Ten days, six walks. That’s what the itinerary said. But what’s an itinerary: a set of aspirations? A rough plan of what you might do? Perhaps more commonly thought of as an iron clad guarantee that everything would be all right, and that you do/ see all the things that are on that list. Directive. Yes. Except that this one had been constructed not quite at random but pretty close. According to whim and with barely plausible ambitions. Just getting on a plane for a start … what an idea. I had almost forgotten how. Booking things … it seemed like an impertinence, or if not an impertinence, a fairly low confidence flutter.
But eventually the Tamar Estuary unfolded beneath us, there was a (wildly expensive) car at the Budget depot, and Lonnie was still there in all its two- and three-storey glory.
It’s quiet after 8 apart from the hoons with the announcements from their straight thru exhausts bouncing off the empty streets and the valley walls. Tassie. Wonderful.
Why go to Tassie? Because you tried to last year on almost exactly the same dates and you couldn’t. That’s one reason. There are others. It’s the attractive forthrightness of the Jacqui Lambies. It’s looking at the results of consuming too many, far too many, Banjo’s pastries. It is an encounter with taste unfettered by fashion. It’s watching people have a go because they can. (That applies to bulldozing trees as much as it does to saving them.) It’s seeing the consequences of living proximately but feeling isolated. It’s getting your feet wet in history — all those preserved buildings and picturesque precincts, the back of Launceston’s waterfront, the golden sandstone of Hobart’s older houses, the Hope and Anchor being the oldest continuously licenced pub in Australia, the gruesome stories attached to Port Arthur, Sarah and Maria Islands, Eaglehawk Neck, not to mention the colonial treatment of its Indigenous population. History is also being lived as you watch in a form of participatory time shift. Is it 70s? 80s? Could it be in part the 1950s? And then there is MONA which is an assemblage and reflection of all these things.
Any one of those things would draw you, but probably for us the winners are the geography and climate, its natural world.
It is by no means all pristine wilderness. But even where it isn’t there is often a lot to drink in and respond to.
And there’s this of course.
But then …
That’s why ten days, six walks.
• • • • • • • •
Mount Arthur (Indigenous name unknown)
Mount Arthur (1188m asl) is 30 kms north-east of Launceston. Guides say four hours up and back; we took five. Guides say 8.5-9.5 kms all up; after wandering all over the top, my GPS said 11.8. It is called a popular walk, but I think only with afficionados and people who care. The track does not look heavily used.
We’d been there before and been rebuffed. You leave the car at the end of a dirt road sort of in someone’s quite isolated front yard and, like a lot of walks, it starts very steeply. But in this case, after a very brief concession, it gets steeper. And then there’s a boulder field. And then to get to the top you climb bigger boulders. Last time, years ago, we started late, it was pouring rain, we got to the boulder field and I’d had enough. But I remember the track as having shown real promise and you like to get to the top just to see what’s what. And as it turns out it is a wonderful walk, reasonably hard (for the aged) but with a real reward from the top.
Turapina / Ben Lomond
Turapina contains the second highest peak in Tasmania. A number of outcrops surround a massive boulder field plateau. The least prepossessing, Legge’s Tor is (at 1572m) the highest of these. We’ve walked here quite a lot, usually a 12km loop starting at ‘Carr Villa’, now a classy Scout Camp, and climbing up through the Big Opening to the plateau, across the Plains of Heaven (true), and down Jacob’s Ladder back to the car.
Conditions have also varied including once when the temperature dropped about 15 or more degrees in 10 minutes, almost too quickly to properly notice and get the gloves on. This photo was taken on one of those snowy days.
But it wasn’t like that when we arrived this time, a blowy overcast day with no hint of snow.
The knees were still recovering from Mt Arthur the previous day, so we drove up to the ski village and walked across the plateau to Legge’s Tor, a few kilometres, not much more than a stroll really.
Apsley Gorge (Indigenous name unknown)
There are two Apsley Gorges within 30 kilometres of each other, one on the Douglas River and one on the Apsley River, both in the east coast Douglas-Apsley National Park, unusual in Tasmania for being dry eucalypt forest. I don’t know much about the first one, but the second has a walk attached to it.
It can be a there and back, or it can be a loop, either way roughly the same distance, around six kms. The point about the loop, however, is that you walk back down, and in, the river. We had been here 20 years before and I hadn’t been properly prepared but the idea of working your way through the gorge and then down the river held major attractions. There’s a lot of pleasure to be had rock-hopping your way down a river.
Whatever your choice you can’t go anywhere without first crossing it.
You immediately notice the difference in the forest: lots of varieties of eucalypt with native pines, blackwood and grasses as well, but ratty to my untutored eye in a way that the rainforests aren’t. That said, mea culpa, this Park contains more than half of all eucalypt species found in Tasmania, a huge range of flowering plants and grasses and a great variety of wild life. None of which we saw, just as it happens.
The track rises over a headland for several kilometres and then descends sharply into the Gorge.
We thought about it, doing the loop and going back down the river, and did some modest reconnaissance. The advice is ‘if the river is knee deep in the wade across to the entry do not attempt the walk through the gorge.’ There had been some recent big rains on the east coast but it was just mid-calf. I knew that choice entailed more than a dozen river crossings, and that there are bits which you could run along and there are bits where you have to work your way through past vertical cliffs on at least one side. I watched Jan and Al, two fit 50 year-olds from Perth, do one crossing pushed around by the current and wet up to mid thigh and and thought, if it was 10 centimetres lower … but it wasn’t. Not in the mood. So we turned back into the few hundred steps to get out of the gorge and went back the way we’d come.
On return we sat here at Apsley Waterhole and had a cup of tea. This rocky-bottomed pool is apparently a favourite of swimmers and one guy did turn up to glissade into the very cold water. We were waiting for Jan and Al, as one does, and an hour and quarter after we got back they appeared, stumbling through that rock at the upper end of the pool, having had an adventure. We cheered and clapped and exchanged phone numbers. But then there were the two 20 yo girls who had also chosen to come back down the river. We rescued one from a mightily engorged leech before they left. They didn’t seem quite as well prepared. We left. Al did some work on their van, but Jan waited for them. Two and a half hours. That’s a big day out in the gorge. Glad we didn’t. Another time.
Tiarra-Marra-Monah / Maria Island
We went to Tiarra-Marra-Monah, which probably no-one anywhere ever calls Tiarra-Marra-Monah, because we hadn’t been there before. It is significant because the figure-8 island, the two parts of which are connected by McRae Isthmus, is a National Park entire. There is no shop, no car, very basic accommodation in the old penitentiary, wildlife tamed by people looking not touching, and lots of other beautiful things. And you can only get there by ferry.
The ferry was a puffer jacket and walking boot fashion show, North Face, Mountain Designs and Kathmandu all heavily represented. As evident it was a most beautiful autumn day. We hired bikes because there was a lot to see and walking wouldn’t allow us to do what we wanted which was to visit the Painted Caves and then make an attempt on Bishop and Clerk, two 700m dolerite columns on the northern end of the island.
The Painted Cliffs did not disappoint. After a 100m walk along a beach, around a jutting corner were these cliffs, limestone stained along its strata by millennia of dripping iron. These cliffs are about 6-8 metres high and in full sun would have been simply amazing.
The walk to Bishop and Clerk — to the top of the Bishop really, only very good rock climbers could get up the Clerk — starts quite high on top of some ocean cliffs and its first third is quite amiable, a steady but reasonably gentle climb through forest.
This is a popular walk. There is another climb on the island up Mount Maria more difficult to reach and more difficult when you get there. But it would seem that most people who visit the island have Bishop and Clerk in their sights. There were probably about 80 people on the track with us which, while not Bourke Street, is pretty unusual. They ranged from young hippies dancing across the scree field in bare feet (‘See?! It’s just a matter of choice.’) to people who really should have consulted their doctor before setting out. Some at least of these rested at the scree field (‘scree’ smaller than ‘boulders’ but used apparently interchangeably in this location) and turned around. Some I think had never seen a boulder field before and they can look like a rock wall.
And this one is a bit annoying. It goes on beyond your expectations, you keep turning blind corners and there it is again. More! Bugger. It had captured the trekkers’ imagination. And then, when you’re through it, you look up and think you’re nearly there. But you’re not. There’s another 20 minutes.
Quite a lot of advice is offered (brochure, guide, map, bloke who rented us the bikes) not to do the last 50 metres. But really, you know … as if. You’ve got that far. You’ve beaten the scree field. What danger could lurk that would stop you from here? But sure enough there’s quite a boulder in the way, a couple of metres high with a negative face to climb onto. That is a face that slopes down rather than up, and that says in a quiet but menacing voice, you’re going to slide off here. But there are a couple of footholds in the right places and a crack that you can get your fingers into for purchase and, like most people on the mountain that day, we got to the top. I felt renewed.
Kunanyi / Mt Wellington
You turn the corner on the way in from the airport and, bang, there it is. The Mountain. What’s the weather like in Hobart? Is there any snow on The Mountain? Can you see the Organ Pipes or are they muffled in cloud? We hadn’t come from the airport but we were coming in that road. There are other cities with natural features that announce them — Sydney has the harbour, Rio the Sugarloaf, New York Manhattan — but Hobart has The Mountain. It doesn’t really need a name but all the signage these days says ‘kunanyi / Mt Wellington’, a change legislated in 2013, and one of the State’s inaugural dual-named geographic features. So hurrah for that. Why would you want a mountain like this, here, named after an English Duke who helped supervise, at a distance, the fighting of a war with the French, half a world away geographically and much further culturally.
We’ve done a lot of walking on The Mountain — near a capital city of walkers it’s covered in tracks — and have preferences. We’d had a great family day in Nubeena and were ready for a climb. So, start at The Springs, up the Ice House Track, stiff but quick, to the top and clamber across the South Wellington track to the summit (1271m for interest). Down the Panorama Track to the Chalet and then along Organ Pipes back to the car. Might be about 12kms. Ideal really.
I noticed a few spots of rain on the cars as we left downtown Hobart but hardly any on the ground. But by the time we got to Fern Tree the gutters were running quite hard and further on up to The Springs the walls of the cuttings had sprung leaks. Water was squirting out of them, something I’d never seen before. Clearly a day for the raincoats. We were putting them on and getting organised when a bloke came over with something for us to see on his phone. He was track-builder and his gang had been up, as it happened, on Ice House Track. He showed us a video of his mate mid-calf in the torrent that was the Ice House Track. There might have been next to no rain in Hobart, Australia’s second driest capital, but a few kilometres away as the crow flies The Mountain had had 80mm overnight. He was going home and suggested we revise our plans. Fair point, and achievable. We could use tracks that ran more closely with the contours rather than perpendicularly across them.
Looks fine doesn’t it: the Lenah Valley Track before traversing up to the Organ Pipes. Panorama up to the summit. Back the same way. We’d gone 200m when we heard this noise.
We were reasonably out of it, but the floor of the forest was running and making a great watery racket. Sort of a marvel in its own way and rather than diminish the pleasure of the walk re-directed it.
Our feet stayed reasonably dry till we needed to go up the Summit Track to the Organ Pipes. And then they didn’t. Make sure the sound is turned up.
There are plenty of boulder fields to walk across on the ‘front’ of The Mountain. Adding to the dimensions of sensory experience we experienced while doing so was listening to very active subterranean watercourses somewhere beneath us grunting and shlooooshing away.
Something special seems to happen to the colours of vegetation in the wet. This talks to walkers. I know because of the incidence of photos just like this one.
The one minute that the cloud parted allowing us to see what was below, probably the northern suburbs Glenorchy way.
It could have looked like this, but it mattered not one wit.
We hadn’t been to Meander Falls before and they sounded promising. They weren’t in my standard guidebook (the excellent Day Walks In Tasmania by John and Monica Chapman), and the advice about the walk was various. Some young adventurer reports (with selfie) on the internet that he had run there and back in 2.5 hours which would make him a) a world-record holding rogainer and b) quite likely a combination of a dickhead and bullshit artist. But that’s the internet for you.
I forgot to un-pause my Map My Walks so I don’t know how far to say we walked. The signs tend to concentrate on times and congregate around 5-6 hours. In intermittent bouts of rainfall, we took six with lunch and time spent ogling.
The first third (a theme is emerging here) is a stroll through beech forest next to the Meander which on this particular day was boiling, fabulous. Compared to the northern floods it was nothing of course, but in this micro-environment it was hurling down, noisy company almost all the way.
The track is officially: ‘Formed earthen track, few obstacles. Generally a modified surface, sections may be hardened. Width: variable and less than 1200mm. Kept mostly clear.’ This is a reasonably representative section of it in the second third.
The river remained company until the last third when the track veers away, still climbing steeply, to circumvent a rocky prominence. But exquisite scenery everywhere.
One feature of this walk was the range of fungi we saw, must have been 20 or 30 types, each seeming to be trying to outdo the other in terms of colour and form.
The approach to the falls — on this wet wet day; we were lucky — was signalled at some distance by their noise, a constant and increasing roaring. There’s a flattish bit across the top of a headland, very wet in this instance, before the curtain goes up. But then the curtain does go up.
When the tops haven’t disappeared into the mist the two drops are round 90 dramatic metres. They’re not the Victoria or Niagara Falls, but gee it was fun to see them. Maybe it’s the effort of getting there, or maybe it’s the cup of tea.
In Janice Gregg’s lovely photo of the Cape Otway coastline, the rock platform extending sometimes 50-80m out into the Southern Ocean is just visible.
Seventeen years ago (seems like yesterday etc etc) our friend Dennis took us for a walk along a section of these platforms from Blanket Bay to Parker River only at one point needing to navigate a big watery incursion. It was a memorable walk for all sorts of reasons: the pleasure and ease of walking on smoothed rock, the strong sense of being somewhere between the punch of the waves and the scale of the cliffs which sometimes towered above, but beyond anything I think it was the extraordinary shapes and patterns in the platform itself that iced the cake.
We spent a few days in the Otways after Christmas this year and I thought that walk was something I would like to do again. We couldn’t make it work but with Dennis again and Richard his son we did walk along through the forest on top of the cliffs between those two inlets, a section of the Great Ocean Walk and very pleasant in itself.
But we found another section of platform closer to where we were staying at Apollo Bay that had just as much interest:
the point at Marengo to Shelly Beach, at low tide.
Some of this is a part of the Great Ocean Walk as well — near enough to the beginning of it — but that track takes you off the rock up into the hills, in fact up and over Bald Hill directly in front of us here.
There was some company …
… but again it was the shapes and patterns that got me in. Quite a high proportion of the rock here is basalt, so full of holes.
And so full of life …
I read them, went home, and thought about what they had to say.
We’d been here before too. Twice. Recently. The second last time water was spilling over the ledge above.
It was winter and for the very first time we had discovered the Falls of Gar (‘Mt Difficult‘), one of the new sections of track of the recently opened Grampians Peaks Trail. We’d found the three falls, all running at the time, but only got about a third of the way along this section. It was quite a shock that it was all so new and familiar only in a generalised Grampians-y way. I must have driven past here scores of times in complete ignorance of these formations.
So on a beautiful day with additional company we repeated the first few kilometres.
Look at the quality of this work. Construction of the new elements of the track cost $37m. I say it’s worth it; but then I would.
The climb goes up one stage before the bumpy little peaks begin, and you have a long generous walk on the flat for a couple of kilometres.
This is the view one way (west).
And this is the view in the other direction,
to an amazing ampitheatre with a host of striking formations and an unusually fine echo.
There are two large rock shelters under the peak of this slope which are likely to have paintings in them. But the art is everywhere.
I had been looking for the old track to Gar and found it. It begins at this little trace and then goes more or less straight up the face.
And then there was getting down.
The old track takes over and you descend a couple of hundred metres in a couple of hundred metres to the pool at the bottom of Beehive Falls.
I have never seen more than a finger line of water coming over the falls themselves but this pool is always there for refreshment. I think it was about 10km by the time we got back to the car, but hard to imagine a better spent 10km. Glorious.
The Big Finish
A luxury finish to what is really just a collection of holiday snaps: a Corymbia in flower outside our unit in Apollo Bay, one of dozens in the street plantings.
Once called Flowering Gums, Corymbia were declared a genus separate to eucalypts in 1990. They are called ‘Corymbia’ because a corymb has a flattish top with a superficial resemblance towards an umbel, and may have a branching structure similar to a panicle. You’ll be saying to yourself: of course, of course. Why does he have to go over that stuff?.
This is a Fraisier cake (think French think strawberries) with Diplomat cream and marzipan icing. Phwooaaar. Regardless of how it tastes (one down from sublime, needs cream to push it over the top), it looks wonderful with those rugged little adventures of custard and the carefully piped (home made) chocolate hearts. It was made for a special occasion, the first time the six friends in one of the photos on the wall had seen each other and eaten together — normally a regular event — in seven months.
It never made it. There was a domestic outbreak of Covid which precluded mingling.
How often has that happened in the last two years. You think you might be on the brink of some sort of return, a recovery, when the phone pings and there’s news of a new outbreak and a return to rules which have become both familiar and irksome in a passive sort of way. Just a tired sigh. The brief frisson of the panic buying of toilet rolls or people whizzing up cheerful little memes to brighten the pandemic day … that’s all long gone. So very 2020.
We’ve been locked down for 262 of the 531 days from March 14 2020 to the latest lifting of restrictions, 49 percent of the time, which included two long grey winters.
But if the Fraisier cake didn’t reach its intended mouths, there was a workaround and it was consumed anyway and with considerable enthusiasm. That’s also a story of the pandemic. Managing. Amid a particular sort of peace. Cleaner air, less traffic, less socialising, a lot less socialising, finding a nest and burrowing into it, deeper and deeper as time goes by. My Big Issue seller, just back in business, tells me he enjoyed the lockdowns and wishes there were more of them. Quiet. Not taxing.
But one thing, a bad thing, a taxing thing, that had happened was that art of all sorts had been swallowed into one of the pandemic’s all consuming sloughs. No concerts, no soirees, no shows, no galleries. It was a reminder of how public the experience of art must always be.
In mid-2021 the RISING Festival, already postponed once, was designed to bring all this back with a rush, a huge rush, the sort Melbourne has always been able to supply so capably: 183 art, performance, music and food events, featuring over 850 local artists; 36 significant new works commissioned especially for the festival were to be unveiled, many of them to be on a massive scale.
It opened on May 26; 180,000 tickets had been sold to the various events. When it closed due to lockdown on May 28, not many of those tickets had been used. A catastrophe for those closely involved, and a bitter disappointment for many members of the potential audiences.
One of the party pieces of RISING was going to be Patricia Piccinini’s huge exhibition, ‘A Miracle Constantly Repeated’, exciting not least because of its location, the top floor of Flinders Street Station, somewhere most Melbournians have never been.
What is up there? An expansive eyrie? A ghost house? Who has even looked up from the hat shop, the hip hoppers and the homeless on that particular stretch of Flinders Street? But look at it. It could be a palace. Australia’s oldest railway station and once the busiest in the world. You may have sat on the steps ‘under the clocks’ waiting for a friend, but did you know they are heated so they’ll stay dry?
The Victorian Heritage database says: ‘The architectural style of the building is unique in Victoria, broadly Edwardian Free Style strongly influenced by French public architecture of the 1900s. The symmetrical composition of the main sections, the use of giant order, heavily rusticated piers, squat domes, broad arches and the figures in relief over the arches of the original design [which never eventuated] display this influence.
‘The design as executed, with an extra floor added, also includes elements found in architecture in Melbourne at the time, especially the use of red brick contrasted with coloured cement render and the grouping of windows vertically under tall arches.
‘While the building was originally welcomed as an ornament to the city, the influence of modern architectural opinions in the post WWII period saw the building derided as eclectic, ugly and tasteless, a view which still persists in some quarters.‘ A story also circulated that the post had confused the proposals and that this design was actually meant for the central station in Mumbai (Bombay).
James Fawcett and H P Ashworth were the designers. During the course of construction the Public Works Department modified their plans significantly. (You might anticipate that. See, eg, the Sydney Opera House.) Fawcett was a designer for Wunderlich as well as an architect and the acres of pressed tin in this building as well as thousands of others are according to his patterns.
For most of the building’s life the top floor was mainly used by the Victorian Railways Institute. The Victorian Railways Institute: ‘designed to encourage a corporate culture to counteract trade union influence by providing educational, social and recreational facilities for railway employees’. A curate’s egg of a very good idea. Its headquarters at the station included a concert hall, a 400-yard running track round the roof and a lecture hall at the Elizabeth Street end, which was converted to a Ballroom around 1930. Many of these facilities were available for hire by outside groups and by the ’50s the top floor of the station was home to 120 cultural, social and sporting organisations: cat lovers, rose devotees, debaters, poetry afficionados … the works. This function continued until the Institute moved out in 1984. The last ball was held in the ballroom in May 1985.
The railways were privatised in the 1990s, and the rail operators, Connex then Metro, took little interest in maintaining the station. But the condition of such a distinctive feature of the city could hardly be ignored. In 2012 the Liberal government held a competition for its refurbishment. Hassell and Herzog & de Meuron won the million dollar prize, but their plan would have cost $2billion to realise, something the judges probably should have taken into consideration.
Coming to power in 2015, the new Labor government provided a grant of $100 million for ‘urgent works to repair the station’s crumbling exterior and clock tower, and to fix the leaky roof.’ Nothing comes cheap at this scale. All the money was spent.
This is part of the third floor corridor reached by climbing 90 steps unless you are desperate to go up in one of the two lifts. This corridor on the south side from which all the rooms exit was exactly 300 of my steps from one end to the other, so round 250 metres. A physical experience of perspective. But that’s not what you are noticing is it?
You’re thinking, good gracious, look at that. What do you actually get for $100m?
* * * * * *
On the allotted day, we work our way through the fast food bohemia which is the bottom end of Elizabeth Street, home to the indigent and the edgy, always restless with a particular sort of energy, through the shuttered shops and signs of urban struggle. More than the ‘i’s have been taken out of Mag Nation. It’s all gone, the whole of it; and the Lord of the Fries must be surveying his domain elsewhere too.
The conscientious young people at the very modest entrance check our double-vaxxed status, our masks and our digital tickets because, despite all, Patricia Piccinini, ‘A Miracle Constantly Repeated’, was on. Where it was supposed be on. In the top floor of Flinders Street Station.
This is ‘The Carrier’, a highlight of Piccinini’s 2013 hit exhibition in New York.
It has some of the characteristics of her work more generally. One is the extraordinary degree of technical accomplishment (for which she is not solely responsible. In the notes to this show Piccinini acknowledges a vast team of helpers involved in the brilliant fabrication, including a nails and manicure salon.) It is also usually perplexing. Members of the American audience wondered whether or not both of these figures were hybrids, … and why both weren’t clothed? So, yes, fleshy as well. Often. Hyper-realism applied to unreal figures. So surrealism? I suppose so, in the strictest sense. And er … a bit repellent. Ron Mueck also does hyper-real figures in silicone and I find his work more easily assimilable.
So beyond a day out and the chance to have a look at the upper regions of the station my expectations were not off the scale. But then I have forgotten to say that her work is also amazingly inventive: the busiest of brains hard at work and willing to give you a look at what’s inside. So not to be too lightly dismissed.
This is how Patricia introduces her show:
If you asked me to sum up my practice in one word, that word would be ‘relationships’. You will see relationships everywhere in my work, between people and animals, and things and the world, between the artificial and the natural.
I started thinking about this exhibition in early 2020. First there were the bushfires, and then there was COVID. I mean, it was scary. But I didn’t want to just make work that reproduced that fear. Because I know how I react when I’m confronted by the scariness: I just freeze. I don’t want to freeze people. I would like there to be room for action, and for hope.
So, I wanted to make a show that acknowledges the challenges we face, but also celebrates resilience: our resilience as people, but also nature’s resilience.
I wanted to think about life itself, and marvel at the sheer unstoppable vitality of the living world around us.’
I thought, yes, that is entirely possible, and perhaps that might be something that we should be exploring more generally. Might be something there worth an additional allocation of sympathy and patience. She’s talking, at the very least, about recovery.
But the setting was speaking to me loudly as well. I looked again at this noble wreck of a building and wondered if we might need to recast the idea of ‘sheer unstoppable vitality’.
Out the grimy windows of the south side was the machinery of daily life and the polished and affectless towers of Southbank. Out the other, highly decorated remnants of grand times in history and commerce.
‘Built 1872’, ‘Rebuilt 1891’ say the large texts on the facade. Once was not enough. Either side of the golden age of ‘Marvellous Melbourne’. If not Victoria sitting enthroned on the apex of the pediment, it will be Britannia. The references are from another time. However, without any idea of what goes on in those top four and half floors — it could be anything — prima facie that building seemed like a sound and going concern.
This patch of Flinders Street is currently defined by the decorative signage of major construction works, although you can only assume that something is going on. Most of the work is underground and the rest is hidden under mass canopies. This is the future taken on faith. Tell me again Dan, when are we going to see something for all this disruption? The whole city sometimes seems like a COVID-ridden worksite, too well-tuned to the undercurrents of aggravation. Need to get a move on pal. The signage, the slow motion of white helmets high-viz jackets yellow boots, the ‘Stop’ and ‘Slow’ lollipops, were making art by themselves. Frozen, they made a big Jeffrey Smart; live, something more like a film set.
It was the same inside: tableaux wherever you looked, intended and unintended.
I started the actual exhibition here and thought, ah gosh: bloke with fleshy thing on his shoulders. Is this going to be a bit of a challenge? But I went to the notes.
… I had heard of the idea of giving personhood to plants to help save our forests, especially our old growth forests …
This led me to think about a work that might imagine a relationship between a person and a plant. But a plant represented with the sort of agency and sentience that allows us to see its connection to us, rather than its difference. I wanted to see the person as a nurturer of the plants rather than just seeing trees and plants as resources to be exploited for our benefit. I wanted to show the life in the plant creature. To me, even though there is an element of strangeness that comes from rendering them as this fleshy hybrid, there is also a sense of its sentience and vitality.
I could see what she was getting at, and it seemed less gross. Nearby were the two girls with a koala in a washing basket, the type of newspaper image which had become familiar during the recent bushfires. It’s not without its complexity: great that you’re doing it; terrible that you have to. I can’t look at it without thinking of our leader who doesn’t hold a hose no matter the type or location of the conflagration. That might make it effective art. It is impossible not to admire the luminous skill of the craft.
Nearby these folk were waiting to watch a video.
How has this combination of animal and human been constructed? Are they humans with tails and a canine nose and mouth? I think probably yes, and I also think that that is not supposed to be where you focus your attention. Patricia suggests we think about now extinct thylacines, Tasmanian Tigers, and the possibility of recreating them from extant genetic material.
One thing I can say is that I love the wonderful, strange diversity of nature. That’s the thing about my work. I’m not here to tell you what we should or shouldn’t do. What I want to do is give you the space to think about it yourself.
‘Space’? Maybe incentive, or motivation.
She points to this painting from the the Bendigo Art Gallery collection, classic Victorian art as social commentary, as one stimulus for ‘While she sleeps’. I’ll use that as an excuse to include it here.
Is it more digestible than the humanoid thylacines? I’m going to say a qualified yes, but why? I think it might be the gent’s hair … But moving right along.
The ‘Cleaner’, a ‘kind of animal/machine chimera – a cross between a leatherback turtle and a vacuum cleaner.’ This is one of the broader tactics of the show: to link fleshy silicon with hard-edged fibre glass, complex organic coloration with solid block primaries. It is helpful perhaps to know that the existence of leatherback turtles is threatened by their propensity to clean up the bags and other pieces of plastic that infest the ocean thinking that they are jellyfish.
This might accord with another very clever thing at work here and elsewhere in the exhibition which is to pitch the focus and the cast (ever so slightly wide) of the eyes so that they look through and beyond you, wistful, into another world.
Meanwhile, out of doors, Tasmania was inviting us to ‘come down for air’. A tease. At the time you couldn’t cross the border. A suitable solecism.
Three art works.
I may have been warming to what she was up to, but I thought this was marvellous. There is the complete surprise of the posture which is nonetheless plausible; the matter being supported doesn’t drip; and the furry creatures appearing here as in many other parts of the show are a comfort. It also seems to work constructively with the lively patterns and colours of disrepair in this room. From the doorway it provides a striking silhouette against its windows.
There was much more including ‘The Couple’, a slightly monstrous couple in bed perhaps post-coitally, a parable apparently of the evils of rejection of difference. In the next room is ‘The Awakening’, a video with pulsing silicon precisely mimicking flesh working to produce something. An egg? A human egg? Hard to take your eyes off it.
Above left is an image from Piccinini’s video. On the right is a photo of the secretion of a human egg, the first she believes ever taken and sent to her by a friend AFTER she had made the video. She associates this work with joy and delight.
I began to wonder if the media she had chosen for communicating her ideas — warmth, positivity, sympathy, concern, delight in life and living — might just be too individual, too couched in a highly personal interior language, to enable them to be easily shared? Just wondering.
Which didn’t make the pieces any less interesting as art. Here in ‘Celestial Field’ we have hundreds of organic forms, the ones emerging from the floor modelled broadly on ovaries coming down into a uterus, the ones from the roof like broached cocoons, and in the middle two motor scooters, ‘The Balance’, in an embrace. I liked this room too. The forest of white shapes seemed to work. They controlled and ordered the space in a way that I think was intended elsewhere but hadn’t come off.
For a start I thought, in keeping with the other resonances in the room, the two motor scooters were engaged in a sexual encounter. But I looked again, several times, and decided it might be more to do establishing positions of domination and submission with overtones of aggression. Piccinini says that ‘The Balance’ is about ‘the naturalisation of technology. These are machines imagined as animals, locked in an ambiguous clinch.’ Yes they are, and in so very accomplished a manner.
Which left the Ballroom.
Finally, some clear signs of the expenditure of $100m. A lot of that exposed strutting in the roof is new. But for some reason no inner cladding. An external door led off to the left straight into thin air. There may have been a, let’s say, smoking balcony there once but there isn’t any more. There are two annexes.
I know these annexes. There would be an urn for the cups of tea (no coffee until 1974, then instant). The cups would be set out on a long tables, perhaps a trestle table, for the big jug of milk and the sandwiches and cakes. Men are unlikely to have been welcome: they wouldn’t know what to do and they would just get in the way. In my version of this annexe there would be kids darting round looking for their mum or trying to pinch a bit of cake before the appropriate time. And it would be called without even thinking about it ‘The Annexe’.
The roofing here and in the near identical one next door is visible, moulded corrugated iron, one skin thick. Nothing. You could make it move by breathing out too emphatically. What was that $100m spent on?
You will notice the decorative tape above the sink. That is historical apparently. The attendants told us that under no circumstances were they to use tape, even Blutack, to stick any notices on the walls. Heritage. So. Heritage. You don’t fix these things up properly, you leave them for (pause … a flourish of trumpets off) HERITAGE. I know about Heritage. It has its good and bad aspects.
But let’s duck back into The Ballroom. On entry La Brava, a diva with engorged canines melded with a running shoe. (Nails by Super Rad Nail Sisters of Fitzroy.)
‘… confidence, pride and beauty. She even has her own light because she is the star. … I think this is a very contemporary way of thinking about the world, to imagine bodies that are not all organic, but exist in between the organic and the artificial. La Brava evades that dichotomy of human and animal and other stuff because she is all of them, and she is revelling in it. I love her!!’
With roots in Tina Turner, and Dame Joan … mmmm, well oui et non.
The main feature in The Ballroom is tree as mirror ball, ‘The Mothertree’.
And in its branches one will find an inadvertent self-portrait among the tangle of ideas.
Up on the band platform is a woman with a creature in a maternal embrace.
Her role might be to show how the space might be both filled and observed. One of the roles of the photo is to show the new metal bracing in the roof and the way the hard plaster has cascaded off the naked brickwork. I am standing on RoggeWood Formwork Plywood which is made in China. That covers most of the floor and adds its own dimension to the cultural story.
Out in the street the trams are also sending messages. ‘You have THE WILL. We have THE WAY’ sounds like something from another more chirpy time. The billboard is working the same vein. ‘The future belongs to the ready’ who appear to be educated at Deakin University and live near the sea. Perhaps in a beach house but not too close to the shoreline.
It had been a significant outing. We had been out, a good start; and we had been out to something … which was even better. And it was art, and interesting art, challenging to some degree and very encouraging in intent if not always in execution. And we had seen the interior of the top floor of the station. More to be done there guys, unless it’s to become a giant series of art studios. That would be a good result wouldn’t it. Suitable. Appropriate.
I started writing this weeks ago. Christmas et al had not intervened. After that excursion I had been left with the sense that things were coming good, that people were out again — such an important thing for a happy city — and that this would be exactly the right place to finish somewhere on Elwood beach near the beginning of the mini-planets.
But then other things happened. I remain positive but not, at this stage, to OMICRON.
Sophie Skarbek has been a dear friend of ours for forty years. Myrna met her at one of Helen Brack’s art classes and they have pursued their interest in art together ever since. But she has become an important part of our social life as well, a character bubbling over with warmth and brightness and a Polish Australian very proud of and interested in her heritage. We seem to have quite a few friends who have Polish backgrounds, enough to awaken a keen interest in the vagaries of Polish history and to spend time travelling there. Sophe was chief among them.
Forty years is quite long enough to see many life changes, some significant like the death of her much admired husband Andrew. So the stories of the forty years beforehand appeared only as hints or passing mentions in another context. For us anyway. Her children might have got stronger doses. But as she has got older the need to connect the parts of those early years and to leave a record has become stronger.
This would be a remarkable story any time: ten years of wandering without any clear destination in parts of the world that might seem, from our parochial perspectives, exotic. Three when it started and 13 when she arrived in Fremantle, Sophie’s story while quite probably endlessly rehearsed in her mind is still an outline. A different type of story would have been contained in her mother’s journal which, in the process of attempts at publication, somehow became lost.
But stories like this have new relevanceat this time when displacement is coming in waves — from Africa, from Syria and now from Afghanistan, and in the future from the impact of climate change — to a less receptive collection of possible hosts where this issue is being used to shore up brittle forms of nationalism and the political insecurity which breeds nativist thugs.
Just how hard could it have been, even with the support of the Polish Army? And when the Polish Army is taken away, what then?
My mum Helena Antonina Ney was born in 1907 in a town called Zabno near Krakow. There were seven children in her family, five girls and two boys. Apolonia Eleonora — Ciocia (‘Auntie’) — was the eldest. Mum, 15 years younger, came last. Teofil (at right) who was born just after Ciocia is the best known and appears in Polish Wikipedia. He was a spy catcher.
I know very little about my dad’s family. His name was Tadeusz Kurzeja and he was born in a town called Novy Sacz in the foothills of the Tatry mountains which separate Poland from Slovakia. He had brothers and was the same age as my mum.
My mum met him in a town called Kamien Koszyrski south of Pinsk, in what was then eastern Poland (Polesie) now Belarus. My mum was a teacher and my dad a school inspector — that is how they met — and Kamien Koszyrski was where I was born on 11th August 1936.
I was just three when Germany invaded Poland from the west in September 1939 and Soviet Russia from the east three weeks later. My brother Janusz was eight at the time. Auntie was visiting us when the war broke out and that is why she remained with us over time. It was a visit that lasted ten years. She was married but had no children.
Both my dad and Teofil were officers in the Polish army. (Ciocia’s husband had died as a result of ill health during the First World War.) My uncle was a major, later a colonel and my dad a lieutenant in light artillery army reserve based at Pinsk. So when the invasions occurred they both were called to arms. They were captured on the eastern front sometime in the March or April of 1940. Shortly after both were executed at Katyn along with 22,000 other Polish military officers and community leaders. (That is why today we belong to the Katyn-Syberak Organisation.) We did not know the truth of what happened to them because for a while we kept receiving letters from my dad.
[See below at the end of the blog for more about Katyn.]
On 14th April, Auntie, Mum, Janusz and I along with hundreds of thousands of Poles were exiled to Russia by the NKVD, the ‘People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs’, the Russian secret police. They knocked on our door at 3 o’clock in the morning. I remember Mum was sick with a cold. The officer was reasonably nice. She asked him where we were going. He wouldn’t tell us but told her to pack plenty of warm clothes. We had only a few hours to pack — we each had bundles and we had some hot bread and Polish sausage — and were put into a train consisting of cattle trucks. Our truck had 30 or 40 people in it. That journey took over two weeks. We all cried when the train crossed the Urals. We were leaving Europe behind. Our neighbor, Mrs Lancucki and her son Christopher were in in the same wagon and we children played together. How we survived I still don’t know.
The train stopped somewhere in pitch black darkness at night and we were told to get out. We had arrived … at Glubokoye in northern Khazakstan. For two years we lived on a small kolkhoz, a Russian settlement which included a farm worked by a collective of families and labourers under the direction of the Soviet government. There were all sorts of people there, like Japanese who had been captured in the skirmishes between Russia and Japan in the early 30s as well as Kazakhs, Mongols and so on. It seemed like the end of the world. Once again I don’t know how on earth we survived.
My brother went to Russian school, Mum worked in some factory and Auntie looked after the children. There was not much nourishment and they were very hard conditions. We lived in mud huts, two families to a hut. The Lancuckis shared ours. The buildings were surrounded by huge steppes (open plains) where nothing much grew, no trees, only grass and tumbleweed. I remember wolves howling at night and being very scared of their noise. There were cows and we children collected their dung for heating our living space. In Winter the temperature could sometimes be minus 40C. Then in Summer it could be plus 40C.
My mum knew Russian so she got a job in a factory for which she was actually paid. As a result we had some income. Mum was also able to exchange things we managed to bring from Poland for food. The women loved her lipstick. We mostly ate flat bread and potatoes. Occasionally we were given some wheat grain and Ciocia had to make flour out of it. But we were always hungry.
The letters from Dad stopped coming. Mum used to go to the NKVD offices to ask about him and was told ubyl which means ‘gone’. That was all. The same thing happened to letters she sent to him. Ubyl.
In 1942 Germany invaded Russia and the Polish government/ army operating from ‘Free Europe’ and London began negotiating with Russia to fight against Germany. One of the difficulties was that Polish generals were enquiring about the whereabouts of the officers who had been captured. The Russians said they escaped, but of course they were already dead, most of them killed at Katyn.
One of the conditions of these negotiations was to allow the Polish people who had been forcibly taken to Russia to leave the country. Only about 200,000 of a million or more Poles who were displaced were allowed to leave before Stalin decided to ‘close the border’, taking offence at the Polish negotiating group’s horror at the discoveries at Katyn by the International Red Cross.
We got out because a Polish soldier said we were his family and we were given a pass to travel within Russia. My mum decided the only way out was to get to a big train station, that was in Petropavlosk about 130 kms north from Glubokoye. We got there in a lorry mum hired with all the money we had left that she had managed to save.
It took us two months, always travelling south, always south, [several thousands of kilometres] to get to Uzbekistan where the Polish army was forming. We went through Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan to the Caspian Sea from where we could get to Persia (Iran now), and the re-forming Polish army.
This army gradually grew strength and fought on various fronts — North Africa, Italy (where Mussolini was sympathetic to Germans). At the famous Battle of Monte Cassino which was one of the turning points of the second world war the Polish flag was the first to fly in victory. Polish pilots also played a role in the Battle of Britain. Once we found the army we would had their protection and we could also live in camps alongside the soldiers.
Late in 1942 the Army, which we had found by this stage, arranged for us and other refugees to travel across the Caspian sea in an open rusty old boat to Pahlavi in what was then Persia (now Iran). It was a horror of a journey for most of two days as it was extremely hot and the boat had no overhead cover. It was jam-packed, a lot of the passengers were very sick and we stayed as close as we could to the rails. I have a memory of white shadows tipping over into the water. They would have been the dead.
Polish refugees arriving in Iraq, a British newsreel, click here.
After landing we were transported from the coast of the Caspian to Tehran, again in the back of lorries, a beautiful but very rough journey. The camp where we lived for nearly a year was just outside Tehran. Our camp was near the Polish army camp, and so schools and hospitals were very well organised. My mum was able to restart her teaching career.
At one time here my brother, Janusz, got very sick with diphtheria and was admitted to the army hospital. After he recovered he became an army drummer boy and led the army band in their daily marches. We smaller kids followed them and sang along with them. I also spent a few weeks in the infectious diseases part of the hospital with scarlet fever. I was only allowed see my mum through a window, but some nurses were Polish so that was reasonably okay.
We loved Persia. The Shah, Reza Pahlavi, treated us like guests and had parties for children where we used to entertain by dancing our Polish folk dances. At that time Persia, which remained neutral during WWII, was very ‘westward looking’ and wanting to be European, and Tehran was a very beautiful city with huge bazaars. We were given a little money with which we bought lots of fruit, melons, watermelons, halva and nuts. We loved pistachios best. We had no idea about this but for a week at the time we were there Stalin, Churchill and Roosevelt held a meeting to decide the ‘Big Three’ strategy for the next phase of war which included the invasion of Italy.
However, for us, Tehran was only a transit place. Again we had to leave and climb on board a lorry for an unbelievable journey — very hazardous over mountains on steep curvy roads, and very scary. The army people with us told us not to look down, but we could see where cars and trucks had come off the sides of these roads and gone down the cliffs. We were fed Sao biscuits and canned corned beef with powdered Vitamin C orange-flavoured drinks. This trip also provided our first taste of American chewing gum. After a few difficult days, we reached the city of Ahvaz near the top of the Persian Gulf where it was as hot as blazes.
Our camp was on the sandy beach of the Persian Gulf. We swam in the sea among drifts of smelly oil. There were oil tanks everywhere, full of oil ready for export I suppose.
I lost a little gold medallion that Ciocia gave me in the sandy seashore. But amazingly this was found. We considered this some sort of miracle!!! I still have it, with the dent where the boy who found it stepped on it.
The Persian Gulf was one of the most dangerous places then with German U-boats patrolling day and night, silent and unseen. But we travelled safely through the Gulf on our way to Karachi which was then an Indian port.
Can you imagine our delight when we boarded a ship called ‘Batory’? It was a pre-war Polish luxury tourist ship with Polish sailors and Polish food. At night the ship had to have heavy drapes on the portholes to keep it as dark as possible. Our beloved ‘Batory’ had to be returned to communist Poland after the war. However some of the crew left the ship and to our greatest delight the captain of the ‘Batory’ was second-in-charge of the ship which eventually carried us to Australia. After the war he entered the British commercial navy.
Anyway we had a most beautiful if scary journey. Every day we had drills of getting into lifeboats in case of emergency and I was terrified. A young sailor said to me, ‘Young lady if you don’t get in I will have to put you in by your pigtails’. I was quietly in love with him and I always wondered what happened to him in the end.
As my mum was an important person being a teacher we sat at the captain’s table for meals and I was made to eat meat which was something new to me.
We arrived safely in India (now what is Pakistan) after a few days. We cried saying goodbye to our Polish sailors and our Polish ship. The crew cried too as we were considered a very special cargo.
The town of Karachi was set in a desert-like landscape. It looked like a desert and felt like a desert, very hot. There were two seasons in the year. It was either very dry and hot or very wet and hot.
The camp where we lived for nine months (in 1943) was outside the city. It was called ‘Country Club’ for fun. We lived in huge white army tents with maybe 16 beds in each. Showers and toilets were separate and had to be shared and we had to walk to them. At night we needed torches and we were scared of the jackals which were howling away. We did have potties ‘just in case’ in the tents. Women and children were separated from boys over 16 and any men who happened to be there, but we could still be together as a family.
The refugees were mainly women and children. The men were doctors, teachers or administrators along with those sent to rehabilitate after being wounded at the front in northern Africa. We had a hospital that also consisted of tents. School, where we started learning English, was ‘under the stars’, in the fresh air or tents. There was no electricity, except in the hospital. The only permanent building was the chapel on the hill which was made of wood.
The camp was very close to both the US and British army and air force bases. Hence we were surrounded by soldiers, and pilots flying very close to our camp just to show off to the young Polish women, I am sure. They were very good to us, especially the US guys. Their smart uniforms were made of a lovely soft khaki material and they looked very swish. The Brits uniforms were khaki as well but they looked starchy. They wore shorts. We were in the tropics after all! A few of the Yanks had Polish names, and there was a young black guy whose name was … Kwiatkowski.
The army guys and women loved us as they missed their families so much. Once again we entertained them with songs and dances in their canteens. At Christmas we were invited to their camps and each kid was given a toy, and that is where my talking doll ‘Elzunia’ came from. She was made in Canada and used to cry and say ‘mama’ when you squeezed her. Her eyes moved as well. She was the size of a 3-month old baby. Her torso was soft but her hands, feet and head were made of a sort of porcelain. Elzunia had a sad end at Clifton Street when Bo dropped her.
People got malaria and some other tropical diseases. My mum had headaches often. We received pretty strong anti-malaria medication as well as inoculations for a million diseases like cholera, yellow fever, typhoid and so on. In Poland all kids got smallpox inoculation soon after birth. Antibiotics were available as was nylon. My auntie got some nylon from parachutes and she made us blouses but made a few mistakes at first as she ironed them and they melted of course.
Karachi was just a transit camp too, so we found ourselves transported to a permanent one in Valivade in southern India, again hundreds of kilometres ending up well south of Bombay. I remember when we arrived in Bombay and had a bit of stopover time. We saw it at night, all lit up as we travelled along the bay, and it looked absolutely beautiful. This time our journey was overland by train and took several days. We stopped at Pune one of the busiest railway stations in the world then. Finally we boarded a local train and went down to Kolhapur and from there to Valivade about 15 kms away.
Our settlement here was built for us, brand new, and was absolutely fantastic. We had long barracks divided into apartments of 3 rooms and a kitchen, there was a verandah and a garden with banana and papaya trees. The communal bathrooms and loos were a walk away but it was okay because the place was well lit up at night. We were so happy as it was much nicer and more comfortable than where we lived at Karachi.
My mum taught at the school next to our ‘apartment’ and I went to school there. My brother was already going to high school. The settlement was very well designed into ‘suburbs’ and we were close to the church and a hall on the hill where we had theatre, plays and films, most of them in English. English was our second language at school, sort of, with teachers knowing the language but pronouncing it in a Polish way and, as you can imagine, our English was not very good. There were trade and other schools for the older students. Education has always been highly valued by Poles and there was education for children and young people wherever we went.
There was also the town square where speakers announced the news, both local and world. So we were well informed about current affairs, with the main interest of course being in what was happening with the war. We had access to Free Europe Radio but we also had Polish newspapers delivered to us just a few days after they were published in London. It was then news about Katyn started filtering through. We had been notified that our father was ‘missing in action’, but names started coming as well.
The doctors and dentists lived the ‘high life’, that is they had electricity in posh houses. We didn’t, using these huge gas lamps for study, for Ciocia to sew and for my mother to prepare lessons sitting round our huge table. We had Xmas and other parties with yummy food.
There was no running water but Indian ladies brought both milk and water every day in beautiful pots carried on their heads. They also did our laundry and cleaned and polished our mud floors with dried cow dung. This was perfectly fine and hygienic to use. It had been through a baking process and it did not smell. It sounds peculiar but I assure you it was fine. The Indian ladies would go along our streets and advertise in Polish ‘prac, mazac, mam’sia?’ — in other words ‘wash and polish (smear) the floors, madam?’
Indian people and Poles had shops well stocked with everything we needed. So apart from the tropical diseases like malaria, we were happy and pretty healthy. My mum and Janusz both got malaria badly, but Ciocia and I did not. We had constant jabs for things like cholera.
Something we loved was catching a horse carriage which would take us to Kolhbapur. Everyone, and there were about 5,000 of us (almost all Poles at this stage) who lived in Valivade, loved it.
We were better off than some of the village people but not rich and not in charge of our lives. Indian people liked us and, as you know, hated the English. There were many small revolts against the English government, but it all went very badly when Mahatma Ghandi, ‘the Great Soul’, who wanted a peaceful solution to the departure of the British was assassinated. It all went horrid. We cried along with the Indians but rejoiced with them when they got independence from Britain in 1947.
But it was not the golden solution as India was divided into two or three really with Muslims moving and moved to East and West Pakistan, leaving India for Hindus and Buddhists creating another dreadful and scary problem with a lot of violence.
That meant our idyllic camp had to close. We had an opportunity at that time to go to England which my mother would have liked. There was a Polish soldier with exactly the same name as my father who we could have gone with, but we would have had to leave Ciocia behind as she was too old to meet the conditions for entry (over 40) and that was unthinkable.
We were transported to Africa, to what was then British East Africa and what is now Uganda, at that time a peaceful place. Once again we travelled by ship this time to Mombasa, then by train to Nairobi. From Nairobi we went to Koja, a camp south of Kampala on a promontory that went out into Lake Victoria, where there were already many Poles who had come directly to Africa. There were at least four other different camps in states like Tanzania (then Tanganyika) and Rhodesia (Zimbabwe).
For newsreel footage of Polish refugees in Africa, click here.
This camp was surrounded by African villages. We could hear the drums most nights and watched the smoke from their fires which might have been signals across the villages. The Africans were very friendly to us and we used to do trades with them for fresh fruit and vegetables with things that we had.
Africa was beautiful but the camp was so disappointing after Valivade even though the climate was much kinder than hot, monsoony India. We lived on the banks of Lake Victoria so we got this ‘cooling effect’ from the water.
We lived in huge mud houses, one for the family, once again with no electricity but they had very basic bathrooms and loos (a hole in the floor). I went to high school, Mum taught, Janusz was doing his HSC-Matriculation and Ciocia was running a restaurant for people who worked. We were well off as both women brought money into the family. A local boy, ‘Guiseppe’, helped Ciocia in the kitchen.
Malaria and the deadly bilharzia from parasitic worms in fresh water were the two main diseases. We were not allowed to swim in the lake which was full of crocs and hippos, but we used to go and get water lilies which were beautiful.
There was an English priest there who took it on himself to learn Polish so he could talk to us. He used to run all sorts of activities for us, like scouts and excursions around the place. He was a good man who was very nice to us.
We did some travelling. We went to Entebee not far from the beginnings of the Nile and where there was an airport. We also took a trip to Murchison Falls and had other excursions into the jungle.
We all dreamed of going to Poland after the war but Mum said no as it was run by communist government and we knew by then that we had lost our father. So there really was not much to go back to. Our Polesie had become ‘Belarus’ and the whole map of pre-war Poland had changed.
Trouble was beginning in Uganda. Violent uprisings were becoming more common and it was no longer a safe and happy place to live. We knew, again, that we would need to leave. In 1950 we heard that Australia was looking for white migrants like the Italians who lived in Africa, but heard they would take Poles as well. Mum thought it would be a place where her children could get educated and there were conditions on other places which made it difficult for Ciocia. Both age and health conditions had to be satisfied.
A train took us from the camp back to Mombasa, the port we would leave Africa from. This was a memorable trip through beautiful landscape and with any number of animals to see: giraffes, elephants, deer, all the things people go to Africa to see. Sometimes the train stopped to let us look more closely.
We boarded an old American army ship, the ‘General Langfitt’, for the journey to Australia. That was where we found that our ‘Batory’ captain was second-in-command and where we reconnected with other Poles from Africa who hadn’t spent time in India, including Christofer Lancucki who had been in the same cattle wagon as us during our expulsion from Poland and whose family shared the same hut at Glubokoye ten years earlier.
After three weeks of a pretty awful sea voyage, in February 1950 we arrived in a very drab Fremantle, bereft of people and trees, such a different port to Mombasa, so colourless and boring. We were transported to Northam by buses and left in an disused Army Camp with corrugated iron barracks. Again we had no running water but we did have electricity. The barracks were divided by grey army blankets into ‘living spaces’ for women and children with boys over 16 settled in the Men’s Barracks. Janusz was now over 16 so he lived separately from us.
The Camp had people from various European countries: Hungarian, Czechs, Italians, even some Germans. We thought, where the hell did we arrive? The Australians in charge thought we all spoke German so announcements were made in German: ‘Achtung. Achtung’ … We thought, Christ what’s going on here?!
The food was mutton and other Ozzie delicacies. The communal barracks were hot; the loos and showers were miles away. We cooled water by filling canvas army bags and hanging them on tree branches. Ice cream would have melted by the time we brought it ‘home’. There was a Canteen where Saturday dances and other recreation activities were held.
English classes consisted of teaching songs like ‘Goodnight Irene’. We all had to laugh when a lady put her hand up and said in a sing-song Polish voice to the teacher, ‘Very sawrry/ but I have to go to larvva – tawry’.
My mum in her fashion, got bored and sick and tired of waiting, so she went to Perth to a CES office and said, ‘I want a job’. And she got one in Christ Church Grammar School as a House Mother looking after the boys who boarded there. I found my way to a Catholic Boarding School, Mum helped Ciocia to find a job and my brother made his way to Perth as well and got a job in a factory.
The beginnings were very hard indeed, a bit funny in a way, but even with our broken English somehow we managed.
Okay. I just had to write this down because we thought we were brought to a very peculiar country but we were happy as it was free, far away from Europe and wars.
* * * * * * *
The Katyn Massacre
The massacre at Katyn occurred in 1940 in a forest which is nearly exactly half way between Moscow and Minsk. It sets off and otherwise frames Sophie’s Story.
On 1 September 1939, the invasion of Poland by Nazi Germany began. The Soviet invasion of Poland began from the other direction on 17 September. The Red Army advanced quickly and met little resistance,as the Polish forces facing them were under orders not to engage. It was widely understood that the Russians were coming to help Poland resist the Nazi forces. However a pact, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact between the Nazis and Russians, had been agreed which among other things secretly provided for the (fourth) partition of Poland: half, more or less, to the Germans and half to the Russians. Somewhere between 250,000 and 450,000 Polish soldiers and policemen were captured and interned by the Soviet authorities. Some were freed or escaped quickly, but 125,000 were imprisoned in camps run by the Russian secret police, the NKVD. Many thousands of Polish civilians were also deported to the Soviet Union. The Polish Institute of National Remembrance estimates roughly 320,000. Other historians suggest two to three times that many.
Lavrenty Beria had turned the NKVD into a vehicle for establishing and maintaining a regime of terror to shore up Stalin’s authority, at the same time establishing his own form of control. Evidence suggests that even before the war had begun he had developed plans and made arrangements for the subjugation of conquered states, with Poland as the first target. His strategy was to execute the country’s core leadership.
The same strategy — in this case adopted by the Nazis — is described on the walls of the original concentration camp at Oswiecim, better known as Auschwitz. First the army officers, then municipal and other government officials, then educators and other professionals. Young people will be taught another language and enough maths only to work effectively in factories. Nothing else. I remember standing there reading it and being struck by the importance attached to education and educators … and the urgency attached to their destruction.
The document at left is Beria’s proposal to Stalin (with Stalin’s scrawled endorsement) to execute 25,700 Polish ‘nationalists and counterrevolutionaries’ kept at camps and prisons in occupied western Ukraine and Belarus. The Soviet leadership, and Stalin in particular, viewed the Polish prisoners as a ‘problem’ as they might organise resistance to Soviet rule. They decided the prisoners inside the ‘special camps’ were to be shot as ‘avowed enemies of Soviet authority’. This status was determined via intensive interrogation and the names of prisoners who showed signs of demurral were added to the list.
Those who died at Katyn included soldiers — half the Polish officer corps (including Tadeusz Kurzeja and Teofil Ney) — 200 pilots, a prince, major landowners, 20 university professors, 300 physicians, many hundreds of lawyers, engineers, and teachers, and more than 100 writers and journalists. For whatever reason 395 were saved.
The executions were carried out individually. The banality of the details of the process is among its most horrific aspect. It makes it real. The first transport carried 390 people but that was too many to execute overnight. Numbers were subsequently kept to 250 per night. The executions, a single shot to the back of the head, were carried out with German-made pistols supplied by Moscow because the alternative Russian weapons recoiled too violently. Shooting became painful after the first dozen executions. The chief executioner for the NKVD, Vasily Blohkin, is reported to have personally shot and killed 7,000 of the condemned over 28 days in April 1940. This information was drawn from a Belarussian participant decades later. He’d forgotten nothing.
Something so appalling was of course kept secret.
In a twist, in June 1941 the Polish Government-in-exile signed a treaty with Russia to pursue the war as allies against the Nazis (who has just invaded western Russia), with a Polish army to be formed in Russia. The Polish General undertaking this task sought to locate the missing officers. Stalin assured him that they had all been freed but that Russia had lost track of their whereabouts. They may have gone to Manchuria he surmised.
It was the Germans who made public the discovery of some of the Katyn graves containing ‘the remains of many thousands of Polish officers’. Goebbels used the find to try to drive a wedge between the two new allies. He wrote in his diary: ‘We are now using the discovery of 12,000 Polish officers, killed by the GPU (the Russian State Political Directorate), for anti-Bolshevik propaganda on a grand scale. We sent neutral journalists and Polish intellectuals to the spot where they were found. Their reports now reaching us from ahead are gruesome. The Führer has also given permission for us to hand out a drastic news item to the German press. I gave instructions to make the widest possible use of the propaganda material. We shall be able to live on it for a couple of weeks.’
The Russians immediately and vehemently denied any responsibility placing the blame on the ‘German hangmen’, taking it so seriously as to withdraw from the agreement with the Polish Government-in-exile accusing it, of all things, of collaboration with the Nazis.
In 1943 during the course of the Nazi retreat, the Russians returned to this area. Part of Goebbels entry in his diary on 29 Sept 1943 reads: ‘Unfortunately we have had to give up Katyn. The Bolsheviks undoubtedly will soon “find” that we shot 12,000 Polish officers. That episode is one that is going to cause us quite a little trouble in the future.’ And so it proved. The Russians made every effort to destroy evidence (which included no documents found related to any period after 1940, the state of the deterioration of the bodies and so on) and to influence the international commissions investigating the massacre. Kim Philby appears to have blocked the information about it coming to the British Government from agents in Poland.
It wasn’t until almost 50 years later in 1989 that Soviet scholars confirmed that it was Beria and Stalin who had ordered the massacre. In 1990 Mikhail Gorbachev went public with the admission that the NKVD had executed the Poles and confirmed that there were two other burial sites similar to the site at Katyn. And yet today there are still countless documents including some which could finally confirm the identity of the dead which remain embargoed by the Russian Government.
Even after 80 years the memory of Katyn runs deep.
From Crawford, A. and Ray, E., Spray: The Work of Howard Arkley, Craftsman House, Sydney, 1995, pp.88-89:
… Arkley’s homes are far from ironic – they appear as if painted by a proud owner. Yet, ironically, given Arkley’s engagement with feminism, it was the suburbs that feminists often accused of locking women into the subordinate role of home-maker. The movement which had motivated his earlier work could be seen in his celebration of the house, regarded throughout the modern era as a woman’s domain, far from the masculine world of work. Yet one could also contend that his emphasis on the suburban exterior reasserted a masculine image of the home for it was often a male responsibility to maintain the suburban façade, with its driveway, ornamental garden beds and neatly mown.
Regardless of these issues, the Australian dream is to own one’s own home, and here the ambition was writ large and loud as Arkley took the house as a commodity and rendered it as a marketable façade with a Pop aesthetic. This was a Pop sensibility attuned to the Antipodes and pulsing with knowing and self-awareness. Arkley knew his audience would recognise the message and identify with the dream of the house. His confidence was reflected in the stridency of the airbrushed panels, throbbing and resonating with a keen sense of an Australian aesthetic. When Arkley first showed his vibrant interpretations of this symbol, it was as if the penny had dropped not only for the artist but for the public. Pop had come to the Australian suburbs and the suburbs had come to Pop:
‘What I am trying to do, I believe, is explicitly the right thing, and if it isn’t me, it will be someone else. It has to be done. And we’re not just talking about the work, but inspiring a whole generation of future artists to delve into this area and exploit it. It looks like an overstatement, like it’s obvious, and I would rather make subtler art, but I don’t think it will get across.
What I would actually like to do is equivalent to when you’re driving along in the country and you look at the landscape and you say ‘Oh, there’s a Fred Williams.’ You change the way people see it. And you can make people look at it. In the same way that David Hockney has changed the way people can look at Los Angeles, the swimming pools, Hollywood’s Mulholland Drive, good God, that could be Lower Templestowe Road! I just want people to see it.’
* * * * * * *
Fawkner is a child of the 60s. At the time, once you passed Mahoney’s Road you were on your way to Sydney. On the limit, crossing the boundary. It consisted of cheap housing, quite a lot of which was erected at the government’s behest set in rectangular and repetitive town planning punctuated with green bits left to memorialise Charles Mutton and Someone Evans, but raw and perturbing like all such sites.
Sixty years later the massive expanses of the Cemetery remain, dividing the world quite carefully by religious denomination (although ‘Baptist B’ is plumb next to ‘Chinese’). (Could it be that the journeys of the different sections have discrete features which can’t be shared, or even … that they arrive at different destinations in the after-life!?)
But it is the other side of Sydney Road which interests us on a warm sunny Coronavirus Sunday afternoon with the carwash closed and bowls and netball just off.
Mutton and Evans were replaced years ago by Martinelli and Evangelidis and their countrypersons from Greece and Italy.
But now, 60 years on, Fawkner is Turkish: a land of kebabs, gozleme, saksuka, pide, iskender, pilav, borek and lahmacan. And of hot cars, muscles bulging out of black T-shirts and, where the women are not veiled, dramatically glamorised femininity.
These are not Turks from the heights of Istanbul. They are more likely to be from places closer to Syria and Iran than the Bosphorus. What do they make of Fawkner with its shopping strip in Bonwick Street off Jukes Road? (Bonwick. Jukes. What?) What do you hold on to? And how do you respond to an urban setting 50 or 60 years old compared to one 1500 or far many more years old?
I suppose you first of all attend to the primary structural elements of life: food, shelter, family, soccer, and then over time turn your attention to embroidering them at will, perhaps pleased with the fact that you can do so much to mold things as you would like them to be, perhaps daunted by the scale of taking what you might think of as a wasteland and making it homely and to your taste. You look at the housing stock and you might just be grateful there is a roof to put over your family’s head. Or you might think how weird and alien is this? Why would they build houses like this and on these blocks that are all the same size? And so badly tuned to the climate? And separated from each other? In fact why is there all this focus on separation? Where do we sit and drink our coffee and smoke our cigarettes? Where is the market? Where is the sheesh palace? Where is my village?
I understand this as a major physical manifestation of culture, the filling out of detail in personal and civic preferences for the look and feel of buildings and their surrounds, how they operate, how they relate — a constant and unrelenting process of change and adjustment in the context of a constant and unrelenting process of preservational push back. But when it has been going for 60 years you must get a different result from an operation which is a millennium or more old.
The Turks are now giving Fawkner an identity. Opposite Mama Lordy’s pizza joint is a brand new and very stylish house clad in up-to-the minute corrugated iron which flies three Turkish flags. But I wander.
When the original housing stock of Fawkner was built it was pretty much of a piece: double-or single-fronted Howard Arkleys. It is gentrifying quite rapidly and so you get two-storey infill of brick veneer and Blueboard or tight little rows of units. Or, as you will see, someone’s wet dream in semi-rusticated concrete block. Or set off with palm trees. But it is also showing the distinctive character, and choices, of the people who live there, diversifying quite wildly. Perhaps especially in the relationship to the garden. And that draws us back closer to thinking about the Turks and the general question of how you might make a home and what such a thing might look like.
Because it is not a millennium that these houses have been here those choices are more visible. I find them intriguing. Let’s have a look at some of the ones I chose to take pics of as we walked (sometimes for rather obscure personal reasons like a concern with stormwater drainage).
And because whenever you go for a walk there is always something to look at, some surprise …
Not Turkish at all. Look you just never know what you’ll come across do you?
What would Howard make of all this? I think he’d probably love it.
I include the photo of this tree as a matter of self indulgence. (It’s not even in Fawkner. Fawkner begins on the other side of the road.) But every time I go past it — which is regularly, a daughter and family live 150m to the right — I think what a simply magnificent creature this is, and what a remarkable example of survival.
During the last relief from being locked down we visited the mountains. Jessie and Myrna climbed up Mount Buffalo’s Big Walk on a cold day with, apart from a few brief breaks, a heavy dripping mist clamped down on everything.
We were sitting having a late lunch (provided by the estimable Support Team) and across towards the Gorge was the brief revelation pictured below. Drama.
It’s Jessie’s photo with her flash new phone. Superb.
From the other direction Crystal Brook was spilling over the Gorge to another version of itself several hundred metres below.
With the wrinkles and creases of its eddies, Crystal Brook drains Hospice Plain, sometimes under snow, more frequently under water but most often dry. This was an occasion.
Wet wet wet. Weather persons like to conjure up distress at the prospect of rain. ‘I’m sorry Pete. It’s going to be wet for the next few days.’ ‘But we can look forward to some better weather next week can’t we Jane.’ ‘Sure can Pete.’
From almost any point of view — almost, unless you’re a house painter for example — there’s nothing wrong with weather like this. We could start from the proposition that we couldn’t live without it and move from there. But stormy weather on a mountain is profoundly good for the soul as well.
It could be suggested that the aesthetics of these conditions might be best enjoyed from snug interiors with good windows. Like this one in fact.
Or this one, with not one but two fires which we just happened to find in a shelter hut near the Chalet — a real surprise. Go Parks Victoria.
Or even from the warmth of a car.
But there’s nothing like being out in it.
While the Support Team undertook rehabilitation at the Bright Gym next day, the Intrepid Adventurers went back up on the plateau for another long walk: Long Plain, Mount Dean, Dingo Dell, wet feet most of the way and a certain amount of snow and ice.
Another masterpiece from the new phone and its owner-manager.
And then on the way down it all cleared and suddenly there were the Buckland and Ovens Valleys in all their late afternoon shimmering splendour.
* * * * ** * *
Determined to make the most of the break in lockdowns we headed off to the Grampians almost as soon as we got home from the Alps.
Weather? Yes of course. Wet.In this case, standing on top of The Pinnacle after walking from The Sundial, majorly wet in driving sleet. (Hmm ‘majorly’. You can think about that. Is he just trying to keep up with the young people I wonder?) And very very cold — freezing — just there, a big wind chill factor.
But not wet all the time.
I have wondered about the tendency to look at rock formations and anthropomorphise them. (‘Anthropomorphism: the attribution of human traits, emotions, or intentions to non-human entities. It is considered to be an innate human tendency.’) This takes concrete form in the naming process, say as something domestic (The Flat Iron, The Cool Chamber) or otherwise familiar (Fallen Giant, The Alligator, Elephant’s Hide, The Grand Canyon). I’m sure that’s better than naming them after obscure — or famous — humans.
I havecommented elsewhereabout the tendency on Mount Buff to name everything: The Sarcophagus, The Piano, The Cathedral, the Monolith, Mahomet’s Tomb, Giant’s Causeway, The Leviathan, Whale Rock, The Sentinel, Og Gog and Magog etc etc etc. Perhaps not strictly anthropomorphism, but wandering round the ball park.
Maybe we need to do that, or maybe we used to, and, as nature has been experienced (and understood) at a rapidly increasing distance, that’s dropped off. I notice in the Grampians most of the signs that used to be attached to such formations have been taken away. Too cheesey perhaps? Too 1950s?
This cold day I found myself thinking whether formations like the one above have ever had a name, especially a Jardwadjali or Djab wurrung name? Perhaps they are too common in the Grampians to matter in that way. Perhaps only the really remarkable sites/ features/ spectacles (of which there are more than ample) received that sort of attention.
Just going on a bit randomly, if I call this a bus stop, or a group of friends lining up for a mass selfie, am I betraying something about myself? And should I quit right now?
Perhaps I should marvel from a more elevated non-verbal perspective. That’s probably right. So much thrilling to see everywhere you look.
A lot of tracks become water courses after rain: they’re cleared, they’re often lower, they’ve often been chosen because they at are the bottom of two inclines. Or, in New Zealand, because you won’t care or notice the difference.
Even when they’re raised on rocky ribs like this one they hold water.
* * * * ** * *
The average annual rainfall on the eastern side of the Grampians is double that on the west. The next day we were thinking of a walk with Robert near where we were in the central Grampians. But the weather looked shocking, enough even to turn us back and barely worth a 90-minute drive from Horsham. However, he had an idea about a walk near Troopers Creek, and the further north we drove the more the weather improved. (‘Improved’. An unnecessary judgment right there.) The more the prospect of life-giving rain diminished. (Much better.) Can I say it turned out to be a lovely day? No I didn’t think so.
This track was a discovery: brand new and part of the very slowly evolving Grampians Peaks Walk, from Mt Zero, the northern tip, to Dunkeld in the south. There will be 100 km of new track as well as 60km of established trail and Parks Victoria thinks it will take 13 days.
The part of this track that Robert knew about, ‘Lower Waterfalls of Gar (Mt Difficult)’, had just been opened, brand new, and very carefully and thoroughly constructed: ‘Troopers Creek’ to Beehive Falls below Budjun Budjun (Briggs’ Bluff). ‘Troopers Creek’ has a very new and well appointed camp site now. I have thought, known really, that Troopers Creek is about 4 km south of this site and that the creek that runs through it is really Dead Bullock Creek, but this is more of that name quibbling business.
It did have waterfalls and they were wonderful, running enough to justify the naming process, and, to me, completely unknown. We didn’t do it all — it was a Sunday arvo stroll — but what we saw was compelling.
This rather ordinary photo was taken from the car as we headed down Roses Gap Rd towards Wartook. It all reminded me again of what I wrote about the Grampians inmy remembrance of when we lived there.
Much of the Grampians out of the tourist swarm has a very particular and striking flavor. It resonates with something that is difficult to describe. It’s incredibly particulated but of a piece; it works; but it’s not you, or me anyway. Both fragile and resilient; scrubby but graceful; worn out but enduring; brimming with life but a lot of that life is crepuscular or nocturnal.
12 February, 2021. A wet cool morning which cleared up to mid 20s. 16.37km
We started at Specimen Gully in misty rain.
When I asked the taxi driver to take us to the memorial for the discovery of gold she was nonplussed. I thought it was everywhere, she said. But she did know where Specimen Gully Road was and we had no trouble finding the right place.
The plaque says:
The first gold from the Mount Alexander goldfields was discovered in this gully by Christopher John Peters on 20th July 1851.
Associated with him were John Worley, Robert Keen and George Robinson.
This cairn was the gift of R. Owen Owens and was unveiled by him on 10th October 1931.
Ah my goodness. It was a bit like the experience of seeing and reading Captain Cook’s actual journals.
Look at it. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Where gold was found 170 years, four months and nine days before this picture was taken. Every millimetre of it worked over. It might have been the quality of the morning but I found my skin tingling with the gravity of it all. Or something. I’m not sure I have suitable words because those on offer seem to be about the condition — affected, moved, touched, struck, stirred — rather than the cause.
Memorial stone, cairn, Heritage slate hut.
I told the story in the first of these blogs. Whatever version you find, it’s the same, even the same words. It goes:
‘On 20 July 1851 gold was found near present-day Castlemaine, Victoria (Mt Alexander Goldfields) at Specimen Gully in today’s Castlemaine suburb of Barker’s Creek. The gold was first found by Christopher Thomas Peters, a shepherd and hut-keeper on the Barker’s Creek, in the service of [Dr] William Barker. When the gold was shown in the men’s quarters Peters was ridiculed for finding fool’s gold, and the gold was thrown away. Barker did not want his workmen to abandon his sheep, but in August they did just that. John Worley, George Robinson and Robert Keen, also in the employ of Barker as shepherds and a bullock driver, immediately teamed with Peters in working the deposits by panning in Specimen Gully, which they did in relative privacy during the next month.
‘When Barker sacked them and ran them off for trespass, Worley, on behalf of the party “to prevent them getting in trouble”, mailed a letter to The Argus (Melbourne) dated 1 September 1851 announcing this new goldfield with the precise location of their workings. This letter was published on 8 September 1851. “With this obscure notice, rendered still more so by the journalist as ‘Western Port’, were ushered to the world the inexhaustible treasures of Mount Alexander”, also to become known as the Forest Creek diggings. Within a month there were about 8,000 diggers working the alluvial beds of the creeks near the present day town of Castlemaine, and particularly Forest Creek which runs through the suburb today known as Chewton where the first small township was established. By the end of the year there were about 25,000 on the field.’
But that’s not it, is it? Christopher Peters — Chris, were diminutives in vogue then? I think he has to be Christopher — what does he know about gold? Unlike Hiscock finding his reef at Buninyong he wasn’t prospecting, he was tending sheep. He might have seen a glint in some quartz in the dry gully, somewhere he could have been dozens of times before. Specimen Gully is quite pronounced and runs for hundreds of metres. It could easily have been pyrites, fool’s gold. It’s not till you isolate a piece, try to bend it and it snaps that you can be certain otherwise. He would not have been formally well educated, but he could well have had a deep and thorough informal education, enough to be conscious of the possibility that what he was looking at was gold, possibly one surprise among the many that he encountered every day in this foreign land.
But what would he have thought? I’m rich? Or, just as possibly, I’m in trouble. A retired fossicker who recently found a 2kg nugget near Ballarat didn’t sleep for four days after his find, not so much disturbed by excitement as just disturbed. His life wasn’t going to be as it was. Christopher, quartz in hand, talks to his mates as they sit around their bark hut. July. Almost certainly quite cold and possibly wet. Their fire would be particularly smokey, inside as well as out. They’d be so habituated to the smell that they wouldn’t be bothered trying to wash it out of their clothes. Did he have a cup of tea? I think he would have, but I’m not sure if he would have had the stomach for the damper and mutton that was on the table.
Would they argue? Is it, or isn’t it? Who knows? Who could know? Was it Christopher? You would have to imagine that he was the most invested in the idea. But of course it’s an issue. They’re earning a few shillings a month while having contact with more than one squatter who seems to be making a good fist, and money, out of the new life. They’re conscious of class distinction, but already it’s not like it is in England. Already Jack has ratcheted several steps up the social ladder at the same time as his master has descended. Struggle is a great leveller. You could change your circumstances, and the medium was formidably simple: money. Nothing else. Just money. But still they laugh at Peters and the improbability of it all.
I think they would have gone for a look, maybe that night with a lantern. They wouldn’t have been able to help themselves. Is there any more there? When will we find out? How would we find out? I am thinking that John Worley might have been the smarty of the group, at the same time the most sensitive and the most conscious of the moment and impact of their discovery. He wrote the letter. But I think this night he would have been holding the lamp while Christopher got his chisel out and poked his way into the stone with increasing vigour and less care about the accumulating pile of cobbled quartz. ‘See?’, he might say. ‘It’s still there. It’s still running.’ They go back to the hut but no one sleeps. They talk sporadically all night.
Next day Robert Keen turns up with his bullock dray to haul some timber for fence posts back to the homestead. They tell him. He’s a mate but older and more mature than the other three. They respect his opinion. ‘What do you think Robert?’ He thinks. ‘Let’s get some tools.’ And then, after chipping out some more stone which still has those sparkling veins in it, ‘I think we should show Barker. It’s his run.’
As they go up to the homestead the four of them are gripped by anxiety each expressing it in their own way, Keen’s barely decipherable. Dr Barker meets them on the veranda. They’re not invited inside. ‘What?’ he says. ‘Give me a look.’ He looks long enough to give himself time to think, and one of the things he thinks is, I am making a mistake by spending so much time looking. My reaction should have been crisp and decisive. I should have just thrown it away immediately. ‘Fool’s gold Peters. Don’t you know fool’s gold? It looks a bit like gold, but you don’t find gold here Peters. There’s no gold here. Not in the colonies.’ He can’t keep the piece of quartz because it’s sort of theirs, so he throws it away, but not extravagantly. He has to measure between a short contemptuous throw that allows them to pick the stone up off the veranda and take it away with them and a long powerful throw during which he runs the risk of both executing the throw poorly and expressing his concern and uncertainty about the situation. ‘Now get back to work. I don’t want to hear any more about it.’ It is important that there is just a hint of geniality in his instruction — thanks for letting me play in this interesting game — because otherwise they’ll know it really is serious.
They walk off, each now convinced, if not equally, that what they have shown him is indeed gold. Of course they wait till they are out of earshot — Barker has gone inside, but probably not far so he can see what they’re up to — but then Christopher says quietly to Keen, ‘Can you find us some more tools?’ Keen says, ‘Yes.’
The homestead is on the creek (‘Barker’s’) at Harcourt North about 6km, a difficult 6km, from the find which in addition is about a kilometre and a half off the main track. There would be no special reason to go there. The four of them get a month’s digging in before O’Giles, one of Barker’s trusties, is sent to check just what is going on. There have been stories, and Peters and Worley haven’t been spending as much time near the homestead as usual. When he finds what looks like a busy camp, O’Giles says nothing but next day returns with Barker and six other men.
… and that’s where we were, looking at the skeleton of a cow on the other side of the road, in the middle of history.
* * * * * *
What a day this was.
We’re up on the Barker’s Creek hill looking across the Faraday valley and its orchards to Mount Alexander (hidden in cloud) which from now on we are going to call Leanganook because that’s its name, the walk is called the Leanganook Track and we’ve already been calling lots of other things ‘Mount Alexander’.
We’re going to climb up the well-rehearsed tracks on Leanganook up the southern side, sidling along the western side to the top, down east and then north to get ourselves to Sutton Grange Road where Graham and I have dropped our car. This is quite simply a great day’s walking. All day.
From Specimen Gully you climb up over the top of the hill where someone has built a house with somewhere near the last word in commanding positions. It’s well considered and not gaudy. I’m sorry I don’t have a photo. There seems to be a rather nice small stone house on the same property which Chinese purchasers or lessees can read about in their own language (租金 $260/周 on 2017年10月, 距离市中心106.55公里).
At the bottom of that valley is the Calder Freeway which you have to get across and there is a very helpful underpass for that purpose. A lot of attention has been paid to wildlife by the people who designed and built the Calder, much fencing, some crossings (not so many). I hope it’s effective. From the dirt roads on the other side we saw a paddock bounding with kangaroos. I counted 98, Myrna 86: the story of our lives really. There was a nice wooden crawl option for creatures with claws to get through the tunnel. To Faraday.
I’m not sure you can talk about Faraday without talking about Lindsay Thompson.
Lindsay Thompson was for a time Deputy Premier and the longest-serving minister (24 years) in Victorian parliamentary history. His parents were both teachers, his father dying when he was two and he was raised in difficult circumstances. However, he got a scholarship to Caulfield Grammar where he eventually became school captain and dux. This might surprise those of us who worked in education during his tenure (12 years) as Minister when his main quality seemed to be ineffectuality. He had also served for three years during the Second World War which was three years more than many of ‘us’ had.
But in 1972, my first year of teaching, the entire population of Faraday School, a teacher and six school children (all female), were taken hostage by a man called Edwin John Eastwood who demanded a $1m ransom to release them. Thompson personally took the ransom money to the prearranged site in Woodend. However the teacher and children had escaped from the van in which they were locked before that was necessary. Notwithstanding, he received a bravery award. Less well remembered is that five years later, after Eastwood had been released from jail he again kidnapped a teacher and a group of students, this time at Wooreen in Gippsland. Mr Thompson flew to Gippsland, again intending to offer himself in exchange for the hostages. But before he could do so, Eastwood was arrested in a shoot-out with police. The bravery of his intentions was again publicly honoured.
Once you get out of the tunnel you’re in the paddocks which was, this day, delightful. Then a series of dirt and gravel roads as you work your way across the foothills to the mount.
The highest point on Leanganook is only 744m above sea level, and it rises only a few hundred metres above the surrounding land, the fertile orchards and vineyards of Harcourt and Sutton Grange.
We’ve very definitely left gold country and its clays and gravels. These are rich granitic soils, and shortly, up the hill, we will get to the tors which provide clear evidence of this.
But first we need to climb over a stile
and follow our way along this easement which includes a simply magnificent red gum as well as the beginnings of the tors.
This pic is included for its characteristic qualities. ‘Yeah I know that’s what the waymark says, but…’
And then just up through the granite. Everyone takes the same pictures but it doesn’t mean they’re the wrong ones.
Ed’s seat (seen here being used by sketch recorder) is made out of fence railings originally intended to provide an enclosure/reserve for koalas. We have already noted way back near Creswick how effective such things are for keeping koalas in, here as elsewhere. But this granite platform provides a wonderful view due west to Mt Tarrangower and Maldon.
You will notice the cloud breaking up as it turned into a warm clear day. The sketcher was being watched at the time.
Stone photos. They just get bigger and more sculptural as you climb.
And the highlight, what whitefellas call Lang’s Lookout, but the Dja Dja Wurrung would have a much better name for it.
At the very moment Myrna took this photo her phone went ping. It was Dan. We had plans to walk somewhere near the edge of that horizon over the next two days, but Dan said no. It was going to be a hard lockdown for the next five days and we were to go home and await further instructions. So that’s pretty much exactly what we did.
But on our way down we saw something that was going to be our constant companion for the next 20kms: looking decidely wonky as it often did, here is a tiny portion of the remarkable Coliban channel.
Harcourt North to Sandhurst Reservoir
12 March, 2021. Mid 20s, mostly overcast. 21.87km
OK. That’s it really. Val and Maya dropped us off at Harcourt North and we followed the Coliban Channel for 20km to the Sandhurst Reservoir. And it’s a channel, so you wouldn’t expect much up and down would you? No, and that would be correct. But it’s a prodigious channel; it’s a remarkable channel; it’s a channel that makes so much possible. And I had never heard of it. And even after its company for a day and 20km, I was still finding it odd.
In this context why does it matter? For that we’ll turn back to ‘The Argus’ 1862 study of the goldfields:
One of the essential requisites in gold-mining is a constant supply of pure water. Whether the miner is simply a tub and cradle man, or a puddler, or a quartz-miner, the command of water all the year round is equally important. …Around Castlemaine it is no uncommon thing for the labours of the puddler and the tunneller to be suspended for four months in the year, for want of water. The Loddon ceased to flow above Newbridge for many months last year, and along its bed whole piles of washdirt were accumulated from the tunnels, only to be washed away in the first of the winter floods. … On Bendigo the want has been seriously felt for years, and, unfortunately, it has not been remedied by the formation of the Bendigo Waterworks Company, whose artificial lake, situated at the head of Kangaroo Flat, supplies sufficient water only for the domestic purposes of Sandhurst.
Unfortunately, the rivers that flow through those older fields are intermittent. Taking their rise in the Dividing Range, and flowing northwards towards the Murray, they carry down immense bodies of water in the winter; but their volume gradually diminishes as summer advances, until at last they lose themselves in the great plains south of the Murray, leaving dry channels to mark where rivers have been; or they resolve themselves into mere chains of waterholes, from which supplies may be drawn by the miners, but at an expense which exceeds the profit.
After giving consideration to artesian water, which would have the added advantage of providing a geological profile of the area where the bore was sunk, he refers to two major schemes which had been mooted, but focuses mostly on one — the one which will cost, initially, £254,000, about $62m today.
The Coliban water scheme has now been before the colony at intervals during the last seven or eight years. The simple proposition is this—water for sluicing purposes is much wanted in Fryer’s Creek district, around Castlemaine, and on Bendigo. …
It is proposed to meet that want by forming an immense reservoir near Malmsbury, at the point where the railway crosses the Coliban. Here would be stored a large portion of the storm-waters that are now wasted in the winter floods, and while the volume of the river itself would not be seriously diminished, a quantity of water would be retained sufficient to meet the requirements of the districts already named, and give employment to 6,000 or 8,000 miners. …
It is proposed to carry this supply to Sandhurst, by way of Elphinstone, or the Gap in the Mount Alexander range, known as Major’s Pass, and thence eastward of Mount Alexander, coming into the Bendigo Valley north of the Big Hill tunnel, in an open aqueduct of fifty miles long. …
The main questions are three—first, Is there a necessity for the work being done ? second, Can it be carried out? and third, Would it pay for itself? As regards the first question, I may say that I met with no one who doubted the utility of the plan. It is admitted that there are hundreds upon hundreds of acres of auriferous ground all along the line of the aqueduct not now worked for want of water. … Nor would the water be useful for mining alone. Whether carried through pipes, or in open channels, to the distributing reservoirs, the construction of a few filters, and the connexion of distributing pipes, would make it available for domestic use.
That the work could be constructed, and would secure the calculated supply, there is still less doubt. … That the supply of water would pay a very handsome profit to the state, seems to be equally clear; though I should be disposed to insist on that argument less strongly than on the more important one—the good which the scheme, if carried out, would do to the districts directly benefited, as well as the colony generally.
And so it came to pass. The Coliban was dammed at Malmsbury and 70km of gravity-fed channels took its water north. This scheme was surveyed and designed in 1863 by Irish engineer Joseph Brady who did all sorts of other clever things as well, and water flowed for the first time into Sandhurst Reservoir at Big Hill on the outskirts of Bendigo in 1877. Prodigious.
I haven’t forgotten about the Romans or that the Zaghouan aqueduct in Tunis, now about 2000 years old and lined with opus signinum, a rammed mixture of broken ceramics and lime and still completely water proof, runs for 90km and with some adjustments remains operating, nonetheless … prodigious. Most of Bendigo and Castlemaine’s water is still provided from this source. The Guidebook tells me that the whole Coliban system now includes 20 reservoirs and more than 500km of open channels. Prodigious.
It was this sort of morning: overcast, the sun taking the game up to the clouds over on the horizon. For 5km or so, open on this side, the channel sidling along hills on the other. Red gum country, suffused this morning with birdsong and the heady smell of eucalypt blossom.
The water, about 30-45cms deep, was belting along in the channel. I dropped in a leaf which seemed to go about three times our pace. If that’s right, a bit of water, let’s call it Reg, which left Malmsbury promptly at 9 would be at Bendigo in time for a late lunch. But as we proceeded it was clear that there was both dawdling along the dug and weedy sections, and wild acceleration down falls and sharply angled races. So Reg’s actual movements would be slightly indeterminate, and it might be better if the lunch was wrapped and left in the fridge.
The channel turns corners, sometimes quite sharply. Not all the corners had bracing like this, but it would be helpful to keep the walls together in a situation where the soil, the weather, the vegetation and both the substance and motion of the water would be conspiring to open cracks.
I was interested in the daunting quality — and quantity — of the maintenance process. Here for example we have blackberries climbing in (and, just as it happens, looking back the way we had come, a useful cross section of the walking experience along the maintenance road).
But, also completely by happenstance, looking back down the channel is a new section — remediation completed in 2019 of 2.7km at six different sites at a cost of $4.6m. Although there were only two significant leaks we noticed, there seemed to be ample opportunity for more renewal. This concrete is 60-70 years old and can’t be expected to last like the Roman efforts.
A lot of the channel sits on the ground in these concrete troughs, but a certain amount of it doesn’t.
Some of it runs over rock and some of it is just dug through through soil and clay, and I did wonder about wastage and whether or not it might not be better enclosed to reduce evaporative loss and to keep weeds and wildlife out. We did find the bloated carcass of a dead kangaroo bouncing up and down on the wall of a low weir 10km further along. But then I thought of the cost. The Romans enclosed the Zaghouan aqueduct with large panels of sandstone, but they did have the advantage of slaves.
It also runs through two tunnels.
At the first of these, the Wirth, 623m long, there is is a very nice place to sit, a table made out of dressed granite with an equally suitable bench.
As we had a morning cup of coffee there, four very cheery and active older women came down the hill towards us, going onto the very short list of people we saw on The Track.
From the top of the hill there were good views south. Leanganook was obviously visible, but either here or on the next climb I am sure I could see Mt Franklin in the far far far distance.
Three kilometres along you come to the next tunnel, Brennan’s, 453m long, and the track breaks up badly over the hill. At the top we encountered the five cyclists some of whom were desperate to get off The Track. When we got over the other side we could see why, a very degraded and difficult zig zag descent which would have been a real nuisance on a bike. They had to ride, or walk, their bikes, for another 8km to get to any bitumen but a lot of that ride should have been a pleasure along a flat dirt road. They were from Bendigo and had planned an interesting route roughly following the Goldfields Track but on quiet country roads rather than The Track itself for a three-day expedition to Ballarat.
A bit of excitement at Woman’s Gully, and shortly after at Cuneen’s Gully, taking about 50m out of the altitude.
The country had changed by now too, shifting back to stringy bark and box. We were moving back into gold country.
We found the reservoir, well down it seemed despite the best efforts of the channel which was still streaming into it. We found our way around the fence and through a tangle of tracks back to where we hoped our car would be, just near several sets of spectacularly layed rubber at the gated entry to the reservoir. And there it was. Hoorah.
Sandhurst Reservoir to Bendigo Central
13 March, 2021. Mid 20s again but overcast and very muggy. 16.75km
If you’re still with us, thank you for your patience. But this is it. Last day. The splendid Val has dropped us back where we left the car yesterday at the entrance to Sandhurst Reservoir, and it’s a short-ish leg into Bendigo, and therefore The End. And the walk is okay, but as is often the case of transitions into suburbia it’s not the walk of the century.
We’d got up early again, and this is the blazing Bendigo dawn.
I am sitting having breakfast on the balcony outside our motel room listening to the roar of endless twin cab maxis surging up and down the Midland Highway as the tradies go to work.
Scott Morrison would be proud.
This is where we are walking, dirt roads through the heavily tracked bushland of Bendigo Regional Park traversed with a lot of water races and more organised channels feeding and drawing from the reservoir we’d just passed and others. Classic Bendigo bush really. A sense of struggle. The patches of Ironbark come and go.
We had just walked through Map 32 of 33 in the Guidebook so the end was nigh. But first we met this fossicker in Golden Gully who said he was just as intent on cleaning up the bush as he was in finding anything of value. He hadn’t found anything of value but knew someone in Ballarat who had.
Diamond Hill is a landmark on the way in from the south.
Apparently it was called Diamond Hill because of the shape of a quartz bed in its summit. This is what’s left of that. In fact this area has been MINED. Did I read that 11 mines were built into the sides of this hill? I think I did.
But this was a cup of tea stop and 20 or 30m from the ravaged summit was a platform of tailings more or less transformed into a nice place to sit and do some more Angela Williams (do it everywhere!) School of Sketching.
It is possible that the most interesting thing about this point was that the view, essentially north, east and west, was full of trees. Just a few buildings obtruded.
It was not always thus.
* * * * * *
A quick digression. Bendigo. Odd name? Sure. From 1853 until 1891 the official name for the town was Sandhurst, after the British Military Academy for goodness knows what reason. But the locals, some of them anyway, had been calling it Bendigo since very early days of white intrusion.
But why Bendigo?
While one source says most assertively that it was named after a miner whose name was Ben Digo (mmm well… yeees), the received version is that the name came from the nickname of a shepherd who was also a boxer. And that that nickname was derived from the nickname of a famous English boxer — and Methodist local preacher — William ‘Abednego’ Thompson (at left).
Ah me. Keep following. Note it wasn’t Tom Myers who was called ‘Bendigo’. It was the nickname he gave to one his shepherds, whose actual name we don’t even know, who had a hut on the creek — so ‘Bendigo’s’ Hut on what became Bendigo’s Creek. But apparently we do know that ‘the shepherd with the nickname of “Bendigo” later ‘shot through to California when news of the gold rushes there reached Australia’. He wasn’t even around to appreciate his eminence. He ‘shot through’. Wonderful. People used to do that. Should be more of it.
Perhaps ‘Abednego’s’ pugilistic qualities were such that he could walk unaffected through fire (but then, why not ‘Shadrach’ or ‘Meshach’?). However to get to the naming of a Victorian country town we’ve got to make that step, then proceed to the next step, then the next tenuous step, then leap forward still teetering, then … .
More than anything else, this story might be about the randomness of the naming process and the way any collection of syllables can be attached to anything by popular usage. ‘The Bendigo Advertiser’, first published in 1854, never called itself anything else. A plebiscite to finalise the matter was held 28 April 1891 and resolved very much in favour of ‘Bendigo’. But Catholic churches in the region are still overseen by the Bishop of Sandhurst.
* * * * * *
Bendigo sits on 38 parallel waves of rock. The ripples, rising in anticlines where most of the gold was found, are about 300m apart for nearly 12kms, roughly east-west. The longer line ridges, often cut on the surface by creek beds, and attendant gullies run for about 30kms north-south.
In 1851 alluvial gold was discovered in many places here, especially along the Bendigo Creek. The Bendigo fields, mined above then below ground for 153 years, have been the most prolific of the eastern Australian fields and second only to the Boulder/ Kalgoorlie fields in WA in all-time Australian productivity.
Steam-powered machinery for reef mining and its products was being set up as early as 1855. By 1861 the Sandhurst mining district had 41,000 people spread through a score of mining settlements.
‘By the early 1890s [after two booms and two busts] the town was untidy, disordered, brash and with conflicting land uses right in the heart of the city. The early ethnic mining groups were overlaid by new social divisions of wealth and power. A wider range of housing appeared during the 1870s and 80s. The pattern of segregation was often a product of topography. The elite found hill tops to build on and cottages were found in low-lying gullies.’ (From a study for a Civic Heritage Overlay.)
And here it is in 1886.
This substantial painting was done by James Edward Meadows for an exhibition in London extolling the successes of British colonialism. In a previous blog I queried Von Guérard’s depiction of Ballarat on the basis that he was in Germany at the time he painted it, but at least he had spent time in Australia. Meadows never left England.
But, you know. Good job. Rosalind Park with a mine head and a crusher planted in it and the rather immoderate Post Office are in the foreground. The Shamrock and the Town Hall are there, as is the Alexandra Fountain down in the bottom right hand corner. You could never argue that Bendigo doesn’t have some grand building.
It looked like a prosperous gold town as we walked through its suburbs. Gentrification had been hard at work through the miners’ cottages however low-lying the gully in which they were located. But we found this house, ‘Derwenter’, in Belle Vue Road just around the corner from Val and Col’s.
I’d say late ’60s, early ’70s. Exterior of very plain concrete block that has weathered nicely, and I think if we went inside we would find an architectural style that had created an interesting flow between the opened-up living spaces. Completely unpretentious and I imagine a very pleasant place to live. But its distinctive feature is the way the house has been absorbed into this wonderful native garden, simply an extension of the bush we have just been walking through. The major colour palate of the whole is limited, but with a staggering range of variation on those major themes. It is tended, but not over-worked. It would manage the weather conditions without intervention much better than a garden full of exotics. I thought it was great. Perhaps this should be one of the iconic photos of the walk: how to live with nature.
The Guidebook — my now outdated version of it anyway — says at the Railway Station we would find a Goldfields Track Entry poster on the city side of the platforms.
Not on the city side; not on the Quarry Hill side. We couldn’t find it anyway. But nothing daunted.
From the start we had imagined that the walk really finished at Bendigo’s crossroads, the heartland, where Pall Mall, the extension of Macrae Street, a portion of the Midland Highway, meets View Street part of Mitchell Street named after the Major, leader of the first white intrusion through this part of the world. He and his cohort travelled — some would have walked — about 2,800km, and one day would have followed the next. You might think that he was also heroically going through ‘virgin territory’, ‘bush-bashing’ as we say today. But I have no doubt he would have spent quite some time following ancient roads, no waymarked posts, but clearly marked in their own ways if you were smart and sympathetic enough to be able to read them. Without being especially aware of it, we would have been too.
The GPS records, the ones which begin each chapter of these blogs, say we walked 234km in 12 days over four months. We were interrupted by Christmas and COVID, but that pace and distribution allowed us to savour what was on offer and to learn more about it: to say ‘Korweinguboora’, to look askance at the Red Knobs and puzzle over the pyrethrum daisy fields, to wonder what happened to Mount Franklin’s spring water, to get that big view north from Leanganook and, as though finding a landscape from a dream, having that arrival at Vaughan Springs. It was impossible not to think about the land, and its various forms of management and exploitation. It was also impossible not to marvel at the evidence of the frenzy that the prospect of finding gold had generated. Gold … whatever that’s for …
Now that they can’t travel overseas, a lot of people are discovering more about where they live, and we’re two of them. In so many ways, it was good, very good.
It’s a bit hard to know where the major entry to Castlemaine is because of the variety of creeks, gullies and ridges of which it is composed and the way, following the creeks, it meanders out to include Chewton, Campbell and Barkers Creek. But someone has determined that the place to put a statue signifying entry is at the junction of Hargraves and Forest Streets with its chief aspect east towards the Melbourne (‘Mount Alexander’) road.
People say there is a higher proportion per capita of a) Ph.Ds, b) book clubs, c) unemployed clowns (professional), d) letter writers to ‘The Age’, and e) former teacher unionists in Castlemaine’s population than (why limit it?) anywhere else on earth. And why cavil? That would surely make it an interesting place to live. And read it how you like, but I’m pretty sure that this statue is a Doctor of Philosophy with a hipster moustache and beard imparting wisdom to his adherents while at the same time ignoring the chap at left caught in quicksand and, fist clenched in frustration, about to go under.
Another thing that Castlemaine specialises in is local historians, so it is to them you should turn if you want a serious and complete account of the town and surrounds.
Suffice it to say that it too is on Dja Dja Wurrung country. Squatters had already selected a great deal of the land round here before gold was discovered in 1851. (See more about that in the next blog). Dr William Barker (see?) owned the run where this occurred and left his name behind for the creek which runs north-south through the town roughly parallel to the major street also named after him. Europeans originally called the area Forest Creek after the creek which runs roughly east-west, and broadly defines the richest alluvial gold fields which have ever been discovered.
We are looking north over Forest Creek in this painting by Edwin Stocqueler, ‘Castlemaine from Ten Foot Hill’ (1858). It is interesting to note the number of brick buildings already erected. These things happen fast. Photos from the time (see Golden Point, also on Forest Creek, far below) indicate a much more blasted landscape. A little later, and only just a little later, ten or 15 years later, Castlemaine had its share of crushing plants, engine houses, shops and more orderly roads.
It had become Mount Alexander, somewhat confusingly for our purposes here, because shortly we are going to be climbing over ‘Mt Alexander’ some distance away. But anyway this is where the Mt Alexander Road which begins in Melbourne quite close to where we live was headed. Then in 1854, the local Goldfields Commissioner, Captain William Wright, renamed it ‘Castlemaine’ in honour of his Irish uncle who was a Viscount and possibly good for a quid or at least some career advancement. By choice, you’d change it to something different wouldn’t you?
There were ‘8000 people on the creeks’ by 1852, possibly the town’s largest ever population (7,500 in 1880; 6,757 in 2016). A gaol had been built there by 1853, another presence which has remained continuous. More crucially, the Castlemaine Football Club was established in 1859, making it the second oldest football club in Australia and among the oldest in the world. Ron Barrassi Senior (another one for you Kurt) came in from Guildford to play, and it was Dusty Martin’s last club before the Bendigo Pioneers and Richmond.
As a place to live, Castlemaine has great charms. You can see why immigrants from Melbourne are pushing up its property prices.
* * * * * *
After arriving at Vaughan Springs by foot we wisely decided to rest instead of the planned day on The Track — just to have a look around, a driving look around.
We began the day at Pennyweight Flat cemetery just out of town, an experience which I found deeply moving. The information board says: ‘1852-1857. This site is a rare surviving example of a Gold Rush cemetery. Shortage of water, contaminated water, poor diet and frequent accidents took a heavy toll of those who flocked to the diggings in search of their fortune. Those children who accompanied their parents and babies born on the gold fields were particularly vulnerable to the harsh conditions. Between 1852-57 about 200 bodies, including children and babies, were buried here at Pennyweight Flat on the fringe of the Mount Alexander workings.’
Walking round through the grey box looking at the graves, some marked and some not, many with a contemporary toy near the headstone, provided an acute emotional sense of how things might have been — more than anywhere else on The Track I think. I was very glad we went there.
Our drive continued through Fryerstown where we found this splendid piece of industrial archeology. Its plaque, erected by the Cornish Association of Victoria and the Rowe family with Cornish antecedents, says, inter alia: ‘The Duke of Cornwall’ Engine House erected 1869 for the Australian United Gold Mining Co. This plaque commemorates the Cornish heritage of the Castlemaine area, the engineers and miners and their families who with their skill and labour developed Victorian industries and communities.’
Chimneys like this with their voracious appetites helped to eat the local forests. The ‘engines’ could be used for many things. Later in this blog there is a description of one of the most common, providing the motive force for stampers (crushers) which turned quartz into ‘particles as fine as flour’.
We moved on towards Vaughan Springs. I wanted a more leisurely look at it, and also to check where the outlet track went. On the way we drove past Red Knobs, the product of a mining process known as hydraulic sluicing.
High pressure jets of water blast away large areas of earth to wash it down to be run through a sluice box. It was Arthur Bradfield and his sons George and Ray (one of whom is pictured at left) who blasted most of this hill away in the 1950s before being stopped by the Council because they were getting too close to the road. Ray Bradfield, now a local historian, has said they ‘made wages‘ at Red Knob.
We also visited the Vaughan cemetery where we found this wonderful sculpture.
The cemetery also has a
but it is not the more renowned Vaughan Chinese Cemetery which is more or less over the road. This, however, is an important area for understanding Chinese participation in the gold rushes.
In 1861 ‘The Argus’, one of the colony’s newspapers, commissioned an inquiry into the state of the goldfields. ‘Two questions occupying a considerable share of public attention in the colony are whether the older fields are showing signs of exhaustion; and the second relates to the social condition of the miners engaged upon them.’ This inquiry was conducted over many months and became the prompt for and precursor to a Royal Commission. The product, written in brisk and lively language by J. Wilson & McKinnon, 78 Collins St East, offers the sort of detailed and luminous account which only eye-witnessing can provide. In its discussion of ‘Chinese on the Goldfields’ this document editorialises briefly about intercultural relations: ‘The conclusion at which I have arrived—that these people are a most valuable addition to our labourers on the gold-fields—is shared by all who look at the Chinese question, as it develops itself in Victoria, apart from the prejudices of race and the undefined and ignorant ill-will that is occasionally found to exist between peoples and tribes even not so remote from each other as Saxons and Chinese.’
Some extracts from the report on this topic:
“Guildford [a few kilometres from Vaughan, current population: 333] has long been the main Chinese village in the colony, some five or six thousand Chinamen, and one Canton woman, the wife of a travelled shipwright of that city, having formed the population of the ‘Camp.’
‘In this valley there had been rich alluvial diggings, but it had been well worked out by European diggers before the advent of the Chinese. Here the Chinese drew together, and, in large associated bands, they introduced the system of paddocking or benching (at left), stripping the [already worked] soil, taking out the wash-dirt bodily, and then restoring the ground to something like its first condition.
It is understood that many of these men were brought in by capitalists of their own nation, under contract to work for small wages for a fixed period, thereby gaining their emancipation. This, probably, was the case, but whether bond or free, ‘John’ [Chinaman, for some reason] was alike frugal and saving when he was out of luck or in debt, and equally enterprising and liberal when in good fortune.
‘Rapidly the camp grew, in regular lines of streets, narrow and primitive, but highly populous and busy … In the days of its greatest glory, ‘the Camp’ had its permanent theatre and circus performers, and in every street its temples devoted to Joss were numerous. All the arts flourished in it—down to the making of alloyed gold—as they did at home. The restaurants, the tea-houses, the gambling saloons, the cobblers’ stalls, the tailors’ shops, were as they are in Canton; and the student of Chinese language and literature, manners and customs, politics and laws, might have studied and graduated here as well as in Pekin [Beijing] itself.
‘There were shops for literature and shops for art; there were scholars to write your letters and interpreters to read them; there were doctors, and perhaps quacks, with peculiar rules of practice and medicines to suit—surgeons of whom it could not be said they did ‘too muchee sawee.’ At this period of its history, ‘the Camp’ was the frequent resort of strangers, who rambled through it, amused at the strange contempt the Chinese seemed to entertain for domestic comfort or privacy; the open, eager, constant, childish delight they took in their own forms of gambling; the simplicity of their faith in the divining rods of Joss; and the quaintness of all their motions, proceedings, and notions, their drama, their music, their song, their dress, and their banners.
‘Of late, however, ‘the Camp’ has been greatly shorn of its glories, and become but the semblance of what it was three years ago. Maryborough has drawn away a large portion of its inhabitants; Ballarat has possessed itself of its circus and theatre; and a thousand or two of the last who deserted Campbell’s Creek are now to be found on the old lead at McIvor [near Heathcote]. …
‘They have their own benevolent societies. To their relatives in distress they are kind, though to strangers of their own nation they show an apathy as peculiar to the race as that which they exhibit for their own sufferings and distresses. Of their honesty as diggers, in the observance of the regulations laid down by the authorities, I might quote numerous stories, as creditable to them as the oppressions practised upon them by miners of other nations are discreditable to the authors of those outrages.’
The religion of the Chinese diggers was conducted in ‘joss houses’, temples where ‘joss’, incense, was burnt. These seemed to attract the particular ire of European diggers and settlers. Twelve of these were built in Castlemaine.
At left is one which was built at Ten Foot Hill and in May 1908 was the subject of litigation.
The background: ‘Between 30 and 40 years ago the Chinese of Castlemaine built a Joss house on a portion of section 144, which building was still standing, though not in its pristine glory. It had been continually in the possession of the Chinese by themselves, by exercising acts of control, and by custodians and caretakers, and during the whole of that period there had been no cessation of possession on the part of the Chinese. It was not the only Joss house, as there was another one not far from it. The Joss house was the Chinese temple. The Chinese remained in undisturbed possession until seven or eight years ago. Mr Williams acquired, or professed to acquire, some sort of occupancy to the land on which the Joss house stood and proceeded to fence in about two acres, including the building.’
Mr Williams was Edward David Williams, businessman and politician, enriched from selling groceries in Lancefield and Ballarat, with extensive gold-mining investments at Castlemaine, Campbells Creek, Chewton and Fryerstown, had interests in dredging companies, was chairman of the Castlemaine mining board and — in 1908 — was Mayor of Castlemaine.
He himself failed to get rights to the land adjacent to his property on which the joss house stood, so he put in an application on behalf of his wife. Then a further substituted application was made to have the land put up for sale. It was advertised in the Government Gazette under the heading of ‘Land, Site of improvements by E. D. Williams’. Shortly thereafter his groom, William Noland, was observed removing bricks from the joss house (over two months, more than one thousand) which were used in building stables for the Williamses. Then Noland was seen digging up the flagstones at the entry to the temple and removing them in a cart belonging to Williams.
Williams then suggested informally to the Borough’s Surveyor and Sanitary Inspector, Egbert Lock, that he might think about making an inspection of the condition of the joss house at least partly because ‘There were bricks loose in the walls.’ Lock inspected the place and reported to the Council on 27th December (1907), recommending that it be condemned as unsafe and insanitary. The Council determined to have the structure removed or made habitable. ‘The minute book (produced) gives a correct version of what took place, and the minutes of the meeting were signed by the Mayor’, ie Williams.
Williams then proceeded to fence the whole of the property. Evidence was provided as follows.
‘Shortly after starting the fence Lee Pack [the representative of the Chinese owners] came to Williams and said, ‘ You fence in the Joss house? ” Mr Williams replied, “Yes, I have taken up the land as a residence area.” Lee Pack— “You take Joss house ?” Mr Williams— “No, I don’t want the old Joss house.” Lee Pack— “How we get in ?” Mr Williams— “I don’t want to interfere with you; I will put a gate there (in the north-west corner) for you.” Lee Pack—”No ; we want go in through main gate near stables like always.” Mr Williams—”No; I don’t want you to go through that way.” Mr Williams then erected a gate near the corner of Greenhill and Preshaw streets [which no longer meet], but never gave them the key as he only had one key. He altered the gate afterwards to a smaller size, and the key being left in the lock on one occasion disappeared. The gate had been locked ever since.
— Thanks to the ‘Mount Alexander Mail’ of 10 May 1908
Although the joss house is no longer there — of course, perhaps — I can’t tell you the outcome of the case. But I can tell you that Williams didn’t have long to enjoy the products of his larceny. He died early in the subsequent year.
* * * * * *
Pursuing our tour we decided we would like another look at Vaughan Springs. It does have an odd magnetic quality about it.
The weir — so small, so shallow — had become an impressionist painting. It was hot enough for Myrna to swim and for me to lie in the shade. And that’s where we began from ten days later when we came back to the Track.
Vaughan Springs to Castlemaine(the ‘Cry Joe’ or ‘Look out! Cops!’ Walk)
30 January 2021, mid 20s again. 21.14 km
A taxi took us from Castlemaine to Vaughan. People seem to like to know these things. It was early and slightly crisp for the fine exit up through various levels of the Loddon valley, a really nice two kilometres. Low sun does have its aesthetic attractions.
Almost all the country between Vaughan and Castlemaine has been powerfully influenced by mining one way or another, and if you want to see the consequences in all their various glories, this might just be the right leg of the Walk.
You get to the Chewton road and you’re looking at yet another one of those profoundly eroded gullies. At the top of the next rise you find a horseshoe-shaped hummock of earth which has once been an improbable dam.
At Deadman’s Flat/ Irishtown the diggers appear to have wanted to scrape all surface material off leaving this exposed bedrock with its remarkable patterns.
You couldn’t argue that this wasn’t sedimentary rock —at left in layers of mudstone and sandstone perhaps — with these strong colours. In real life the material in this photo is about 200mm from top to bottom. It extended just like this over 20 or 30 square metres. Assume the colours to be more vivid.
It was not all beauty. An alluvial pit, 10? 15? metres deep just a short distance further along had been turned into an informal rubbish dump.
And you can get sights like this another kilometre along just over the Campbell’s Creek Road …
… degraded soil, hosts of blackberries, poplars alive and dead, introduced weeds and grasses — all a bit sad really just there.
And then Fryerstown which once had a population of 15,000, a lolly shop, a boot factory (still there in form if not function) and, reflective of local priorities, 25 hotels. The population at the last census was 228.
Two places of interest. The Burke and Wills Mechanics Institute (still being used; the board leaning up against the wall was advertising some community activity which has slipped my mind). Burke and Wills though … Like tens of thousands of others, they certainly did travel all the way up the Mount Alexander Road, but in the end they made a profound mess of things. They must have made quite an impression on the area or at least had a good local spruiker. The largest memorial in Castlemaine in one of its most prominent positions is for the expedition but primarily for Burke, the dullard nong who made most of the bad decisions. Ah well. The elegant building on the right is the old court house, now available for rental should you wish via Air BnB.
I have considered using this pic as the motif for the whole walk. No such thing is possible of course; it was too various. But it would nonetheless be a candidate. Castlemaine was awash in agapanthi, the ‘love (agape) flower’. Maybe they survive dry climates, and are pest resistant, colourful and easy to grow … in fact, unsurprisingly, yes and yes yes yes, but they are also notably non-indigenous. In New Zealand aggas are classified as an ‘environmental weed’ and only vigorous action by associations of gardeners has stopped them being added to the National Pest Plant listing (no propagation, sale or planting). They come originally from Africa but in several countries, Australia included, they are described as having been ‘naturalised’. I wonder in that case where they stand with taking the pledge. Still and all, without aggas Castlemaine and environs would be mightily diminished.
A couple of kilometres out of Fryerstown and well off road we came across these two blokes. They were memorable simply for being there. In 234 kilometres we saw one man digging for worms (Nerrina), one man yabbying (Barkstead), one man fossicking (Golden Gully), four (short distance) walkers and five cyclists keen to find a way to get off The Track (Sedgwick), two serious day walkers (Poverty Gully Race), and these two. That’s it. In 12 days of walking. They were also memorable for being so well equipped, so nice, so interested in us and what we were doing and the fact that they gave us everything they had found that day: a belt buckle (which could also have been a shackle), a dolls comb (maybe), two buttons (old) and (they said, see Heathcote Pursuit’s comment) a musket ball with a sprue from its mould. We found the stick pin nearby ourselves. Varena (Lithuania), the mushroom capital of Europe. Tell me what that was doing there?
And then Spring Gully mine which operated for more than 80 years beginning in the early 1850s.
It announces itself (walls, diggings, collections of ashlared stone) a kilometre or so before you get into the thick of it. But there could be more ‘mine’ here than anywhere else on The Track. Here are bits of the massive mullock piles … today, his and hers.
This is the stone wall of the loading dock from which quartz was tipped into the stamping battery which would have been related to the four now decomposing massive blocks of wood in the foreground. Just nearby are the remnants of a fallen chimney, piles and piles of bricks stamped ‘Northcote’. There is a deep shaft 50 or so metres away with, like so many of them, a peppercorn tree growing in it. Dust mitigation is all I can find for a reason.
But how did these crushers produce gold? I find this very interesting, but I can understand why others mightn’t. If so, skip to the photo of Myrna sketching on top of The Monk. Otherwise this is the account to be found in the 1862 Argus study of the goldfields.
“In a quartz-mill the stone is reduced almost as fine as flour, by means of stamps. They are arranged in batteries of four, five, and six heads, driven by steam, the stamps being lifted by means of discs on a cam, so arranged as to make the stamps revolve. They work in iron boxes, with false moveable bottoms, the stone passing in on one side by a slide—fed by the weight of the stone, or by a feeder, whose ear detects, by the peculiar sound of the blow, when more quartz must be thrown in. On the other side of the box is fixed an iron grating, perforated with about one hundred and eighty holes to the square inch. The crushed quartz exits through this grating onto a ripple table, spread out in front, over which the whole of the crushed material passes, carried down by warm water let into the stamp-boxes. In the stamp-boxes a small quantity of mercury is introduced, and in grooves in the ripple-tables more quicksilver lies, into which the gold drops as it passes.
Abundance of quartz having been brought up, the work commences, and proceeds night and day, the men employed succeeding each other in shifts of twelve hours. A battery of twelve stamps can process from 150 to 200 tons of stone per week, according to the hardness of the material and the weight of the stamps. If the crushing is for a party of miners, one or more of their number will remain in the mill during the whole process of reduction and washing [wouldn’t they just], sometimes making his bed on the cover of the ripple-tables, to ensure that no product of their labour be removed. The ripples are cleaned of their quicksilver in the same way, and the copper-plates carefully washed down. The whole of the mercury having thus been collected and washed out from the quartz is taken from the stamp box.
The quicksilver is lifted in some pounds weight at a time, and placed in a clean porous chamois leather cloth. The ball it forms is squeezed with a muscular hand, and the thin fluid oozes in small white beads through the skin, falling into a bucket placed below.
More quicksilver is added from time to time, and squeezed, until the whole has passed through, leaving in the cloth a heavy white mass, called the “amalgam”, varying in size according to the quantity and richness of the stone crushed. The amalgam is the gold-coated mixture with quicksilver, and contains more or less of the precious metal, according as the gold is fine or coarse —that is, minutely disseminated through the stone, or occurring in it in large pieces or in small nuggets.
The amalgam is then covered in a retort, which is placed in a good charcoal fire, with the mouth of the pipe led into water. A few minutes of the heat suffices to drive the mercury from the gold in the form of a vapour, which passes through the pipe and is condensed in the water, leaving the red gold in the retort in a discoloured, strange-looking mass, which an easy process afterwards refines into the yellow gold so eagerly sought after in civilized life. There is nothing more to do but carry it to the scales.
The whole process is extremely interesting to a stranger, whose ears are not deafened by the heavy monotonous beat of the stamps, and who can watch with unshaken nerves the action of the hungry iron giants, whose cravings for more food are insatiable. There is no prettier picture to be found on the gold-fields than a neatly-arranged quartz-mill, nestled by its sheets of water, under the shelter of the evergreen forest, with its white steam escaping, and evidences of life and labour around it.
Just for interest: you can touch mercury, in fact you can drink it and it will pass through your system. But if you smell it … ‘the inhalation is likely to produce harmful effects on the nervous, digestive and immune systems, lungs and kidneys, and may be fatal’.
We climbed up The Monk a few hundred metres off The Track to have lunch. I think it is probably Tarrangower looming over Maldon on the horizon to the far left. I was hoping that it was Mount Franklin, after a short walk easily visible to the south from here — it is quite a landmark — but a long way away, suggesting how far we had come. At the base of this climb were the first I noticed of the very black ironbarks which begin dominating the forests nearer to Bendigo.
And then Poverty Gully Race: a spectacle of some proportions. It’s (mostly) very deep — the trench is anyway, about 1.5 – 2m — and it just goes on and on, a formidable bit of hand cut engineering. As noted above we met two people here, it was Saturday arvo, and both of them commented what a wonderful walk it is along the bank. The Guidebook says: ‘It contours tortuously for 2km around gully heads with a precipitous drop on the north side. Lots of rough patches with tree roots abounding.’ Might have been a bad day, although I must say I was glad to get to the reservoir, now full of exotic plants, which signalled not too far to go to downtown Castlemaine, iced coffee and a lot of water, at Tog’s Place.
Big day. Great day.
Specimen Gully to Castlemaine
31 January 2021, cool morning and we’d finished by lunch time. 12.41km
A short day with one highlight to terminate this long long blog. But just before we leave Specimen Gully (early again), numerologists among you might be interested to note that yesterday’s walk was 21.14 km and today’s 12.41. No? Ok. Moving on then …
Just for convenience, we’re going backwards. Taxi out to Specimen Gully, from where we’ll start again in a fortnight’s time, walk back in to town where our car is. Not a long walk, just tidying up before going further north.
Ah the taxi. He’d been driving cabs here for a hundred years. As proof he was appropriately well-upholstered, possibly even to the point of it being a challenge to get in and out of the car. This was a 20 dollar ride from the middle of town and he didn’t know where we were going. Nor, not that it really mattered, why.
Specimen Gully … maaaaaaate. If you live in Castlemaine you’ve got to know about Specimen Gully. The next blog will explain why. Anyway we got there. Corner Specimen Gully Road and Swanton Track, walking through plantations of old pines — lovely in the morning. Then there’s this quite startling variation in the dirt road we’re on. The Guidebook: ‘There’s an extreme heavily rutted pitch’ which might be better expressed as ‘a heavily rutted extreme pitch’, and yes my word there is. It doesn’t go up vertically, but my goodness for a 100m or so it’s incredibly steep. I have no idea how they drive vehicles up there if they do.
There are tracks, vehicle tracks, everywhere through this neck of the woods. This is one of those areas near a biggish town that is heavily used for all sorts of purposes. It was Sunday morning and nearer town there were joggers and dog walkers, and twin cab maxis &c. (I’m not counting these as being on The Track. They were sort of ‘in town’.) But the first section was lovely — a stiff-ish climb and, once up, some views east across to Harcourt and Mount Alexander. Out of the pines we followed an easy gradient down past a number of Houses in the Bush to Golden Point
I have said already that Forest Creek is the site of the richest alluvial gold diggings ever found and Golden Point (still about 8km from Castlemaine proper) was one of its richest sections. It doesn’t look like this any more, but it’s still pretty chewed up.
It was a lovely morning and we were ambling along not taking photos, so to some degree it’s hard to remember. I can recollect turning right up Welsh Street but missing the Welsh Village. A group of joggers came down that hill. Then we hooked up with a race for a while, sauntered down a gentle hill found a set of steps, looked up and there was …
the Garfield Wheel, or really not the wheel but its monumental housing. This is the wheel. Just, wow!
And below this is it being built with a better look at its remarkable flume.
The Mining Surveyor’s Report said, inter alia: ‘The Garfield Company have confined their operations to re-erecting their crushing plant adjacent to a new water wheel of 70 foot [22m] diameter in form rather like a large wheel of a bicycle. The water to be obtained from the V.W.S. race [fed by the Coliban channel via the Expedition Pass Reservoir, see the next blog] carried by a flume 790 feet [240m] long, on a sapling frame from 20 to 58 feet high will fill 220 wrought iron buckets … The wheel revolves (according to the force of water) in 45 to 55 seconds driving a 15-head battery from 70 to 86 falls per minute. This process affords employment to over 60 men.’
As the company’s profits, initially very substantial, declined, the English investors who had stood up the money in the first instance decided to put it elsewhere. But that wasn’t what did in the wheel. On windy days the sheer size of the wheel rendered it useless, and the resulting wear on the cog gearing caused it to be shut down in 1903 and dismantled in 1904, giving it a life of 16 years, which for mining apparatus mightn’t be too bad. They had to move the stampers twice during that time because of ground subsidence underneath them. That would make sense wouldn’t it.
Just the stone supports are left today, with their very own shall we say spiritual quality.
We passed the Manchester Reef mine with its horizontal entrance and the pines of Moonlite Flat before hooking up again with the path along Forest Creek — almost back in Castlemaine by this stage.
A little art on the way.
We had been watching the creek area getting more and more degraded as we got closer to town. But with a kilometre or two to go we noticed that the blackberries had been poisoned, then cleared out with a massive reveg planting program evident on both banks. Then we came to a Landcare sign saying how this program and the volunteers who do the work had been devoted to cleaning up this stretch of Forest Creek. Just before we got off the creek path to go into town, it looked like this.
What an estimable program Landcare is. It began in 1986 with a group of farmers near St Arnaud supported by Joan Kirner and Heather Mitchell (Warracknabeal farmer, then President of the Victorian Farmers Federation, and Rahda’s mum) and the Victorian Government. The late Rick Farley and Phil Toyne were the main lobbyists for it to become a national program. Launching the national version of the program in 1989, Bob Hawke said: ‘The degradation of our environment is not simply a local problem, nor a problem for one state or another, nor for the Commonwealth alone. Rather, the damage being done to our environment is a problem for us all — and not just government — but for us individually and together.‘
I wonder if we could get a politician, any politician, to say that today, and not just say it but act on it.
A classic walk. No self-respecting guidebook to walks in Victoria would leave it out. Easily accessible entry, comfortable length, but you don’t have to do it all. There are three or four places to get off and go back to the Hepburn Springs-Daylesford Road or more directly into Hepburn Springs. It’s straightforward. You’re just following Sailors Creek which you can do either side. I think the educated preference is for the eastern side: you get higher and the views are longer. Interesting features. Well maintained. Depending where you start and how far you want to deviate from the track, there are three, four or five mineral springs, two of which are sure to be running. The end, going in our direction, is the gardens and terracing surrounding Hepburn Bathhouse & Spa and, if you’re so inclined and have made a booking, the pools, the baths and the attentions of the Bathhouse itself.
We have arrived at a place, a pot of gold swathed in warmly non-discriminatory rainbow colours, which now makes its living out of your comfort and pleasure.
What to say? Queen Victoria memorial fountain, cnr. Raglan and Howe Streets. Erected in 1902 via public subscription including proceeds from a well-attended performance of H.M.S. Pinafore. Made out of rubble and concrete it was in a bad state of disrepair by 1991 and so we are looking at a copy about 30 years old, the male caryatids looking determined if a little unhappy to support their dish, the women simply resigned to their lot. In the background a hotel with cast iron lace, a period feature. But from here we are within striking distance of dozens of food shops or, as one might say in Daylesford, providores, and ambitious restaurants — we are looking towards Kadota, but as well The Lake House, Frangos, the Farmer’s Arms, Sault, Larder, Bistrot Terroir, and on — as well as some less aspirational but still mostly satisfying. Because we are in Daylesford, and that’s what you have in Daylesford.
And in Daylesford (with Hepburn Springs, although you’d never say it out loud locally, the northern suburb) you also have a sybaritic range of health spas, therapy centres, sanitariums, meditative retreats, masseurs, cosmeticians, and manifold operations promising to both excite and relax your senses, often at the same time. And then there’s the antique shops, the markets, the Convent, the lake, the botanic gardens. Both scale and style are right. As Alla Wolf-Tasker (Ms. The Lake House) says in a recent advertising supplement: ‘There are no large brands here. This is a region of small local makers and growers. When you visit local establishments, it’s often the artist, the restaurateur, the winemaker, the brewer, the baker saying hello’, or in the case of the Himalaya Bakery and Cafe the person making the corned beef and salad roll you’re going to eat at Breakneck Gorge.
Let’s get moving. The day will have gone and you’ll still be sitting at the all-day breakfast place thinking about whether you’ll have another short macchiato with almond milk on the side.
Our motelier (Hepburn Springs Motor Inn: rooms 7.8, service 9.9; more on her below) had driven us back into Daylesford and dropped us at the Town Hall, another one of those best-foot-forward gold era buildings. We strolled down Raglan St and got back on the Track at Tipperary Springs.
This is a good example of how well this track is waymarked. In 210 km I can think of only two places where the waymarking left any uncertainty. Pretty remarkable, and another incentive to try your hand for at least bits of The Track.
Tipperary Spring.‘ … the best spring in the district, next to Hepburn.’
Quite effervescent with high levels of total dissolved salts, bicarbonate, inorganic carbon, calcium, sodium, potassium and iron.
In the clearing at Tipperary Springs is this striking tree which I am going to designate E. viminalis. When I consult my copy of Eucalypts of the Mount Alexander Region (Slattery, B., Perkins and Silver, and highly recommended) I find that viminalis is Latin for ‘like a willow’ and refers in this case to the way the foliage weeps. They are sometimes called ribbon gums, and here there are a plethora of bark ribbons. I also find that the common name, Manna Gum, is derived from white nodules exuding from insect holes in the bark which are, or perhaps were in the past, relished by Aboriginal people — manna.
But whatever it is, it’s a superb tree.
Looking back over the creek: a characteristic view. Heavily forested bank on the other side, the creek, somnolent, finding its way through the rocks. I think I like this walk best in winter when the valley is often full of mist and rain. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sailors Creek running hard, although it can as a picture below illustrates.
This is what it’s like where we are.
Unless it’s like this …
… with a cloud of everlastings floating down the hill. It would be Egg and Bacon if it were closer to Spring.
But wherever you look, closely, there is the prospect of something quite exquisite.
There are several reminders of gold along the way. The shaft (at left) of the old Mistletoe Mine is about 2m square, heavily fenced off and housed in a decaying corrugated iron shed. But, along with its tailings and mullock, it’s there, caged, moodily brooding.
Closer to Bryce’s Flat all the signs of diggings begin to appear, but they pretty much stop there …
… before starting again at the party trick of this stage of the walk, The Blowhole.
The area around The Blowhole had been closed for three years before the Victorian LABOR GOVERNMENT provided $250,000 to stabilise the area and build a new set of stairs and viewing platform. Now it’s open again, and just so you know who’s who and what’s what about opening the repairs, MARY-ANNE THOMAS, LABOR MEMBER FOR MACEDON gets in the front of the ‘Ballarat Courier’s’ pic while the Parks Victoria folk who have probably done or at least supervised and had a part in designing the work melt into the background. But unless you’ve got a very keen eye for the detail of khaki jackets, I’m not sure you’ll recognise Mary-Anne when you see her next. You might in fact consider this a picture of low-key banditry taking a rather static selfie in the bush. Anyway an excellent job has been done (and thanks Mary-Anne, AND DAN(LABOR)).
So what’s The Blowhole?
Just a bit further north, Sailors Creek seems to break into Jim Crow Creek and Spring Creek. The Jim Crow gully (at right, Raintree’s photo, 1854, devastation) was very heavily worked for gold and a group of miners, European and Chinese, decided there must also be gold to be found a bit south and that there was an attractive opportunity for getting at a creek bed which they could dry out. Sailors Creek takes a big loop right at this point, so to divert the water, they blasted and dug a hole through a rocky spur to make a much more direct route for the creek. That dry loop was very intensively worked over without much profit leaving behind The Blowhole as something of an oddity in Victorian goldfields mining, something now just to exclaim over.
I have never seen anything remotely like the situation at left, but it was flood damage that shook up the rock strata and maybe left this memento.
If you look at the water in this photo, in which intrepid photographer taking photo of tree trunk jammed in Blowhole has scaled cliff face, you will note just how fast the creek was flowing.
A lot of walkers get off the track at The Blowhole, but the northern section of the walk repays investigation. The gully walls get steeper and much deeper which does make the walking harder but, just for example, you can poke your head up over the lip of the gully wall (here called a gorge) and have a look at the Hepburn Recreation Reserve which you otherwise might miss. That’s important. Despite a score of visits to Hepburn Springs I never knew it existed. We also found a metre long brown snake sunning itself on the path before rushing off to its next appointment, and the backside of a rash of grand designs along Main Road including a 5-Star hotel (‘Clifftop at Hepburn’. Marvellous). Golden Spring was dry and being repaired, but just nearby was this superb creature. Fabulous or what? In his or her absolute prime.
To finish the day you cross the creek and climb up through the Baths. And, after that big pump up in the intro, it was actually quite hard to find anywhere to eat: in Hepburn Springs/ Daylesford! Outrageous. It’s the COVID.
Hepburn Springs to Vaughan Springs
19 January 2021, began round 20, low 30s by the time we got there. About 28 or 29 km.
[This particular map is not very helpful, although it may indicate a state of mind. The battery in my phone and hence the GPS conked out at the Porcupine Ridge Road crossing. I began conking out shortly thereafter. We finished near the second ‘d’ in ‘Guildford’.]
It began at 5.45am which is well before the time I start functioning. Hours before. A long day was ahead. The guidebook’s distance is 28 km and that’s plenty, but we always seem to wander a bit beyond official distances. It was going to get hot as well, so good to get as much distance under your belt by lunch time as possible. Plus we needed our car at the other end because we were moving accommodation from Hepburn Springs to Castlemaine. I asked the excellent motelier at the HS Motor Lodge if she would consider following me to Vaughan Springs and then bring me back so we could make all that work, and she most obligingly agreed.
And so it was we both drove off before the sun rose. The road out of Hepburn takes you up a steep hill past a thick assortment of 4- and 5-star hotels clustered for easy access to the Baths before topping out at a lookout, Jackson’s Lookout. There was a Track waymark right at that point. We were going to start the morning with a climb up to a lookout. Eeeeeeeeeeee. Then the bitumen swirled up and down through the gullies before meeting up with the Midland Highway which because of its seniority in the road world tends to have had its ups and downs ironed out. We veered left of Mount Franklin through paddocks with early sun just slithering over them, the noise of the cars enough to disturb the herds of kangaroos. The Mount with its odd basin haircut of pines loomed as a shadow. By the time we got to Guildford I was starting to think, mmm this seems a very long way. After we turned right and had dodged around a bit to get to Vaughan I was pursing my lips and breathing deeply. Hmmm … it was going to be a big day. This was all new country for us and I hadn’t really got a feel for its contours and distances.
And then something strange happened. We’d got past the Chinese Cemetery at Vaughan and some confusing Track waymarking (for the mountain bikers who also use a modified version of the Track) and had arrived at Vaughan Springs, and as we passed under the rustic arches at its entrance and followed the curves of the drive I thought, I’ve been here before.
Exotic deciduous trees, rotunda, two mineral springs one working, a weird fenced area which turns out to be a (very short) race track, toilet block with slate facing, 1920s recreation reserve masonry with thick thick mortar joints and not much attention to symmetry or style, a weir on a river, (in my memory, a big river), a paddling pool at its edge with 2″ galv pipe around the sides to hang on to … and that black box right in the middle of the picture. Because I think in that black box there is a miniature train, which had carriages which you could ride on. And 65 years ago my wish to go for a ride – only in a short circle mind you – was denied. Were all those memories so precise and sharp because of a perceived injustice? Quite possibly.
Vaughan Springs eh! Once known as ‘The Junction’, once a Chinese market garden with rich alluvial soil carried by the Loddon which runs through it, once a weekend venue for hundreds and just occasionally several thousand day trippers. Once, ice creams, footraces, egg and spoon contests, beauty contests, sack races, market stalls, queues to swing into the weir on the rope. Bloody hell. Was that where we were going to end up today? How amazing. Just as much history as the gold. I found a shady tree to park the car under and climbed back in with my driver. On the way back we discovered that she had been a senior administrative assistant of an education program I had begun, and that this experience had influenced her decision to leave Hepburn shortly to go to work in a remote Aboriginal community. As Henry James says: ‘Really, universally, relations stop nowhere.’
The return trip didn’t seem much shorter, although the kangas had got friskier and seemed to have multiplied. We were walking at 7.20.
The entry to this part of the walk is wonderful: through this gate, downhill to the bridge spanning the upper levels of the creek gully, and then onto the tarmac of the roads and car parks of the Baths surrounded by carefully tended lawns and gardens. It was a bit early to be testing mineral water so we ignored the springs and found the Goldfields Track signage on the fence line of the reserve, the manicured calm before something a bit more unruly.
Up through the Locarno Gully (below, which has its own mineral spring) on a track with quite a generous grade for a gain of 130m or so in a kilometre.
This area was burnt in the 2019/2020 fires which must have terrified Hepburn Springs and Daylesford. So close. Robert Walls was one of the people who had his house saved at that time.
We dodged off onto the little spur road at the top of the hill and climbed the lookout — doing The Track properly you see, later in the day we may have had quite a different idea — but the promised views were negligible, treed out. You cross the Back Hepburn road and edge along the Dry Diggings forest on a dirt road with Mt Franklin (Lalgambook) visible ahead to the north. It becomes a feature of the walk as you sidle past it to the east and then gradually look at it receding further and further into the southern distance. That happens in a day and provides a sense of just how far you really are walking. But Golden Summers or what?
We were heading for that swathe of bush in front of us, the Elevated Plains (which is a place name) part of the Hepburn Regional Park and were immediately back in the gully hill gully hill of gold country and almost equally immediately found ourselves following Beehive Gully: shafts, water races, mullock heaps all over the place. But most prominent was this poster child for The Eroded Landscape, 10-15m deep and running like some mini-Grand Canyon for most of a kilometre, trees, sometimes huge, dangling on the edges with most of their roots exposed.
Not beautiful, but unquestionably a spectacle, the sort that primitive versions of mining leave behind. Sophisticated modern versions offer something different: the problems are more carefully disguised.
Out past the Chocolate Mill on the Midland Highway and then backwards a kilometre along its side to the landmark snazzy letterboxes at the junction with Sawpit Gully Road. We seemed to have gone so far: but, one-fifth of the way. However Sawpit Gully Road, a gently undulating gravel affair for 3 km and then a pleasant dirt road after that, provided a chance to make up some time as well as things to look at because this was the land of the grand design, Toorak dreamings transported to the rural setting.
This house, either number 1 or number 2, was the only modest dwelling we saw on Sawpit Gully Road. I checked the property pages and it looks a bit like if you want 20 hectares or some such you pay north of half a million, and if you want a house on that block appropriate to the context you will need to think about beginning at three times that much. And you’ll need a dam about as big as a lake, and quite possibly your very own earth-moving equipment. An hour and a half from Melbourne where the mother ships probably are, what are you thinking?
We’re looking over the top of one of these with Mt Franklin in the background. (Just incidentally you can see the change in aspect I mentioned earlier. We’re a little bit short of due east now.) And we’re walking along a ridge between the Middleton and Tarilta Creeks, both of which would flow about as voluminously — and regularly — as Sailors Creek.
You’ve drunk the water, now see the hill: what spell has Mount Franklin cast?
“People also ask: Is Mount Franklin water from Mount Franklin?”
“The water in Coca-Cola Amatil’s Mount Franklin doesn’t come from Mount Franklin, as the name implies. Coca-Cola actually sources its water from various springs across five different states, one of which is in Queensland, more than 1800km from Victoria’s Mount Franklin.” To which could be added (from an academic study): ‘While the water associated with “Mount Franklin” brand lives on under the ownership of Coca Cola Amatil and has become nationally iconic and incredibly profitable to the Coca Cola company, no water has been extracted from the original site [about 10km north at the junction of the Midland Hway with Limestone Track] for approximately 35 years. The “Mount Franklin” mineral spring is no more and the area has become an overgrown and forgotten eyesore on the side of the Midland Highway.’ Another study: ‘In the late 1980s a water bottling company purchased [the land this spring is on], put a bore down into a saline aquifer and destroyed the spring. This was environmental vandalism.’
On another day we climbed to the top of Mount Franklin and wandered round its cone and, sure enough, saw no signs of tapping either spring or other artesian water. Even so I’m not sure why you’d want it to come from Mount Franklin. What is it about this modest mountain and its surrounds?
The on-line ‘Goldfields Guide’ says: ‘A gorgeous and peaceful campground rests within the scenic crater of an extinct volcano at Mount Franklin. Bordered by conifer forest, the crater has been decorated with ornamental trees such as Silver Birch, White Poplar, Sycamore and Californian Redwoods. A large, central lawn area is surrounded by a ring of campsites with picnic tables and wood fire barbecues. A toilet block and water tank/tap is located close to the entrance of the campground.’ All true. I can vouch for that. But would that draw you? There were 40 or 50 people camping or picnicking when we were there. Perhaps seclusion.
This Guide also notes that: ‘Mount Franklin was created by a volcanic eruption about 470,000 years ago. The crater … is one of the deepest in the Central Highlands. Lava flow from Mount Franklin and other volcanoes in the area had buried the gold-bearing creeks that would become the “deep leads” sought out and excavated by gold miners.’ And so that’s what a ‘deep lead’ is. I had wondered.
It seems to have always had some fascination for Europeans. Squatters called it ‘Jim Crow Hill’ connecting it — and its nearby creek — somehow with the racial segregation laws of the United States. It became Mt Franklin in 1843 after Superintendant La Trobe climbed it with Sir John Franklin, then boss of white Tasmania. Its eastern side in particular became a mining site in the 1850s until 1870, when the crater was set aside as a recreation reserve surrounded by another substantial area reserved as State forest. In a story on endless repeat in the historical cycle, deals were done to excise two large areas of the reserve for farming. Another repeat: this generated a public outcry which strengthened preservation (till today) of the remaining reserve. But introduced animals — first farm animals, later rabbits — destroyed much of the indigenous land cover. Then in 1944 a bushfire destroyed most of the remnant native vegetation and a decision was made to replant with the exotic species which are all too evident today.
This has a fairly precise parallel with the treatment of the indigenous population, the Gunangara Gundidj clan of the Dja Dja Wurrung people. Good evidence suggests that Lalgambook (‘smoking grounds’, suggesting immensely long contact) was an important cultural site and that frequent and large ceremonial gatherings took place there. How widely was that understood in 1840, … or today?
In 1840, the government took over Mount Franklin and the surrounding area for the Loddon Aboriginal Protectorate Station. Initially there was to be an inner reserve of one square mile (258 hectares) on which ‘every effort was to be made to induce [the “protected” Aboriginal people] to engage in the pursuit of agriculture or other regular labour.’ This was within another area with a five-mile radius which was set up for the purposes of hunting which was explicitly anticipated to be temporary as the habits of diligent European labour took hold. The purpose of this, as with the three other protectorates established round the time was ‘to safeguard the natives from encroachments on their property, and from acts of cruelty, of oppression or injustice’, with a longer term goal of ‘civilising’ them. Ah, the irony, the irony.
And the customary sad story, rigid with inevitability, plays out. The hub of the protectorate was established at Larne-ne-barramul, ‘the place of the emu’, what is now called Franklinford just on the other side of the Midland Highway from the mountain. A homestead, church, school and several out buildings were constructed. One commentator thinks that ‘Franklinford provided a very important focus for the Dja Dja Wurrung during the 1840s where they received a measure of protection and rations, but they continued [as you might imagine, hindsight makes things so wonderfully clear] with their traditional cultural practices and semi-nomadic lifestyle as much as they could.’ From time to time there were at more than 200 Aborigines living at Franklinford, however, in 1850 when the protectorate was finally closed there were only 20-30 there. In the subsequent years only one family, pictured below, remained.
One of these dignified and composed people is Tommy Walker, the last Dja Dja Wurrung person at Franklinford who eventually walked off to Coranderrk.
Another sad story plays out via the man in charge, Assistant-Protector Edward Parker. He was appointed to this role from his home in London by people who were equally distanced, geographically and otherwise, from this reality. A history of his life and times (Holst, below) describes three phases of his identity:
vigorous but poorly informed idealism. An active campaigner against slavery, he trained to be a Methodist minister but violated the terms of his probation by marrying (albeit the daughter of a Congregational minister). After arrival in Australia he set up initially near Sunbury so he wasn’t too far from Melbourne and wrestled constantly with his employers about regulations, supplies, payment and the nature of his role. (Parker also spent time elbowing away Sievwright, another Assistant-Protector and former policeman, from pressing his attentions on his wife.)
learning about politics while fighting to set up and consolidate his operation. Among the endless other issues, the five squatters with adjoining ‘properties’ kept encroaching on the protectorate’s land or at least disputing its boundaries leading at times to violent altercations. Parker was slow to set up a school despite this being ‘of the highest priority’ (it began in 1849 and closed in 1864, a short life), but he was able to set up a semi-functional community. Two of his sons describe his relationship with his protectees as respect bordering on reverence. This is contested. He appears to have been scraping off quite a lot of money from the products of the protectorate (which included lime from the Franklin aquifer destroyed by Coca Cola) for his personal benefit. But …
he ended up a member of the Victorian Legislative Council, a magistrate, a fellow of the Royal Society of Victoria and the holder of a very extensive property once known as the Loddon Aboriginal Protectorate. In 1850 he was granted the pastoral lease for the land it occupied amounting to 62 square miles (16,000 hectares) as well as retention of its equipment, stores and stock. He occupied this land as his own for 25 years. In his will he described his occupation as ‘landholder’.
[To read more: Heather Holst (2008) ‘Save the People’: ES Parker at the Loddon Aboriginal Station Aboriginal History Vol 32]
A footnote: ‘On 26 May 2004 Susan Rankin, a Dja Dja Wurrung elder peacefully reoccupied crown land at Franklinford in central Victoria, calling her campsite the Going Home Camp. Rankin asked the Victorian Department of Sustainability and Environment to produce documents proving that the Crown has the right to occupy these lands. According to the 2 June 2004 ‘Daylesford Advocate’, local DSE officers admitted they “cannot produce these documents and doubt that such documents exist”.’
• • • • • • • •
After that long digression, back to the people puffing their way along the Track on an increasingly warm day. After crossing Porcupine Ridge Road we found ourselves in open forest busy with regrowth.
It would have provided a field day for identification of juvenile eucalypt leaves.
We were walking north through the southern section of the Castlemaine Diggings National Heritage Park at this stage. The area would be called Glenlyon even though we’re five or six kilometres from the town, like so many of these Central Highlands townlets, picturesque and attractive. We visited, really just for purposes of orientation, on the day 100mm of rain fell in a few hours. I didn’t know then that the town began its life as an experiment in Christian socialism. It’s better known these days for its wine.
Around the time we came to Brown’s Gully the signs of human intervention were becoming more pronounced, even to things like this, a pile of handily squared-off stone, in this case natural, in others the work of a chisel and a mallet. But these have been busy diggings.
Sebastopol Gully was not far ahead, like Forest Creek and Specimen Gully nearer Castlemaine, a very rich Mt Alexander digging. Also nearby is Italian Hill, Irish Flat and, perhaps as a necessary consequence, Fighting Gully. Claim jumping would be only one reason why altercations broke out in groups of men from all over the place tense with gold fever.
I wish I’d been more alert to this stretch of the walk. There was regular evidence of both vertical and horizontal mining, plenty of hills to climb just here, empty water races, heaps of tailings, eroded gullies. At one of the bigger digs, Tubal Cain mine, you find the old mine dam now full of reeds standing out from the rest of the landscape. (Tubal Cain, תּוּבַל קַיִן, descendant of the biblical Cain and, according to biblical record, the first blacksmith). I was too tired to chase up the other evidence of this venture.
The scenery changed quite regularly, and the Track allows 5-600 metres along (another) Sailor’s Gully Creek which was refreshingly cool and flat as well as being full of open shafts like this one.
The Guidebook says ‘you will find a long uphill section to Gurr Track with under two kms to go to Vaughan Springs’, … that would be approx 5mm less than two kms. That’s how it felt anyway.
It’s very hard to photograph ‘steep’ or ‘high’ so you’re just going to have to imagine it. But you might like to chafe your thighs a bit first, bash your feet around, stand on your tip toes in the sun and avoid any sort of liquid refreshment for a day or two. You’re just not as alert as you should be, more just one foot in front of the other. Even after we got onto Gurr’s Track there were things I should have been looking at that I didn’t see.
Plus there were quite a few false dawns in these last kilometres. I thought I could see the weir at Vaughan Springs several times before I was eventually walking across its wall. Long hot days can do that to you. But this too is some fabulous walk.
I got my head under this spring, the Lawson, and, ignoring its internal redemptive qualities, luxuriated in its bracing temperature. I got properly wet and thought, given that it is going to start in the mid-30s next day, we (meaning I) probably won’t want to walk the next 20kms into Castlemaine immediately. Not straight away. Not just then.We could just enjoy a day in another of these wonderfully interesting towns.
In the far distance under a tree is the small red Audi, unmolested and waiting.Just near the miniature train, just … well look, I should have been allowed … don’t you think, no but really… Yeah I know I didn’t have any money but I was only six. Other kids were …not fair.
11 December 2020,low-mid 20s and clear, a beautiful day. 19.01 kms
What a day! So many good ones, but this might have been one of the very best.
A very comfortable night at the Creswick Motel (highly recommended for those, like us, with unslaked addictions to country motels) before heading off just a little south of east, not necessarily the most obvious direction. Daylesford, the end of this stage is to the north, but we were going east to Mollongghip to make the most of the Creswick Regional Park before heading north into the Wombat Forest at Barkstead towards Rocklyn and Korweinguboora.
I’ve written all that just so I could type Mollongghip and Korweinguboora. My father used to occasionally say Korweinguboora (Ka-winjee-borer, he said; I wouldn’t know) simply for the pleasure of it. Very occasionally it would turn up on the news for its rainfall or degree of chill. But when via Google I investigate ‘How popular is the baby name Korweinguboora?’, I find not so much at the present time. But I do find that it is an Aboriginal word probably meaning ‘where the crane eats frogs’, and that would make perfect sense. We might even have seen that happening. On this walk we’ve walked through let’s say 15 places I’d heard of but had no idea where they were and 40 or 50 that I had never heard of. It has been a wonderful education in so many ways.
But we weren’t walking to Korweinguboora this day. Our destination was the corner of two roads … you can’t say in the middle of nowhere. People live there. There are two houses nearby, but let’s just say not much else. We were counting on the ever reliable Lord Rowland to find us, pick us up and bring us back for another night at the Creswick. To allay any distracting anxiety that was just what happened.
For the sake of interest we varied our route out of Creswick leaving via St George’s Lake Rd instead of along the creek as usual and the first thing we ran into was the heartland of Melbourne Uni’s Forestry School or, if you prefer, the School of Ecosystems and Forest Sciences of The University of Melbourne. This was established at Creswick, according to its long term Principal Bob Orr, because of ‘the damage done to this landscape during the gold rush era – with the land being dug up – that alerted people to the importance of managing the land and its resources in a responsible way.’ Excellent. Unstinting approval.
It turned out to be a hospital anyway.
1863. The Creswick Goldfields Hospital. Three wings surrounding a courtyard. A serious building set now, as you might imagine, in rather sumptuous arboreal surrounds. The Forestry School converted the 30-bed hospital into the School’s library in 1912 so the hospital idea is from the long rather than the short form of yesterday.
But one of its medical practitioners was Dr Robert Lindsay who arrived from Londonderry just one year after it opened. He and his wife Jane Williams, daughter of a Wesleyan missionary, had 10 children, half of whom became significant figures in Australia’s cultural topography: Percy, Lionel, Norman, Ruby and Daryl — artists and/ or writers. (I can only count eight children in this family photo. That would be often be considered enough. And you may have already noted the relative placement of man and woman.)
Norman (top right in the photo I’d say) — self-described ‘artist, etcher, sculptor, writer, art critic, novelist, cartoonist and amateur boxer’ — is probably the best known, and for The Magic Pudding as much as his intoxication with female flesh.
He wrote of his father: ‘He wears a tussore [stylishly coarse] silk coat and grey bell topper with a flowing puggaree [a thin muslin scarf of Sikh heritage worn for sun protection]. If I select a key word to describe his personality it would be the word ‘aplomb’. All his life he got into complicated situations, social, professional and domestic, and strolled out of them without ruffling a feather.’
Moving on to another version of culture, I wish to insert this photo here to recognise the critical importance played by the rider mower in the life of homo rusticus, and the number of times we saw this practice playing out. This was a special case because as he drove he was talking to a mate who couldn’t hear him. Plus there was a particular sort of tenacity about his style, a determination to get The Lot.
But we’re not out of Creswick yet.
Our first real destination was St George’s Lake which I’ve mentioned already. It has recently had its wall renewed and this is the result. We have rarely seen anyone anywhere on The Track, but in this case there was a dog walker nicely placed at the end of the concrete finger. We walked around the northern side of the lake which is always pleasant, and then we were off into the bush. Great walking this.
Four kms out of Creswick you come to this, a stile and bits of what has been quite a complex fence built by students from the Forestry School for a koala reserve. There’s another one of these near the top of Leanganook/ Mt Alexander which was just as successful. As a commentator says, after a week or so (of stocking the reserve) you could find plenty of koalas around here but anywhere except in the reserve. Anyone who has seen koalas climb would probably understand this.
This is an old track and carefully calibrated. I see diggers with wheelbarrows full of stuff just around the next corner on tracks like this. And I do. Their barrows have a small open metal wheel, no tyre of course, the pan is a worn wooden box which was once well made. They have an intent look on their face largely unconscious of their immediate surroundings, and they are going much faster than we do. These tracks wander because they are careful about staying close to the contour. Here’s an example. The track on the left is the track on the right negotiating its way round a gully. The Lerderderg Forest is full of tracks like this.
There actually hadn’t been much sign of diggings to this point, but then the country opens up a bit, the vegetation changes, you start crunching quartz under foot and the earthworks start appearing.
Down to the left from here are the cobbles and mullock heaps indicative of a busy field which pretty much stop as you get to Jackass Road. You have a choice now for a side trip to Eaton’s dam. There and back is not far, and it’s interesting and represents a formidable exertion of energy. I read somewhere that it had never held water — that would be a gold story too, and you can imagine it being the case with the sort of soil around here and the hand construction issues. You can’t always make a dam hold water; it takes a great deal of skill and knowledge. Anyway other sources say not only did it hold water …
but when it was breached (see above) in the 1930s, the consequential flow flooded Creswick.
It is also a good place for the first cup of tea.
A steady haul up the Wallaby Track which at this point is a heavily rutted dirt road, one of the very many in these forests. To the left are pine plantations and off to the right is Jackass Gully with a tributary of the Creswick Creek occasionally running through its crease.
And you come to a surprise. You’re not in the middle of nowhere, you’re scarcely out of town; but it doesn’t feel like that. So when you see this plaque tucked away under an elderly fruit tree, you can only wonder what could have been going on here.
And it is a surprise.
It is the site of the home of W. G. Spence who grew up here as a child, but seen here — in a rural version of the man in question — standing in the doorway. The plaque refers to his role as the Superintendent of the Creswick Presbyterian Sunday School but it is not for that that he is generally known.
He was aged eight at the time of of the Eureka Rebellion (1854), but it is claimed that it influenced him so significantly he made it his mission to organise mine workers into a union. Thus in 1874 Spence was among the mine-workers who formed the Amalgamated Miners’ Association of Victoria, an organisation which became the springboard for the real foundations of Australian unionism. After leading the merger with similar unions in the other Australian colonies to form the Amalgamated Miners’ Association of Australasia, he became the first president of the national Shearers’ Union which established 85 per cent of Australian shearing sheds as ‘closed shops’, accessible only to members.
He led the amalgamation of the miners, shearers and rural workers unions which produced the Australian Workers’ Union in 1894, remaining a senior office bearer until 1917 (as well as a federal parliamentarian from Federation until 1917). This was in the context of a collapse of the Australian (and world) economies in 1891 coupled with a massive attack on organised labour using the weapons of law and imprisonment. Charges laid included sedition, ‘unlawful conspiracy and inciting riots’. He must have had a backbone of steel and a (Presbyterian?) sense of purpose. None of which has answered the question, what were he and his family doing just here? Answer: he had a family that was looking for gold, and just a few hundred metres from the cottage.
From Spence’s cottage we turned right instead of left as we often do. New country for us, which opens into regrowth stringy bark forest with longer views north to pasture and in time a grand design: enormous dam with island, ducks, swans, a range of sitteries with differing vantage points mainly east, painted wooden fence (for the horses, very expensive and a lot of upkeep), stables. Almost certainly fabulous, but what do you do when you go there? A glass of first quality white wine at each sittery perhaps? But that’s in the evenings. Endless work perhaps, in the garden/ orchard/ vineyard/ olive grove? Or maybe inside on the computer wishing you had a better internet connection.
We saw quite a few of the these, including a whole long road’s worth which we will come to … but when the project is complete, when the dog has caught the car, what then? Try the beach?
We on the other hand were free as the breeze wandering down … country lanes we could say, but dirt roads assuming at least equivalent charm, between banks of everlastings and phalaris that had seeded from the pasture on the margins of the forest, herds of Angus to our left, hosts of crimson rosellas and carolling maggies to our right.
This House in the Bush (below) was a special case. You don’t often see such high order tree houses, actually constructed round the trees rather than by or in them. As well as somewhere to stick the kids this one might be for the evening glass of white wine. Might be. Probably not. Among other things I’m thinking of the mossies.
And then looking north over towards Newlyn and Scrub Hill a massive paddock of … what?
Cut flowers? No. Another sort of cash crop. Something to stop the mossies. These are Pyrethrum daisies.
‘The flowers are pulverized and the active components, called pyrethrins, contained in the seed cases, are extracted. This is applied as a suspension in water or oil, or as a powder. Pyrethrins attack the nervous systems of all insects, and inhibit female mosquitoes from biting. When present in amounts less than those fatal to insects, they still appear to have an insect repellent effect. They are harmful to fish [and cats], but are far less toxic to mammals and birds than many synthetic insecticides. They are not persistent, being biodegradable and decompose easily on exposure to light. They are considered to be among the safest insecticides for use around food.’
All news to me. There were a dozen or more fields of this scale.
This was one sign that we had moved from the sedimentary gold country to the startlingly rich volcanic soils of Dean and surrounds — spuds just here — and also that we were on a patch of 10-12 kms walking between paddocks, something I’d expected a great deal more of.
And pretty pleasant walking …
On our right heading north up the Dean-Newlyn Road were crowds of ibis and what I think were herons working over a swampy field (more correctly, I discover, a swamp), probably eating frogs! To the left hundreds, maybe a thousand choughs foraging in a crop. Myers Road offered an exhibition of the range of options for damming dry country, and we arrived at our destination, unexpectedly denoted thus.
Blampied Roadto Sailors Falls
12 December 2020,another beautiful day. 24.76 kms
Next morning our hostess from the Creswick Motel drove us back to the exact spot we’d left the night before. When we say doing it properly that is what we mean. 200m down the road was this study in symmetry and pattern, a most beautiful thing.
Quite soon the Track veers off onto a dirt 4WD track full of steep angles. Off to each side Houses in The Bush began to appear through the trees. At the very modest township of Mollongghip, where ‘it snows most years’, it finally turns north beginning the long stages through the Wombat Forest.
It’s a strange stretch of landscape, apparently lacking in complexity but sometimes striking if not beautiful.
This is looking towards the sun mid-morning: absolutely motionless grey pool (it had rained a few days before, I’m glad to say there were several large pools full of tadpoles), silver flicker from the swaying of the bracken intersected by the black verticals of the young trees, almost but not regular. You turn around and the gingerbread and caramel browns and sprinkles of green re-appear. But the tree growth is still comparatively regular, and the understorey sparse. For kilometres burning off, seemingly so unnecessary, had left all the trunks blackened to a metre or two.
People keep tidying up the Wombat Forest. Or cutting it down. The reason it looks like this is because it is almost all regrowth.
This stretch of The Track is known as the Andersons’ Tramway Walk.
John, James and William Anderson left Scotland in June 1851 taking advantage of assisted passages for agricultural labourers and country tradesmen. While they landed at Adelaide they quite soon joined the rush for gold in Victoria. They dug at Castlemaine, Mt Korong and Bendigo and, it seems, made a good deal of money. With this capital they retired to Collingwood, a suburb of Melbourne, and set up as building contractors.
Their mother Sarah arrived in 1856 with her three younger sons Thomas, Robert and David. The older brothers had moved to Dean (through which in this story we have just walked) abandoning gold digging for timber milling, a new enterprise to supply the mining and building industries of Ballarat. Within 10 years the Andersons became the biggest saw millers in the Wombat/ Bullarook Forest with mills at Dean, Barkstead and Adekate Creek (just three of the 38 timber mills in the Wombat Forest in the late 1860s). By 1866 they had constructed 12 km of timber tramway with numerous bridges, cuttings and culverts at a cost of £9 000 and employed 60 men building tramways and felling timber in the forest and at the mill.
They built the tramway because they had stripped all the timber from Dean and its surrounds. The tramway itself was no small thing: the rails were laid on sleepers, deep cuttings, bridges. It was wide enough for two horses abreast to pull the wagons laden with logs. These horses were eventually supplanted by steam locomotives. At its furthest extent it ran from Musk Vale to Barkstead, 23 km. Below, a bit of what is left that we followed for a time.
Gib Wettenhall takes up the story:
All good things come to an end. No sooner had [the Anderson brothers] secured the two specially commissioned steam locomotives from a Ballarat foundry, pulling 3-4 train trips of logs into the Barkstead mill, day in, day out, than – surprise, surprise – the trees within their license area ran out, a mere 15 years since their start-up sawpit at Dean.
So what did the Andersons do? They brought on a bush war, encroaching on the licensed territory of two other powerful sawmillers, Thomas Crowley and Patrick Fitzpatrick. This was to prove a fatal mistake. Crowley and Fitzpatrick had mates in the Victorian Parliament and they complained that the Andersons were ‘ravaging’ their forest. So, in 1879, the Andersons lost both their sawmill and tramway licenses and were forced to abandon Barkstead.
Or more correctly to shift their operations to Smeaton where they had established an equally ambitious flour mill still very much in evidence today.
In the interests of full disclosure, it is noted that one of these environmental vandals, probably David, is the great-great grandfather of my children.
But we were slow walking through here because the blood descendant of the Andersons kept finding things to look at on the ground: often tiny, various, remarkable.
This bloke and his dog get a run because he is one of the five people we saw on or near the track in more than 200 km. You probably can’t see him, but he’s over on the edge of Mullens Dam at what he called Barkstead and what the map calls Rocklyn with a yabby net cleaning out his traps. He also has a bucket half full of yabbies which he is ‘going to go straight through’.
Wombat Station, and a cup of tea. You can get here by driving along Rocklyn Road; I can’t imagine traffic would be heavy. The only sign of the town that used to be here (more than a thousand people at its peak), Wombat, is a culvert and a flat patch of land where a railway station once was. This — along with Broomfield, Allendale, Newlyn, Rocklyn, (Wombat), Leonard, Sailors Falls and Woodburn — was once a station on the Ballarat to Daylesford line. Now no more; now looking like this a short distance from the rotunda (an initiative of the Goldfields Track Association).
We follow the empty line for 5 or 6 km marveling at the feat of construction. Consider how many shovels full of earth and how many blows of a pickaxe to break rock it would have taken to make this. This is just one of the cuttings and not the deepest; one is 80m deep. And for every cutting there is a fill.
It might have been the time of day but I had quite a strong sense (confirmed later by a closer look at the map) that we were climbing, if only gently, most of the way to White Point Track where we got off the old rail line. But that was offset by a flurry of eight Monarch butterflies that we raised at the very beginning of this section of the track and which accompanied us for several kilometres, stopping when we did, getting going again when we did. Engrossing.
I was ready to get to our destination that night: Sailors Falls Winery, which makes fine wine — and should be patronised — but also has very pleasant accommodation.
I had spoken to Margaret McDonald, our host, about some dinner (yes, excellent wood-fired pizza) and breakfast (yes, brilliant range of exactly what we might want). We slept soundly in our neo-Tuscan villa.
Sailors Falls Winery to Daylesford
13 December 2020,same weather again. 11.23 kms
One reason Margaret and her husband Rob had been so good to us was that they were enthusiastic walkers themselves. They had walked in all sorts of parts of the world — Nepal and Peru suggested they had good legs — as well as having done the Goldfields Track themselves. ‘Over a year. A bit at a time. In a group. Mainly to enjoy the lunches.’ They’re the bits I remember. But after slightly baffling me with directions about how to get to the Falls and back onto the Track from here, she very generously offered to come with us and show us the way. We discovered without thinking too much about it that we had friends in common.
Somewhere tucked away under this foliage are the Sailors Falls, perhaps Fall this day. Later when we walking along the creek that feeds the falls I checked the flow in at about a litre a minute and I would say it was about that which was coming over the rocks.
But at the base of the falls area was this (at left) — the very first mineral spring we encountered. That was significant because we would come across plenty more. This area of Victoria has 80 percent of all Australia’s mineral springs. I like to check, and the water tasted as rusty as it looks. Strong on iron this one.
Sailors Creek valley was an infestation of weeds. Bad bad bad bad bad.
Blackberries mainly, but broom, some gorse, Scotch thistles plus plus plus. Blackberries can grow a centimetre a day and besides their ferocious thorns, they often establish a net or a web of branches which makes it impossible for native animals to follow their tracks. We saw a Landcare attack on them along Forest Creek outside Castlemaine which had been most successful so something can be done about them. But here, no good I’m afraid. In fact, bad.
It wasn’t all like that. There was just as much stringybark forest with very little ground cover. We walked along rutted 4WD tracks and near Musk Vale one surprise popped out. Her grin suggested that she hadn’t seen anyone else on the track that day either.
Then an interregnum.
We just stopped in the middle of the path and … ah … there was … ah, a dance class. Thursday. 11 o’clock. It’s a rule. Stop what you’re doing and dance. I think this might be the first time a participant in an African dance class has actually been on The Goldfields Track or, rather, that anyone on The Goldfields Track has participated in an African dance class. I mean, on the actual track. On the … Certainly the first time Melbourne Djembe has had a participant actually on the track.
I was, of course, full of admiration demonstrating this by finding a place under a shady tree to lie down. As I did so my phone rang. Don’t worry. I’m in it. I’m part of the digital world too. But it was our host from the Winery, Margaret’s husband Rob, and as soon as he said his name it all flooded back. We had been close colleagues once 35 years ago. And he had 30 minutes of fascinating stories to tell me and, in time I hope, much much more. The thrill of the unexpected. I thought it was great. And then the dance class finished.
The last few kilometres into Daylesford are not the best part of the walk, not till you get out of the blackberries anyway which is about when you get to Sutton Spring. You’re out of the woods there, onto the slate pavement, and the tamed world.
Two boys named Sutton sluicing for gold (you can’t escape this round here, there’s always a connection) found this spring in 1890. The info board says, ‘In 1900 a trench was dug into the sandstone’ — we are most certainly back in gold country — ‘and steps cut. A horizontal pipe was driven into the “eye” of the spring which remains in use today.’ I’ve often wondered how they do that. It mightn’t always work.
Anyway Sutton Spring, a) quite sulphuric, and b) the location of a long and very pleasant conversation with a young-middle-aged-ish European-Australian couple who looked incredibly fit and happy but who couldn’t quite figure out what we’d been up to and why.
Daylesford was just up a long hill. There we could get a vanilla thick shake, a cup of English Breakfast and a taxi back to Creswick where we would find our car. Just a bit short of half way.