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.

The Richest Place on Earth: GOLD

‘Unearthing the Welcome Stranger Nugget’ says the caption. ‘210 lbs’ it says, but received wisdom suggests 159 lbs or 72 kgs. Two foot long. All gold. So very rare. This happened at Moliagul in Central Victoria on 5 February, 1869. The nugget was found in the roots of a tree. Cornish miners John Deason and Richard Oates, pictured either side above, were paid just under £10,000 for it, about $570,000 in today’s terms which suggests they may have been short changed. That much gold today (depending on the day of the week and the state of the US stock market) would be worth $6.37m.

Gold. What’s the thing about gold?

It’s just something you dig out of the ground. (Usually. You might be able to find it in a wettish river bed.) You can’t drive it round, or build a house out of it. Why not, say, copper? Copper’s very good for the transmission of electricity. Zinc. There’s zinc, among other things a very useful anti-corrosive. Iron. Well, you can do just about anything with iron, and there’s plenty of it. Aluminium might be grey but it’s light. Where would caravans, just for example, be without aluminium? Are computers made out of gold? No. What? The mother board? Gold in the connections? All right then, … kitchen tables? No.

So what’s the big deal? I think we can all agree it’s pretty popular and has been for some time. Can any sense at all be made out its addictive attraction? Let’s try.

It’s durable. The gold in that necklace or ring you’re wearing might have been mined by Egyptian slaves. Gold is one of the seven generally agreed ‘noble metals’ (platinum is another) which scarcely react with other elements. Iron polishes beautifully, but it rusts, a problem for coinage. Unlike silver, gold doesn’t even tarnish. From a chemist’s point of view it might be thought of as almost spectacularly inert.

It’s comparatively rare. There are arguments about this but the weight of opinion appears to be that all the gold in the world that has been mined, ever, would fit into a 20 metre cube or, if you like, into an orderly pile just under 10 metres high on a tennis court. The same people who make this estimate believe that this is 3/4 of all the gold which will ever be mined (at present mainly from China, Russia and Australia, and then a dozen other bit players; 300 tonnes in a year is strong national haul).

And a propos of that, it’s heavy. I wonder if that matters. But the cube referred to above will weigh 171,300 tonnes, quite a lot. It’s one of the issues in heist pictures. There’s often a lot of to do about how they’re going to transport the loot because it’s so heavy blah blah blah. But when they’re actually carrying it to the van the problem seems to become of variable consequence. But yes, it’s heavy. A standard ingot of gold weighs 400 troy ounces, a unit of weight developed by the Romans — and that is 12.4 kilograms. You won’t pick that up without thinking about it. These ingots are a bit more than half the length of a school ruler (178mm), about the width of your instep (91.5mm) with the thickness of a bit more than the top joint of your (my) thumb (45mm). But unless you’re quite a special kind of person you don’t pick up a brick and, however heavy it might be, think hmmm must be valuable, do you?

It’s good for craft activities. Turning gold into jewellery (the use for nearly half of all extant gold) and coinage is altogether feasible. While the melting point of gold is 1064°C, you can smelt it, separating the base metal from its ore, via a range of far less challenging processes which were within the grasp of capable Bronze Age persons. Alloyed with copper it becomes rose gold; with nickel and palladium white gold. In its natural state it is malleable, in fact the most malleable of metals. If you’re good enough you can beat one ounce of pure gold to cover more than nine square metres (three queen-size beds). And if you’re really good you can beat it until it becomes transparent. The wealthy of all eras have been interested in covering available surfaces in gold leaf. One reason for this is because they could.

The cupola of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem is a formidable example.

It is also amazingly ductile. One ounce of pure gold can be drawn into a wire five microns thick (5/1000ths of a millimetre) to be continuous for 80 kms without breaking.

I haven’t mentioned that in 24 carat form it is both edible and potable, nor that in some circles (if not the ones you move in) this is deemed to be desirable. Given that it is indigestible, you might question the value of that process. Nor have I mentioned that if you didn’t have some, and yes certainly a very small amount, nano particles, in your brain your neurons wouldn’t function. Uncorrodible gold provides the connectivity for the electrics of your neural system. (Ok. Check it out if you want. How does it get there? You can check that out too.)

Yes, all that. All that of course. But while all that glisters is not gold, all that’s gold does tend to glister. There is something about those warm tones, that feel, that heft. As Dr. Andrea Sella, Professor of Inorganic Chemistry at University College London, says so insightfully, and presumably after long and thoughtful study: ‘Gold is just so … golden.’

An admirer, wandering through one of her back rooms.

And that might have been what drew the hordes to Australia after 1851, multiplying Victoria’s non-Indigenous population by eight in a decade and generating a 300 percent increase in the Australian population as a whole over the same period. Sure gold is golden, but these enthusiasts also thought they were were going to land the big one. They were going to get rich.

* * * * *

S. T. Gill 1856: ‘Prospecting’

The version of Australia’s experience with gold that I learnt at school went something like: 1851 Edward Hargraves found gold (at a place he called Ophir after a biblical source of gold tribute for King Solomon). Six months later gold was found at Ballarat and Bendigo: whoosh, ka-floooie! With the mild hiccup of the Eureka rebellion causing Australia to be a democracy, everything took off. Melbourne became Marvellous and everyone got rich. Modern Australia began. Bingo. Next please.

How much more tangled and various the story really is. Just some modest hints.

The first European find was a hoax. In mid-1788 — not much more than a moment after Australia had been colonised/ invaded — James Daley, a convict, reported to several people that he had found gold ‘some distance down the [Sydney] harbour’. On the pretence of showing an officer the position of his find, Daley escaped into the bush… for a day. I don’t know how far he had really thought this through. He received 50 lashes. Then he produced a specimen of gold ore. He was again invited to point out where he had found it. In addition, however, he was warned by an officer that he would be executed if it wasn’t true. Daley, whose middle name might have been ‘Arthur’, confessed that his story was ‘a falsehood’. He had made his specimen from a gold guinea and a brass buckle. Awarded no points for either persistence or craft skill, Daley was provided with an additional 100 lashes. He was hanged not long after for breaking and entering, but he had left a legacy. Many convicts continued to believe that Daley had actually found gold, and that he had taken the secret with him to his grave. And that is a story about gold. However fake the news, hope springs eternal.

As the Europeans started cutting their way through the Blue Mountains finds were reported during the 1820s, sometimes by reliable sources. In 1823 the first officially recorded find (near Bathurst by the colony’s assistant surveyor) occurred. There were other finds: to the north at Aberdeen and to the south in the Monaro. Another find was made near the mouth of the Tamar in Tasmania. It periodically appeared that wherever Europeans went in this country they might happen on something precious. This was of course in accord with a profound hankering. Why else would you live in this godforsaken place?

But, look, what do you do? You’re running a penal colony in a place you know next to nothing about. The ‘free’ element of the settlement is tiny and, even so, without special favours inclined to become bolshie. Even for getting what might be deemed essential done, labour is at a premium. Do you want someone running round shouting ‘gold? In fact ‘GOLD!!!!’ Not if you want a quiet life and a bit of steadiness.

The second headmaster of Sydney’s The Kings School (1839-40) was the Reverend William Branwhite Clarke who of all things had come to Australia because he believed the sea voyage would be good for his health. He was also, in the way of the times, an accomplished amateur geologist (eventually informally crowned the Father of Australian Geology). In addition to tending to his parishioners spread across the dales and hills of western Sydney, he spent time ‘ascertain[ing] the extent and character of the carboniferous formation in New South Wales’ (from his letter to the SMH, 18/2/1852). He found gold embedded in quartz at a number of places, most notably at Locksley just on the western side of the Blue Mountains in the 1840s. Early in 1844 he showed Sir George Gipps, the governor of New South Wales, some specimens he had found. Gipps asked him where he had got it and, when Clarke told him, famously said, ‘Put it away sir or we shall have our throats cut’.

Governor La Trobe provided much the same advice to a farmworker named Smith who found gold in Victoria’s Ovens River in the same year.

In 1846 gold was found in the Adelaide hills of the ‘free’ settlement South Australia. This find was greeted with great enthusiasm. Its first products were turned into a brooch for Queen Victoria. A company was formed with a public share offering which initially skyrocketted. Regrettably its total all-time output came to 24 ozs. Another gold story. You don’t always get what you want. The finest prospect can be a chimera.

But back to Victoria, the number of these finds began accelerating, and they were not confined to any particular area. Hundreds of kilometres separate Chiltern, Smythesdale, Bright, Warrandyte, Daylesford, and Omeo. Publicity about the 1848 Amherst find in central Victoria prompted what might be called the first ‘rush’ in that colony. About 100 potential diggers travelled to the site, but Governor La Trobe sent troopers to thwart any trespass on Crown Land (almost all of Victoria at the time). Nonetheless samples and nuggets were trickling their way secretively to Brentani’s jewellery shop in Melbourne’s Collins St for payouts. The cover was blown. (Another gold story. Word will get around, and ever so smartly.) The impact of the news of Hargraves’ find at Ophir (just north of Bathurst in NSW) in February 1851 was already being felt in the Victoria. ‘Panic’ is the word used to described the reaction amongst the populace. How that would play out in practice, apart from immediately packing and setting off for Ophir, I’m not sure.

Just before Hargraves’ find, a mineralogist, George Bruhn, determined to conduct a survey of Victoria’s mineral resources. He found confirmed samples of gold on David Cameron’s station at Clunes in March 1851 and made this knowledge selectively public. James Esmond, at that time working as a builder in the area, discovered further payable deposits of gold nearby. Bruhn forwarded specimens of gold to Melbourne which were received by the Gold Discovery Committee on 30 June 1851. On 1 July 1851 Victoria became a colony independent of New South Wales … and the first gold rush, with Clunes as its focus, began.

But it wasn’t just Clunes. Gold seemed to be all over the place: finds at 31 different locations were reported in the new colony between July and October 1851. The fever had gripped. Brentani’s was receiving so much gold they regularly ran out of currency.

Who made these early finds? Workers of course, people with their eyes casting about and their hands in the soil. On 20 July Christopher Peters, a shepherd and hut-keeper, made the first find at Specimen Gully near today’s Castlemaine, an area which over time produced 5.6 million ounces of gold. He was ridiculed for picking up fool’s gold, and the sample was thrown away by William Barker, the station owner, who didn’t want his workmen to abandon his sheep. But, perhaps understandably, they had other ideas. Three other shepherds and a bullock driver immediately teamed up with Peters to work the deposits. In ten days chipping away at the quartz with chisels they made as much as they otherwise would have in a year. When Barker sacked them and ran them off for trespass, one of them, Frank Worley, wrote a letter to Melbourne’s Argus newspaper ‘to prevent them getting in trouble’ which announced the precise location of their workings. This letter was published on 8 September 1851. Within a month there were about 8,000 diggers working the alluvial beds of the nearby creeks. By the end of the year there were about 25,000 on the field. (Alluvium: material deposited by water, surface material, which could be sand, gravel, soil or, in some cases, gold.)

And it wasn’t just male workers. Among those credited with being responsible for the first finds near Bendigo were two women Mrs Margaret Kennedy and Mrs Julia Farrell who panned for gold with Margaret Kennedy’s four children: John 9, Mary Ann 7, and Mary Jane 2, and baby Lucy. John was among those formally credited with the first find but it appears likely that he and Mary Ann were helping to look after the other children. The nod is generally given to Henry Frencham, a journalist, who certainly made the loudest public fuss about his find. But he walked the talk. Between the end of November and Christmas Day 1851 he had mined enough to deliver a 3 lb bag of gold to the Assistant Commissioner.

Victorian goldfields, with the most productive areas (over 15 million ounces) circled. Unmentioned elsewhere, the Woods Point/ Valhalla fields are to the right.

By 1854 rewards of £1000 were being gifted to those who had made the breakthrough, Hargraves in New South Wales, a team led by Louis Jean Michel in Victoria and Thomas Hiscock who made the find at Buninyong which began the Ballarat rush. Any thought of containing the rush had vanished. The fever had exploded.

At the peak of the period we are talking about, more than three tonnes of gold per week flowed into Melbourne’s Treasury Building. During the decade of the 1850s Victorian diggings were responsible for 43 percent of the entire world’s gold production, worth in today’s terms about $12 billion a year. It is believed that the gold exported to Britain in the thirty years from 1851 paid off all of Britain’s foreign debt. Even more certainly, it was a key factor in bankrolling the British industrial and commercial revolutions of the second half of the 19th century.

The Victorian Gold Discovery Committee wrote in 1854:

The discovery of the Victorian Goldfields has converted a remote dependency into a country of worldwide fame; it has attracted a population, extraordinary in number, with unprecedented rapidity; it has enhanced the value of property to an enormous extent; it has made this the richest country in the world.

S. T. Gill 1854: ‘Successful diggers on the way from Bendigo’
S. T. Gill 1853, ‘Improvident digger in Melbourne

* * * * *

What is gold? Where does it come from? And why was there such an abundance of accessible gold in Victoria?

Stardust is close to one correct answer. Strap yourself in carefully now.

It can be firmly asserted that the only elements which existed in the universe 13 billion years ago were a lot of hydrogen atoms, rather fewer helium atoms (generated by fusion reactions) and a small amount of lithium — very simple elements. More complex elements were formed by the heat and pressure present in the cores of stars. Explosions would disperse this matter across the universe.

But elements like platinum and gold were too complex to be formed in this way. Current theory has it that they have emerged from the collision of two neutron stars.

The first documented supernova (monster cosmic explosion) event

Neutron stars are born from the explosive death of other, larger stars, a violent supernova which blows the outer layers off the original stars. In astronomical terms these stars are physically tiny, about 20kms across, but with a mass about 1.4 times that of our sun with an incredibly dense core. Gravity presses the material in on itself so tightly that protons and electrons combine (‘melt’ is one description) to form neutrons and that’s where the stars get their name. On average, gravity on a neutron star is 2 billion times stronger than gravity on Earth. In fact, it is strong enough to significantly bend radiation from the star in a process known as gravitational lensing, allowing astronomers to ‘see’ some of the back side of a neutron star at the same time as the front side. The nature of their birth causes immensely rapid rotation sometimes as fast as 43,000 revolutions per minute.

The earth is about 4.543 billion years old. Gold was not present at its origin. It didn’t begin to arrive — as stardust (or meteorites and other space objects peppering the earth’s surface) — until at least 200 million years later.

There is gold everywhere on earth including in the oceans, but mostly in insufficiently concentrated form to collect. The most common natural method of concentration of gold is through the ancient workings of immensely hot fluid inside the Earth’s crust. These fluids have often moved through rocks over a large area and dissolved gold and other minerals. When these fluids cool or react with other rocks the dissolved gold precipitates into cracks or fractures forming veins. In Australia this concentration of gold took place in the Earth hundreds of millions of years ago in the eastern states, and thousands of millions of years ago in Western Australia (where even larger deposits have been found).

As well as gold, these fluids can carry other dissolved minerals, such as quartz. This is why gold is often found with quartz. These are known as primary gold deposits and to extract the gold the rock containing the veins of gold has to be dug up, crushed and processed. Adding a note of controversy and danger, cyanide is often an important part of this processing as it can be used to dissolve and bind to gold.

Some rocks containing gold veins are exposed on the surface and erode away. The gold that these rocks contained has been washed down into creeks to form alluvial (or secondary) deposits. Because gold is heavier than most of the material moved by a creek or river, it can become concentrated in hollows or trapped in the bed of the river. These deposits can be worked using a gold pan or cradle and it was those deposits which produced most of the gold found early in the rushes of the 1850s. The largest alluvial goldfields extended over distances of around 10 kilometres and produced more than 100 tonnes of gold.

S.T. Gill 1855, ‘Tin dish washing’ (panning)

Why in Victoria? As noted, larger deposits have been found in Western Australia, but at much deeper levels.

Gold is found in cracks and fissures of sedimentary rock. There are major volcanic geological zones in Victoria, but there also substantial sedimentary areas which are riven by a series of fault lines running roughly north-south: Yarramaljup, Moyston, Avoca, Mt William, Governor, Kiewa. Several of these fault lines are closely associated with gold sources. Major earthquakes, slippage and movement along fault lines will expose new strata, but it is believed that in the case of Victoria more frequent small-scale earth movements were far more influential in making gold accessible.

Conditions were optimal for finding surface gold and an unusual proportion of nuggets. Far more gold is found in ‘reefs’, veins most frequently found in quartz.

A competitor to The Welcome Stranger for the largest single deposit of gold ever found is the ‘Holtermann Nugget’. And right here is Holtermann with his ‘nugget’. A Prussian who left his country to avoid military service, he set up a mining operation near Hill End in NSW which for many years was unproductive. Then on 19th October 1872 a midnight firing of explosives revealed a ‘wall of gold’ of which the ‘nugget’ was part. Weight: 630 lbs, Height: 4 ft 9 ins, Width: 2ft 2ins, Av thickness: 4 ins, Value £12,000. But it is not a nugget. It is a ‘specimen’, a matrix of slate, quartz and gold, reef gold, which when crushed produced 3000 troy ounces of gold, quite enough to make Holtermann a rich man.

I wanted to put in a photo or two of the goldfields but even in Rod Hall and David Moore’s giant and superb Australia: Image of a Nation 1850-1950 there are no photos of goldfields or gold miners. There are paintings and sketches. S. T. Gill, the most prolific and insightful, is represented above. Von Guérard has some offerings but they are in strange circumstances which will be described below. On first try I found one photo of ‘Sandhurst’ (Bendigo) in the early-1880s, but the mining had become industrialised by then.

It’s not a digger with his 8 foot by 8 foot claim (expanded to 12 foot by 12 foot after the Eureka rebellion), just arrived from … anywhere. There are lots of remnants of Cornishmen in the diggings, but name them really and you won’t be wrong: Italy, Sweden, Russia, California even, and China beginning a relationship that never really got past awkward. Scotland. The entire collection of my forebears arrived in Victoria between 1852 and 1868, the McRaes in 1852. There was at least a gully full of Canadians at Ballarat. There were Murderers at a Flat out of Castlemaine. Anyone from anywhere really.

A digger wrestling with the quartz and wondering when he’ll hit a lead, freezing and wet in the middle of a Ballarat winter, wasting away at the height of a Mount Alexander summer. Using what for a bathroom? Finding food where? And, although they weren’t allowed to work on Sundays, not daring to take a holiday or even to leave his/her claim. When gold was discovered at the Forest Creek diggings just out of Castlemaine it is reported that some diggers stretched themselves out over their claim and didn’t move for several days (they must have, but you get the idea) until there was some formal recognition of their right.

The first photos were taken in Australia in the mid 1840s so the technology existed, and you might have thought it would have been applied to the most momentous events occurring. Perhaps photographers had turned themselves into diggers and were just too busy. Or perhaps it was such a specialised activity it didn’t find its way into the higgledy-piggledy world of the diggings.

But now I have had expert correction. There were photos taken of the Victorian goldfields in the 1850s, thank you Deidre, by Antoine Fauchery and his mate Richard Daintree. On review their photos of local Aboriginal people of the time are quite simply remarkable, but those of the diggers can look a bit posed or washed out.

Fauchery, 1858, Group of Diggers
Daintree, 1861, Barkly-Navarre Goldfield

For my own reasons I have chosen to let this choice stand: twenty years later (1872), and not in Victoria at all but at Gulgong, not so far from Hill End.

I think the clothes would still be pretty close to the mark. Yes to the hats, the windlass, the mullock heap. Yes to the beards, probably the tools, certainly the type of locale … and the scale of the enterprise.

And it’s Gulgong, which allows me to include a joke which has given me enormous pleasure over the years. (Reflecting very badly on me. It is so weak!!) All I can plead is that it had some special significance for me at certain moments in the years I spent roaming western New South Wales.

Prince Charles was on a tour of Australia and Gulgong was included on his itinerary. (Nb. Let’s not talk Gulgong down. Anthony Trollope also visited in 1871.) At the official reception he wore something odd on his head that looked just a little like a Davey Crockett Hat. Or something. It was the talk of the evening of course and finally the Mayor summoned enough courage to enquire about it. ‘The hat?’ His Royal Personage replied. ‘Quite wonderful isn’t it!’ ‘ But does it mean something?’ the Mayor asked. ‘I’m glad you enquired’, responded His Terrific Eminence. (You must be using a Prince Charles voice here, right way down the back of the throat.) ‘I mentioned to my father, The Duke, that I was off to Ooooorstralia, and he said, where you going? I ran through a few of the places I was scheduled to visit then mentioned Gulgong. And he said, ahhhhhh wear the foxhat.’

* * * * *

This has been a long preamble to a series of stories about walking the Goldfields Track which starts at the pinnacle of Mt Buninyong and ends (for me, it must end, can only end) at the Alexandra Fountain at the intersection of View Street and Pall Mall, the absolute heart of Bendigo about 210 kilometres away.

I have known about the Track for years and owned a guide book for at least five or six. The Guidebook (this one now superseded by a new edition) is a work of great art, a really good guidebook prepared by capable people who know their business, and it was enticing.

But I couldn’t get over the idea that, regardless of the weather, which would almost certainly be terrible — too hot too wet too cold too muggy — it would be weeks of walking on quartzy gravel through unvarying, and undistinguished, grey forests of box and stringybark. Not much to see, not much of interest. Quite a few days you would have to end up nowhere and make complex arrangements to find a shower, some food and a bed. I’m not embarrassed to admit I’m disinclined these days to spend a day, or several, carrying a 25 kilo pack and then camping.

A confluence of events changed my view.

Covid came along and Melbourne’s second lockdown went for months and while you could go for walks — and we did endlessly to the point where I got very sick of the first 500 metres in any direction from our front door — you couldn’t go for a walk in the bush. Not only could you not leave town; you couldn’t travel more than 5 kms from your home. There are people so much worse off in the world, but I chafed.

One thing that had happened — and we knew about this from illegally walking through the gardens of Eaglemont, Heidelberg and Ivanhoe and the natural gardens along the Yarra — was that it had been a wonderful growing season, a comparatively long cold winter, a late wet Spring and, almost perversely, the natural world had never looked more verdant and fertile.

When the opportunity came to get out of town we took it quickly and enthusiastically. But what to do? How to really make the most of it? An old favourite or something new?

We’ve been walking around Creswick, one of the towns on the route, for years, good walks, 8.3/10 walks, interesting and varied. Creswick where W.G. Spence, one of the founders of the Australian Workers Union, grew up; home to the artistic Lindsay family; birthplace of John Curtin, quite possibly Australia’s greatest Prime Minister. A collection of big houses and worker’s cottages, some grand institutional building, some defining waterworks and other signs of unrealised ambition. Melbourne University’s forestry school was established here (with, tucked away in its arboretum, Australia’s Number One pinus radiata). There are two good pubs and, Lord help us, Le Péché Gourmand (‘the sinful eater’), a really good patisserie with outstanding coffee.

I knew the Track went through Creswick — we had often seen the waymarks — but I couldn’t quite figure out the prior leg. It’s about 20kms by road from Ballarat to Creswick and most of the way it is open paddocks until you get to quite a stretch of suburban Ballarat. How could you make that into an interesting walk? We could go and see, and if it was no good we would at least have been in the open air and seen our friends at Le PG.

So very early in the morning of November 16th 2020 we found ourselves walking down Mair St to the Ballarat Station in order to catch the bus to Creswick. The Track is usually described running from the south to the north. We were going the wrong way and we weren’t beginning at the beginning. But all that is easily forgiven. I think we were doing it backwards because we prefer to wrestle with public transport early in the day and our car was at Ballarat, and anyway we weren’t starting The Track, hadn’t really given any thought to that — we were just going for a walk.

The bus trip was pleasant and we got off somewhere near the right place, had a cup of coffee and a croissant with a selection of emergency workers easing their way into the day, and headed off …