I have mentioned ad nauseum that my husband is on a trip of nostalgia here in Melbourne, and that he is rather overwhelmed by the fact that his Melbourne is no more; that another city has taken its place. He also assures me that in the main, he is happy with this modern city, which is a relief, for me at least.
Yesterday was a prime example of this experiment in revisiting the past; when he lived in Deer Park around thirty years ago, he used to travel south to Williamstown twice a day to drop and collect his daughter to and from a private school there. We decided that it was time we checked this part of town out and so set off down the route he would have driven all those years ago, across expansive rural scenes now covered in industrial buildings. Fortunately I was following the map carefully or we may well have become lost; little seemed familiar.
Our first stop was Williamstown Beach, a place where he and his family had enjoyed the sun and salt, and he had sailed his small yacht. He was horrified to note that there were now parking meters all along the waterfront, not at all inviting and so we drove on to the Information Centre. This is in a part of the town he had never been familiar with, and so we discovered the Gem Pier together, admired the many boats in the marina and watched the little ferries plying the Yarra River with their tourist passengers. With metered parking at $3 per hour, we did not hang about too long, but moved further up into the shopping precinct, parking without charge in one of the lovely tree lined streets. We walked about, popping into one of the supermarkets to buy bread and a newspaper, and decided that Williamstown was very nice. While there is nothing pretentious about the town, it does still cater to all levels of consumer.
The township started its life back in the very early 1830s when a pioneering pastoralist shipped in his livestock and found his decision to be sound, thus encouraging others to do the same. Convicts, immigrants including those who came for the gold rush and all the paraphernalia those same folk required, came in through the port and grain went out. It was in effect Melbourne’s earliest settlement and it was not until the Yarra River was dredged and the port was moved upriver from the river mouth, that Williamstown became less important. These days Williamstown is still an important water gateway to Victoria but more importantly a tourist destination showing off its many grand houses, workers cottages, historic pubs and churches. And yesterday we found its café culture alive and well.
The day was looking much better than forecasted so we drove along the foreshore, or rather the river bank, pausing to wonder that Larissa’s old school, Williamstown Grammar, was still standing in its glory and still operating as a junior school, just as it had all those years ago.
We found a spot not too far away and ate our lunch, watching hopeful fishermen on their deckchairs, escaping the clamour of home and work, and then decided to stay with our plan to spend the afternoon at the cinema, despite the fact the weather had improved.
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was showing at the Highpoint Shopping Centre in Maribynong; which is not really too far away. We had seen the Swedish version of this on television about a month ago and now with the American version out and with Oscar nominations, we were keen to see this too. It is a wonderful thriller, even if we did know who-did-it. We loved this one as much as the first, and certainly recommend the film to those with a stomach for thrillers.
This morning dawned clear and promising; we were keen to set off on one of our planned self-drive excursions. It was lovely to be back on the country roads, driving up and over the bush clad hills to Gisbourne, north of us here in Rockbank. We walked about this lovely little town of about 6,500 people, around its wide streets and variety of shops offering all a small town could be expected to offer. Even this early in February, the first of the deciduous leaves were lying about, golden in the sun. Come autumn, this town will be just beautiful.
From here we drove further north, joining the Calder Highway we had travelled down from Bendigo nearly two weeks ago. We left the highway south of Woodend and drove along through forest, with homes tucked away discreetly off the road. Here, back in 1983, much of the land and property was seered by fire, so it surprised us to see that people had rebuilt exposing themselves to such a risk once more.
Woodend is also a delightful town about half the size of Gisbourne but just as charming. We delighted in its layout and shopping area, before once more pressing on, this time, a little east to the famed Hanging Rock.
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| Pausing on the path up Hanging Rock |
Chris had visited this reserve at least a couple of times before, and was upset to see the changes that had been wrought. Now there is an electronic gateway opened only to those who pay the required $10 entry fee. There is a Discovery Centre, where one can learn all about the geological features of the place, along with the history and of course, the story and subsequent film titled Picnic at Hanging Rock.
Hanging Rock is a mamelon (there is a new word for us all) created millions of years ago by stiff magma pouring from a vent and congealing, in this case into pillars. To the layman, the “mountain” is like a plastic ball our grandson loves, a globe covered in spikes. The summit is 718 metres above sea level, but only 105 metres above the plain or park below.
The area has been a public recreational area since the early 1850s, the racecourse built and first used in 1880. In the 1970s, it was a much more simple affair; now the pathways have safety wires, there is a café and as mentioned already, a Discovery Centre. The information offered in the centre is excellent, however the building itself is horrible; not unlike the bowels of a snail shell.
We walked around the base before lunch and then to the top once we were energy charged. There are apparently many wild animals in the park; however we saw none but butterflies and bush bees. The koala spotted earlier in the day by another walker had successfully hidden herself up a tree, so we gave up our hunt and enjoyed the lovely views from the top of the crags. After reluctantly paying the exit fee, we drove a few kilometres south up into the Macedon Regional Park.
The park covers an area of 2,427 hectares and supports a wealth of flora and fauna. In February 1983, on Ash Wednesday, fires swept through the northern slopes of the ranges, and it was those we first came to. Now nearly thirty years later, the vegetation has recovered, but the memories of those who were involved have not.
We walked to the top of the Camels Hump, the highest peak of the range at 1,011 metres, and looked north over the plains below, across to the high lands we had travelled about after heading north from Geelong. A woman of about my age was training for some athletic event, and ran up and down the steep path twice while we walked up and down just the once. When we passed by later, she was still at it. We looked out for all the fauna that was promised on the notice boards especially for the “common” wombat, but saw none, or any camels, for that matter.
A couple of kilometres south along the top of the range is a rather impressive war memorial, a simple but very large Memorial Cross of twenty one metres in height, originally erected in 1932 in honour of those who served in WWI. Lightning struck the memorial in 1975 and the great fire caused further damage in 1983. Vandals finished it off and then in 1995 a replacement was erected courtesy of a very generous Melbourne family. The memorial is approached through a path of hydrangeas and seems to stand right on the edge of the mountain, which drops steeply down toward the north western Melbourne plains. Melbourne itself was partly obscured by a haze or perhaps smog.
We drove on down Mt Macedon Road from where we caught glimpses of the gardens and grand homes well known for their lavish size and scale, some of which are open to the public. In years gone past, these were the summer residences of the Melbourne wealthy who sought the cooler temperatures of the hills during the summer months in the same way the wealth Adelaide people did in the Adelaide Hills.
The village of Macedon was quite allusive, and it was not until we keyed it into the Tomtom, that we found the post office. We had expected something more like the townships we had visited in the morning. Disappointed, we headed back for camp, a distance of nearly fifty kilometres. I suggested an alternative route to Chris; a route that had us caught in a traffic jam for about half an hour. Apparently part of the road was closed so that a jury could examine a “crime” scene; they were all gone by the time we motored on.
Tonight we have been caught up in the breaking news; the next move by the political players in their game of chess. Kevin Rudd has resigned as Foreign Minister. Your move, Julia? But then these comments only make sense to those in Australia.
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