Arrivals & Departures A mega milestone for Stephen Scourfield

This column is usually a (hopefully) slightly eclectic mix of news and tips, information and the odd joke. And the odd very odd joke, come to that.

And that’s just what it will be next week, and every week in 2026, as we rip through what’s looking like a busy Travel year for our two successful supplements.

Saturday Travel is officially the “top and most read” editorial section of The West Australian and Sunday Travel is the same in The Sunday Times.

But, in this “quiet time” for the travel industry, between Christmas and New Year, I’m taking the moment to mix things up a bit, as I’d like to tell you about three 40th anniversaries…

HOW THIS ALL CAME TO BE

I left England on Christmas Day, 1985 (ruining Christmas for my dear mother), spent a couple of days in Hong Kong, and arrived in Perth on December 30.

It was all timed so that I was ready to start work for West Australian Newspapers on January 1, 1986.

Next Thursday is my 40th anniversary with The West.

And the anniversary of my arrival coincides with the 40th anniversary of what is now Crown. Burswood Casino, as it was, opened, on December 30, 1985.

But before I get to that, let me go back four months earlier.

I was working in London and saw The West’s advertisement for staff in the UK Press Gazette, a magazine for journalists. I had been away on assignment (of course), and was late to apply, so rang The West, then at

125 St Georges Terrace, and spoke to the secretary of editor Don Smith.

She said Mr Smith had already recruited in South Africa, was in London, and was leaving later that day. Then she rang back and said Mr Smith could see me, and I went straight to the hotel where he was staying, in Great Russell Street, and we talked, and he offered me a job.

The late Don Smith was a great West Australian and a great newspaper editor. I still have the typewritten airmail letter that was sent to me confirming my job offer, which ended with Don writing: “Welcome to The West.”

At Newspaper House, I met a young cartoonist who’d recently joined The West. His name was (and is) Dean Alston. We instantly became friends and we’re still friends (despite anything he might tell you to the contrary).

Peter Jeanes was chief sub-editor. We worked together for decades and are still good friends.

Patrick Cornish was foreign editor. We are still best friends and Patrick writes obituaries for the paper, contributes stories to Travel, and together we compile questions for and present our Travel Quiz Nights.

Patrick also worked with me for many years when I was editor of The West Magazine.

Other editors followed Don Smith. Bob Cronin has newspaper ink in his veins. Paul Murray still dazzles me with his depth of knowledge on so many subjects, and his ability to then write simply.

I was assistant editor to Paul, during which time I was the initial editorial project manager for thewest.com.au. During the Sydney Olympics in 2000, our staff of three ran the site 24/7 and had “a million hits a week”. Extraordinary, in its day.

Also during that time, Paul had the idea for The Writers Group — an experienced team of writers that could be let loose on any subject, and I was privileged to lead that.

For the last 23 years, I have been Travel Editor of The West, and now The Sunday Times. I have constantly travelled the world. I have written at least 1000 words a day, every day. I have been accompanied for much of that time by my slightly belligerent suitcase, Casey. In a tiny ship cabin, we even shared a double bed, lying awkwardly side-by-side, a pillow between us.

I have also had more than 10 books published, primarily by St George Books, the book-publishing arm of West Australian Newspapers since before World War II. Perhaps I am most (humbly) proud of a United Nations Media Award for fairness in our publishing.

And I have to say that I have never, ever worked alongside more talented, hardworking and kind colleagues than I do now.

All that has come from a glanced ad in the UK Press Gazette on a cold and rainy day in London in 1985.

I had been working in London and Fleet Street for years, and I was ready for a change. So I sold up everything and came to Perth.

To where?

To Perth.

I can still hear my London friends now.

Why?

Why not.

It was an adventure. And Perth is still an adventure. We’re an odd lot, us Perthites. We’ve consciously chosen to come to, return to or stay in this remote place — with the Nullarbor Plain between us and the rest of Australia, looking out west from an endless rim of golden sand across the Indian Ocean to Africa. A State which takes four days to drive to the northern edge of.

As a sailor, and with the America’s Cup defence in Fremantle to cover in 1987, I was in bliss.

As an outdoorsman, I was in my element, with endless tracks and trails, and camping in the deserts.

As a horseman, I was soon on assignment mustering on horseback with Indigenous stockmen in the Kimberley.

As a motorcyclist. Well, there’s Caves Road.

As a writer, I had this enormous canvas on which to work. And, goodness, I was proud to work for The West.

But the first day in Perth was a shock.

I arrived in Perth in a classic December heatwave. I felt I’d stepped out of a fridge and into a fan-assisted oven. The hot, dry wind on blistering summer days in Perth still feels exciting and dangerous.

Vitalising. Dessicating. Testing. I love it.

A young reporter called Sean Murphy had been sent to Perth Airport to meet me. Sean had grown up on Rottnest Island, where his parents ran the pub. He was bronzed, with the slightly pink eyes of a surfer and hair which I think of as sculpted by salt. He was the first “Aussie” I met, and I paled (in every sense) next to him. Sean began work in journalism in 1979, moved on to the ABC, and was a reporter for Landline from 2002, retiring in July 2024.

Sean dropped me off at the Windsor Motor Lodge, on Great Eastern Highway, where The West was putting me up until I found somewhere to live, and a car.

But on that first day, on December 30, I decided to just walk towards the river and see the city, and find my feet, on my feet.

And so, fresh from London, I walked along Great Eastern Highway. As I approached Burswood Casino, I started to see lots of cars and well-dressed people. It was quite a scene.

I’d come to a small town on the edge of the desert … but, I thought, wow … when they go out in Perth, they really go all out.

Men in black tie; women in the shimmering bright colours of the 80s, hair piled high.

Yep, they really go out on a Saturday night.

I was soon to learn that the opening of what is now Crown was a huge deal in Perth … definitely not an ordinary Saturday night.

Perth in 1986 really did feel isolated. I rang my mother from a phone box, using an international phone card. Before the internet. Before emails and video calls. I felt homesick. I wondered what the hell I was doing here.

I buckled down. I worked. I wrote. I learnt it and came to love it deeply.

And I have done what I’ve always done, since the first day I started work as a writer in 1977. I have worked for you, the reader. And I plan to keep on doing it, here in this remote, weird, stimulating, puzzling, challenging, interesting, engaging and enraging place. Here at The West.