For some unknown reason we were awake before the birds this morning and with little point in hanging about, set off well before 8 am, heading north across the flat isthmus toward Fish Creek through dense fog. A few kilometres further on, the mist cleared and we turned on to new road, north to Meeniyan, Koonwarra and on to Leongatha through farmlands very like those of the Waikato in New Zealand. We stopped at Leongatha, a rural town serving the surrounding area of about five thousand people, to find it as everywhere else in the country, closed for Good Friday. For some reason I always think it is Sunday that the Christian world closes for Easter, that being the day followers generally take as a day of rest, however if I remember it as a bonus rest-day, perhaps I shall get it right next year. We walked about the town and found only the newsagent open despite the fact that the bakeries could have had a roaring trade catering for the cavalcade of motorists who were travelling through the town on their way to Wilson’s Prom.
We continued on our way north east to Mirboo North once more in the mist, now regretting we had eaten breakfast so early and feeling hunger pains hours before the official time to eat again. The IGA store was open, and the bakery was not, despite the fact there were an array of “freshly baked” buns and bakery items already filling the counter shelves in readiness for the Saturday shoppers. At the IGA we picked up a bag of ciabatta rolls and another of Hot Cross Buns; the first were stale and the second more than double the price we could have purchased them for a couple of days ago in Wonthaggi. Needless to say the mutterings back to the caravan were compounded by the greater grumblings when the knife slid through the dry buns at lunchtime. I kept my silence, there was quite enough without me joining in. I had however enjoyed the sweet festive bun with my morning coffee, so much so, another had to follow immediately. And here I was on about chocolate yesterday!
The road from Mirboo North through to Morwell passes through slightly steeper farmland, giving way sometimes to potato crops and sometimes to gum plantations. It was a lovely drive.
Arriving at Morwell, we skirted around the northern side of the town on to Traralagon, travelling a few more kilometres than the highway would have taken us. At Traralagon we found the Information Centre closed as everything else seemed to be except for the toilets at the railway station. Without a local map, we had to rely on our Tomtom, and with scant directions to this campsite in our Camps 5 bible, it was all hit and miss. However we found it without too much drama and have set up here for the afternoon and evening, given that everything we wished to do will be closed for the day and for god-knows-how-long.
Traralgon is the main service centre of Latrobe Valley, and according to the RACV book has a population of about 22,000. In fact the RACV book labels it as Latrobe City’s entertainment centre with fine dining, shopping and pubs, clubs and bars, golf, gardens, skydiving, gliding or scenic flights, but probably not on Good Friday. During the gold rush it was a stopping place for drovers, and now services the surrounding energy, agricultural, pastoral, papermaking and timber industries.
I had been forewarned of the Latrobe Valley, as being an area of power stations, coal mines, industrial pollution and all the other negatives that come with carbon producing activities. I had visualised it as a wide dark valley not unlike a protestant’s picture of hell. What we have seen so far bears no resemblance and apart from the chimneys caught in the sunlight as we approached from the south, Latrobe appears to be a most attractive place.
The afternoon has passed peacefully in this reserve well used by the natives and visitors alike. We wandered about the perimeter chatting briefly to four foreign men from Dandenong in Melbourne, who were fishing and had already caught half an eski full of fish from the muddy depths of the Latrobe River. A dozen lamb chops were cooking over a barbeque, obviously brought along with little hope of being replaced by fish. We left them to it and returned to the caravan.
A little later on, a family arrived with small motorbikes and the two daughters spent the next couple of hours driving around and around the reserve like a swarm of noisy bees. The older girl of perhaps twelve was seriously overweight and nearly fell off several times on the corner nearest our camp. The younger skinny sister was more confident. Soon they were joined by another family and we wondered whether we had happened upon the Latrobe City Junior Motorcross Club. However, only a third bike joined the circuit, a small quad bike ridden by an even smaller rider, of perhaps four years old. He was absolutely amazing to watch and so incredibly sensible. Several times, his parents added his helmeted younger brother to the quad, and off the two tots went. When a couple of riders on horseback joined the mix, the Baby (as we had by now labelled him) slowed down and quietly passed them in the most considerate way. Our concern was that vehicles may come in as they had earlier, and not notice these miniature motorcyclists on the track. When we closed up the blinds and sat down to watch Letters & Numbers, they were still at it, and remained so until night had completely fallen.
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