AdvertisementCarolyn BeasleySeptember 10, 2026 — 5:00am
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It’s after work on a Friday in 1998 when I first set foot on Rottnest Island (or “Rotto” to the locals). My partner and I, twenty-somethings, have recently moved to Perth for “just a couple of years”, and exploring this holiday island, 30 minutes by ferry from Fremantle, is a priority.
We’ve brought our own bikes on the ferry and we cycle 2½ kilometres to the northern coastline, pulling into the last unit in the last accommodation cluster, Geordie Bay.
Our humble, two-bedroom unit has a kitchen, lounge and slow-combustion fire. But the joy is the verandah, which offers the most outrageous views of the cove below. A gorgeous arc of white sand curves between jagged limestone headlands, and a couple of yachts bob gently on moorings. It feels like a Greek island postcard (because it’s 1998, and postcards still exist).
From here, there’s no hint that Australia’s fourth-largest city lurks just 20 kilometres away, and we sink into the chilled vibe. As the colour drains from the pastel-pink sky, we crack open our bottle of Cape Mentelle Zinfandel. We can’t believe our luck, having this magical weekender on our doorstep.
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With delight, we spot our first quokkas. Selfies, with or without quokkas, are not yet invented, and we simply watch them scouting for crumbs near the bakery. At the Quokka Arms Hotel (now Hotel Rottnest), we eat steaks and drink beer, riding back to Geordie Bay swerving and giggling in the darkness.
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My friends who grew up in Perth tell me of their cherished childhood memories at Rotto. Family holidays in crusty bungalows, school camps at Kingstown Barracks, and first kisses at teenage parties at Pinky Beach.
My “few years” in Perth blew out to decades, and I’m collecting my own Rotto nostalgia. My toddler son falling asleep in his bike seat, his little helmeted head slumping backwards as I pedalled. Holidays with friends, when all the kids were let off the leash to ride on the car-free roads, returning with pies. Day trips with Japanese exchange students (who were besotted with quokkas), and with interstate relatives (who were not besotted with the angry dugite snake). I even swam to Rotto in a relay swimming event, finishing at the pub in euphoric exhaustion.
West Aussies feel they own this island, and in essence, they do. It’s a Class-A Reserve with its own government agency, the Rottnest Island Authority (RIA), which maintains the 261 self-contained units, cottages and villas, provides leases to private operators and employs rangers to protect the island.
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As visitor numbers increase every year (a total of 878,287 people visited by ferry in 2024/25), more accommodation was desperately needed. In recent years, Rotto has seen significant changes.
In 2019, a glamping resort called Discovery Rottnest Island opened, and the swanky Samphire Hotel followed in 2020. A major renovation and additional wing were completed at the Lodge Wadjemup in 2025. I’ve stayed at them all and each has its charm, but I still love the RIA units, with their ’70s vibe and killer views.
No change at Rotto proceeds without some outrage, and it’s understandable. Some say it’s already too expensive and too busy; they’d rather go to Bali. But with the ease of getting there, and the instant relaxation factor, I’ll take Rotto every time. As for too crowded? Cycle out of the main pub and bakery zone and you’re into the wild. With 63 beaches and bays, you can usually find one to yourself.
In fact, I’d argue that some things have actually improved since 1998. Today, there is acknowledgement of the brutal treatment of 3700 Indigenous men and boys who were imprisoned here between 1838 and 1931, hundreds of whom died. Now, the Wadjemup (Rottnest Island) Aboriginal Reference Group leads truth-telling, Sorry Business and the establishment of museum exhibits.
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Previously, accommodation was notoriously clunky to book, requiring patience on a phone line. For peak periods, people would mail in a ballot form or camp outside the offices in Fremantle. Now, an instant online system has somewhat eased the stress, and the new hotels reduce the pressure.
The environment of the island has improved, too. Where sheep once grazed and firewood was cut, Rottnest Island pines and tea-trees have been replanted. Spiky spinifex grass stabilises trampled sand dunes and succulent, pink samphire recolonises salt lakes. Quokkas are thriving, whale watching is spectacular, and even the long-nosed fur seal colony is recovering. Solar and wind power facilities are being upgraded and will soon generate 75 per cent of the island’s power.
My most recent visit was a girls’ trip with a friend and our 16-year-old daughters. Compared with 1998, there are many differences. There’s a choice of restaurants now, and when the girls head off exploring, they’re chasing acai bowls, not pies. Quokka selfies are being snapped everywhere, visitors lying on the ground beside chewing, nonchalant marsupials.
But the Rotto of old remains. Barefoot kids still zip around on scooters in pyjamas, and teenagers still wrangle surfboards, fishing rods and chocolate milk as they pedal. Adults plunge into sheltered aquamarine waters at the Basin and sip afternoon drinks on verandahs. And still, I can’t believe my luck. This is my backyard.
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