An entire continent surrounded by water, Australia has long been synonymous with oceanside living, marine conservation and leisure pursuits, from surfing and sailing to deep sea fishing and reef diving. And oceans are perhaps even more significant to Western Australia, the state that encompasses around one third of this island nation, with a mainland coastline of its own of almost 13,000km – close to 21,000km if you include its islands. It seems understandable then, when overseas and interstate visitors have sensational locations like the Coral Coast, Ningaloo Reef / Nyinggulu and the northern Kimberley shores vying for their attention – even the capital, Perth / Boorloo, has some of Western Australia’s most unspoiled Indian Ocean beaches – that Western Australia’s second largest city, Mandurah / Mandjoogoordap, is not everyone’s first port of call.

To be perfectly honest, it has also had a bit of a reputational problem, with urbane Western Australians perhaps looking down on Mandurah as a bit of a poor relation, a one-time sleepy fishing village that was good for day trips or affordable summer holidays. But something has shifted in the last decade, and Mandurah’s low key development is now its new appeal. In our current world of over-tourism the historic ‘backwater’ slurs have transformed into gilt-edged compliments amongst those looking to escape the crowds and seek out places further off the beaten track.

Located less than an hour from Perth, and easily reachable by train (the link with Western Australia’s capital opened in 2007), Mandurah is connected to the Indian Ocean via the Dawesville Channel and Harvey Estuary. Sometimes though, and unusually for most places on Australia’s coast, it can feel a million miles away from the open seas. Its unique geography has created the Mandurah Estuary and Peel Inlet, covering 134 square kilometres of shallow estuarine and saline, freshwater and brackish lakes. It comes as something of a surprise to find out that the estuary is twice the size of Sydney Harbour. In 1990, The Peel-Harvey Estuary was listed under the Ramsar Convention (the international treaty, or Convention of Wetlands, signed in Ramsar, Iran in 1971 to protect wetlands and the wildlife ecosystems that thrive around them) as an area of international significance. It also has the largest thrombolite reef in the southern hemisphere at Lake Clifton in Yalgorup National Park, south of the city.

I join Mandurah-born conservationist Natalie Goddard for a walk in the 29-hectare Creery Wetlands Nature Reserve. She tells me that the area was almost lost to development in the 1980s and 1990s, but was fought off by community protests and court action. She’s a bit of an all-rounder – a local dolphin, birdlife and wetlands expert, as well as a river cruise guide. As we unlock the gates to the reserve – it’s gated to keep domestic dogs and cats out of the protected zone, but always open to human visitors – it’s surprising to find such a large area of nature so close to city housing, where samphire, river mint and the humorously-named Aussie succulent, pigface, grow. She points out various bird species (there are over 130 that migrate or live here) and we spot an enormous, white-bellied sea eagle – with a wingspan of around two metres, it’s Australia’s second largest raptor, or bird of prey.

Visible in the distance to the naked eye, I watch through her binoculars as Natalie tells me that 21 species of migratory birds arrive here in October, having lost about 75% of their body weight during their journey from the northerly realms, like Siberia and Alaska. The wetlands “provide a place of safety where they can rest and recover”. We’re on our own for most of the hour or two we spend here, though one other pair of walkers appear, as does a little kangaroo, who’s called to by Natalie with a gentle clicking sound she’s obviously perfected. It stays in the brush and doesn’t move at all, as we approach for a better look, making eye contact with us for some time before eventually hopping off.

Natalie tells me about the important community action that has driven positive change in Mandurah, involving key stakeholders from local Aboriginal Elders to government, tourism board and volunteer groups. Once a year, Birdlife Australia is responsible for a bird count, usually in February, and the Peel Preservation Group is another volunteer organisation that’s involved in keeping the environment healthy, with beach cleaning operations run alongside Coastal Waste Warriors. “One thing we don’t have an issue with is volunteers – people really care.”

We stop for a coffee and meet Lee Beavis, one of the area’s most active volunteers. Originally from New Zealand, she’s been in Western Australia for 27 years and is something of a stalwart of the Western Australian Seabird Rescue service. She shows me the back of her vehicle, filled with every kind of basket, cage, blanket and device to help her capture and transport injured animals to the nearest wildlife hospital. If locals spot an issue, it’s often Lee who gets called out.

The thriving population of 80-90 Pacific bottlenose dolphins (kwillana in the indigenous local language) living in the Peel-Harvey Estuary year-round, is what brought world-renowned dolphin expert Dr Krista Nicholson to the area – there’s also a coastal community around the Dawesville Cut. Dr Nicholson, of Murdoch University, leads the Mandurah Dolphin Research Project, exploring in particular the social nature of this community, as well as their role in the ecology of the coastal and estuarine waters. She’s currently working on research into live stranding and fishing line entanglement, doing a huge amount to educate the community. She’s out of state when I visit, but I hear her name a lot. Mandurah is working hard to educate people on sustainable fishing, with advice on what to do if they snag a bird or discover an injured animal. The various dolphin action groups, like Estuary Guardians Mandurah started in 2015 by John Tonkin College students and teachers, demonstrate that citizen science and collaborative action are core threads in the fabric of this region.

The group of dolphins here is a rather special one, according to Natalie, as the separation from the ocean keeps them to their own community. “That’s what drives Krista’s passion. It’s such a unique population of dolphins.” Some may leave for adventures further afield, but new arrivals are always driven back by the various inhabitants, keen to keep these waterways to themselves. “Dolphins are territorial. Occasionally, young juvenile males might venture off and never come back, but no new ones can come in.” And it’s for that reason, Natalie tells me, that they can identify all the local dolphins from their fins. It’s also why she sends out her drone to search for any stranded or sick animals, taking care to keep an eye on expectant mothers, and adding any new arrivals to the community count. “If any of the mature females die, we lose the calves they’re going to have,” and that would be disastrous for the population. Every three years a female will have a new calf, and she tells me about Nicky, one female she’s monitored for years – “I’ve seen eight of her calves come into the world.” The young are born between January and March, and they are expecting nine or ten in 2024.

Talk to anyone here, and you realise that locals, some of whom have relocated from the capital for a quieter life, do not take this environment for granted. The development of an artificial canal system created much desired and upmarket waterside housing, but a community class action group stopped the further loss of wetlands. Mandurah has risen to prominence as a place where community spirit is saving wildlife and wild spaces, but it’s also pioneering accessible tourism, with all-terrain wheelchairs, accessible boat trips and beach matting so that everyone can reach the water’s edge. Mandurah’s success seems to have sprung from encouraging its citizens to take part in its ecological health, and it seems to be paying off. It’s no wonder that Mandurah was given the accolade of Australia’s top tourism town in 2023.

It’s not news for the Bindjareb people of the Noongar Nation however, who chose it as one of only a few significant meeting places in Western Australia, calling it Mandjoogoordap, or ‘meeting place of the heart’. Going back perhaps as far as 60,000 years to the beginnings of indigenous Australian communities, the unique estuarine geography enabled Aboriginal peoples to create their own natural weir, helped by winter rains which forced shoals of fish through these channels, encouraging widely scattered Noongar communities to come together to feast and connect.

The Aboriginal communities of Mandurah are the Custodians of the lands, which encompass waterways, rivers, lakes, the estuaries, ocean and coastal plains. They’ve always valued and understood how the connected ecosystems of any landscape are as significant for human health as they are for wildlife, and Natalie tells me about Aboriginal Elder George Walley and his extended family who continue to pass on their ancestral knowledge, teaching and working with young people on projects to instil some of the old ways.

As the local Bindjareb people say, it’s ‘Ngalang Kaadadjan, Ngalang Boodja’, or ‘Our Knowledge, Our Land’, and they have an important origin story of how the inlet was formed, the legacy of which can be seen in the architecture of the city. The curved seawall in Mandurah’s central bay is built to reflect the shape of the Wagyl, an important spirit of the Noongar Nation. This rainbow serpent or snake is seen as the giver of life, maintaining all fresh water sources. And on Mandurah Bridge, the welcome sign for visitors to Bindjareb country is written in both Noongar and English, for everyone to feel included. Cycling over it, one can’t help but feel the importance of belonging here, which is reinforced by the friendliness of complete strangers who greet you as you pass by.  Even Julie, at the Bike Kiosk, offers to drive me out to see some local sights the next day, going way beyond the usual ‘Here’s your bike, bring it back at 6 please’.

Mandurah obviously made an impact on world-famous Danish recycle artist Thomas Dambo too, who settled on the city as the ideal natural environment for five of his new giants, made from recycled wood.

Around the world these playful trolls look out over natural settings, from mountains to forests or coastal viewpoints. With the same ethos as the Bindjareb people, the Mandurah Giants are protectors of the environment, hugging trees or holding their arms up in excited welcome and celebration of the ocean, like Santi Ikto, the 7m tall cross-legged troll on a grassy dune at Hall’s Head. And Yaburgurt Cirkelstone in Coodanup is named in honour of a respected Elder of the Bindjareb people. This giant is playfully propped up on his forearms, holding onto a piece of local limestone. Backed by bushland, he’s relaxed and laying out on the sand, allegedly overfull from feasting on too many crabs.

I join a Murray River tour with Mandurah Cruises, and, as we leave the marina and its clutch of hotel complexes and restaurants behind, we pass by several people kayaking. It feels strange to be heading inland, instead of out to sea. It’s less the quintessential Australian sea cruise, of which I have done many, and more reminiscent of the deep south of the USA, or Florida’s Everglades.

The further we head away from the coast, the more we start to see colonies of sandbar-dwelling pelicans and cormorants, and older, wooden houses lining the shores of the Murray River. It’s quite a sight to see people walking on water here, crabbing for the famous native blue swimmer, or manna crab, with nets, in the traditional style of Aboriginal hunters who for millennia have waded in the shallows, through mangroves and over sandbars.

We leave the boat briefly to visit Cooper’s Mill on Cooleenup Island. Now a museum, the mill once served settlers in the 19th century, grinding crops that were brought to the mill owner via the river. On the way there, our guide points to a pair of tawny frogmouth birds, camouflaged so well in the paperbark tree that only someone as knowledgeable about the landscape would be able to spot them.

Having spent the day on the water, it’s hard to leave it behind. After disembarking, I take a last walk around Mandjar bay. I watch as West Australia’s iconic black swan, the bird emblem of the state and after which Perth’s original ‘Swan River Colony’ was first named, swims in to take a sip of fresh water from a flowing stream. Further along a flock of gulls have found another source of freshwater. I continue on around the foreshore, beyond the jetties where boys fish with lines, surrounded by patient pelicans, waiting for a minnow that might wriggle free.

As the sun gets lower on the horizon, it seems more apparent to me how entwined so many people are in Mandurah with their environment. At dusk I find people who’ve left the comfort of their living rooms or backyards, to see the day’s end, most likely hoping to witness dolphins feeding in the fading light. None of us is disappointed, as both a pelican and a bottlenose glide over to the water’s edge. “Oh, you should have seen the sky the other day. It was blazing,” says an elderly man sitting on a bench. As the sky turns orange, he utters quietly, almost to himself, “It’s the best view in the world.”