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No longer does it possess the fingerprints of those who lovingly hand-plastered its concrete walls. Cyclones, floods and fire have all conspired to steal the legacy of the family who tended the extensive estate for so many decades. But they are not forgotten.
Memories persist despite the tropical rainforest wrapping its tendrils possessively around pitted walls. Moss colonises the damp, and cloaks the relics in a blanket of green felt. Enough remains exposed to identify the public baths that brought so many in its heyday. Now, it is mostly black bream and eels that frequent its waters.
The park is enigmatic. Instead of the carefree laughter of children playing and splashing, there is only the hushed reverence of tourists treading its well-worn walkways. Towering bamboo and giant kauri trees dominate the paths upon which they have flourished. Against the odds, they have survived. The labours of the Paronella clan have not gone unrewarded.
Despite the dilapidation of most historic buildings in Svalbard, this one is unique. Built by a fortune-seeking Australian in the early years of last century, it is the only two storey building of its kind in the frozen archipelago.
Not only does the failing structure typify the ambitiousness of so many who came to this polar wilderness, but it is a building that bears the scars of climate change. About a third of the way along its length, its spine has been broken. Every board that traverses that vertical has been split by shifting ground.
During summer months, the permafrost has begun to thaw. Melting ice has pushed up bubbles of earth, lifting the house from its stable base. The evidence of this expansion is clear in the large, hexagonal patterns that make the surrounding earth look like a giant beehive.
It is too dangerous to get any closer to the building. It is too dangerous to do anything but circle it from a distance and take photos under the low-ceilinged sky. Is it too dangerous to ignore the unspoken warning of an island adapting to its new seasonality?
It is a comical start. An early morning embarkment with a passenger load of hangovers, heading south along the Birdsville track. Almost as soon as we cross the border from Qld to SA, the grading turns foul. Teeth loosen as we bounce along the barren surface of the Stony Desert. I giggle as those in the back groan and pray for death.
The speed limit is 100 km/hr but I can't get above 80, and bleary eyes warn that the desolate horizon is disappearing in the pale of an approaching sandstorm. And then it happens. Without warning, a tumbleweed - thick and barbarous - dances in front of the car. It punctures a rear tyre and within 200 metres, it has been shredded by the unforgiving road. D'oh!
What is worse, the storm has closed in and now buffets us from all sides. We pull up as close to the side of the road as confidence allows in fear of the soft shoulders of the desert track and we turn to each other with non-plussed grimaces. We cannot wait for it to pass. Throwing long-sleeved shirts over our singlets, we don sunglasses and prepare to brace the storm so we can change the tyre.
The jack is all but useless and we are forced to dig a hole to prop the car up enough to change the wheel. Eventually we do, and when we climb back in, there is much relieved laughing. Red faces and and burnt legs betray how much we have been sandblasted.
I can see only a little way in front of us, but I persist until we reach Mungerannie. There, we enjoy a cleansing ale before setting off for Maree. Pulling into the caravan park just before dusk, we are promptly told we will be lucky if we can find space. We manage.
My set-up is easy and I roll out my swag. And while the others hammer in their tent pegs, I look up and notice the sunset. Grabbing my camera as quickly as I can find it, I abandon them and run across the road to an empty paddock. The sand and dust that scorched our flesh paints the sky in beautiful hues of pink and gold. As my shutter whirrs, I wonder how much of our fleshs makes up that sky and smile.
