Travels in the Sublime

Boiled eggs & butterflies – a day out in Japan

The author shares a memorable day in Japan, centered around a simple yet delightful breakfast at Rainbow Coffee House in Osaka, followed by a visit to Minoh Park. The tranquil atmosphere and charming service enhanced their experience. The highlight was exploring the Insectarium, where the family enjoyed a vibrant butterfly exhibit, leaving a lasting impression.

I know that most blog posts about holidaying in Japan feature mandatory photos of Cherry blossoms, temples, shrines, bullet trains whizzing past a cloud-shrouded Mount Fuji, neon skylines, and that iconic cross-walk at Shibuya; and perhaps I’ll post about those one day, but what I really want to write about is my best day out in Japan. And it involved none of those things. It all started with breakfast.

Tea and Toast at the Rainbow Coffee House, Osaka, Japan.

On our first full day in Japan, we’d eaten breakfast at our hotel in Osaka (not too far from Umeda Station). On our second day we decided to look a bit further afield, hoping for a cafe brekkie. We walked a few blocks to a quaint little coffee house in the Nakazakicho area, called ‘Rainbow’. The sign out the front advertised tea & toast or coffee & toast – in Japanese. Both cost 450 yen (which converted to A$4.73 as at March 2025). When we were seated inside, the elderly lady who ran the place asked us which of these two options we’d like. We had assumed that there would be more than just tea and toast on the menu, surely? But since there wasn’t, we figured we would just go with it and order from those two options. We could always get something more substantial later on if necessary. But what we were served turned out to be one of the most delightful breakfasts we’ve ever had. Perhaps it was the simplicity of it?

You get a thick slice of airily-soft white buttered toast, cut slightly diagonally (so that one slice is larger than the other), a boiled egg – still in its shell, and a small bowl with a tiny amount of potato salad, shredded lettuce/cabbage and a smidge of what was possibly mayonnaise at the bottom underneath it. Served with a small decorative fork, it was a light but very delicious meal. The coffee and tea comes out black, with a very dainty jug of cream on the side (no milk). I loved that we just happily received whatever came out to us – no fancy coffees with syrups or nut milks here! The dear lady who served us also single-handedly prepared the food and drinks for the five of us, and later cleared away our plates as well. She spoke no English but we were able to communicate easily, partly with hand gestures (pointing to one of the two options on the menu board), and later using a translation App on our phones to thank her for the delicious meal. This little coffee house felt like such a special place. Quiet, unhurried, cozy. And clearly, a local secret. One we were so happy to have stumbled upon.

Minoh Park

One of the Hankyu trains arriving at Minoh Station, Japan.

Later in the morning we set off in search of butterflies! Four of the five of our travelling party were bug nerds, so our destination was an ‘Insectarium’ at a place called Minoh Park. We boarded a train on the Takarazuka Line from Umeda Station to Ishibashi Handi-mae Station, then transferred to the Hankyu Minoh Line to Minoh Station. This whole trip took roughly 30 minutes and cost 280 yen each (around A$3). The trains here are a joy to ride. They are immaculately maintained, spotlessly clean, and commuters are quiet and respectful to both each other and to visitors. Minoh (often spelled Minoo) is a city in its own right, with around 130,000 residents, but still within Osaka Prefecture.

We asked for directions at the Information Centre and were given a map of the whole park then we set off across the road, directly opposite the station. We just followed all the other people who were heading in that direction. The walk to the Insectarium in Minoh Forest was unexpectedly delightful. A gently sloping road makes its way beside a meandering river lined with maple trees, traditional-looking buildings, tea-houses and market stalls. Crystal clear water bubbled over stones and pebbles down in the shallow parts of the river. Intricately patterned lichens clung to the trunks of gnarled trees.

To my delight, a butterfly I’d never seen before was sitting on the roadway just up ahead of us, wings open, basking in the sunlight. It turned out to be a European Beak butterfly [Libythea celtis] aka the Nettle-tree butterfly. I was so happy to have photographed this butterfly out in nature.

The entire park encompasses 83.8 hectares and is considered ‘quasi-national park’. If you’re keen for a decent walk and have the time (about 40 minutes walk from the train station) you’ll arrive at Minoh Falls – a 33 metre drop waterfall, which is apparently often frequented by monkeys. All great if you like monkeys, but I confess to being more than a little scared of them, so we were only going as far as the insect museum. I knew the museum showcased all kinds of bugs, both dead and alive, but it was the live butterflies I was the most excited to see. And I was not disappointed. In fact, none of us were. We all absolutely loved it! There were hundreds of butterflies in the glass-domed conservatory. Floating about above us and around us, and sometimes even landing on us briefly. Some sat sipping nectar from flowers, others reposed on pathways and garden seats – wings open soaking up the heat from the sun.

Entry to this museum was 280 yen each – and for something that only cost a few dollars, it was a wonderful outing. When the holiday was over, I asked everyone what their highlights of the trip were. Without fail, everyone said the butterfly house at Minoh Park was right at the top of the list of the best things we had seen and done in Japan. I can’t wait to go back! And next time, I might even visit the monkeys…

Author’s note: I did my best to identify the names of these butterflies once I was back home in Australia, but I’m not a scientist (just a VERY enthusiastic butterfly photographer) so if I’m wrong on any of these, please let me know in the comments. If you’d like to reproduce any of my butterfly photos, please do, but please also cite Trisha Fielding as the photographer.

The Blue Tiger

When was the last time you noticed a butterfly? The author Vladimir Nabokov, an avid lepidopterist, is reported to have told The New Yorker magazine in 1948: ‘it is astounding how little the ordinary person notices butterflies.’ As children, we looked upon them with wonder and awe when they floated through the garden, gossamer wings shimmering in the sunshine; a fleeting magic spell cast over us. By the time we reach middle age, most of us have long forgotten their power to entrance us. Adult life, with its mundane routines and endless responsibilities, robs us of our sense of wonder at small things.

The underside of a Blue Tiger, Magnetic Island, 18 June 2024. Photo: A. Fielding.

One of my favourite butterflies is the Blue Tiger [Tirumala hamata]. My first Blue Tiger (back in 2021) was a tatty-looking specimen. It was suspended from the end of a palm frond, high above me in the upper canopy in a sheltered part of the local botanic gardens; with wings outstretched, basking in the dappled sunlight. Though it should have looked inky-black with sky-blue coloured splotches, it was virtually translucent; backlit as it was by the sun. I had been new to butterflies then, but I would not have mistaken it for any other butterfly. That’s because there’s no other butterfly like it here in Australia.

Part of the Nymphalidae family of butterflies, with a wingspan of about 72mm, the Blue Tiger is a well-known butterfly in North Queensland. Perhaps not in the league of a showy Ulysses [Papilio ulysses] or a Cairns Birdwing [Ornithoptera euphorion], but nonetheless, relatively well-known. This might be because you do occasionally see the odd one or two in sheltered sections of botanic gardens. But the most likely reason people know the Blue Tiger is because there have been occasions in the last ten years where large aggregations of Blue Tigers have been observed ‘over-wintering’ on Magnetic Island, just off the coast of Townsville. The term over-wintering basically means they’re having a rest.

Blue Tiger, Magnetic Island, 18 June 2024. Photo: A. Fielding.

In Queensland, Blue Tigers migrate inland and south from the tropics to the sub-tropics in Spring, and then begin to migrate north again from the sub-tropics back to the tropics in Autumn. Butterflies derive much of their energy from the sun. They need the warmth from the sun to be capable of flying. This means that in winter, there are less butterflies on the wing. After migrating to an over-wintering site, the Blue Tigers enter a phase referred to as diapause. It’s a bit like hibernation, although they can still feed and fly around; but they reduce their activities drastically. They pause reproduction altogether, and simply rest and wait for Winter to pass. It’s a clever adaptation these butterflies employ in order to survive.

Blue Tiger, Magnetic Island, 18 June 2024. Photo: T. Fielding.

The last mass aggregation on Magnetic Island of Blue Tigers (numbering in the tens of thousands) occurred in 2020, in a small parcel of land just back from the beach at Horseshoe Bay, signposted as a ‘wetlands rehabilitation’ site. It’s known to locals as the Butterfly Forest. I only began photographing and learning about butterflies in 2021, so I missed the 2020 migration.

…all this existed before, has always existed, but you were unaware. You didn’t see.
Sharman Apt Russell

Photographing butterflies in the Butterfly Forest, Magnetic Island. Photo: T. Fielding, 2024.

Mass aggregations of Blue Tigers in Queensland is nothing new. In 1770, a wealthy young Englishman on board the ship Endeavour, described a large swarm of butterflies on the eastern coast of the continent that would later be named Australia. The young man was 25 year-old Joseph Banks, who would become the most celebrated naturalist in Britain.

Banks didn’t know the butterflies he’d seen were the Blue Tiger [Tirumala hamata hamata]. In his journal entry of 29 May 1770, he recorded his observations from a trip ashore at a place called Thirsty Sound¹, where he saw ‘millions’ of butterflies he thought were Papilio similis, described by Linnaeus in 1758 (now Ideopsis similis).

…the air was for the space of 3 or 4 acres crowded with them to a wonderful degree: the eye could not be turned in any direction without seeing millions and yet every branch and twig was almost covered with those that sat still.
Joseph Banks

Since these large aggregations don’t happen all the time (the timing of these events depends on many factors), I’ve been hoping to see an aggregation of Blue Tigers now for several years. Each year we visit Magnetic Island at least once during the winter months hoping they’ll be there in the thousands (like they were in 2020). So far, luck has not been with me (though I did photograph a lovely Blue Tiger specimen nearby, on a walk around the Horseshoe Bay Lagoon, back in 2022). But in late March this year, a surprising thing happened. A Blue Tiger floated into my garden in suburban Townsville and perched on a spray of palm seeds. This was the first time a Blue Tiger had visited our backyard.

A surprise visitor to the garden, a Blue Tiger, 31 March 2024. Photo: T. Fielding.

And then in late April we observed around a dozen or more Blue Tigers on the wing, during a walk from the Forts Junction carpark to Florence Bay, Magnetic Island. In mid-May we saw a lone Blue Tiger down at Pallarenda. It was sitting with wings outstretched, sunning itself while sipping the morning dew from the grass beneath it. Surely all these signs were pointing to the possibility of a mass migration to the Butterfly Forest this year?

A Blue Tiger, observed at Pallarenda, Townsville, 19 May 2024. Photo: T. Fielding.

Just last week I visited the Butterfly Forest, hoping to see Blue Tigers in good numbers. My spotting companion was my daughter, who had never been to the Butterfly Forest before. The Tigers were there, not in mass numbers, but during the course of our visit (perhaps an hour) we observed dozens of them! There were also Purple Crows [Euploea tulliolus] in good numbers too.

Four Blue Tigers and one Purple Crow, Magnetic Island, 18 June 2024. Photo: T. Fielding.

I’ll go back again in about a month and if they’re there in the thousands, I’ll post more photos here!

This location is believed to have been close to what is now Stanage Bay, about 175 km north of Rockhampton, Queensland. (See Robinson & Vane-Wright). ↩︎

Sources & further reading

Common, I. F. B., & Waterhouse, D. F. (1981). Butterflies of Australia (Rev. ed). Angus & Robertson.

Banks, J., & Hooker, J. D. (1896). Journal of the Right Hon. Sir Joseph Banks : during Captain Cook’s first voyage in H.M.S. Endeavour in 1768-71 to Terra del Fuego, Otahite, New Zealand, Australia, the Dutch East Indies, etc.Macmillan.

Braby, M. F. (2016). The complete field guide to butterflies of Australia (Second edition.). CSIRO Publishing.

Robinson, J., & Vane-Wright, R. I. (2018). A specimen of Tirumala hamata hamata (Macleay, 1826) (Lepidoptera: Danainae) from Captain Cook’s first voyage. Journal of Natural History, 52(11–12), 687–712.

Russell, S. A. (2004). An obsession with butterflies : our long love affair with a singular insect. Arrow Books.

Scheermeyer, E. (1987). Seasonality or opportunism in reproduction of Australian danaine butterflies: Euploea core, E. tulliolus and Tirumala hamata (Lepidoptera). Griffith University.

Williams, W. (2020). The language of butterflies: how thieves, hoarders, scientists, and other obsessives unlocked the secrets of the world’s favorite insect. Black Inc.

A Sense of the Sublime – Burketown’s Saltpans

“Okay, now if anything goes wrong, you’ve got to pull down hard on this door handle here, and then put your whole weight into it. Then climb out the door and on to the wing strut,” he said.

The Albert River, near Burketown, Queensland, 2021. © Trisha Fielding

These were the words from our baby-faced pilot during a short safety briefing prior to a scenic flight in a seemingly ancient Cessna 182. We were preparing to fly from Burketown out to the mouth of the Albert River where it meets the waters of the Gulf of Carpentaria. It’s doubtful the advice would have been of much benefit to me. I was in the back seat. There is no door at the back. At least my husband would have had a fighting chance of getting out.

Savannah Aviation charter flight over Burketown and gulf country, 2021.

But of course, nothing did go wrong. In truth, I never expected it to. I had been in a similar light aircraft in Tasmania – a flight over Cradle Mountain – a long time ago; and I’d also once flown in a Tiger Moth over the Whitsunday Islands, out from Airlie Beach. And only a week before, we’d flown in a helicopter over Cobbold Gorge and an ancient geological formation called the Hampstead Sandstone (but I’ll tell you about that day in another blog post!)

Burketown, from the air, 2021. © Trisha Fielding

But to marvel at a landscape from the air, to witness the grand scale of nature unfolding before you, is an astonishing privilege indeed. And Burketown, for all its dust and baked earth, sits in a truly sublime landscape. The traditional country of the Gangalidda People, the tiny settlement of Burketown and its surrounds, in the Gulf country of far north-western Queensland, is smack bang in the middle of a region of northern Australia that is considered to be the “largest intact savanna remaining on Earth”.¹

On the drive from Normanton to Burketown, we had driven for hours through what felt like endless savanna grasslands, stretching out in all directions as far as the eye could see. Flat, sparsely-treed plains of straw-coloured native grasses, the so-called “Plains of Promise”.²

Grassland savanna, on the road somewhere between Normanton and Burketown, September 2021. © Trisha Fielding

But far from being “empty” (as some might see this landscape) we saw plenty of animal life here – mostly birds, and a few cattle. There were Wedge-tailed Eagles feasting on roadkill, a few brolgas, and lots of small birds – finches of some kind. And there were flocks of galahs that flew along in a leisurely fashion just in front of our car, acting as if they were guiding our way. The road itself was so quiet, we were able to slow right down when these came near, so we could get a good look at them. Oh, and I guess if you count ants as animals, we saw plenty of termite mounds. Sprawling out like small cities; thriving in this challenging environment through their own sheer cleverness.

Termite mounds on open savanna country, 2021. © Trisha Fielding

(These photos of the Wedge-tailed Eagle were taken on the road from Burketown to Cloncurry. Both images © Trisha Fielding)

But back to Burketown… We taxied out to the runway, got up to speed, and take-off was smooth and light. Very quickly we began to understand just how vast the surrounding landscape around Burketown was. I’d had an inkling of how boundless it was when, earlier that day, we had visited the cemetery, the wharf on the Albert River, and the remains of a tree blazed by William Landsborough. But I doubt that anything could really have prepared me for how magnificent this place is.

Albert River, and surrounding saltpans, near Burketown, 2021. © Trisha Fielding

First, we got a birds-eye view of the town of Burketown, and soon we were soaring over endless saltpans, heading for the Gulf of Carpentaria. (The lower Gulf area, in which Burketown lies, has the largest aggregate area of saltpans in Australia. During the monsoon season, these form a wetland in excess of 2 million hectares). The Albert River, in all its magnificence, is a spectacular sight from the air. It looks like a blue-green coloured ribbon, winding round and round for 40kms, making its way to the Gulf all in its own good time. The entire river is thinly-fringed by mangroves, but at this time of year, everything else is just dusty saltpans.

Albert River, near Burketown, 2021. © Trisha Fielding

Branching off from the river are thousands of narrow watercourses; little off-shoots looking for all the world like veins. Perhaps that’s what they really are – the very life-blood of this landscape. At times, the river and its mangroves twist around and back so much on itself, that the water in the river almost connects back up with itself – but not quite. What must this astonishing place look like during the wet season, I wondered? In some places, the water reflected the sun like sparkling little diamonds. It was glorious.

Aerial view of the Gulf Country, near Burketown, 2021. © Trisha Fielding

We floated along at a leisurely pace for about 25km before we were above the wide mouth of the Albert River where it empties into the waters of the Gulf. It was a majestic sight. We could just make out Sweers Island, shimmering like a mirage on the horizon. (As an aside, my great-great-grandmother was born on Sweers Island, in 1868. Again, probably a story for another day…)

Aerial view of the mouth of the Albert River, 2021. © Trisha Fielding

From up here we could also see the mouth of the Leichhardt River, not too far off. But all too soon our pilot began to circle back. He pointed out another big river – the Nicholson River – snaking its way to the Gulf, just like the others. Northern Australia is said to retain “the largest expanses of intact rivers and catchments in the continent”.³ I can well believe it.

We had driven through the Leichhardt River on our way to Burketown a few days earlier, across a concrete causeway that seemed to take a few minutes to cross. Thankfully this was the dry season, or we’d never have been able to cross at all. This astonishing river has been known to rise to almost 12 metres during flooding events!

But I’ll never forget the sight of the Albert River from the air. I think I was awestruck. It was a thing of wonder. A green ribbon, winding its way through the landscape, giving life to everything it touched.

Where the land meets the sea. © Trisha Fielding

References:

Woinarski, J. et. al. The nature of Northern Australia: it’s natural values, ecological processes and future prospects, ANU Press, Canberra, 2007, p. 85 ↩︎
In 1841, Captain J. Lort Stokes of the Beagle, named these flat, grassy plains for their potential as rich pasturelands. ↩︎
Woinarski, J. et. al. The nature of Northern Australia, p. 56 ↩︎

Cape Byron Lighthouse

I love lighthouses, though I’m not entirely sure what it is about them that so fascinates me. Perhaps I see them as a symbol of resilience? They’re built to withstand everything that Mother Nature can throw at them. They’re solid, enduring, perpetual; in a world where constant change is inevitable.

Perhaps another reason I love lighthouses is that getting to them can involve a bit of adventure. They’re often situated high up on some isolated, rugged stretch of coastline, where bracing winds whip sharply about your face and threaten to blow you off your feet!

I can think of no other edifice constructed by man as altruistic as a lighthouse. They were built only to serve.
George Bernard Shaw

I saw my first lighthouse when I was 20 years old, at Table Cape, near Wynyard in Tasmania. Overlooking Bass Strait, Table Cape Lighthouse is 25 metres tall and sits at an elevation of 180 metres above sea-level. It’s flanked by a picturesque patchwork of sprawling agricultural farmlands. I thought it was fantastic. Since then, we’ve visited many lighthouses, including those at Cape Cleveland, Fitzroy Island and Low Island (all in Queensland). These last three each involved boat rides, or hikes (or both) to get to them, and they were all totally worth the effort.

Table Cape Lighthouse, Tasmania, 1991. (That’s me in the foreground!) Photo: Murray Fielding.

Cape Byron Headland – walk and lighthouse

Recently, I added another lighthouse to my list when my husband and I did the Cape Byron Headland walk. This walk, which takes in some truly stunning coastline, was the sole reason for our visit to Byron Bay. It is said to be the most visited lighthouse in Australia and attracts half a million visitors every year.

Main Beach, Byron Bay, 2023. Photo: Trisha Fielding

We started our walk near the Captain Cook lookout/picnic area. The first section of the walk begins with an elevated timber boardwalk that hugs the headland and soon opens up to an expansive view out over Clarkes Beach and Main Beach. Rather disappointingly, it was very overcast when we set out, so not the best weather for photographs, but we stopped there for a few snaps anyway before moving on.

After about 600 or so metres, you emerge onto a surf beach called The Pass. This is an excellent vantage point to watch surfers riding the waves. They seem to start off just out of sight around the headland, catch the break then ride the waves into the bay and into sight of spectators on the beach. It’s really quite something to see. They seem to appear rather miraculously, as if out of nowhere.

Surfers at The Pass, Byron Bay, 2023. Photo: Trisha Fielding

We had been hoping the weather would clear but while we were watching the surfers it started to rain. Just drizzle at first. We had packed some lightweight rain ponchos in our backpacks, but neither of us particularly wanted to have to put them on. No one else around us seemed to be bothered by the rain. Then it started to get a bit heavier. It wasn’t exactly a downpour, but it was enough to soak you if you were in it for long enough, and we had camera gear with us, so we decided, sensibly, to put the raincoats on. So off we went, two sensible nerds wearing what appeared to be blue plastic bags, looking very out of place amongst the bronzed, but slightly shivering beachgoers.

From here, the track takes in a short section of bushland called Palm Valley and then the walk begins to climb in earnest. All the walking tracks on the Lighthouse walk are either paved or stepped in some way and are very well maintained. A good portion of the track is quite steep, but there are plenty of places to stop for a breather and take in the stunning views. One of the highlights for me was seeing so many beautiful Coast Banksias, clinging stubbornly to the cliffs.

Coast Banksia, Byron Bay, 2023. Photo: Trisha Fielding

After about 500 metres, the next beach is Wategos Beach. There are covered picnic shelters here with BBQ facilities and given finer weather, it would have been a beautiful spot for a swim. The steps at the end of the beach are where you start to really climb. Part way up we came across a young woman who was perched rather precariously on a narrow sliver of ground on the outside (seaward side) of the guard rail. She had a camera, and I often stop to chat with people who have proper cameras (as opposed to just taking photos on a mobile phone). I asked her if she had “got any good shots?” She replied that she was filming her partner who was “foiling”. That’s surfing, but with a hydrofoil attached to the surfboard, rather than a fin. I guess you learn something new every day.

The next beach is Little Wategos, and there’s a great lookout here with panoramic views from a windswept headland. Once you climb back up the staircases from here, it’s onwards and upwards to the lighthouse. There are a lot more stairs to negotiate, but after a few hundred metres, you’ll arrive at the easternmost point on the Australian mainland. The day we did this walk was a public holiday, so the walking track was busy. At this lookout there were lots of people milling about, waiting to take selfies in front of the landmark sign. We decided to stop here for a drink break and wait for the crowds to die down. This didn’t happen, and after about half an hour of politely waiting for the same group to move on, we just snapped a few quick shots and went on our way.

Cape Byron Headland, 2023. Photo: Trisha Fielding

From here, the last few hundred metres of the climb up to the lighthouse felt like a bit of a chore. It’s quite steep, and my calf muscles were burning by the time we reached the Lighthouse. But by this time, the sun had come out, so I was looking forward to getting some decent photographs!

Cape Byron Lighthouse

Completed in 1901, the Cape Byron light is visible from 40km away – and is the brightest on the Australian coastline. Built of pre-cast concrete blocks, the lighthouse is 22 metres high, and sits at an elevation of 118 metres above sea level. The lighthouse was operated by lightkeepers until 1989, but since then the light has been automated. If you’re interested in the design of this lighthouse, the National Archives of Australia hold architectural plans for the Cape Byron Lighthouse. They also hold a Visitor’s Book from the lighthouse. The one covering the years 1902-1924 has been fully digitised (all 614 pages of it!)

Tallow Beach, Byron Bay, 2023. Photo: Trisha Fielding

The walk back down takes you along another headland with sweeping views of Tallow Beach, before heading off into bushland. More upward tracks. Then some downward tracks. Then upwards again. Then just when you think it might be all downhill from there, the track climbs again, though nothing as steep as the last few hundred metres to the lighthouse had been. It’s about 1.4 km from the lighthouse and down the Tallow Ridge Track, and many people just take the bitumen road back down from the lighthouse; but the walk through the coastal forest here is a much nicer way to finish off the walk.

A downhill section on the Tallow Ridge Track, Byron Bay, 2023. Photo: Trisha Fielding

Most tourist guides/info estimate that the Cape Byron Headland walk will take about 2 hours, but we took about 2.5 hours. It depends on your fitness level. The NSW National Parks and Wildlife website classify it as Grade 3 track, which is technically moderate, and suitable for most ages and fitness levels. All up, the entire outing took us about 4 hours. But that included a 30-minute stop at the easternmost point lookout as well as about an hour break for lunch at the café near the lighthouse. Not to mention quite a few stops to take photographs. Over the four hours I clocked up 9,920 steps on my Fitbit.

It turns out we were lucky to have been able to do this walk on the day we did, because the very next day, the walking track was to be closed for several months, for maintenance. Apart from the stunning coastline and the beautiful lighthouse, we also saw pods of dolphins (far down below us in the ocean) and we saw a species of tiny butterfly that we hadn’t seen before!

A Hairy Line-Blue butterfly [Erysichton lineatus], Byron Bay Lightstation, 2023. Photo: Trisha Fielding

Oh, and in case you don’t feel like walking, you can drive up to the lighthouse complex. There is a very small carpark up there, and it costs $8 for a maximum stay of one hour.

The Thrill of the Chase

Chasing after butterflies is a notoriously addictive pastime. It starts out as a passing curiosity but swiftly becomes an obsession. I may as well own it. I am a butterfly obsessive. I spend most of my days seeking out a butterfly high. I look for them everywhere… at home in the garden, or at work in my lunch break, or on bush walks (or street walks), in botanic gardens and parks, in and around creeks, in scrubby vegetation by the beach, on bare or stony patches of ground, on flowers, on weeds, or in the grass… you get the picture. But I have come to understand that what I am really doing is seeking awe and wonder.

It’s difficult to explain the frisson of pure delight I experience when I see a butterfly flit past me. Perhaps it’s like being a child again and experiencing things with fresh eyes and a curious mind? To marvel at a butterfly’s vivid colours, their flight patterns – sometimes lilting, sometimes erratic – and to think upon the sheer unlikeliness of their existence, are all wondrous things.

Pursue whatever fascinates you and brings you to life.
Elizabeth Gilbert

This enthusiastic pursuit of butterflies began about two years ago, which was around the same time my husband and I became “empty nesters”. After 25 years of exhausting busy-ness – raising a family, working, studying, writing – I suddenly found I had a lot of “free” time on my hands. I needed to find something that would take up my time and keep my brain occupied. I needed to learn something new. I took up photography – again. I had really loved photography when I was in my teens, so I decided to buy a camera and start learning how to use one all over again. I soon got busy photographing architecture, landscapes, flowers and plants.

A female Varied Eggfly (Hypolimnas bolina). Photo: Trisha Fielding, 2021.

One day, when I was in the garden photographing some flowers, a big butterfly whizzed past me and landed on a chive flower-head. I know you’re not supposed to allow herbs to flower or run to seed but the bees and the butterflies seem to love them, so why not? This particular butterfly had parked itself quite close to me. And it didn’t seem to mind me being there. It sat there slowly opening and closing its wings a few times before deciding it was safe to bask in the sun with wings wide open. It was brown and orange and white, with a small pale blue patch near the top of each forewing. I was transfixed. It was some months later that I bothered to try and find out what sort of butterfly it was. Turns out, it was a female Hypolimnas bolina. Common name: Varied Eggfly. After that, things just seemed to snowball. I saw more and more butterflies. I took more and more photos. I grew more and more curious.

One of the Skipper butterflies. Photo: Trisha Fielding, 2023.

Since I’ve started photographing butterflies (and posting the pics to Instagram) I’ve had more than one person say to me: “you know, there aren’t many butterflies around any more, not like there were when we were kids”. But here’s the thing… if you no longer see any butterflies around, it’s because you’re not really looking. They are, most definitely, everywhere. Well, in North Queensland they’re everywhere at least. They’re out there zipping past and looking fabulous while quietly going about their business. And their business is important. Butterflies are pollinators. We NEED them.

Just to be clear, I have no desire to physically capture butterflies. Only to observe and to photograph them. I do admit that I follow them around until I can get a good photo (which may well be annoying for them) but I think, on balance, that I am really the only one in real danger in this equation. And that’s because I frequently step into some hole in the ground – disappearing up to my shin; or come perilously close to toppling off the edge of some high embankment; or find that I am standing on top of a nest of angry bull-ants – all because I am totally lost in the excitement of trying to get a photo of a butterfly. Along the way, my husband has managed to catch “butterfly fever” too, and is now my spotter, official photography assistant and bushwalking companion.

In Search of a Blue Argus

Back in December, it occurred to me that even though I had photographed close to 60 species of butterflies (Australia has more than 400), I had not yet seen a Blue Argus [Junonia orithya]. It is supposed to be a common (and widespread) species but I had not yet stumbled across one. It seemed to me that this was something that urgently needed rectifying. But where, exactly, should I start looking? After a bit of searching on the internet, I realised that I should be looking in dry, open bushland. So I looked during my lunch breaks on the bush university campus I work at – despite the searing December heat – but always with no luck. And just before Christmas we drove up to the Ross River Dam to look around there. Lots of Tawny Costers, and a bunch of creepy-looking empty Cicada shells stuck to big tree trunks, but no Blue Argus.

Castle Hill, Townsville, as seen from the end of Pallarenda. Photo: Trisha Fielding, 2023.

Then, one Saturday in late February, after weeks of rainy weather, the clouds seemed to clear and the temperature was not too bad – well, it was tolerable at least. After breakfast, we drove out to Pallarenda for a walk around the headland to Shelly Cove. We had tossed around the idea of driving up to Paradise Lagoon to potentially do a scout around for Blue Argus butterflies, but the weather forecast predicted light clouds from around mid-morning. This would not be conducive to seeing butterflies on the wing, so we settled on a bushwalk to Shelly Cove.

The start of the sandy track around to Shelly Cove. Photo: Trisha Fielding, 2023.

We parked at the end of the old Quarantine Station, grabbed our hats and water bottles, and lathered up with insect repellent. We walked across a short footbridge that spanned a small tidal stream that was thick with mangroves. On the other side of this bridge, a sandy track split in to two. We decided to take the trail that branched off to the left of us. We had no sooner turned our heads towards the track when we both saw something small and black and possibly with a hint of blue flitting around in front of us. Could this be a Blue Argus?

Underside wings of the Blue Argus. Photo: Trisha Fielding, 2023.

It was fairly small. Was this it? We watched in dismay as it quickly flew away into the scrub somewhere on the side of the embankment. But then we realised it was sitting on the tiny rocks in the middle of the track. I started snapping away with my camera, but it was hard to see. With its wings snapped shut, the underside colours blended seamlessly with the sand and pebbly rocks on the track. I moved a tiny bit closer. It opened its wings ever so slightly. I saw black and white on the forewings. And then, the tiniest little smidge of blue was evident on the lower wings. Then it opened its wings a little wider, to bask in the sun, revealing the azure blue on his upperside hindwings. This was him – a Blue Argus! At last!

A male Blue Argus (Junonia orithya). Photo: Trisha Fielding, 2023.

This one was a male. And a near-perfect specimen. The eye spots at the base of the upper hindwing were small-ish. It’s these eye spots that the butterfly gets its common name from – Argus (or Argos) Panoptes: a many-eyed giant in Greek mythology. The female Blue Argus has larger eye spots on the hindwings and is a slightly larger butterfly overall, which is quite obvious in the field – if you get to see one. Which we did! On our return an hour later down the same pebbly track. This specimen was a little damaged – one hindwing in particular had a fairly large chunk missing, though this took nothing away from her beauty, I can assure you. She was gorgeous. Dark, velvety-black upper wings, with white/cream-coloured markings and orange-ringed eye spots. I had finally found (and photographed) the Blue Argus. An excellent day out, in my book.

A female Blue Argus. Photo: Trisha Fielding, 2023.

If you’ve read this far, you’re probably thinking: this woman has far too much time on her hands. And you’d probably be right. But when I’m out walking and looking for butterflies, I’m getting some exercise. And when I’m sitting and waiting and hoping for a particular butterfly to appear in some shady, tree-filled glade somewhere, I’m communing with nature… actively observing what’s going on around me – engaging my senses, being small and quiet and blending into the landscape. It’s good for the soul. And something wondrous has been awakened inside of me.

I was born a naturalist, though all these years for want of anything to excite it, it had lain dormant within me.
Margaret Fountaine – butterfly collector and world traveller

Minoh Park

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Cape Byron Lighthouse

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In Search of a Blue Argus

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