Travels with George

by Vivien Fallows

  •Swanston Street for the Edwardian baroque city baths, Neo-classical state library and the modern architecture of the museum. Then strolled to the…

  •Gothic transitional architecture of St Paul’s Anglican Cathedral, on to the…

  •Renaissance Revival of the Regent theatre plus other assorted theatres I stumbled across. Decided to up my speed and headed for the…

  •Edwardian baroque of Flinders Street railway station with its beautiful art deco glass windows. Having reached its centenary, this red brick and stucco Melbourne landmark, crowned with a dome, hints at the confidence and glories of a bygone era. How many railway stations today boast a ballroom? Such a prestigious building is indicative of the role played by the railways in the growth of the city and its suburbs. Suitably informed and impressed, without drawing breath…

  •Parliament area for the Gothic Revival of St Patrick’s Roman Catholic cathedral. Here I sat (gratefully) and watched the warm amber glow of the afternoon sun as it seeped in through the windows. Next…

  •Fitzroy Gardens where, tucked away, is the cottage in which Captain Cook’s parents once lived… in England. Revived flagging energy bubbles with a drink and a poppy seed biscuit, before heading…

  •South of the Yarra for the landscaped loveliness of the Royal Botanic Gardens. It was here that I realised what gems the Australian botanical gardens are. To do it justice requires up to three hours at a gentle amble. Then, was I feeling jaded or…

  •Did I close my eyes passing the glory of the Queen Victoria Market and similarly the Neo-classical architecture of the State Parliament House? I have no note of either but hard to miss as so large and striking. Onwards towards the…

  •Victorian Artists Society – Victorian as in Victoria, Australia not circa 1850, but housed in a Victorian building circa 1850 – all very confusing. And then unforgettably…

  •The morbidly gruesome but Old Melbourne Gaol with its Art of Hanging exhibition and the stuff of nightmares. In the museum’s own words:

  The Old Melbourne Gaol offers a chilling insight into prison life. In 1841, after six years of European settlement the increasing lawlessness necessitated the building of a gaol to accommodate short-term prisoners, those on remand, those accused of minor offences such as drunkenness, lunacy, vagrancy or bankruptcy and those awaiting execution.

  Within ten years it was struggling to accommodate the increasing number of prisoners and so a second wing was added based on the Model Prison at Pentonville, London. Architecture was used as part of the process of social reform. Prisoners were incarcerated not only from the outside world but from each other, in single solitary cells, thus enabling a strict rule of silence to be enforced. Corporal punishment was meted out via the lashing triangle or the cat ‘o’ nine tails and prisoners were required to wear calico hoods when they left their cells.

  The Melbourne Gaol was the scene of 135 hangings, including that of the infamous bushranger, Ned Kelly: the scaffold on which he was hanged survives. The Gaol houses a grim yet fascinating collection of death masks of executed prisoners, including that of Ned Kelly. These were used in the scientific study of phrenology in order to understand the criminal mind.4

  As I said, unforgettable and it did send a shiver down my spine: brrr.

  And finally to a sublime setting on Collins Street where, as a reward for galloping around Melbourne’s tourist trail, I downed a much-needed cool beer. Shoes off, legs sprawled, I sat lazily watching as city workers scurried past homeward bound. Syphoning the dregs, I reluctantly heaved myself up to join the apparent exodus. Virtually crawled my way back to the hotel where, overcome by exhaustion, I burst into tears when I phoned home. My companionable cold sore was really getting me down. Did some therapeutic hand-washing and ironing… Would genuine backpackers reach for an iron? Probably not, but then they wouldn’t be staying in the Radisson would they? Craving sustenance I ordered a beef sandwich and watched the Queen Mother’s funeral on the telly. Pottered and pottered and collapsed into bed too tired to think.

  Wednesday 10th April: sorry, but more sun – how lovely!

  Having given my legs a strenuous workout yesterday, caught the free circle line tram around to Flinders Street station to check out the booking hall at a more leisurely pace. Side-stepping passengers, I photographed the ornate art deco window above the arched entrance and decided that it could really do with a bit of a clean. Fortunately, the grime could not totally camouflage the delicate beauty of the glass. Trains have been pulling up at the platforms on this site since 1854 and today’s rail service provider, Connex, has a very prominent Customer Charter which promises to improve service and punctuality. I wonder, is this Connex the same as ours? If so, could we have similar promises which it then keeps? Please? [Back at home I caught up with the demise of the UK train service provider, which sort of answered my questions].

  Bought a tram day pass and wandered over to St Paul’s Cathedral to take a closer look. To my inexpert eye, the Gothic architecture acted as a striking reminder of the ancestral roots of the Victorian settlers. The high altar with its gilt mosaic reredos, reminded me of the altar in Butterfield’s Gothic All Saints, Margaret Street, London. Even the organ pipes were spectacular; they looked like a bank of sharpened pencils, all painstakingly decorated and neatly lined up waiting for the hand of a giant scribe. Chatted to the ladies at the souvenir stall and bought four postcards, a choice and transaction which met with their approval. Switching from all things ecclesiastical to the royal family, they said how impressed they had been by the Queen Mother’s funeral. They had especially enjoyed seeing a bird’s eye view of Westminster Abbey during yesterday’s service, as it reminded them of their visit to the Abbey on a recent trip to England. Nodding in synchronised duck-like fashion, we all agreed that Britain’s fabled excellence at mastering pomp and ceremony was no false claim.

  Pleasantries over, it was back out onto St Kilda’s Road to catch the Number 8 tram to the Botanic Gardens for more areas of fabulousness. Spent a tranquil time wandering amidst the Titans of the tree-world, on which were suspended and upended smelly fruit bats looking like the devil’s decorations. I sauntered beside ponds, strode across springy grass and admired plants of every size, shape and hue. Set against a backdrop of the city’s skyscrapers, this is somewhere I could have lingered longer. Instead, it has been added to my growing list of places to (re) visit on a future occasion.

  But time marches on… so off to find the Number 16 tram for St Kilda’s Beach and then alighted before the route terminated to walk down to the sea front. Must find some more imaginative adjectives, but again quite ‘fabulous’. A shared pedestrian, cycle, skater path runs for as far as the eye can see both east and west. Plus, slip, slap, slop. Everywhere I go (and not just in Melbourne) I seem to have swarms of small children swamped beneath very large hats buzzing around my knees, and all around there are posters reminding everyone to slip, slap, slop on the sunscreen. As I strolled along, batting these walking hats out of my way, I wished that I had brought my cossie and therefore, understandably, felt the need to console myself with an ice cream. Sat by the sea feeling at peace with the world and telephoned Matt to tell him so.

  … Swarms of small children swamped beneath very large hats…

  Energised by a temporary sugar-rush, I headed towards the marina which was a tiny blur on the eastern horizon. Here I mooched around admiring lots of lovely boats whilst serenaded by the gentle jangle of halyards tapping against gently rocking masts. With a salty sigh of farewell, I decided (mistakenly) not to retrace my steps, opting instead to just keep going. After a little while I began to feel the call of nature and realised that I had left all buildings behind. Scanning the distant vista, there wasn’t even the smallest of bushes to offer twig-like privacy, just (seemingly) miles of open road edged by a grass verge along which enough people were scattered to deter me from throwing caution to the wind. Finally I hit a main road and crosse
d into a residential area where, joy of joys and in the nick of time, I found a pizza parlour. Phew! Panic over, I settled down to enjoy a cheese and tomato laden slice of pizza, a green salad and a mug of coffee all for an unbelievable $5.20 – worth every cent in more ways than one!

  Before I continue, I just have to express how hard it can be to convey the timely weirdness of some of my discoveries. For instance, the pizza parlour was a one-off as there were no other shops nearby. It was as if I had wished for relief and sustenance and abracadabra there it was in all its homely glory. It could so easily have been a video shop… or nothing at all…

  Anyway, feeling relieved and replete, I headed north for thirty minutes or so and, from a location 3km east of St Kilda, finally found the 67 tram back into town. Disembarked at Chinatown and realised that I was strolling past a sort of twilight red light district – naked girls and happy Buddhas marked my alternate steps; a great place to food shop. I then wandered into the Greek precinct to be met by ‘give us back our marbles’ posters and lots of gooey cakes in an assortment of coffee shops, but they failed to lure me in. Meandered back towards the hotel and knew I was in the right area when the majority of the pedestrians were bewigged and gowned; the hotel is near the courts of law.

  Back in my clothes-strewn room, I flopped on to the bed and did a crossword puzzle, had a beer, caught up with my journal and ordered a meal. Thinking it honourable to be frugal, it was the cheapest item on the menu and now I know why, as most of it is sitting uneaten outside my bedroom door: yuk, yuk. The Eastern Feast was nothing but bean sprouts swimming in warm oil: again, yuk, yuk. Still, so far the food in Oz has been terrific, better than New Zealand, where I might have been unlucky as I didn’t really sample any local cooking, what I ate was all a bit touristy. Perhaps with the exception of my stainless steel canteen meal, which wasn’t really on the main tourist trail – I guess.

  You may have gathered by now, that after a day of sightseeing I usually wend my way back to my hotel and rarely venture out in the evening. I don’t mind eating alone in the hours of daylight, but only occasionally do I sally forth at night. Not really sure why. Anyway, tomorrow is the start of the Great Ocean Road adventure, so it’s time to iron the last of my laundry and climb into bed.

  One more quick thought, I’m not sure that I have been very good at describing my impressions of the places I have visited, so to atone… Melbourne is welcoming, attractive and accessible. There are lots of Victorian Gothic buildings and fewer high rise office blocks than Sydney and more space between buildings. Obviously it’s much smaller than Sydney, but the echoes of the superior role it once played are far from faint. Have only seen the central area, but there appears to be a greater concentration of wealth in the city, with fewer signs of homeless people or vagrants clutching beer cans than might be seen in its New South Wales counterpart. I’m sure all cities have their dark underbelly but my Melbourne eyes only saw a comely sense of order.

  Not sure that recording my thoughts sounds anything other than pretentious, so in more simplistic terms it is quite simply a lovely city which is, I reiterate, welcoming, attractive and accessible. These are all good visitor attributes for a girl going solo.

  Pen down, journal away, lights out… I really do have a busy day ahead of me.

  Off to Adelaide via the Great Ocean Road

  Thursday 11th April: and off we go, planned itinerary as follows…

  … northwest to Ballarat and Sovereign Hill for tales of the gold rush, the botanic gardens and then south to Geelong, Torquay, Bells Beach, the lighthouse at Aireys Inlet, Point Addis with spectacular views and the beguiling town of Lorne.

  Trundled George round to Franklin Street, thankfully not too far away, to collect my car, where I found I had been given an upgrade at no extra cost from a small manual lawn mower to a large bright red automatic Mitsubishi Lancer. Once again a free upgrade and once again George had room to roam. Navigated my way out of Melbourne and realised that I was on the wrong road, having got wedged between two huge lorries thereby missing the left filter to Ballarat I was now on my way, erroneously, to Geelong. A quick buzz up and down one motorway soon had me back on the Ballarat road: Geelong comes later. When not scanning upwards for road signs, scanning down I was amazed to see two sheep dogs being carried in a container set between the wheels of a sheep transporter at axle height. They barked at all vehicles drawing up alongside at traffic lights and seemed only a whiskery snarl away from escaping their mobile confines. You don’t see that on London’s South Circular.

  … Swarms of small children swamped beneath very large hats…

  Not only is Melbourne home to weird forms of animal transportation, it is also home to the novelty of ‘hook turns’. My route out of town was not all about turning left and as I approached my first right manoeuvre, I did so with some trepidation hoping that I wasn’t going to be at the head of the right-turning queue: fortunately I wasn’t. The manoeuvre is designed to keep turning traffic away from the central section of an intersection, and occurs when you have a tramline on your right. Therefore, when turning right, you approach the turn from the nearside lane of the road you’re on then proceed straight over the intersection to the point where you ‘hook’ right, at the last possible moment. It’s less complicated than it sounds as these junctions are traffic light controlled – otherwise there would be absolute carnage.

  Ninety minutes in the car on a blistering day and I arrived at Ballarat and found my way to the tourist attraction of Sovereign Hill. This is the actual site of the main 1850s gold/quartz mine which has been recreated as a mining village circa the days of the gold rush. Far from being tacky, it was extremely good and highly informative. I learnt that the largest contingent of prospectors, from amongst several thousand in total, had come from China. An estimated 40,000 Chinese worked systematically and diligently gathering the alluvial gold from the gravel of buried creeks. They often continued to work on sites abandoned by European and American prospectors and their subsequent success fuelled animosity. To defuse the situation, the Chinese were ‘taxed’ for protection by European officials, Protectors.

  Having spent time underground in New Zealand, I couldn’t resist going underground here. I ventured down two mines, including Red Hill which had a weirdly realistic hologram of the man who found the world’s second largest gold nugget, the Welcome Nugget. Spent much longer at the open air museum than anticipated, but still only saw or took part in half of the activities available. There is also a gold museum on the opposite side of the road, but the information didn’t add to anything to what I had already learnt from my two mine trips.

  I omitted to note, and have therefore forgotten, the technicalities of extracting the gold-bearing quartz. In contrast, the conditions in which the miners worked were appalling and so remain indelibly etched upon my memory. For many the rewards for dangerous and sweaty work were scant, so it must have been the prospect of making it rich… which kept them prospecting. There is still a lot of gold in the quartz in the surrounding area and it is again being mined, but water seepage had halted mining at Sovereign Hill until technology solved the problem.

  Visit over, downed a cuppa and a melting moment (a buttery shortbread biscuit which seems to be a Victorian speciality) and set off once more for the 243km route that is the Great Ocean Road. My onboard musings led to my decision that the use of the word ‘Victorian’ is very confusing… my expectations got muddled more than once when something seemingly associated with a deceased monarch, related to the very much alive and well state of Victoria – either way, the 19th-century architecture is glorious and what I have seen of the 21st-century state, it is a treat. Sadly there was no time for Ballarat’s Fine Art Gallery nor the lake and Botanic Gardens. More for that ever-growing list…

  Once again Geelong featured on my navigational route. At Geelong the main road heads west inland, and it’s a minor road that goes down to and along the coast. As ever, I got lost and
therefore lost all sight of helpful road signs, but by trial and error and a good circumnavigation of the Geelong suburbs (what a lot of bungalows), found the road I was looking for. I didn’t have a map, which probably didn’t help matters. I pootled down to the sea and the famous surfing beaches of Torquay and Bells Beach, followed by a dusty drive out to the remote Aireys Inlet where stands the gleaming Split Point lighthouse. Known, appropriately, as the White Queen, the lighthouse shines its beacon to aid vessels rounding Cape Otway. Although it was getting towards dusk and I wasn’t sure where I was staying, I decided that there was time to troop swiftly up the hill to greet one more lighthouse, an especially majestic one. On my way back to the car I glanced out over the sea, and then along the coastline to where several people, looking like penguins in their wetsuits, were making the most of what surf there was. It was a good decision to linger; the warm herb-perfumed air was a perfect antidote to time spent behind the wheel of the Lancer.

  My travels for the day ended at Lorne and I pulled into the weirdly uneven car park of the Grand Pacific Hotel, a guide book recommendation which came with the warning that it had passed its prime but had spectacular views. A very seedy bloke eventually shuffled out from behind a curtain to loom over the reception desk and said, in answer to my question, that it would be ‘160 dollars’ for a room. With a squeaky reply of, “No thank you,” I retreated and then bounced the car out across the lunar landscape to drive back into town to the Lorne Hotel. Driving past earlier it hadn’t struck me as ideal as the bottle shop and pokies (one-armed bandits) seemed to dominate, but it was getting late and dark and I was tired. Just had a thought, perhaps I owe the bloke at the Grand Pacific an apology as he might have thought that I looked seedy as I’m still sporting the mother of all cold sores.