful for the work. “God provides,” she often said, though the men around her didn’t understand why a woman would speak of faith while working in such rough conditions. Eliza saved her wages, trusting that one day, she would leave Hamilton for a better life.

One day, while working, Eliza overheard a conversation between two men. One was Thomas White, a local landowner, and the other was a man she didn’t recognize. He was quiet and spoke with conviction. They were standing by the kiln, talking in low voices. “The land’s no good,” Thomas muttered. “I don’t care what the others say—it’s cursed.”

Eliza listened, intrigued. The quiet man responded calmly. “It’s not the land, Thomas. It’s what lies beneath it. There’s something here—something God has hidden for a reason.”

Eliza pondered his words. That evening, as she prayed with her children before bed, she thought about what she had overheard. She believed that if God had hidden something, it would only be revealed when the time was right.


Days passed, and soon there was talk of a strange discovery. A local worker had uncovered something unusual while digging near the swamp. Eliza couldn’t get the details, but people whispered about it in town. Some said it was an ancient relic. Others spoke of bones. No one seemed to know for sure.

Eliza’s curiosity grew. She believed this might be connected to the conversation she had overheard. One afternoon, as she left the brickworks, she saw Thomas White again. He was standing with a group of men outside the general store. “We should’ve left it alone,” he was saying. “We’ve disturbed something that was meant to stay buried.”

Eliza approached. “What did you find, Mr. White?”

He looked at her, hesitant. “Best not ask, Mrs. Beckett. It’s not for us to know.”

Eliza didn’t push, but later that night, she prayed. She asked for guidance, for God to show her what this discovery meant. The next day, she walked out to the edge of town, to the place where the land was boggy and still. She found the spot where the men had been digging. The ground was freshly disturbed, and Eliza, believing this was God’s way of answering her prayers, began to search.

She found something half-buried in the mud. It was small, heavy, and wrapped in cloth. As she unwrapped it, a strange feeling came over her. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it felt important—holy, even. She believed it was a sign.


A week later, two men came to her door. One was Thomas White. The other was the quiet man from before, his eyes filled with a certain intensity.

“Mrs. Beckett,” Thomas said, “we need to talk.”

Eliza stepped outside, her Bible clutched in one hand. “What about?”

Thomas sighed. “You took something from the ground. We need it back.”

Eliza’s heart raced. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The quiet man stepped forward. “There are two ways to look at this,” he said calmly. “Some believe it’s a blessing, something sacred. Others say it’s dangerous, meant to stay hidden. Which do you believe?”

Eliza stood firm. “I believe God has a plan. If He wanted it hidden, He wouldn’t have let me find it.”

The man nodded. “Perhaps. But not all things revealed are meant for us.”

Eliza prayed that night, holding the strange object close. She asked for wisdom, for a sign that she was doing the right thing. The next day, she returned to the place where she had found the object. There, she felt a stirring in her spirit, something telling her to let go. She knew it was time to return what she had taken.

She found Thomas White in town the following morning. “You were right,” she told him. “It wasn’t meant for me.”


In the end, Eliza understood that what she had found wasn’t a treasure or a curse. It was a test of faith. She had believed God had given it to her, but in truth, He was asking her to trust Him enough to let it go. She had always been faithful, but now, she saw that true faith wasn’t about holding on—it was about surrender.

Hamilton went on, with its struggles and its growth. And Eliza Beckett remained a woman of faith, known for her quiet strength and wisdom. In the end, the object was never spoken of again, but those who knew the story understood its lesson. It was not what was found in the ground that mattered, but what was found in the heart.

How Christchurch Rebuilt: A Teacher’s Impact Post-Earthquake

In the early days of Christchurch, the land stretched wide, a mix of windswept plains and hills. Settlers arrived in the 1850s, their sights set on building a town that mirrored the English countryside. The church was their anchor, its stone walls rising as a symbol of permanence. People built their homes, simple and practical, with a nod to European architecture. The streets grew in orderly lines, the town unfolding in a neat grid.

But the land was not just their own. Long before the settlers, others had lived here, fishing in the rivers and gathering in the forests. They had their own ways, their own connection to the land. The settlers did not ask, but they knew. They felt it in the wind, in the way the hills stood like silent watchers.

As Christchurch developed, it became a center for culture. Its theatres and academic institutions grew, offering a mix of European influences with a touch of local pride. By the early 1900s, it had taken on another identity—an Antarctic gateway. Ships sailed south, departing from its ports, bound for the frozen continent. It was a role the city embraced with quiet determination.

The city had its share of hardships. In 2010, the earth moved violently beneath it. The September quake rattled Christchurch, shaking its foundations. Buildings swayed, some crumbled. But worse was yet to come. In February 2011, another quake struck, killing 185 people. Central city buildings collapsed, leaving scars in the heart of Christchurch. The recovery was slow, the rebuilding painstaking. Yet, the city stood again, its people resolute.

The stories of Christchurch are not just in its buildings or events, but in the lives of the people who called it home. One such woman was Sarah Gardener. Her name, at first, was not known beyond the small circle of friends and family. She lived quietly, her home tucked away in one of the older parts of the city. She was neither rich nor famous. But what she did left a lasting mark.

Sarah worked as a teacher. She spent her days with children, sharing knowledge, guiding them with care. She was a patient woman, thoughtful in her words. The world outside her classroom, however, was far from stable. After the earthquake, Sarah noticed something troubling. Her students came back different. Some were quieter, others more anxious. They had lost homes, friends, even family members. The trauma lingered, silent but present.

One day, a boy in her class, Tom, refused to speak. He sat at his desk, his eyes on the floor, and would not look up. Weeks passed, and still, no word. Sarah tried everything, gentle words, offers of help, but nothing broke through. She knew it wasn’t just Tom who was suffering. The whole community was.

One afternoon, Sarah had an idea. She gathered the children outside and asked them to share stories of the earthquake—not of the destruction, but of the things they had done after. At first, there was silence. Then a girl spoke up. “I helped my neighbor find their dog.” Another said, “I made soup for my grandma.”

Sarah turned to Tom. He stared back, his mouth set in a hard line. “I didn’t do anything,” he muttered.

“You survived,” she said, her voice calm. “That’s not nothing.”

The class ended that day without fanfare. Tom still didn’t speak much, but something had shifted. Over the next few weeks, Sarah noticed a change. Tom began to raise his hand, answering questions in class. He started talking to the other children again. Slowly, his silence broke.

Months passed, and the community of Christchurch kept rebuilding. Sarah’s story could have ended there, but there was more to come. She continued working with the children, helping them process their feelings, encouraging them to speak. One day, a parent approached her. She had heard of Sarah’s efforts and wanted to help. Soon, other parents joined in. Together, they started a small support group for families affected by the earthquake. It grew from there, becoming a cornerstone of the city’s healing efforts.

But there was a twist no one saw coming. Years later, during a citywide celebration of Christchurch’s recovery, it was revealed that the original idea for the support group hadn’t come from Sarah alone. Tom, the quiet boy, had written Sarah a note after one of their classes. In it, he said, “I think we should help the grown-ups too.”

The mystery was solved. The support group, which had helped so many, wasn’t just the result of Sarah’s wisdom. It was the idea of a boy who had once thought he had nothing to give.

Christchurch continues to rebuild, its streets echoing with the stories of the people who live there. From its colonial roots to its role as an Antarctic gateway, the city has grown, shaped by those who called it home. Sarah Gardener’s name is now remembered, not for being a famous figure, but for helping the city heal, one quiet story at a time.

In the end, it wasn’t the buildings or the landscape that defined Christchurch. It was the people—those who stayed, those who rebuilt, and those who, like Tom, found their voices in the silence.