THE RHYTHMIC croaking of frogs punctuates the silence of the forest and a thick carpet of wild flowers announces the arrival of spring. A pair of Black Cockatoos breaks the hypnotic spell, screeching and squabbling like naughty schoolboys. A flash of bright yellow tail feathers, and they are gone. We reach the opposite side of the isthmus and clear blue water laps a gently sloping beach. Three kilometres of fine white sand overlooked by jungled mountains - and we have it all to ourselves. Tasmania was voted best temperate island in the world by readers of the leading tourism magazine, Conde Nast Traveller, and Freycinet Peninsula is one of the jewels of this Australian state. But as we step on to the dazzling soft sand of Hazards Beach, we are reminded by thousands of innocuous oyster shells that this beautiful and unspoiled island, home to some of the world's last true wilderness, has a short, shameful history - one of genocide, barbarity and even cannibalism. In its early days, Tasmania was hell on Earth. Convicts, transported to mainland Australia from England for crimes as trivial as stealing a loaf of bread, would be condemned to the brutal penitentiaries of this far-flung island across the tempestuous seas of the Bass Strait, if they committed a second offence. Many of those old prisons are still standing, some unchanged from those dark days shortly after the dawn of the 19th century. The whipping yards are still there, along with the tiny, damp solitary confinement cells into which convicts were hurled, their backs criss-crossed with lacerations by the cat-o'nine-tails. Some cells still have a faint smell, as if the thick huon pine doors with their heavy iron locks have absorbed the filth and misery of their hapless captives. Now people come to Tasmania by choice. Tourists want to see its colonial heritage, the jails and penitentiaries of Maria Island, Richmond, Port Arthur, Hobart and Sarah Island. The stains of Tasmania's convict era have become money spinners, spurred by best-sellers like The Fatal Shore and For The Term Of His Natural Life. You have to look harder to discover the sad fate of Tasmania's Aborigines. There are few reminders of their place in the island's history, though they arrived here 40,000 years ago on foot, before Bass Strait isolated Tasmania from the mainland. The Europeans settled here a little over 200 years ago. In just 75 years, the Aborigines were all but wiped out, slaughtered by white settlers or struck down by diseases introduced by their oppressors. Here on Hazards Beach, the thousands of oyster shells are a reminder that a simple people lived here peacefully before the British arrived and chased them off their land. The shells have formed middens, piled up over thousands of years, dropped here by Aborigines who fed on the ample supplies of oysters during winter. Today, the cold, clear waters of Tasmania provide restaurants throughout the island with some of the world's finest seafood. The long curve of Wineglass Bay on the other side of the isthmus is the Freycinet Peninsula's main tourist draw. It has been voted by Conde Nast readers as one of the world's top 10 beaches. But few tourists actually visit the place. Most clamber up to the lookout, 30 minutes from the national park's car park, snap the distant Wineglass Bay, and then return to their buses and head back to the tiny town of Cole's Bay, nestling under stark granite peaks known as The Hazards. Thankfully, we leave them at the lookout to head down to Wineglass Bay, cross the isthmus and follow the coast back, a tiring but rewarding trek of five hours. We are three days into a motorhome journey that will cover 1,600 kilometres, taking us right around Tasmania. It started in the northern city of Launceston - which is more like a quaint country town - and we will drive to the capital, Hobart, before heading up the wet and wild west coast, completing the circuit in Launceston, which has a wealth of colonial homes. The first thing you must do in Tasmania is slow down to a pace of life that is sadly close to extinction elsewhere. Tasmania reminds of England about four decades ago, and I like it. The roads are single lane, but there is so little traffic that it doesn't matter. We'll not see a dual carriageway until we reach the outskirts of Hobart and this will come as a shock, a temporary end to the time warp. The towns are so small that it seems a bit of a cheek to mark them boldly on the map. Blink, and you can miss most of them. They have corner shops that sell newspapers, tins of baked beans and frozen sausages. There is usually a small butcher's shop, too, and a petrol station. But you'll not find department stores or large supermarkets. Just outside Launceston we are in the countryside. There are no suburbs. You either live in town or you don't. It's as simple as that. And after we leave, it is rural all the way. Tasmanians outside the towns must drive to visit their next-door neighbour. It makes you wonder why the early settlers tried to wipe out the Aborigines. Some 200 years later, there is still room for all, with plenty to spare. Indeed, many young people are leaving Tasmania, heading over to the mainland, the men to find work, the women to find men with work. Here, the lifestyle is laid-back, the scenery is terrific, the houses are cheap, and gardens are measured by the acre. Paradise deserted. From Launceston, we drive to the hamlet of St Marys, puzzling over the large numbers of wallaby and possum carcasses on the road. There's hardly any traffic, but we soon learn the wildlife is prolific. Driving after dark can be hazardous. We pass through the hills to Bicheno, a tiny, former whaling port on the east coast, just in time to take the evening penguin tour. There are signs warning motorists to watch out for penguins crossing the road, but the whalers have a lot to answer for. They decimated the whales, clubbed the seals nearly to extinction, and their cats pounced on the penguins. When they arrived in the 19th century, there were thousands of penguins. Fifteen years ago, when steps were taken to protect Bicheno's penguins, there were only 40 left. Now their numbers have risen to around 700. The cats are still causing havoc though, just as they are in national parks where wild birds fall prey to them. But Tasmania is still an ornithologist's dream come true. Now locals in Bicheno must have their cats tagged, by law. Marksmen are employed to protect the penguins, with orders to shoot on sight. The following morning I'm up at dawn and climb the hill overlooking the sea. This is where the whalers watched for those great mammals. When I reach the summit, I find I have been beaten to it. A middle-aged man is staring out to sea with a mug of tea in his hand. He has a strong Yorkshire accent. Joe left England to emigrate here six years ago. He's a stonemason, and has a faraway look in his eyes. He confides that he came to start anew, but has since split up with his wife. Anyway, it's a good, peaceful life, he says, and the views from up here are fine. He climbs up with a steaming cuppa every morning. The population here is only around 1,200 but it swells to 4,000 on summer weekends when the yachties come up from Hobart. They have built second homes in Bicheno. The whalers are long gone, but there's a small fishing fleet. You can take a ferry over to Maria Island further down the coast, one of the convict settlements. Sleep in the old penitentiary if you wish; it's said to be spartan but no longer grim. But we make a detour to Richmond instead. With more than 50 colonial buildings, it is Tasmania's most historic town, a step back in time. The population numbers less than 1,000, but it was once a strategic military post, and yes, of course, it has a jail. This prison impresses me more than any other I see in Tasmania, because it is just as it was when it was opened in 1825, five years before the infamous penitentiary at Port Arthur was built. I step into one of the tiny solitary confinement cells - they measure one by two metres - and close the heavy door behind me. It's pitch black, claustrophobic. Convicts were locked in here with festering whip-wounds for up to a month. We leave hurriedly and thanking God we are here in happier times, to enjoy fresh oysters, individual home-baked steak pies just like mother used to make 'em, and fine wine at the Richmond Wine Centre. Owner Mary Black moved here from Scotland with her husband Willie, a chef, 30 years ago and she still has a broad Glaswegian accent. She asks how we want our oysters. I look puzzled. 'Raw, with lemon juice,' I tell her. 'Y'know, lots of people ask me to bake them,' she says. 'It's criminal, isn't it?' I chuckle. Perhaps it would have been in the 19th century. Across the road, nostalgia prevails in the boiled sweets shop. The smell of aniseed is overpowering and I'm in my glory, back to my early schooldays, leaving with bags of liquorice, humbugs, aniseed balls and acid drops. The convict trail has only just begun. Port Arthur next, Hobart, and then the Wild Way to Strahan, and brutal Sarah Island where prisoners eventually won back their dignity and became boat-builders. But there's much more, of course. We're thrilled by the dramatic scenery of the Tasman Peninsula, shaped by ferocious seas; the seemingly endless World Heritage rain forest and salmon-filled rivers of the west; beautiful Cradle Mountain National Park and Cradle Lodge with its gourmet food and log fires; and the Tamar Valley vineyards. But 10 days and 1,600 kilometres prove not nearly enough to explore this diverse and beautiful state.