Silly can holders

As this trip passes there are many new discoveries to be made along the way. Some are momentous mind-blowing episodes of awesomeness; others are more mundane. Like the silly can holders that exist in my car, too small for many a fizzy bottle and too large for takeaway coffee cups. It’s a minor thing, so imagine my surprise when hearing some hoodlum faced the same problem and made a song about it. It’s so serious the song is played over and over again on one of those identikit FM radio stations – you know the type, Shiny FM or Supernova 102.7, with a playlist of ten songs and flagship drive time show hosted by a vacuous airhead and some bloke named Davo or Sammo or Bozo. Such is our disconnect from popular culture it took both Jill and I a while to figure out he was actually singing about the ceiling being able to hold him and his partying associates.

More profound discoveries continue each day as we move along South Australia and towards Adelaide.  Entering from southwest Victoria, Mount Gambier is the major town of note in this region and, like much of the landscape here, grounded in ancient volcanic foundations. At its heart is Blue Lake, a crater lake that is indeed very blue and for which no-one quite really knows how it gets this colour. Juxtaposed with the lake, the town is fairly mundane, but offers the usual services thrown in with the odd sinkhole to explore.

 

The volcanic terroir can be thanked for the blessings of the Coonawarra, north of Mount Gambier and delivering the finest Cabernet Sauvignon in the country. It’s a small, low key wine region and its major town, Penola, is compact and, well, fairly dull. Still, a glass or two of red spices things up and makes the strange, shabby local campground seem that little better. The area is also strongly associated with Mary MacKillop, now Saint Mary, who I’m sure must have been assisted in performing miracles with a local drop or two.

Hmm, is that blasphemous? Maybe, but then my silly can holders didn’t get miraculously fixed while driving through the area. They stayed that way back down to the coast, the Limestone Coast in fact, incorporating quiet seaside towns of Beachport, Robe, and Kingston. While Beachport provided pleasant coffee, Robe was the fancier spot on this coast, with neat holiday homes and sandy beaches, gourmet food stops and twee shoppes which sell everything you could never possibly need in your life whatsoever.

 

Perhaps our miracle came near Robe, staying at Cape Jaffa, an out-of-the-way, tumbledown kind of place with a campground seemingly catering for far more people than actually visit. Thus, on a Sunday night, we were the only people staying in the whole campground, revelling in having a clean and tidy amenity block and camp kitchen, with TV, to ourselves. We showered, laundered, lingered, cooked, charged electronics and, for me at least, got up early and watched the culmination of The Masters the next morning.

Just north of here sat Kingston, another quiet spot beside the seaside and projecting additional bleakness thanks to cool, showery weather. Anything of note seemed to be shut on a Monday, but the Big Lobster is one thing that cannot be hidden away. It truly is a monster and deserves some respect for the complex structure required to piece this together; certainly a lot more impressive than the big potato / turd, big cigar, or now defunct big cheese. It’s still rather silly though.

Continuing north-westward the towns thin out altogether for a stretch of land where the waters of the mighty Murray River fill a patchwork of ponds and lagoons, wedged up against a huge spit of sandy dunes and beach, known as the Coorong. It’s a fluctuating landscape, shaped by water flows and weather and remains windswept and wild, especially along the endless ocean beach. The waters fill, drain, evaporate and fill again, leaving salt deposits in their wake and low sandy scrub for migratory birds to hide in. Exposed, it encourages a very chilly night that requires extra blankets and a hope that this is not the start of a trend.

 

Happily things warmed up somewhat continuing west and bridging the Murray into Goolwa and Victor Harbor. These spots were more bustling, with Adelaide just an hour or so north and Victor Harbor a seaside getaway replete with funfairs and ice creams and old fashioned trams. The flat sparseness of the Coorong had passed and a coastline of rugged granite cliffs and deep creeks fed into the Southern Ocean, while the interior of the Fleurieu Peninsula boasted golden hills peppered with gums. From Deep Creek Conservation Park views over the intriguingly and slightly disturbingly named Backstairs Passage led across to Kangaroo Island and, while walking signage went somewhat astray, a fine park campground with plenty of hot water and shower access made amends.

Next morning it was time to cross Backstairs Passage and take the extortionately expensive 45 minute ferry ride to Kangaroo Island. The next three days proved worth it, compensated by relatively inexpensive diggings in two fine parks campsites. The first, at Flinders Chase National Park, provided a well-kept base from which to explore and marvel in this wild western wedge of the island. A whole day of walks and sightseeing followed, with a coffee and cake stop at the visitor centre in between. The bonus of coming across some of the native wildlife along the way, as promised in all the glossy brochures and slick marketing, added to the day.

 

This included – finally, and no thanks VIC – the first koala of the trip. Amusingly this was directly opposite a sign informing you to look for koalas and how to spot them. Jaded from Victorian experiences, I uttered “yeah right”...as I then turned round and saw a koala. This one was only mildly animated, which is actually quite lively in koalaland terms. The sighting was the highlight of a platypus walk that didn’t yield any platypus and the Rocky River hike that didn’t include much of a river or very many rocks. The river, still dry but very much more rocky, eventually reaches the sea down past Snake Lagoon (which thankfully had no snakes either), a sight to behold as a, well, river of jagged rocks snakes down to the beach.

Later in the day, post-cake, were more rocks and wildlife, the top tourist gems of this very special national park. It is hard to resist scepticism about exactly how remarkable Remarkable Rocks will be. Some people, especially those who don’t like rocks as much as me, might just think ‘yeah they are like a bunch of rocks’. And, from a distance, they don’t look so flash. But close up, mingling amongst them, you can appreciate their scale and the rather remarkable, weathered features, bright orange lichen stained domes and the question of how they ended up like that in that place. Something to do with an ancient sea bed and erosion I guess...

 

Cruising on to the far southwest tip of the park, Cape du Couedic, the weather played its part in evoking the land’s end allure of such an exposed extremity. Now bleak with a strong and chilly southerly, devoid of all but a few hardy leftover tourists at the end of the day, it was perfect weather. Some may prefer warm sun and clear blue skies hovering above placid seas, but give me a stormy, bracing maelstrom six days out of seven to really appreciate the clash between the land and the ocean.

Of course here stood cliffs and barren headlands, rocky islands and shattered stacks, and the impressive Admirals Arch, separating one torrent of water from another. Amongst this melee, fur seals, seemingly carrying on as normal, i.e. frolicking in the water, battling the waves to come ashore, drying out atop rocks, and very regularly getting narky with one another. It’s something you could watch for hours, but the cold and dark is dissuasive enough to send you back to the car and a blast of heating.

 

The next day remained cool and blustery but with plenty of sunshine to be dazzled by several white sandy bays of the south coast. After a stop for more koalas (4) in a reserve, the beach at Hanson Bay was wonderful to stroll along though no doubt too cold for anything other than a stroll. Similar sandy walks were encountered at Vivian Bay and Bales Beach, but I’m thinking Hanson was the best since it was the first, involved a walk that was neither too short nor too far, and left me with the tune of Mmmbop in my head (yeah, remember that? And them, with their long girly hair?)

 

Kangaroo Island is also supposed to be something of a gourmet destination, you know, all fine fresh local produce served on a chopping board instead of a plate, just like practically every other gourmet destination in Australia. I’m sure there are some very nice things somewhere but I have to profess to coming across little in the way of genuine gourmet delights. For instance, the fish and chips in Kingscote, which were fresh and tasty but just fish and chips. And the honey, which was nice, but really not overly distinguishable from any other honey. I guess I was missing cheese, the one place making this on the island out of the way and thus out of scope on this occasion.

Reaching the eastern side of the island there was one more night to stop beside the ocean at Lashmar Conservation Park, eating a very gourmet dinner of beans on toast. This delightful spot is a bit off the beaten track, with views over Backstairs Passage to the mainland and down the coast to Cape Willoughby. At the cape, of course, another lighthouse with cottages to rent, tours to sell but, at least for a modest gold coin donation, a couple of small walks to see the buildings and heritage of the area. Just watch out for the rather large beefy kangaroos both on the walk and on the drive home.

 

The last night of camping before Adelaide was blissfully warm and dry, the absence of dew a real blessing and making packing up all the easier. With inquisitive fairy wrens for company it was time to roll the swag up for a few days and navigate the much more swollen waters of the Backstairs Passage without bringing up any of the flat white or chunky Kit Kat consumed in Penneshaw that morning.  With the mainland safely made (just), it was reasonably swiftly on towards Adelaide, and a few days in the hills with the Mairs. Another spacious and comfortable spot to recoup and do requisite volumes of laundry. A chance to eat off ceramic plates and drink some of that Coonawarra wine from proper glasses. And a pause to collate photos and write some words yet again.

Unfortunately Adelaide’s weather was less than sparkling but this was rather fortunate given we had a roof over our heads for a change. There were a few pleasant forays outdoors, and one annoying foray through the mega Westfield for some provisions. In Belair National Park, there was a good chance to keep up the koala toll, with two walks through this pleasant bushland clocking up 4 and 11 koalas respectively. Now they come thick and fast, no thanks to VIC.

Capping off the stay on the final night were a few hours in Glenelg, beside the sea dodging the showers and reliving memories with one of the better kebabs this side of the equator. It doesn’t sound so glamorous, but it was nice to know second time round that things still taste this good. Hopefully things will continue to taste this good as we move inland...definitely via the Barossa, but then, the emptiness will build and options become limited. It may be back to gourmet beans on toast, and iced coffee instead of country flat whites, rocking away in those silly can holders. Regardless there is reassurance from the feeling that the discoveries will keep on coming, from bakeries to billabongs, B roads to barbecues, big things to little things and many other things mundane and momentous in between.

Queen Vic

Leaving Melbourne may have been a bit of a downer but it did not take long for the clouds to break and gold to infiltrate. Golden sunshine, golden fields and golden towns, offering a mix of Victorian Victorian elegance, rich and undulating country and rugged bushland escapes. Land that was built on gold and, on the whole, continues to shine. First up was Castlemaine, with requisite iron latticework and bakery foods; nearby Maldon was even more warm and fuzzy country charm.

With the discovery of huge gold nuggets in the 1850s, towns sprung up in the blink of an eye, and people from all over the world sought their fortune. Very few found it. Those with mining in their blood were particularly keen to try their luck, bringing Chinese camps and Welsh choirs and Cornish pasties. Pasties which survive today but – from my experience at least – are anything but Cornish.
 

Gold also breeds greed and corruption, something which continues to this day. Bushrangers sought infamy. Very few found it. Some linger in obscure markers and place names and tales with tenuous links to events and persons 150 years ago. Like Captain Melville, who may – or may not – have hidden from the law among a series of rocky outcrops and caves now named after him. Based in Kooyora State Park, his potential hangout provided a fine walk and base from which to return to swagging.

 

The King and Queen of gold towns are Ballarat and Bendigo. More on Ballarat later, but Bendigo has an elegance likely unsurpassed in Victorian Victorian towns. It seems its wealth was spent with great discretion and many of the fine buildings remain untainted, its streets are wide and orderly, and the parkland sedate with a tinge of autumn flowing into the majestic oaks and chestnuts. Queen Victoria, whose statue sits among it all, would be amused.

 

Heading west from Bendigo the towns become sparser and vast fields of wheat spread out across the flat landscape. Horsham provides a welcome display of civility and offers the usual services for weary travellers and locals alike, i.e. supermarkets, bakeries and the McDonalds – KFC – Hungry Jacks highway trifecta. Beyond Horsham the South Australian border nears, but it is not time for that just yet. A stop at Natimuk Lake, just west of Horsham provides a chilly night and startling shock that we are now in April, inland, and things are getting colder. But dawn, when it comes, is stately and grand and the early rays of the sun cherished by the skin for their warmth and light.

 

 

 

Around here you can see the landscape clinging on to some kind of pastoral pretence, aware that arid deserts and plains are only a few dry summers away. Little Desert National Park is not the desert you would picture in your head, but a land of white sandy soil from which flourish low scrub bushes and withering Stringybark Gums. Where it meets the wide flow of the Wimmera, mighty River Red Gums testify to the life that can grow so beautifully in this nominal desert.

There are one or two rather large protuberances from these flat plains. One is Mount Arapiles, a rock climber’s dream of bulbous rocks and gnarly fissures. The other is, collectively, The Grampians, a huge range of ridges thrust upwards to form grand balconies and weathered tors, endless valleys filled with Eucalypts and drained by creeks and cascades. One further protuberance nearby suggests at the wildlife within; the Giant Koala another testament to the power and curious attraction of big things in Australia!

The Grampians National Park is without question splendid. In fact, I think the couple of days spent there have been the best of this trip so far. It’s my kind of thing: there are rocks and trees and lookouts and walks and waterfalls and wildlife. There’s also a very generous serving of ice cream in Halls Gap. That helps. As does one of the fine campgrounds, set in the trees with fire pits for warming baked potatoes and sausages and beans.

It’s a popular place, with a large propensity for British tourists, who lurk round every bushy corner and cling to the railings at lookouts like they are clinging on to an ancient archaic institution. Entering the park from the north there are a number of stops to see this curious species. MacKenzie Falls is the first, and it’s great to be one of them again as you happily whizz down the steps to the bottom of the falls and wheeze heartily back up them. Further south, a couple of lookout spots are adorned with people, marvelling at the vastness of the landscape. At Reid Lookout, a couple of rocks protrude out from the ridge line, like balconies overlooking an amphitheatre of gum trees. They are known as The Balconies. Nearby, Boroka Lookout scans the ridgelines plummeting down to Halls Gap and the agricultural plains spilling out eastward. 

 

 

The curious British tourists are not alone in this environment. There are other curious creatures too. Supposedly koalas, though we are currently debating whether they are extinct given our complete lack of success in spotting any anywhere in Victoria, including supposed koala hotspots. Maybe that is a price to pay for seeing the Giant Koala. There was, however, the Tawny Frogmouth Owl, looking all crazy and weird and stuff like these Australian animals have a tendency to. Of course, at the campground were the wallabies and kangaroos – Arthur, Bert, Shirley and Rodrigo, sharing our campfire and eating our grass.

Having previously bemoaned a relative lack of superb walks so far in Australia, The Grampians made amends. Alas, it wasn’t a loop walk and there were some serious signage issues, but the reopened walk up to Mount Rosea gave an ample supply of challenge and reward. Rocks and crevices, steps and gaps required negotiation in a general uphill slog, but all the time there were sweeping views and fascinating formations. I think what you see here, across this landscape, is a place where the classic south east Australian bushland meets the interior. It’s like the Blue Mountains crossed with the Flinders Ranges. It’s utterly unique and captivating and nothing at all like the other Grampians. Apart from the British people milling around of course.

 

 

Completed in the setting of perfect weather, it was a hike that required a little bit of recovery and refreshment. This came of sorts via the very quirky yet effective bush camp shower, an enclosed corrugated shed in which you can add some water to a bucket and let it spray out of a nozzle. Or the easier method, use a bucket and a sponge and some lukewarm water and feel at least that bit cleaner and cooler. And then replenish with a huge slab of cheesecake in Halls Gap, sustenance at least to get you through one final short jaunt through the grandly named and plagiarised Grand Canyon before day is out.

 

 

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And so we come down from the Grampians and in this very less than direct route from Sydney to Perth return south and east, pausing at Mount Buangor State Park in a landscape more familiar with its mountain ash and fern gullies. Here, the last daylight savings camp meal, and concern rising of cooking more frequently in the dark. Thus, the first day of darkness, why not treat yourself to a very good hearty meal in Daylesford, in the wonderful atmosphere of the Farmers Arms Hotel? With crispy pork belly and mash, forget cooking in the dark, and cap it off with a chocolate caramel parfait with salted peanut caramel and chocolate sauce? Why not indeed.

With such treats and a refined setting, captivating as autumn touches the leaves, I could live in Daylesford, though doubt I could afford such a life. Perhaps Ballarat would be cheaper, the king of gold country, where a nugget was found that kicked it all off. I’ve been to Ballarat quite a number of times, being a regional centre in fairly easy reach of Melbourne and conducive to focus group discussions in cheap motel function rooms with boring sandwiches of mild cheese and stinky egg. It grew on me, and visiting this time around, without any work connotations, I was quite enamoured. It offered a lovely day and some time beside the lake and in the Botanic Gardens, a place I had missed on previous trips, but with sculptures and avenues of sequoias and horse chestnuts and fresh glossy conkers to kick around.  And with proximity to Melbourne it delivers good coffee and a decent proportion of young people and life and soul. I could live here, without the boring cheese and stinky egg sandwiches.

We stopped the night in Creswick, another lovely little town in which I could live. In one direction, the services and sights of Ballarat; in the other the endless temptation of eating in Daylesford. In Creswick, a few cafes and shops, a friendly caravan park with enough plugs to recharge phones, lanterns, laptops, batteries, and a series of ponds, placid and fresh in the early morning light.

The new day represented a shift and a sense that we were progressing this journey back in the right direction. Even if this meant initially heading in the wrong direction and ending up within eighty kilometres of Melbourne. Geelong marked a turning point west, and along the coast eventually towards the South Australian border. The waterfront in Geelong was surprisingly sparkling, an antidote to the industrial expectations upon entering the city. It’s amazing what a bit of sunny water, grass and random artwork can achieve.

The water continues to play a strong role as you leave Geelong and head off on the B100, also known as The Great Ocean Road. It’s a drive I’ve done on several occasions previously, but it only felt right to repeat it on this biggest of epic road trips. It takes a while to reach the coast, but once you do, the road clings to the waterline along marvellous sweeps of sand and rugged hills and creeks, at least until Apollo Bay.

On this occasion I didn’t quite make Apollo Bay, veering inland and into the very beautiful, very archetypal lush Victorian landscape of Great Otway National Park. After several weeks in Victoria it was practically the last chance to revel in the greenery of giant ferns, the stature of mountain ash and majesty of beech forest. Everything smells fresh and clean and alluring in these forests, only offset by drop toilets and the shameless scraps of rubbish left behind by ridiculously lazy and hopeless people in an otherwise excellent (and free) campground at Stevensons Falls. As the name suggests, waterfalls dwell here, as they do in a number of other spots – Hopetoun Falls and Triplet Falls also making the itinerary. Given the dry summer and autumn down here so far they are all a pleasant surprise, and all enhanced by good well marked and maintained walking tracks. Hats off to the Great Otway parks people.

 

Rejoining the coast near Princetown it is not long until the Great Ocean Road hits its most touristy and undeniably epic side. The small stretch of coast between here and Port Campbell contains some of the more iconic scenes of the ride, with the Twelve Apostles taking centre stage among many other fine sandstone outcrops and sweeping sandy beaches. Arriving here, the afternoon sun was unforgiving for photos and the many coaches and campers and crowds just a little dispiriting. But the joy of being flexible, of camping nearby, of waking up with the cows and kangaroos, is that you can visit early, when the light is better and the foot traffic lighter. And you can capture those scenes that you have captured before and written about in previous blogs, and then do it all over again!

If there was a little déjà vu around, things beyond Port Campbell were more of a novelty, although London Bridge was still standing and had not, at least, totally fallen down. Warrnambool offered services and good coffee and, again, a positive assessment of whether you could live here. Nearby Tower Hill provided a chance not to see any koalas again, but at least get friendly with some emus. Then, a little further along the coast, Port Fairy gave out enough pleasant charm, fish and chips, and hints of a Cornish landscape to satisfy very much.

 

This is the other Great Ocean Road, where fewer people come and less happens. It’s why it has an allure and appeal, and onward places like Portland strike you as a reasonable spot to potter around or linger longer. We only stopped for an hour or so, but Portland did give us a good cake, a coffee, and a catch up with a very distant but equally close relative and a chance to check ones reflection in his recently polished Harley.
 

I’m not sure if the Great Ocean Road ends at any particular point, but the tarmac continues a little further west now to the border. It’s sparse logging and wind farm country, with the small town of Nelson popping up just before the road becomes South Australian. Here a good campground and easy access to Lower Glenelg National Park, with caves and walks and river gorges and opportunities not to see any koalas as usual. It’s the last Parks Vic site, marking the end of Victoria, a state which is smaller than many others but jam packed in so many ways. From sweeping sand to mountain range, ferny forest to funky city lane, rolling pastoral splendour to haunting barren plain. Bakeries in every town and gold in others. After four weeks here I am tending to agree: Victoria, the place to be.

Champagne and chocolate

I have found during this trip there has been a slightly ashamed feeling of rapture upon entering a town or city of any note. The thought of more than one cafe; access to Big W, and a Coles and a Woolworths; traffic lights and dual lane high streets upon which sits a chance to get petrol slightly less expensively. All this turns somewhere as relatively tame as Bairnsdale or Traralgon into a usually not so cheap thrill. Imagine then, approaching the scattered outer suburbs and seeing a sign for Melbourne pronouncing its centre to be but 50 kilometres distant.

Before I could wet my pants there was a final veer to the left back to the ocean, along the Mornington Peninsula. This curves south of Melbourne, thinning out between Port Phillip Bay on one side and the Bass Strait on the other. Thus one side appears rugged and stormy, tempestuous and wild; the other sedate and balmy, manicured and tame. The towns link together in a chain of affluence, a place where Melburnians come for the weekend, to quaff Pinot Noir and play a round of golf at the very seductive looking links courses.

We took in a bit of the rough and the smooth, on a blustery cool and showery day, a marked contrast to the heat the day before. There are pockets of national park hopefully protecting this rather prime real estate from the rampant desire to look a bit rich. Arthurs Seat rises and provides fine views as well as appreciation of cyclists who climb it. And, across the rolling stretch of wineries and alpacaries and chocolate shoppes, Cape Schank reaches out to the swirling ocean and offers a perennial opportunity to blow away cobwebs.

 

Further around, past a cluster of links courses and through a torrential thunderstorm (this not always guaranteed), the peninsula ends at Point Nepean. Here, today, a picture of choppiness and inner relief that you are on land and not crossing by ferry to the Bellarine Peninsula just across the water. Instead you are heading back along the bay, and stopping at the calmer, swankier waters of Sorrento as the sun and warmth returns.

 

And so onto Melbourne, via a stopover in Frankston, which is a suburb no doubt attempting gentrification via the development of shopping malls and the introduction of Nandos and the hope that some of the university students will stick around. On a Good Friday, when the roads are quiet, it’s but a short cruise up the Nepean Highway from here towards the city. Not quite into the city yet, but East Bentleigh, where we had the good fortune of a five bedroom house and a very generous friend with a happily holidaying Aunt and Uncle.

What followed made a good Friday great, namely a lazy lunch of Rachael’s Champagne fish with champagne on the side, a stroll around the colourful beach huts of Brighton along with a drinks break beside the water, and an evening of cheese snacking and movies interspersed with swag airing and other chores that are so much more bearable in a house.  

Easter Saturday was Melbourne city day, though it took a while to make it there. First there was obligatory yummy breakfast in a Bentleigh eatery and even more obligatory coffee on the side. Then there was a chance to live this supposed suburban dream at Chadstone Mall, shopping for little bits out of necessity (chocolate being one) and hoping to get out of the car park along with hundreds of other cars at the same time. Later on, the train through the suburbs was a more strangely appealing reminder of city life, bringing us to a CBD ironically quieter than the mall as we exited into Collins Street.

Bustle increased in intensity around Bourke Street and was positively throbbing again at Koko Black and a queue for coffee and wonderful chocolate related cake mess. Other meanders down laneways led us to Federation Square, a chance to top up once more on brochures and guides for Victoria, sit down and read them and be bothered by a lame English comedy entertainment act. Go back to where you came from!

 

A beer by the Yarra eased things down, and fuelled appetite for a walk along the river and back amongst it to grab dinner. It was laneway pasta which filled but left me unfulfilled, but I knew I would make amends tomorrow.

If Saturday was a day of hustle and bustle, Sunday was like a Sunday should be, in that I don’t think I even left the house. That’s not to say it was a case of sitting around in my pants all day. There was more washing to do; blogs to write; messages to send and calls to make; trip thinking and planning; expense calculations; brief afternoon napping; chocolate eating; and roast dinner cooking. Indeed, it’s not like you get much of a chance to cook a roast on the road, so the beef, spuds, yorkies and veg and gravy went down a treat. Very fulfilled.

I don’t think I was the only one savouring the smell and taste of a roast topside of beef. Gus, or Augustus the Conqueror, was more delirious than usual it seemed. He managed to get a few scraps, for all his expert doe eyes and tricksy pleading schemes. But he was great to have around, an extra homely feel in a very homely weekend. Huge thanks to Rachael, who I am very pleased also got to share a farewell Melbourne breakfast on Monday morning. So long short cut bacon with avocado corn salsa and jalapeno pesto on sourdough with poached eggs. Hello one pot wonders and bakery slices. It’s not like one’s better than the other, but it’s sure good to be able to get a bit of both.