“For some time past, especially since the growth of the mining industries led to an import of dynamite and lithofracteur to an extent previously unknown, considerable uneasiness had been felt at the close proximity of what must always be considered a possible source of danger … ” The Examiner, Launceston, on the North Esk Powder Magazine, January 16, 1883.
photographer Isabel Howard
On the northern outskirts of Launceston, in a peculiar patch of land between bends of the laykila/North Esk River, the architecture of the city suddenly disappears. Neatly sandwiched between the suburbs of Invermay and Ravenswood, brick and bitumen are suddenly replaced by broad, green farmlands, and the roads that divide them are roamed by livestock instead of people. Formed by the three rivers meeting in Launceston, these wetlands are where the Litarimirina and Panina tribes once converged before they were displaced by European invasion.
On a sunny, late-winter day, I drove north from Elphin to visit this unusual plot of land. Along the way, black swans, native hens and masked lapwings wandered freely across the road, flapping through the puddles left by recent rain. I arrived at a collection of red brick buildings, nestled quietly in the gentle zigzag of the river, with worn but sturdy walls and lichen-coated roofs. They seemed to sit placidly in the grass, unassumingly basking in the bright sun, and it may well be because of this quiet character that they have survived so long.
A rare existing archetype of a 19th-century powder magazine, these buildings were originally made for the purposes of storing explosives such as gunpowder and dynamite, and have endured war, flood, heatwave and neglect for more than 140 years. Now known as the Launceston Armory, they have become a heritage-listed icon and remain as a reminder of the city’s complex past.
For British colonisers, explosives were vital to the development and governance of penal colonies. In Launceston, gunpowder and explosives were necessary for controlling convicted residents and fighting the resilient First Nations peoples, but they were also critical for developing integral industries such as mining, so that as the pace of development accelerated and the population grew, the need for a facility that stored explosives increased as well.
In the Van Diemen’s Land Annual, James Ross recorded the first powder magazine in Launceston as being built in 1834, where the inner western suburbs lie today. Given the danger of stored explosives in what quickly became a populated area, it was replaced in the 1870s with the complex by the North Esk River, where the water formed a natural barrier that protected the community. Despite the move, complaints surrounding the safety of the new powder magazine appeared as early as 1883 in The Examiner, criticising its lack of security and the threat posed by the “twelve tons of gunpowder [and] nearly two tons of dynamite and lithofracteur” stored within.
The original perimeter of the complex is marked by chain link fencing and contains five buildings crafted from thick, brick walls and slate roof tiles: a gatehouse, a detonator shed complex and an explosives bunker. The gatehouse stands at the southern edge of the perimeter, guarding the single entrance to the facility, and about 50 meters behind it stands the detonator shed complex, which consists of three connected buildings. The explosives bunker is tucked away behind two large mounds of earth at the furthest end of the complex, where it would have stored the most volatile of the explosives. Outside the perimeter and just south of the gatehouse, a pair of identical ordnance sheds cast long shadows by the road. These were a later addition to the complex during the era of World War I, when they were built to store extra ammunition in preparation for potential conflict or invasion.
Besides the buildings, remnants of other structures built in the era of the powder magazine persist in the vicinity. Close by the armory at low tide, decaying pieces of wood reach out of the water like crooked teeth. Aptly known as Dynamite Wharf, this was where deliveries of explosives and gunpowder rowed upstream from Queens Wharf arrived before being carried into the complex on small carts. Long since overgrown by weeds and wild grass, the remains of the tracks the carts ran along lie rusting on the ground.
According to a Launceston Council Heritage Study in 2002, the complex was used for storing explosives and ammunition from the 1870s all the way through to World War II. After the war, fear of an assault on Tasmanian shores faded quickly, and alongside public interest in stockpiled ammunition, the powder magazine was abandoned. Since then, the property has passed through various hands, valued primarily for its productive pasture rather than the heritage complex that rests on it. Despite ostensible plans for tourism development, the complex fell into disrepair, serving little purpose besides sheltering sheep and storing farm equipment – until recently.
As I wandered around, looking for signs of life the complex once had, people holding stacks of fabric and paperwork ran back and forth between the ordnance sheds and the gatehouse. Not wanting to disrupt their work, I headed for the explosives bunker first, where the water-logged grasses pulled at my boots and a splintered door slammed open in the wind. The doors and pipes of the detonator shed were clean and new, but climbing into the abandoned bunker, I could hear tiny sparrows singing from hidden nests, while the ceiling drooped to the point of breaking. The restorations that had patched up the detonator shed had yet to reach the bunker, but both lay empty besides the odd swallow in the rafter and hay scattered across the floor.
When I finally reached the gatehouse, the bustle of a busy workplace had quietened down. The room I entered was a sharp contrast to the untouched spaces of the complex: what was once a bare and antiquated wooden interior had been transformed into an industrial sewing room. Four Juki sewing machines covered with half-completed projects dominated the floor, while shelves stacked with fabrics, coloured thread and various tailoring necessities lined the white walls. Bright light spilled in through the tall windows on either side, illuminating the needles dancing between the fingers of two tailors attending to their work.
In early 2021 the owner of the property, Joe Pentridge, agreed to rent the armory to the Spotted Quoll Studio. Formed in 2010 by Tamika Bannister, the Spotted Quoll Studio is a local business that aims to create ethical, Tasmanian-made clothing and homewares that celebrate the wild beauty of our island state. Originally, the studio assembled goods across home workspaces and their Hobart store, but after a growth spurt in 2020, they began to hunt for a space that they could develop into a new dedicated production facility. Fortunately, Pentridge had already started restorations when Bannister came across the armory, so it didn’t take long before her vision for a new factory became a reality.
The production manager of the new factory, Sally Lowe, explained to me that they chose the armory not just for its practical benefits but because of how it aligned with the business’s values. More than a lucrative business opportunity, this was a chance to help conserve and become a part of Launceston’s unique history.
“You’ve got a connection to nature, you can see the grass, see the river – sometimes there are calves, and there are swans and turbo chooks. I find just driving in this driveway, suddenly I feel calm. But it’s also the light.”
As a small business that prioritises manufacturing within the state, the studio has the opportunity to recruit staff from locally trained cohorts and partner with other Tasmanian businesses that share their values and community. Being onshore and small, they can also afford to make sustainable decisions that large-scale production often sacrifices in the name of profit and efficiency.
“We can turn a garment around in 10 days as opposed to overseas, where your lead time is about three months,” Sally Lowe says. “[Overseas] you actually get a lot of wastage because you have to pre-empt what sizes, what colours are going to sell, whereas we’ve got the flexibility so we can stop production and change very quickly. So, from a sustainability point of view, it’s really good to have manufacturing onshore.”
So far, the studio has refurbished the gatehouse and both ordnance sheds into a sewing room, cutting room and storage room respectively. The rest of the buildings however, while partially restored, remain in some disrepair. After so many years of neglect, the potential for further repurposing seems to loom over the complex like smoke rising from success.
When I asked Tamika Bannister about plans for the rest of the complex, she gave a confident smile.
“It’s been a bold move in the middle of a pandemic, but I believe that so long as we follow our passions, success will follow.”
Isabel Howard is a homegrown writer and creative living in Hobart. She is passionate about the environment and cultural diversity. She recently finished an undergraduate degree in English and Japanese, and is interested in continuing study in international politics and writing.
