Today we have returned to the road in all respects; travelling towing the caravan and tonight parked up in a layby beside the Midland Highway. The “reserve” is essentially a gravel stock pile and a rubbish tip, although there is a tasteful plaque that tells us that it was on this flat in a small cottage now long gone, that Jessie Kennedy was born in 1845, making her the first white child born in the Castlemaine area. Two vehicles have pulled in briefly to perhaps take a catnap and a large truck came in looking as if it were about to unload another pile of gravel. All hands were on deck; closing the ceiling vents and the starboard windows. However it proved to be a false alarm.
We left our camp in Ballarat this morning in a timely fashion, waving to the proprietor as we left to convey our appreciation for what had turned out to be an excellent camp. Joining the highway at the gateway, we were soon through to Creswick, just twenty odd kilometres away, having climbed some distance from the flatland of Ballarat. Creswick is surrounded by pine forest, planted (or rather masterminded) in 1890 by one John La Gerche, to cover the land laid bare by gold mining. Creswick, often named a Foresters Forest, with a population of about 3,000, was established in 1851, and is a delightfully beautiful town, full of lovely old buildings and just the friendliest people.
We called at the Information Centre and spent some time chatting with a retired farmer, convincing him that he and his wife should do Cape York this year and were offered a whole heap of brochures about Creswick and surrounds. I have four pages of information about this chap La Gerche and will reserve it for bedtime reading before it ends up where much of the paper work gathered on our travels does. It would seem at a quick glance however that this chap should probably have received a prize for being Australia’s first Greenie!
As we walked up and down the street, taking photos, buying a newspaper, debating the purchase of unnecessary morning tea, we came upon the office of the Hepburn Council Flood Relief, where we stood gazing at photos in the window of a town severely affected by flood. The automatic door kept opening and shutting as they sometimes do, and finally a voice called from within, “Come on in!” We were met by the co-ordinator and manager of this enterprise and given a full rundown of the flood history of Creswick, nearby Clunes and other places about. Creswick was hit three times by flash floods; November and December 2010 and then again in January 2011. Even now, the council are still doing repair work and the social toll on the population is huge. We must have spent at least an hour in the company of this fascinating woman, and could easily have spent more, however we presumed she should be doing work other than explaining the state of Creswick to us, and tore ourselves away. We made her promise that she would write or at least record, the stories of the flood, the victims and her involvement with them, as well as a second account of her own working life which has to date been equally fascinating.
The Norman family, five of whom are famous for their artistic talent, were born and raised in Creswick in the late 1800s and early 1900s. We have come upon frequent references to this as we have travelled about Australia, particularly so in Ballarat where there are a couple of galleries entirely given over to work by members of the family and the relocation of the lounge, furniture and knickknacks authentically placed as per request of the benefactor. Apparently the museum in Creswick has a further display of Norman treasures, however it is not open on Thursdays. Every year in April, the town celebrates the family by way of a festival; perhaps even on a Thursday?
We returned to the rig and continued north through to Daylesford, despite the suggestion from our farming retiree who suggested we travel out to Smeaton, and other fascinating places, but there are only so many hours in the day and only so any days in the year, even when you are doing as we are.
 |
| Not keen to try the water himself |
Chris had been to the spa town of Daylesford several times in his past life, however could not remember the exact address of specific attractions, and so we were not really advantaged by this prior experience. In fact, in some ways, it was a disadvantage. We spotted a sign as we entered the town, directing us to the Daylesford Spring, and turned in and down to what was the Central Springs. The area is now derelict, flood damaged, but abandoned long before then. There were three or four old pumps where one could siphon the famed spring waters to the surface, which we did. Chris had memories of it being foul and was not to be coerced into repeating what had been an unpleasant experiment. But I had to find out for myself. He was right; like drinking soda water from a rusty tin can. Even after spitting it out, the taste lingered long in my mouth. So much for taking in the waters!
We lunched in the parking area then drove on up into the township. The road to Daylesford is over hills, through dry stock farms and forests, much of it similar to New Zealand countryside. The town itself is nestled in the hills, the main shopping area straddles a knoll which makes the business of exploring the streets an exercise in itself. Here again there are beautiful old buildings, and the town since the early 1980s when Chris was here has moved ahead with the times. As Victoria’s spa town, with a permanent population of not too much more than 2,000, it has hotels, restaurants, cafes, boutiques and health and beauty parlours to cater for the Melburnians and others that flock here for the spoiling, all of which would apparently equal any such in Europe. Well at least that is what the brochures boast and we will simply have to agree, not having patronised these kind of places either here, or there.
We also called in to a wonderful private art gallery in Vincent Street; the Pantechnicon. Given the population of Australia, I suppose it should come as no surprise that there are so very many wonderful Australian artists, however I never cease to be impressed by the array of such excellent work.
On returning to the rig, we drove the three kilometres west to the Hepburn Springs, which did this time seem more familiar to Chris, although he could not recall the Bathhouse and Spa, even accepting that the very modern renovations make it look entirely new. After taking a wrong turn and having to turn around in a particularly restricted corner which had a very smart red car strategically placed as an obstacle, we found the spot deep in a valley. We walked along the valley pausing to try the various springs, and finding them no better than those at the Central Springs. Notices sang their praises and list their wonderful mineral qualities. Iron was the one mineral that seemed common to all, hence the tinny taste. We came upon a chap armed with a bag of fancy water bottles, which he duly filled with this blessed water for consumption at home until he returned for the next fortnight’s supply. We quizzed him regarding the pleasure in drinking this beverage. He responded that you could get used to it, and now having replaced the great quantities of fruit juice previously imbibed, he and his family found they had lost weight. Surprise, surprise!
The day had warmed up considerably from the cold start, and the wind was no longer evident; another burst of summer had arrived with February. We drove on north, and soon after the miniscule settlement of Yapeen, found this wayside camp documented in Camps 5. I am sure we will be quite comfortable here; the road is already quietening down as the evening sets in.
No comments:
Post a Comment