From Swan Hill we continued to follow the Murray towards its source to the east in the Snowy Mountains. Our next stop is Echuca, which is another important town in the history of the river. Echuca was also exciting for us, for we were to catch up with a couple of dear friends from home. A few days earlier, we’d received a phone call from Graeme, who I had worked with for many years, as he and wife Christine happened to be heading to Melbourne about the same time as us. They have been travelling eastern Australia in a caravan for six months, and as things turned out, we were able to meet up with them at Echuca and to stay with them in the same caravan park.
Also at the same park was a large group of campers who had come together for a week of socialising. What made them united in their common interest was that they were all deaf and dumb. Even though this group had almost booked out the entire park, they were delightful and friendly to be around. There were numerous times when we were sitting outside our vans as there was also be over thirty people milling around a barbeque shelter behind us, deep in conversation. There was, however, total silence from them as every conversation was in sign-language.
Our few days with Graeme and Christine were simply old friends catching up after too long, as the river continued to flow past. The time came, however, to leave the Murray and head south for Melbourne and our ferry home to Tasmania. On the outskirts of Melbourne, we drove through the Kinglake area, devastated in the Black Saturday bushfires in February 2009. The thick, dense eucalypt forest was regenerating beautifully, with blackened charcoal trunks covered with luscious green growth. The small township of Kinglake was being rebuilt, with many new houses and some in the process of being rebuilt. We had lunch in the re-built Kinglake pub. Are these people brave, or foolish? It certainly is an attractive place to live, with hills and valleys creating pockets of spectacular green rainforests teeming with birdlife. Being high in the hills, we caught glimpses of the city of Melbourne 65 kilometers to the south, and if it wasn’t for the knowledge of the 42 deaths and destruction of 500 homes here, this area was a lovely and serene place to visit.
Driving through the busy streets of Melbourne, grateful for Sharon’s directions, we could see the large red ship moored at Station Pier waiting to take us home. Standing on the deck and watching skyscrapers disappear in the distance, I thought about what I’d seen over the past month – a landscape so different to Tasmania, the many people we had met, every day an adventure. The common thread was water to our left, either sea or a magnificent river.
Saturday, 22 October 2011
Saturday, 15 October 2011
Swan Hill, Victoria
From Renmark to Mildura and on to Swan Hill, still following the Murray. Remember that half-hour that we gained last week? We had to lose those precious minutes as we crossed from South Australia back into Victoria. Damn it. With so much to see, so many places to explore, so many people to meet, there just aren’t enough hours in the day, and time is precious.
The road, as straight and flat as ever, takes us though agricultural land varying from vineyards to orange orchards to olive groves. It seems as though this entire region relies on the top few centimetres of soil and the ability to irrigate from the nearby ubiquitous water source. Always coming into view every kilometre or so, the Murray is constantly on our left as if a comforting travel companion. At Mildura we took a ride on a paddle boat that was used over a hundred years ago as a workhorse on the Murray when it was the only means of transport. The Victorian gold rush in the mid-1800s brought so many people here to seek their fortune, either by hunting for the precious metal or by catering for those who did. The history of the Murray and its pioneers is ever constant as we travel.
This important trade required the river to be navigable all year round, and so locks were built to enable ships, barges and paddle boats to get past the various river levels. We saw the first lock at Blanchetown on the way to Renmark, and at Mildura we saw lock #11. The river is a muddy brown colour, left over from the floods earlier in the year, and fresh marks on the riverside redgum trees at Loxton showed just how high the flood level got to (about two meters off the ground). At Loxton we also chatted to three young girls who were loitering by the river (it was school holidays in S.A.) and they described to us the flooding situation that summer. It sounded like one serious flood. They obviously appreciated living beside the river and loved to spend time there in good weather. Otherwise it was “hanging out at the rotunda” – clearly the meeting place for young teenagers in such a small town.
The southern bank of the Murray is the border between Victoria and New South Wales. So there’s a strange conundrum that if you are fishing from the Victorian bank of the river, your line actually resides in New South Wales, and therefore you need a N.S.W. fishing licence. Our camping site at Swan Hill was right on the banks of the river, which we shared with water birds of many shapes and sizes. We could open our curtains and see the water flowing past, it only had another 1,400 kilometres to go before reaching the mouth of the Murray. Of course, our road journey had not been quite that long.
About 100 kilometres west of Swan Hill, in the middle of seemingly nowhere, is a tiny country town called Berriwillock, population 100. It contains a pub, a general store, a newsagent, a service station and some quite large grain silos - some concrete, some metal fabricated. My mother was born here in 1922, and grew up here with her two sisters and three brothers. We lost her in the year 2000, and the last of the family, my Aunty Rose, died just last year in her nineties. It was a surreal feeling to drive down the main street of Berriwillock on this Sunday morning, to see all the shops closed except for the service station. Strangely, however, there was a hive of activity in the small park in the main street, where maybe 40 people were milling around having a barbeque and drinking. Something told me that I had to take this opportunity, so I boldly (and nervously) walked into the throng, picked out a guy drinking beer from a stubby, and asked if he was a local.
“No, I’m not , but she is”, he said, pointing to a lady sitting on a folding chair. I explained to her that I was travelling , that my Mum was born here, and I asked if there was anybody who may have known my family. She introduced me to an elderly man called Roy Weir, who was keen to hear my story, after which we learned that he was related to me through my grandmother, who was a Weir before she married my grandfather. He remembered some of my aunts and uncles, and did not know that Rose had recently passed away. As the discussion progressed, it provided also an insight into life in such a small town – the reliance on water (piped from the Murray a hundred kilometres away), how much the drought had affected them and then how the summer rains earlier that year had made the town flourish with greenery and a bumper grain harvest.
The gathering in the park was the final act in a weekend-long celebration of marriage. The wedding had taken place the day before in the only church in town, followed by a reception in the only hall in town, and this was a BBQ for wedding guests the morning after. We were even offered a piece of wedding cake. We were told that it was the first wedding in Berriwillock for 15 years, most people choosing to go to Swan Hill or Mildura. Ah, life in a country town. My Mum’s birthplace, a special town indeed.
The road, as straight and flat as ever, takes us though agricultural land varying from vineyards to orange orchards to olive groves. It seems as though this entire region relies on the top few centimetres of soil and the ability to irrigate from the nearby ubiquitous water source. Always coming into view every kilometre or so, the Murray is constantly on our left as if a comforting travel companion. At Mildura we took a ride on a paddle boat that was used over a hundred years ago as a workhorse on the Murray when it was the only means of transport. The Victorian gold rush in the mid-1800s brought so many people here to seek their fortune, either by hunting for the precious metal or by catering for those who did. The history of the Murray and its pioneers is ever constant as we travel.
This important trade required the river to be navigable all year round, and so locks were built to enable ships, barges and paddle boats to get past the various river levels. We saw the first lock at Blanchetown on the way to Renmark, and at Mildura we saw lock #11. The river is a muddy brown colour, left over from the floods earlier in the year, and fresh marks on the riverside redgum trees at Loxton showed just how high the flood level got to (about two meters off the ground). At Loxton we also chatted to three young girls who were loitering by the river (it was school holidays in S.A.) and they described to us the flooding situation that summer. It sounded like one serious flood. They obviously appreciated living beside the river and loved to spend time there in good weather. Otherwise it was “hanging out at the rotunda” – clearly the meeting place for young teenagers in such a small town.
The southern bank of the Murray is the border between Victoria and New South Wales. So there’s a strange conundrum that if you are fishing from the Victorian bank of the river, your line actually resides in New South Wales, and therefore you need a N.S.W. fishing licence. Our camping site at Swan Hill was right on the banks of the river, which we shared with water birds of many shapes and sizes. We could open our curtains and see the water flowing past, it only had another 1,400 kilometres to go before reaching the mouth of the Murray. Of course, our road journey had not been quite that long.
About 100 kilometres west of Swan Hill, in the middle of seemingly nowhere, is a tiny country town called Berriwillock, population 100. It contains a pub, a general store, a newsagent, a service station and some quite large grain silos - some concrete, some metal fabricated. My mother was born here in 1922, and grew up here with her two sisters and three brothers. We lost her in the year 2000, and the last of the family, my Aunty Rose, died just last year in her nineties. It was a surreal feeling to drive down the main street of Berriwillock on this Sunday morning, to see all the shops closed except for the service station. Strangely, however, there was a hive of activity in the small park in the main street, where maybe 40 people were milling around having a barbeque and drinking. Something told me that I had to take this opportunity, so I boldly (and nervously) walked into the throng, picked out a guy drinking beer from a stubby, and asked if he was a local.
“No, I’m not , but she is”, he said, pointing to a lady sitting on a folding chair. I explained to her that I was travelling , that my Mum was born here, and I asked if there was anybody who may have known my family. She introduced me to an elderly man called Roy Weir, who was keen to hear my story, after which we learned that he was related to me through my grandmother, who was a Weir before she married my grandfather. He remembered some of my aunts and uncles, and did not know that Rose had recently passed away. As the discussion progressed, it provided also an insight into life in such a small town – the reliance on water (piped from the Murray a hundred kilometres away), how much the drought had affected them and then how the summer rains earlier that year had made the town flourish with greenery and a bumper grain harvest.
The gathering in the park was the final act in a weekend-long celebration of marriage. The wedding had taken place the day before in the only church in town, followed by a reception in the only hall in town, and this was a BBQ for wedding guests the morning after. We were even offered a piece of wedding cake. We were told that it was the first wedding in Berriwillock for 15 years, most people choosing to go to Swan Hill or Mildura. Ah, life in a country town. My Mum’s birthplace, a special town indeed.
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Renmark, South Australia
Robe was so typical of all the seaside towns we’d visited over the past two weeks. A lifestyle that obviously involves every aspect of the water – jetties with people fishing, picnic areas of cushioned grass and sheltered barbeques, lookouts from every elevated vantage point, foreshore walkways and bikeways, and cafes with outdoor dining. With so much to see and do around the town, very little time was spent actually at the caravan except for sleeping.
When the time came for moving on, it was sad to say goodbye to the sea, for we were to head north and inland. The road ran through the Coorong National Park, a hundred kilometre stretch of coastline consisting of shallow saltwater lagoons separated from the sea by a narrow stretch of land called the Young Husband Peninsula, the northern tip of which forms the mouth of the great Murray River. Our aim is to seek out the Murray, and follow it for as long as we can before our homeward ferry voyage beckons.
A transient night was spent at Tailem Bend on our journey north, and unlike our previous choices of caravan parks where some scrutiny was taken, we pulled into the first one we came across. What a contrast! The location was sublime, with a view over the magnificence of the river from a vantage point on a cliff top, but the standard of the facilities had taken a dive. I had noticed that the sign at the entrance to the park had been altered, where the wife’s name had been crudely scratched out from beside that of the husband. The condition of the toilet, laundry and camp kitchen was obviously missing that female influence. The harsh traffic sound of trucks on the main highway out of Adelaide had replaced the gentle sound of surf. The dusty excuse for a roadway laid in a haphazard design around the park lead us out of the park the following morning.
The river looked healthy from the perspective of the sheer amount of water. Having heard in recent years about limited water flows down the Murray due to drought and irrigation, I expected to see a relatively narrow river in its death throes so close to the sea. The view I saw from Tailem Bend was one of a swollen stretch of water with submerged trees and bushes as if the river had burst its normal banks and invaded the floodplain.
The drive north continued, through Murray Bridge, Mannum, Bowhill, Swan Reach, Blanchetown, Waikerie, Barmera, and on to Renmark. Each of these towns are on the banks of the Murray River, progressively further away from its mouth as we journeyed upstream. In Bowhill, we were invited on board a riverboat, hired by two New Zealand couples escaping the Rugby World Cup for a seven-day cruise on the Murray. This vessel was like a floating luxury hotel, with everything to make for a fantastic holiday while viewing the Murray from a different perspective. Another one for the Bucket List.
These few hours of driving have really made me feel like a Tasmanian, where the roads have curves and they wind their way around hills and mountains. The roads in front of me today are dead straight, only broken by the occasional undulation where the road reappears a little narrower than before. The land is flat, so incredibly flat. It seems so strange to look out and see that the only reason why the horizon is where it is, is due to the curvature of the earth. Like being at sea. It’s an alien terrain to a Tasmanian. It’s reassuring, however, to catch a glimpse of the mighty river to our left, seemingly showing us the way more reliably than Sharon the GPS.
When the time came for moving on, it was sad to say goodbye to the sea, for we were to head north and inland. The road ran through the Coorong National Park, a hundred kilometre stretch of coastline consisting of shallow saltwater lagoons separated from the sea by a narrow stretch of land called the Young Husband Peninsula, the northern tip of which forms the mouth of the great Murray River. Our aim is to seek out the Murray, and follow it for as long as we can before our homeward ferry voyage beckons.
A transient night was spent at Tailem Bend on our journey north, and unlike our previous choices of caravan parks where some scrutiny was taken, we pulled into the first one we came across. What a contrast! The location was sublime, with a view over the magnificence of the river from a vantage point on a cliff top, but the standard of the facilities had taken a dive. I had noticed that the sign at the entrance to the park had been altered, where the wife’s name had been crudely scratched out from beside that of the husband. The condition of the toilet, laundry and camp kitchen was obviously missing that female influence. The harsh traffic sound of trucks on the main highway out of Adelaide had replaced the gentle sound of surf. The dusty excuse for a roadway laid in a haphazard design around the park lead us out of the park the following morning.
The river looked healthy from the perspective of the sheer amount of water. Having heard in recent years about limited water flows down the Murray due to drought and irrigation, I expected to see a relatively narrow river in its death throes so close to the sea. The view I saw from Tailem Bend was one of a swollen stretch of water with submerged trees and bushes as if the river had burst its normal banks and invaded the floodplain.
The drive north continued, through Murray Bridge, Mannum, Bowhill, Swan Reach, Blanchetown, Waikerie, Barmera, and on to Renmark. Each of these towns are on the banks of the Murray River, progressively further away from its mouth as we journeyed upstream. In Bowhill, we were invited on board a riverboat, hired by two New Zealand couples escaping the Rugby World Cup for a seven-day cruise on the Murray. This vessel was like a floating luxury hotel, with everything to make for a fantastic holiday while viewing the Murray from a different perspective. Another one for the Bucket List.
These few hours of driving have really made me feel like a Tasmanian, where the roads have curves and they wind their way around hills and mountains. The roads in front of me today are dead straight, only broken by the occasional undulation where the road reappears a little narrower than before. The land is flat, so incredibly flat. It seems so strange to look out and see that the only reason why the horizon is where it is, is due to the curvature of the earth. Like being at sea. It’s an alien terrain to a Tasmanian. It’s reassuring, however, to catch a glimpse of the mighty river to our left, seemingly showing us the way more reliably than Sharon the GPS.
Sunday, 9 October 2011
Robe, South Australia
Leaving Warrnambool, grateful to our friends for putting us up for three days, we have continued our journey westward, through Port Fairy and on to Portland. A very early settlement in Victoria’s history, Portland’s houses show signs of old age, in contrast to the ultra-modern huge wind turbines that line the cliff-tops on the outskirts of the town.
Beyond Portland, at the end of the road, is Cape Bridgewater, an extraordinary concentration of geological features that lie in the shadow of yet another wind farm. Precipitous limestone cliffs that fall away into the sea, lying on basalt foundations that form a flat shelf for huge waves to break upon, provide a contrast to the tall, thin, white wind turbines just metres away. Ancient geology next to modern technology. The force and size of each wave would bounce off the sheer rock face to meet the next wave coming through to create a boiling white fury. We’d never seen wave action like it. Adjacent to these sheer cliffs were rock formations resembling stone tree trunks, in actual fact formed by acidic water seeping down through porous limestone. All of these unique sights were in a remote location with no sign of human habitation for many kilometers.
Following the coast road, through Nelson, and across the Victorian-South Australia border towards Mt Gambier, we get to re-live 30 minutes of our lives as we pass into South Australian time. We also pass tens of kilometres of pine plantation. Plots of trees in different stages of growth, from seedlings a few inches high to grand old masters about to meet their doom. Thousands and thousands of trees straight and tall, like rows of soldiers standing to attention. The brochure tells us that Mt Gambier is the centre of a thriving soft-wood industry, being surrounded by the largest softwood plantation in the Commonwealth.
What else makes Mt Gambier (population 30,000) so unique is that it lies on a bed of limestone coupled with fairly recent (in geological terms) volcanic activity. The town has a network of extinct craters above ground, and caves below. Our caravan park is adjacent to The Blue Lake, a flooded volcanic crater formed following an eruption. Apparently it appears a blue colour at the height of summer. To us, it seemed a bluish-grey, but distinctly more blue than the Valley Lake next door. Apparently, the colour is due to the depth of the Blue Lake (an astonishing 70 metres).
Below the city are limestone caves, some of which have collapsed to form massive holes. One is in the middle of the city, Cave Garden that is surrounded by an immaculate rose garden. Driving past, you’d never know that there was such huge hole in the ground, delving so deep below the streets of the city. Another incredible sight called Umpherston Sinkhole, is on the outskirts of the city but its garden has been planted on the floor of the collapsed cave. Walking down into the hole and looking up at the stone cliffs around us was an eerie feeling, an experience we’d never had before.
One of the “must-see” places for us on this trip was the Coonawarra wine district of the Limestone Coast. We have enjoyed wines from here for so many years, and now we could say that we’d seen the grapes growing. The iconic labels leapt out at us as we drove along this fourteen kilometre stretch of road – Wynns, Riddoch, Leconfield, Zema, Redman, Hollicks, Katnook, so many more. The so-called terra rossa (red soil) that provides such ideal conditions for grapes, particularly for red wine, extends only one kilometre either side of the road. We had a very informative conversation with Mal Redman, one of the two Redman brothers who took over the family business from their dad Owen, who followed on from his father Bill. Some of the vines outside the window were over a century old, and the gnarled old trunks were testament to their age.
Moving on from Mt Gambier, we continued westward passing more pine plantations, as we had also done so when driving north to Coonawarra the day before – such a huge area taken up with the same monoculture. West of the timber town of Millicent we could see another massive windfarm, we lost count of how many turbines (apparently 122 in total). They were lined up along the coastal cliffs as a crowd would gaze out to sea. Before long we were skirting the coast once again. We had missed the sea for the three days since Cape Bridgewater. As we drove into the seaside resort town of Robe for a couple days rest, it was good to hear the surf from our caravan site.
Beyond Portland, at the end of the road, is Cape Bridgewater, an extraordinary concentration of geological features that lie in the shadow of yet another wind farm. Precipitous limestone cliffs that fall away into the sea, lying on basalt foundations that form a flat shelf for huge waves to break upon, provide a contrast to the tall, thin, white wind turbines just metres away. Ancient geology next to modern technology. The force and size of each wave would bounce off the sheer rock face to meet the next wave coming through to create a boiling white fury. We’d never seen wave action like it. Adjacent to these sheer cliffs were rock formations resembling stone tree trunks, in actual fact formed by acidic water seeping down through porous limestone. All of these unique sights were in a remote location with no sign of human habitation for many kilometers.
Following the coast road, through Nelson, and across the Victorian-South Australia border towards Mt Gambier, we get to re-live 30 minutes of our lives as we pass into South Australian time. We also pass tens of kilometres of pine plantation. Plots of trees in different stages of growth, from seedlings a few inches high to grand old masters about to meet their doom. Thousands and thousands of trees straight and tall, like rows of soldiers standing to attention. The brochure tells us that Mt Gambier is the centre of a thriving soft-wood industry, being surrounded by the largest softwood plantation in the Commonwealth.
What else makes Mt Gambier (population 30,000) so unique is that it lies on a bed of limestone coupled with fairly recent (in geological terms) volcanic activity. The town has a network of extinct craters above ground, and caves below. Our caravan park is adjacent to The Blue Lake, a flooded volcanic crater formed following an eruption. Apparently it appears a blue colour at the height of summer. To us, it seemed a bluish-grey, but distinctly more blue than the Valley Lake next door. Apparently, the colour is due to the depth of the Blue Lake (an astonishing 70 metres).
Below the city are limestone caves, some of which have collapsed to form massive holes. One is in the middle of the city, Cave Garden that is surrounded by an immaculate rose garden. Driving past, you’d never know that there was such huge hole in the ground, delving so deep below the streets of the city. Another incredible sight called Umpherston Sinkhole, is on the outskirts of the city but its garden has been planted on the floor of the collapsed cave. Walking down into the hole and looking up at the stone cliffs around us was an eerie feeling, an experience we’d never had before.
One of the “must-see” places for us on this trip was the Coonawarra wine district of the Limestone Coast. We have enjoyed wines from here for so many years, and now we could say that we’d seen the grapes growing. The iconic labels leapt out at us as we drove along this fourteen kilometre stretch of road – Wynns, Riddoch, Leconfield, Zema, Redman, Hollicks, Katnook, so many more. The so-called terra rossa (red soil) that provides such ideal conditions for grapes, particularly for red wine, extends only one kilometre either side of the road. We had a very informative conversation with Mal Redman, one of the two Redman brothers who took over the family business from their dad Owen, who followed on from his father Bill. Some of the vines outside the window were over a century old, and the gnarled old trunks were testament to their age.
Moving on from Mt Gambier, we continued westward passing more pine plantations, as we had also done so when driving north to Coonawarra the day before – such a huge area taken up with the same monoculture. West of the timber town of Millicent we could see another massive windfarm, we lost count of how many turbines (apparently 122 in total). They were lined up along the coastal cliffs as a crowd would gaze out to sea. Before long we were skirting the coast once again. We had missed the sea for the three days since Cape Bridgewater. As we drove into the seaside resort town of Robe for a couple days rest, it was good to hear the surf from our caravan site.
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
Warrnambool
Exploring all that Warrnambool has to offer has convinced us to stay an extra (third) day. So many restaurants, cafes, accommodation places, playgrounds, shopping centres, beaches, sporting grounds, - this town certainly looks after its residents, and we can see why families choose to live here.
In the middle of Warnie is Lady Bay, a beach with white sand and sheltered from the ocean by a man-made concrete breakwater. Just out of town is Hopkin's Falls, a wide step of natural rock blocks that create an unsual waterfall. Locals have told us that this waterfall completely disappeared beneath the floods earlier this year, as this river was the culmination of a huge water catchment area. Hard to imagine such a huge volume of water.
Just up the road is Port Fairy, yet another coastal town but somewhat different. Much older, if its buildings are any indication, and many of these buildings have been built backing onto the river's edge, providing a unique backyard outlook. Young surfers were enjoying their final days of school holidays by catching some huge waves on the point just outside the town. On the way back to Warnie, we call into Tower Hill Reserve - a natural basin of wetland and bush formed by an extinct volcano crater. Teeming with wildlife, including koala, emu, colourful bush birds and waterbirds, it was a serene haven of Australian flora and fauna.
In the middle of Warnie is Lady Bay, a beach with white sand and sheltered from the ocean by a man-made concrete breakwater. Just out of town is Hopkin's Falls, a wide step of natural rock blocks that create an unsual waterfall. Locals have told us that this waterfall completely disappeared beneath the floods earlier this year, as this river was the culmination of a huge water catchment area. Hard to imagine such a huge volume of water.
Just up the road is Port Fairy, yet another coastal town but somewhat different. Much older, if its buildings are any indication, and many of these buildings have been built backing onto the river's edge, providing a unique backyard outlook. Young surfers were enjoying their final days of school holidays by catching some huge waves on the point just outside the town. On the way back to Warnie, we call into Tower Hill Reserve - a natural basin of wetland and bush formed by an extinct volcano crater. Teeming with wildlife, including koala, emu, colourful bush birds and waterbirds, it was a serene haven of Australian flora and fauna.
Tuesday, 4 October 2011
Warrnambool
Moving on to our next home-away-from-home, we hitched the caravan on-board and ventured west, on the same road as we had done the day before. Once beyond the Twelve Apostles, however, the coastline’s spectacular scenery did not abate. The same soft limestone cliffs provided weird and eerie shapes against the deep blue ocean, with even the occasional pillar or “apostle” standing proud in the water. The relentless pounding of the waves at its base gave a strong indication that it was not going to be standing proud for much longer.
Port Campbell is a peaceful seaside resort tucked away inside an alcove, as if seeking shelter from the ocean’s turbulent weather. As usual, a lookout has been conveniently built at the headland to give an impressive view of the coast, with helicopters flying their circuit overhead, while below surfers brave the rips, and reefs break the surface. London Bridge, a double span set of arches just west of Port Campbell, is testament to the rapid erosion of this coast, as the land bridge closest to the mainland collapsed in 1990, stranding two people on the newly formed island. They had to be rescued by helicopter.
Meeting people is a wonderful part of any journey. In Port Campbell we shared a picnic table with a couple from Queensland, making a holiday after marrying friends at Torquay. We must be attracting the clergy – we also shared a table with some Salvation Army ministers at Lorne the other day, as they cycled their way along the Great Ocean Road. The previous night we met a couple of Canadians, from Calgary, who were very impressed that I was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs sweater. In the carpark at London Bridge, we met a young Western Australian couple touring the country over a six-month period with their two sons aged six and four. Thinking how brave they were, we sensed the relief in their voices as they were in their final two weeks of their trip, heading for home via the Eyre Highway across the Nullabor Desert.
We said farewell to this remarkable coast as we left the Great Ocean Road and drove into Warrnambool, population thirty thousand and centre of a large diary industry, which was quite apparent given the lush green farmland providing food for thousands of cows as they turned grass into milk. We will stay a few days with Paul and Mel and their four delightful young children. Paul is an ex-work colleague who moved into the dairy industry earlier this year, and we are privileged to be their first non-family visitors since moving to Warnie. We also appreciate the few nights in a full-size bed and a convenient en-suite.
Port Campbell is a peaceful seaside resort tucked away inside an alcove, as if seeking shelter from the ocean’s turbulent weather. As usual, a lookout has been conveniently built at the headland to give an impressive view of the coast, with helicopters flying their circuit overhead, while below surfers brave the rips, and reefs break the surface. London Bridge, a double span set of arches just west of Port Campbell, is testament to the rapid erosion of this coast, as the land bridge closest to the mainland collapsed in 1990, stranding two people on the newly formed island. They had to be rescued by helicopter.
Meeting people is a wonderful part of any journey. In Port Campbell we shared a picnic table with a couple from Queensland, making a holiday after marrying friends at Torquay. We must be attracting the clergy – we also shared a table with some Salvation Army ministers at Lorne the other day, as they cycled their way along the Great Ocean Road. The previous night we met a couple of Canadians, from Calgary, who were very impressed that I was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs sweater. In the carpark at London Bridge, we met a young Western Australian couple touring the country over a six-month period with their two sons aged six and four. Thinking how brave they were, we sensed the relief in their voices as they were in their final two weeks of their trip, heading for home via the Eyre Highway across the Nullabor Desert.
We said farewell to this remarkable coast as we left the Great Ocean Road and drove into Warrnambool, population thirty thousand and centre of a large diary industry, which was quite apparent given the lush green farmland providing food for thousands of cows as they turned grass into milk. We will stay a few days with Paul and Mel and their four delightful young children. Paul is an ex-work colleague who moved into the dairy industry earlier this year, and we are privileged to be their first non-family visitors since moving to Warnie. We also appreciate the few nights in a full-size bed and a convenient en-suite.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
Apollo Bay, Victoria
We perform an advance search party to explore the Twelve Apostles without the caravan hitched to the car. By the number of tourists and their buses or motorhomes crowding carparks, we were wise to do this without the caravan in tow. Obviously a very popular tourist attraction, we are surrounded by every nationality on this Sunday afternoon.
Many had advised us to take a helicopter flight over the Apostles, and the $160 each for the fifteen minute ride was exorbitant but worth it. Skimming the cliffs as they fall away beneath us to give way to a raging sea, was a thrill unlike any other. Even at ground level, however, there were so many vantage points to take in the view that it would be impossible to see them all. Reminding us very much of the sheer cliffs on the Tasman Peninsula, these cliffs in front of us are the fastest eroding shoreline in Australia, one of the fastest in the world.
From above we could see disused roads that were formerly the official Great Ocean Road, now perilously close to the edge as the invading coast dares to gobble it up in its advance inland. We could even see evidence of landslides and large chunks of cliff-face that had fallen away, the helicopter pilot telling us many occurred just a couple of weeks ago.
Our farewell to this landscape was spent by walking down a steep staircase to beach level, and walking barefoot in the surf as the cliffs and stone stacks towered above us. I felt like Charlton Heston at the very end of the 1968 movie classic “Planet of the Apes”, expecting to see the Statue of Liberty half buried in the sand.
Many had advised us to take a helicopter flight over the Apostles, and the $160 each for the fifteen minute ride was exorbitant but worth it. Skimming the cliffs as they fall away beneath us to give way to a raging sea, was a thrill unlike any other. Even at ground level, however, there were so many vantage points to take in the view that it would be impossible to see them all. Reminding us very much of the sheer cliffs on the Tasman Peninsula, these cliffs in front of us are the fastest eroding shoreline in Australia, one of the fastest in the world.
From above we could see disused roads that were formerly the official Great Ocean Road, now perilously close to the edge as the invading coast dares to gobble it up in its advance inland. We could even see evidence of landslides and large chunks of cliff-face that had fallen away, the helicopter pilot telling us many occurred just a couple of weeks ago.
Our farewell to this landscape was spent by walking down a steep staircase to beach level, and walking barefoot in the surf as the cliffs and stone stacks towered above us. I felt like Charlton Heston at the very end of the 1968 movie classic “Planet of the Apes”, expecting to see the Statue of Liberty half buried in the sand.
Saturday, 1 October 2011
Apollo Bay, Victoria
Further west along the coast is Lorne, where we stopped for lunch at a burger bar with its shop front completely open to the street, and its staff sporting long hair and board shorts. Its matted-haired clientele had their panel vans parked out the front with surfboards firmly strapped to the roof. We’ve seen evidence of the surf culture all along this coast. Then on to Apollo Bay, where we set up camp for a few days. The road hugs the coast, and it’s a definite advantage to be driving on the left, making it easy to pull over at vantage spots to take in the view. There’s such a photo opportunity every couple of kilometres, as the road ducks in and out of headlands, cliffs and bays. But the sea dominates.
There’s something about the sea. I don’t know what it is, but I seem to find comfort in being near it. I could be sailing on it, or swimming in it, or simply gazing out over it. Maybe it’s the relentless cycle of waves that end their short existence by crashing onto a beach or rocks. Or the infinite expanse of water as it stretches to the horizon. Or the mystery of what could lie beneath the surface. Driving along the Great Ocean Road with a view to our left that is truly inspirational, the sea weaves its magic spell.
Construction of The Great Ocean Road started in 1919 as a tribute to the fallen Victorians from The Great War. Even today it remains a testament to the ingenuity and sheer hard work of the men who forged this road through thick undergrowth and steep cliffs. Every bend in this road brings a different view of the sea and some very precipitous cliffs. The colour of the water is a fantastic aqua turquoise blue, and we can see dark shapes just beneath the surface – submerged reefs that make this area so treacherous for shipping. There have been hundreds of shipwrecks along this coastline over the last 150 years, and we visited one of the country’s oldest lighthouses, at Cape Otway, that was built in 1848 to help ships navigate the passage to Melbourne from the west.
The road into Cape Otway gives us a Magic Moment – koalas. By the dozen and in the wild. Sitting above us in their tree homes, oblivious of the huge attention they’re drawing to themselves at ground level. Look up the word “cute” in the dictionary, and you’ll see a picture of a koala. It’s a unique sight for a Tasmanian, as it’s an animal we don’t have back home.
Also at Cape Otway is a plaque to commemorate the disappearance of Frederick Valentich, the 20 year old pilot who went missing in his Cessna in 1978. He was flying just south of Cape Otway, and his last radio message told of something flying above him, but “it’s not an aircraft”, before he and his plane completely disappeared without trace. I remember it well, and totally strange. Maybe Frederick ended up in the same place as Harold?
We drive though rolling hills of green farmland, forests of eucalypts and dense rainforest, lovely seaside towns with beach frontage, all of which remind us of Tassie.
There’s something about the sea. I don’t know what it is, but I seem to find comfort in being near it. I could be sailing on it, or swimming in it, or simply gazing out over it. Maybe it’s the relentless cycle of waves that end their short existence by crashing onto a beach or rocks. Or the infinite expanse of water as it stretches to the horizon. Or the mystery of what could lie beneath the surface. Driving along the Great Ocean Road with a view to our left that is truly inspirational, the sea weaves its magic spell.
Construction of The Great Ocean Road started in 1919 as a tribute to the fallen Victorians from The Great War. Even today it remains a testament to the ingenuity and sheer hard work of the men who forged this road through thick undergrowth and steep cliffs. Every bend in this road brings a different view of the sea and some very precipitous cliffs. The colour of the water is a fantastic aqua turquoise blue, and we can see dark shapes just beneath the surface – submerged reefs that make this area so treacherous for shipping. There have been hundreds of shipwrecks along this coastline over the last 150 years, and we visited one of the country’s oldest lighthouses, at Cape Otway, that was built in 1848 to help ships navigate the passage to Melbourne from the west.
The road into Cape Otway gives us a Magic Moment – koalas. By the dozen and in the wild. Sitting above us in their tree homes, oblivious of the huge attention they’re drawing to themselves at ground level. Look up the word “cute” in the dictionary, and you’ll see a picture of a koala. It’s a unique sight for a Tasmanian, as it’s an animal we don’t have back home.
Also at Cape Otway is a plaque to commemorate the disappearance of Frederick Valentich, the 20 year old pilot who went missing in his Cessna in 1978. He was flying just south of Cape Otway, and his last radio message told of something flying above him, but “it’s not an aircraft”, before he and his plane completely disappeared without trace. I remember it well, and totally strange. Maybe Frederick ended up in the same place as Harold?
We drive though rolling hills of green farmland, forests of eucalypts and dense rainforest, lovely seaside towns with beach frontage, all of which remind us of Tassie.
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