45 degrees South, 2022

It’s probably the Waimakariri. I was too tired to know. But it is certainly New Zealand. You don’t get braided rivers like that just anywhere, especially with snow-capped mountains in the near background. There was water everywhere as we landed. Canterbury had had a foot of rain in the preceding week, a genuine wet week. It was winter and we were being international for the purposes I would say primarily of eating, sleeping and looking out the window. And seeing Rhys Darby at Christchurch’s Isaac Theatre Royal.

We had been on the theatre’s mailing list since we attended the re-opening night seven years ago after the earthquakes. Rhys Darby (at left) was going to have a concert celebrating the 25th anniversary of his stand-up comedy and while that won’t mean a thing to most people it meant enough to us to test attendance as an idea. (Flight of the Conchords? Jermaine and Brett? New Zealand takes New York? No? ah well. Rhys was Murray the band manager: ‘Now I’m going to take the roll. Brett?’ Every time he appeared the show got funnier.) His brand of humour involves his entire being while somehow remaining entirely deadpan in a very New Zealand-ish way. And yes, improbably, we went. I only loved it; he reduced Myrna to weeping mush.

The night before we had been to see Top Gun: Maverick (It was a holiday, okay? And we really wanted to have a choc top. Really. Mate, New Zealand choc tops … We drove around most of Sydenham, a southern Christchurch suburb, to find an ATM so we could accomplish the transaction. Foreign cards, in this instance, were worthless muck.) Anything more antithetical would be hard to imagine. An ageing Tom Cruise conquering some unnamed wicked country by bumping fists with young American athletes majoring in aggression and world domination, fighting off the baddies with CGI (ah yes, pardon, computer-generated imagery), a miracle of technology so removed from humankind it is hard to fathom let alone explain. Rhys just stood on the stage and said and did funny things ending the evening with his kids running around the front of the theatre distributing what we’d call thongs so they could be clapped along to his song ‘Jandals’. Not necessarily his best work, but anything more delightfully human would be hard to imagine.

However this blog is mainly just an excuse for photos, memorabilia. And to indicate that going to New Zealand for a holiday is a very desirable thing to do. I’ve made this case elsewhere, here and here and here.

We arrived in Christchurch. It is still in recovery. It is unlikely to ever be the same as it was before the giant earthquakes of 2010 and 2011 which killed 185 people and shook its centre, including its cathedral which used to dominate the city square, to bits. It is a moot point whether hundreds of millions of dollars should be spent restoring this building. Do you justify it, as a Kiwi friend did, by referring to its iconic historical status or, as her husband suggested, do you put your money instead into rebuilding the stadium, home of the Crusaders, the greatest rugby club on earth? The cathedral remnant is still not secure enough to enter to determine precisely what needs to be done. The good-looking facade is a banner. I thought Wow! Naylor Love! sponsoring the rebuild of the front wall and window, go for it you civic-minded creatures you. But in fact they’ve just sponsored the banner.

Another fake, the wall of the Riverside market, one of three pockets of the city which remain bopping. It’s flat. Yes. Flat. A single surface. But nicely done. There’s still plenty of street art.

And the Gallery is back in business. Four offerings.

The light fittings: 60s kitchen chairs with neon tubes through them. Why not?

We visited at a changeover, so the exhibition offerings were modest. Modest, but most engaging with a strong emphasis on Victoriana. Here she is herself for example.

William Nicholson, ‘H.M. The Queen’ (1899), a lithograph derived from a woodcut, and isn’t that just marvellous. Sort of perfect in a way. A huge version of this is the major decorative feature of the external walls of Christchurch’s casino. New Zealand. They do that sort of thing over there.

The exhibition I enjoyed most was called ‘Leaving for Work’, perhaps 40 pieces again often early 20th century about people at work. ‘Threshing’ (below), a woodcut print by Clare Leighton (1933), caught my eye along with its companion ‘Apple Picking’. She has found some wonderful blacks along with extremely inventive hatching. And look at that smoke coming out of the steam engine. Somewhere near here is one of the places that craft truly meets art.

Elsewhere George Dunlop Leslie’s, In the Wizard’s Garden, about 1904. The wall notes say, ‘Because the painting puzzled viewers Leslie was asked for an explanation of its meaning.’ Well, I’ve got news for the viewers: I think I know. But, elegantly obfuscating in the prescribed Victorian manner, Leslie describes the painting as being about a young medieval noblewoman who had sought an alchemist or wizard’s guidance to discover the secrets of the future. For more distracting camouflage he throws in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s story ‘Rappacini’s Daughter’ in which case, unhappily, the garden would be entirely filled with poisonous plants. Okay. Menace. (Just nod knowingly. Thank you.)

For ourselves, concerns focused on the scones. In fact the heritage diet of New Zealanders may be under some threat.

The food cabinets are full of the products of wild and fertile imaginings — some of these dishes are even vegetarian — but the cheese scone, as perfected widely in the past, is endangered. We were concerned about its extinction until we found what we were looking for and much else, including a sausage roll which actually was a sausage wrapped in a pastry roll — how good is that, how express and admirable in fact, Shakespearean — in the Union Company Cafe, Port Chalmers. Worth a journey.

There’s some large scale new building, a lot of civic infrastructure including Te Pae, a giant conference centre which looms with its exterior collection of Canterbury greys and gigantic video screens illuminating its walls. And yes a giant squid. A whale swims past from time to time. You may make of that what you wish.

But there are still a lot of teeth missing from the jaw. Car parks — ubiquitous, endless — fill places where you feel buildings should be (and make you wonder where the hell all those cars come from … and why).

So we went looking for something other than the built environment.

Christchurch is not a maritime city but its eastern edge runs into the South Pacific looking here from the New Brighton Pier very pacific indeed. Christchurch’s port, its crucial port both for receiving goods and more especially for dispatching the riches of the Canterbury Plain to the world, is 10 or 12 kilometres away at Lyttleton in a fractured volcanic crater.

Separating the city and Lyttleton are the Port Hills, the crater rim, just fine for a walk. On this Saturday morning it was a sharply cold day with drifts of rain and some fierce wind up high, but we were there with dozens, scores, hundreds of locals mooching walking running riding not really noticing the weather. New Zealand.

We cheated by going up some of the way in the gondola before launching out down through Major Hornbrook’s Saddle and up to the peak, Mt Pleasant.

The Avon and Heathcote, often only masquerading as creeks, drain the mudflats of Christchurch into the estuary as seen in the pic on the right. They were both running hard and the visible surface water was much more extensive than it looks here.

When there’s a dance class on, doesn’t matter where you are, you’ve just got to do it. Mercifully the internet wasn’t good enough to sustain a whole hour out on the blasted heath. Praise the Lord. We were able to move on to the summit, near which were these lichen-encrusted trees, followed by a muddy but interesting descent down to Lyttleton via the Major Hornbrook Track.

We got to Lyttleton in the mid-afternoon and both hungry and not confident about finding anything to eat in a tiny town at that hour on a Saturday afternoon. But lo and behold we found a most conscientious and capable Japanese chef, him and his wife really, who provided for us.

The okonomiyaki was a bit sludgey — by rights it should be kept cooking at the table — but everything else was delicious.

• • • • • • •

The first night we were there there had been a big dump of snow down to 400m and as we drove 400km south to Dunedin there it all was. We stopped for a break at Oamaru, in its central part a reliquary of some time ago, a 100 years perhaps, and felt the need for an ice cream from a trailer van. They looked good and the ageing couple weren’t getting much business. That’ll surprise you. They caught our accent and wanted to sympathise with us about our recent change of government before running through Jacinda’s perfidies along with the evils of vaccination and lockdown. That van could well have been recently providing treats to those laying siege to the Beehive (the building housing NZs parliament). It takes all types. The ice creams were excellent.

Dunedin is the capital of the Otago region and in the past a home away from home for Scots. (Edinborough = ‘Edin town’ in Old English; Dunedin = ‘Edin town’ in Gaelic.) It is famous for its hills and, in Baldwin Street, has the steepest road in the world, 1: 2.86, officially certified by Guinness Records. A town in Wales laid claim to this title in 2019 but Dunedin courageously fought back. The decision to reinstate the previous record holder was reached in 2020 following the completion of an extensive review of an appeal brought by representatives of Baldwin Street. The appeal included a comparative survey of the three-dimensional shapes of the Dunedin street and Ffordd Pen Llech. The findings revealed that in order to fairly assess the different shape of the streets, whether they’re straight or curved, steepness must be measured by the central axis (the centre line of the road). Certainly that would have been the way I would see it. Regardless, it’s steep all over the place.

It is also a university town (see immediately above: who else would?) with excellent cafes and coffee and funky clothes shops. The University of Otago comes in very high on world rankings and looks like it would be great fun to attend. The day after we arrived it was Open Day and the town was swarming with late adolescents and their parents.

This is the view from what might be the best room in town, the top floor suite of the 97 Moray Motel, Room 409, looking out over The Octagon, the nominal centre of the city. The square is furnished with a statue of Robbie Burns (described on investigation as an ‘eroto-maniac’. Why Scots put up statues to him — there’s another one in Ballarat for example — is beyond me), and a bus depot. St Paul’s Cathedral, an Anglican church, and the Forsyth Barr office block dominate. We wondered if the office block had just been erected. We couldn’t remember it. And, in which case, just who had paid whom and how much? But our mate at reception said that it had been there for ages; it was just that the exterior had recently been renovated. Hence the spotty styling, the lift block and the new top storey which offered some groovy lighting effects.

Robbie’s down there somewhere over the top of the white car.

Dunedin is the sort of place where amateurs publish ideas for city walks. (See also above.) We chose to follow the excellent and well-researched advice of Antony Hamel, barrister. Some of the advice anyway; his guide offers 20 walks. ‘Grand Homes of Dunedin’ takes you up (and up and up) to Royal Terrace just below the ‘Town Belt’. (The original instructions to the New Zealand Company’s Scottish surveyor included: ‘It is indeed desirable that the whole outside of the Town, inland, should be separated from the country by a broad belt of land which you will declare that the Company intends to be public property on condition that no buildings be ever erected upon it.’ ) You walk through the Town Belt which, even if the city has crept over the other side of it, is still 10 or more kilometres long and is still a lovely thing flourishing with several dozen different types of noisy birds. Then on to Jubilee Park and back down High Street to the Octagon.

Some samples. These two in Royal Terrace were owned by the same family (Hudson’s chocolate and biscuit manufacturers), the second now being a Buddhist Centre.

Near them is Ulveston, probably the party piece. Built for a family of four, it was subsequently vested to a somewhat nervous City of Dunedin (upkeep costs). It is now open to the public at regular specified times.

And it has a rather lovely greenhouse.

Just around the corner is the Ritchie House which has recently been bought for a very large sum of money by St Hilda’s, a nearby private secondary school for girls with the customary surfeit of funds.

On the corner in the background above is this one, a more sober affair but interesting in its own 1920s way.

… with this view across the city and the end of the harbour to Vauxhall.

Just below Jubilee Park. This wasn’t on the list but I liked it. You could talk about the San Francisco influence, or perhaps the Dunedin influence on San Francisco, or perhaps how you build houses in steep places where there isn’t much suitable stone but plenty of timber (and, in its time, gold).

• • • • • • •

Dunedin is at the end of a long bay, Otago Harbour, with the Peninsula famous for its sea life on its southern side.

We visited the Royal Albatross Centre at Taiaroa Head and this was something. Four chicks had decided to do their eight months of pre-flight maturation within 15 or so metres of the viewing station, a pill box with a glass slit. (A not very old fort with the ‘Invisible Gun’ which can be raised and lowered is close at hand.) And there they are, these fat things with legs that can only just support their 12 kilo weight.

This one was stumbling around flapping its wings rehearsing flight.

Taiaroa Head is one home for about 5 percent of all the albatrosses in the world. They mate here, commonly for life, and produce one egg which is nurtured by both parents taking turns to go fishing for chick feed. The chick’s first flight, which for the one above might be 3-4 weeks away, is to Chile 10,000 kms away. Their first flight! which takes them 10-15 days! They are able to lock the tendons in their wings which have a 3+ metre span and coast on upper level air currents using only as much energy as they would sitting on the ocean surface. They stay in Chile for five years sowing their wild oats and return to the Otago for responsible parenthood. How do they know how to get here? No idea. Some say via smell. There are some orphan chicks here which are incubated, fed and nurtured by the Centre’s staff. The oldest regular visitor was Grandma, who was still breeding at 60. (If you’re interested.) It has been a sanctuary since 1927 and is a most impressive place.

We saw some adults flying and just how magnificent were they. There was a brisk wind blowing and so sensitive and I guess efficient were their aerodynamics that it wasn’t always easy to land.

On the way home Myrna decided we should go to Sandfly Bay via Highcroft Road and what a drive it turned out to be. This is a pretty gorgeous part of the world.

Sandfly Bay is where sand flies rather than where there are sand flies, and had its own impressive dunes with a carefully marked path for human visitors.

And we were lucky enough to be completely ignored by four panaka, New Zealand sea lions.

Here are three of them, with one heading off bored or possibly embarrassed, because it was clear that the other two were involved in some serious foreplay.

Okay. Speculative. But the female on the left would chew away at the male (do I know the genders? No. Not for certain. But my ‘she’ was smaller and sleaker.) until she garnered some similar response. Play fights. He’d get bored. She draped herself over the drift tree still chomping and whimpering, then slid back and my ‘he’ lifted himself up and just flopped on her, all half a tonne of him. It went on, but so did we. Important to give creatures their privacy.

Old bloke leaving a panaka squatting on its haunches to its own devices.

Then there’s the other side of the bay. We had seen this oddity from Taiaroa Head and thought we should investigate more closely.

This is The Mole, all 1.2 kms of it sticking out into the mouth of the harbour. A ‘mole’ (which has the same root as ‘molecule’ and the chemical measurement ‘mole’ meaning ‘mass’) differs from a pier or jetty in that it is solid. Water can’t pass underneath it. There are nine shipwrecks contributing to the rock and cement here. The idea was to prevent sand bars blocking the entrance to the harbour. This is apparently successful, and it is repaired from time to time.

It doesn’t look like it in the pic above but this area was swarming with sea birds. I don’t know what the ones below were but I don’t think gulls: wrong beak, wrong colouring. I’m pretty sure they are terns, but in their hundreds they were wheeling and squalling, a majestic performance really.

We hadn’t had enormous luck with food. The parents and the teenage graduands were better prepared than we were and had soaked up the more obvious eating places. But I’d liked the look of a place we’d tried at St Clair Beach and thought we should give it a go. And a go we gave it. Titi. Chef’s choice of food, er hem locally sourced of course and some of the most imaginative and brilliantly successful cooking I’ve ever tasted. Everything was right. The table was Goldilocks-sized, the chairs comfortable, the service fun, alert but not intrusive, and very well educated. They had to recite the contents of each of the dishes and they did so with enthusiasm and pride. From the texture, taste and colour of the avocado foundation of the amuse bouche to the pumpkin ice cream, a bavarois with a thin coating of white chocolate for dessert, one masterpiece after another kept arriving.

Myrna had the vegetarian offering and I’m pretty sure this was ‘Ettrick’s Carrots’, a soup with lemongrass, coconut, cashew, coriander, lime and paw paw. The purple is the carrot, the flavour of which I can only describe as enticingly warm.

I know: disgraceful. But I don’t care. Once in a while it’s good to encounter the work of a genius with food. I’d go again right now. They’d be open. 24 The Esplanade, St Clair. Come on. Why not? Let’s go.

Nearly there. I thought I’d like to show you this dish of helleborus grown at the Blueskin Nurseries in Waitati. I’ve never seen helleborus, usually a most discrete plant, with such offerings.

Back in Christchurch everything was normal again.

And finally some advice.

Press either the Go button or ‘Replay’

THE CITY: Now Open, Winter

I spent a few days searching out the 40 laneway artworks from ‘Flash Forward’, a City of Melbourne project designed to … who knows really. Tart up the laneways? Support local artists? Make the City a more interesting place?

I ambled; and ambling round the city is a different experience from being on a mission to buy something in Bourke Street ranging as far as Little Bourke before getting on the tram to come home. And with the specific purpose of looking, looking around, things change. Puzzles abound.

One of the first of these is just what is going on in all that space above eye level. Like in here. What’s that all about? Is there even anyone, or anything for that matter, in there?

Here is a possible face for those rooms, hidden and immersed in his phone. Although he would meet people in the lobby.

At least he’s not on his electric bike weaving his way along the footpath terrorising the pedestrians.

And of course there are scores of such buildings and a dozen or more under construction. Below, 1954 and a few years ago from almost the same aerial vantage point. Don’t glance. Look at least twice. Use the Exhibition Buildings as a key.

In time I suppose people will be living (and possibly WFH) in those high rises, but what about the old three- to five-storey buildings that belong to 50 or 150 years ago. They can’t all be full of people replacing watch batteries or manning the headquarters of the Sleep Appreciation Society. There is just so much real estate there … and now, apparently, so many fewer people — except construction workers, tradies and maintenance men — to enliven it.

This is what a hi-vis worksite looks like when the workers with collars have gone home. Safe. Really safe. And below on the worksite, which was proceeding regardless, is what 2.8 tonnes of concrete dangling above your head looks like. Massively unsafe. I was leaning up against the first piece of Flash Forward art I found and not wearing a hi-vis jacket.

Quite nicely related, a second thing I was conscious of is that the city looms, especially if you are inclined to look up. Or if you are wandering around the lanes.

Sometimes, as on the right above, the ‘looming’ stacks up; and sometimes with chronological messages. If we start with St Augustine’s, the three generations below represent 164 years of building.

More chronology. Once the site of the Princess Mary Club, accommodation for young women workers in the city away from home, especially if that home was in the country. So much no longer; could the foreground building, once a parsonage or a manse as it is called on the nearby plan, be considered a vestigial remnant? I think no.

And John Wesley … what would he think about all this? Too much? Take it down a notch?

In another part of the city … one to which I never go. I don’t know who spends time in those lanes down in the south-west corner near Spencer St … a new world for me. I had never seen or heard of the Holey-Moley Golf Club for example on Little Bourke west of King. ‘This large family facility offers 27 holes of pop-culture themed golf for all ages.’ Who knew? Who actually could comprehend? But it was jumping — JAM-packed — In an otherwise fairly deserted streetscape.

Near here people were making private use of that sort of solitude.

Speaking as we were some time ago of old multiple storey buildings …

The celebration of the Relief of Mafeking in 1900 from the corner of Bourke and Elizabeth Streets, with hats de rigueur. The banner says ‘WELCOME COMRADE’. (This must be, and was of course, before the endearment ‘comrade’ developed new overtones.) Coles Book Arcade is visible at the left. In those days there appears to have been a much more relaxed approach to men and windows. The roof of the Royal Arcade’s veranda seems to have been adopted as the main viewing platform.

In Royal Arcade this time I found a queue at Spellbox waiting for psychic readings (via ’21st Century witchcraft’) …

… and out the front something else to catch the eye.

What is that? What is he holding, a fire? And why is he wearing a mask?

Looking more closely there are three of them.



Down in The Causeway we find people at work with, on the right, just enough room to turn around. No wonder he was so grumpy.

Despite its formidable decoration it was too early for the Chuckle Park Bar.

Stalactites, with the best souvlaki, the absolute best, over time, never other than tempting … was resisted.

I re-discovered the Wunderkammer, literally something like ‘room of miracles’, ‘cabinet of curiosities’ in some renderings, self-advertised as ‘Scientific Curiosities Artefacts and Ephemera’ which this day included dishes one coin or key thick, dippy birds and a phrenological head.

And this cat must appear. He was hammering heavy metal riffs outside two sign-free shops, but far more importantly outside Maniax Axe Throwing, a tram, and Officeworks.

Sun glare on the way home. Just here at 5pm it was blinding. The ‘trousers’ building at the corner of William and Collins has signs up warning pedestrians about the dangers of sun glare off its walls.

Finally there is knowledge to be gleaned, if not necessarily at the Wunderkammer, then in China town.

‘It is the Thunderbolt that steers the course of all things.’ Remember that.

* * * * * *

Just a small addendum. Nothing to do with the preceding. Out of town. The merest whiff of Canberra.

So that’s how Jackson did it! With a magnifying glass and a brush the width of an ant. Can I avoid referring to irony? Yes I will.
A small sample of implements in a shed every one of which (including the spilt nails) was made entirely of glass. Startlingly good.

And now, of course, you’d like a look at the new and rather zippy lane art. CLICK>

THE CITY: Laneway Art

A new bin in our lane with the late sun describing a vivid triangle on it and highlighting its red-ness. I’m calling it art.

* * * * * * *

Myrna found an article in the paper about ‘Flash Forward’, a new lot of art in the city, art in the lanes, mostly graffer murals but not exclusively so.

I skimmed the article and looked at the pictures and thought, four, easy. Even if they are spread round the extremities of the city let’s go and have a look. So we did.

First one.

Work by Nick Azidis, at the end of Highlander Lane, off Flinders Street

The author of the article, Robert Nelson, thought the most successful of these ‘interventions’ (interventions?) were ‘those that functioned as if they’re a kind of architecture in themselves’. This is a good example. It is also a good example of the experience: turning a corner into a lane that you would otherwise never visit or even find to happen on an unexpected pleasure. A (mid-key) wow moment.

We tramped a couple of kilometres across to the diametrically opposite corner of the city to the next one.

Work by Puzle, in Evans Lane near Exhibition in the north-east corner.

Previously a red brick wall with some random graffiti in the bottom left-hand corner. Better in the flesh than in the photo. But check out the separated stacked blocks at each end, all doing something different, but living together happily enough. Very strong and satisfying. I loved it.

I had to look at the next one carefully to see that I’d got it. The ‘re-casting’ of the brickwork covers the entire wall and in the top street corner, turns a page. It’s also actually very hard to see because the lane is so narrow. There would be better vantage points not available to the casual wanderer, but from the lane floor you can still see what’s going on. The sign contributing to the vibe says ‘LEISURE PLEASURE & LIQUOR’ .

Work by George Goodnow (‘Goodie) in Tattersall’s Lane near Chinatown off Lonsdale

We missed this one. The suspended fish-like creatures light up at night, and the wall art … well, we might have just missed it. Neither the lowering portrait nor the game of hoops outside a lively bar is part of the show. Just an indication that the city is still a living organism.

Jarra Karalinar Steel, Stevenson’s Lane off Tattersall’s Lane

Also in Stevenson’s Lane were some witty light panels with an African flavour. You can’t see it, but I liked ‘No thoughts. Just be hot.’ The one you can see says: ‘Waiting for ideas’.

Work by Olana Janfa, also in Stevenson’s Lane.

And that’s it I thought. Good job. Enjoyed that. Then I went back to read the article more closely and I discovered that there are not four but 40. Not only that, but each art work has its own attached (and expansive) music which you can hear if you click on the link above, or this one if you can’t be bothered finding it. CLICK> It’s a big show.

So I went back to the drawing board, pencilled in another day or two for the treasure hunt and kept looking, and eventually arrived pretty close to consummation.

This is the first one I found on the second excursion, the crumpled spray can offering a motif for the whole show.

Work by Ling in Wills Street near the market

Some were ephemeral like this light show, and how good is that!

Work by Yandell Walton, in Platypus Alley off Little Bourke near Hardware Lane

This one had come and gone. Part of a series: ‘Some people are so poor all they have is money.’

Work by Kay Abude in Windsor Place on one side of the Windsor Hotel.

Some had disappeared as construction had taken hold on building sites.

Some I couldn’t find.

Work by Gosia Wlodarczak, somewhere in the Royal Arcade

Some I found but they were the wrong ones: yes to the one on the right, no to the one on the left which is in the lane but around a corner and up the other end. But I liked the birds flying through the wall regardless.

And even if you find them, you might miss something.

Work by Ling in Finlay Alley. I added the bin because it seemed to fit.

This is what was there.

Some are in obvious places and I’ve been able to watch them grow.

Some hadn’t been finished.

Work by Textaqueen, in Foxton Lane off Market near Flinders Street

Some had. Marvellous.

Work by Drez, Ulster Place above the steps of Parliament Station.

Sometimes it was hard to distinguish what was and what wasn’t in the show. These weren’t.

I was sorry about the last one, in the foyer of the State Bank Galleria, whoops Melbourne Galleria. The video installation was really something, especially with the added reflections. I think I’ll call it part of the show.

Two excellent ones nearby.

Another girls and cats one, maybe a remnant of the lockdown.

Work by Taylor Broekman in Bourke Place down near William Street.

Nearby are two others, both grand affairs that were hard to photograph.

Work by Bundit Puangthong at the entry to Rose Lane.

I could go on with the whole 40. But that’s rather a lot. I’ll pick a few more I liked.

Work by UB in George Johnson Lane behind the North Melbourne Town Hall. (The only one out of the city per se plus you can make the metal bits move.)

Work by Getnup in McIlwraith Place. ‘Architectural’.

Work by Prue Stevenson in Little William Street. Heartfelt and different. A detail below.

Work by Sarah Crowest in Corr’s Lane off Little Bourke, mostly an access point for car rentals. Witty and very decisive about itself
I found this which I thought was brilliant in Kirk’s Lane. However I was meant to find the work below. Less brilliant.
Work by Bacondrum
Either Drewery Place or Drewery Alley (and not in the show). Maybe for the offset provided by the figure hunched over their phone.

Work by Fikaris in Lees Place off Exhibition. Each figure is denoted. Brainy and fun to wrestle with.

Work by Shay Bakar in Whiteheart Lane off Little Bourke near Elizabeth. Strong, stylish, uses the location perfectly

A sad final story. The lane whose name has the most florid referent might just be the dullest of them all.

Final judgment: great fun finding them and mostly rewarding when found with some real standouts.

ROCK (+water and wood): Tasmania

Turapina/ Ben Lomond plateau with its alpine meadows and customary drifts of cloud

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.

Near Liffey among the northern paddocks. ‘Forest Reserve’ in the background, and I think hedges of gorse in the foreground. Gorse!

And there’s this of course.

The remnants of a coupe in Evercreech Forest between Mathinna and Fingal. This area is adjacent to a Park Reserve famous for its huge trees.

But then …

Meander Falls in spate, falling more than 90m in two, on this very wet day, dramatic eruptions.

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.

Nothofagus litter on the floor. A beech forest … that’s a bit special. Great to walk on, soft and spongy. More familiar in NZ.
The peak with its beehive cairn built in the late 1800s, a serious work of art.
… and what you can see. The Tamar Estuary and Bass Strait to the north-west with the Western Tiers in the far background.
… and Turapina / Ben Lomond to the south.

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.

Mount Misery on the east side of the Big Opening, with birds.

But it wasn’t like that when we arrived this time, a blowy overcast day with no hint of snow.

And what a marvel of dolerite columns it is.

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.

This is the road which takes you up onto the plateau and to the ski village, a one-lane road known as Jacob’s Ladder with formidable hairpin bends. Note its path through the boulder field. It is suggested that Richie Porte, a native of Launceston and a podium finisher in the Tour de France as well as a champion domestique, used to train here.
Over the edge
There would be things to know about the Summit Hut, now reasonably derelict and not far from Legge’s Tor, but I don’t know them.
Classic alpine meadow with Pincushion (in bright green) a lovely but fragile plant.
Required inclusion.

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 penitentiary buildings with, in the foreground, some Cape Barren Geese grazing, a couple of clumps of those ubiquitous bella donnas and in the far background at left Bishop and Clerk.
An outlier on the way to the Painted Cliffs, probably photographed endlessly.

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.

The Clerk, 600m down to the sea.

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

No name or date, but painted by Henry Gritten in 1856 and unmistakeably The Mountain.

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.

Natural foam fizzing in a gutter.

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 whit.

Meander Falls

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.

Happy travels.



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.

Myrna was smaller then.

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 …

And messages.

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?.

What a delicious explosion of colour.


Patricia Piccinini and Flinders Street Station

This is neither the artist nor the locale.

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.

Could be somewhere in Japan where we had planned to be, but it was near the Butcher’s Shop coffee establishment in West Melbourne where Michael and I were illicitly sitting enjoying takeaways. Crisp. Clean. Unnatural.

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.

‘The Rescuers’. There’s a koala in the washing basket: ‘care, empathy but also strength and determination … anyone can help’.

Nearby these folk were waiting to watch a video.

‘While she sleeps’. Based on ideas about thylacines, the extinct Tasmanian Tiger.

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.

No Fear of Depths
‘This is perhaps the most personal work in the exhibition. It presents a maternal relationship between a chimera (based on the Australian humpback dolphin) and a prepubescent girl.’
Well, ‘English on the Job’ I suppose.
and The Supporter

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.

This is what they’re looking at. Slide the bar across.

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.

‘Celestial Field’

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’s Story

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 relevance at 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 Journey

Sophie’s mother Helena and father Tadeusz.

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.

These are photos taken at Glubokoye round the time Sophie and her family were there. But as she says her dwelling was a mud rather than wooden hut. These people, perhaps carefully chosen because it is a ‘propaganda’ photo, almost certainly look healthier than the Polish Siberaks would have been. But it is probably accurate in terms of the representation of men and women.

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.

Polish refugees, children, at a camp in Uzbekistan during the early years of WWII.

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.

A Polish army lorry in Persia.

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.

A Polish refugee camp near Tehran.

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.

The ‘Big Three’ at Tehran.

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.

The Batory which left Poland the day before war was declared, and thereafter became an important component in the transport of Polish refugees. By the look of the costume, this photo may have been taken in more settled times.

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.

And astonishingly here he is — Captain Eustazy Borkowski in 1937 at the ceremony of the bestowal of the ship’s ornamental badge.

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.

Polish girls dressed up at Karachi Refugee camp. Sophie believes that SHE, amazingly again — this is a photo plucked from the internet — is the girl second from the right. She remembers the scalloped border on her apron.

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.

Polish refugees at a Polish Refugee camp in India enjoying a Christmas party with a Maharaja.

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.

Polish girls arriving at an African refugee camp.

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.

You can read more about the Poles in Africa here.


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.

Part of the Katyn Memorial at Wroclaw.

Coronaviral days: The Houses of Fawkner

Howard Arkley (1993) Australian House, held by the Hamilton Art Gallery


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?

Right here perhaps. Partly anyway.

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.

Breakfast at Chestnut Tree Apartments looking towards, but not seeing, Bogong.

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.

The view out its window.

Or even from the warmth of a car.

The slabs near Mackey’s Lookout, all slick with a centimetre or so of run-off.

But there’s nothing like being out in it.

Eurobin Creek near the entrance.
Not the weather, but the sort of thing you go to Mount Buff to see.

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.

Ice crystals in an old foot print.
The Horn (and peak) of the buffalo from near Cresta carpark.

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 have commented elsewhere about 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.

Pink heath, Victoria’s floral emblem. Just thought I’d note that. Flowering unseasonally on a sheer rock face.
Anything Mount Buff can do the Sundial range can do just as well.

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.

This is a track on the Tongariro plateau.

Even when they’re raised on rocky ribs like this one they hold water.

Another one of those formations … hmmm The Artichoke, The Bag of Lollies, The Hand Grenade, The Transplanted Hair, The …

* * * * * * * *

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 in my remembrance of when we lived there.

Over Djibilara (Asses Ears) through Glenisla Crossing towards Billiwin at sunset from Reed Lookout.

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.

What a place. Really.

The Richest Place on Earth #7

Specimen Gully to Harcourt North

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’.

Take 2 minutes 49 seconds to look at this. Click.

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.

There’s a biggish set of steps in the middle rear of this picture which gets you up quite quickly.

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.

An entry, but not sure to where, or what.

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.

George Rowe, 1858. The End of the Rainbow, Golden Square, Bendigo

* * * * * *

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.

Recorded uses of the terms ‘Bendigo’ (red) and Sandhurst’ (blue) in local newspapers: 1800-1950

* * * * * *

An eroded anticline

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.

The Shamrock Hotel
The Town Hall
Camp Hill (Government) Primary School

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.