To Melbourne

To Melbourne day 1

In an email to a friend I wrote about my drive to Melbourne. This is the first time I have ever written a description about what I remember of my day, and thought I would share it here

"Driving along the highway is like walking down the aisle in a mesculin market, textured greens in clumps as far as the eye can see. Rain has transformed the land. The roadside is plump with bulging cushions of lime shaded leaves, with sprays of seed heads exploding like fireworks. Guideposts awkwardly try to peek over the tops of the grasses. Soft green velour covers the paddocks where the cattle look like they have been brushed with shiny black oil. The eucalypt leaves had shades of lettuces with the luminescence of the new growth making it feel like a magical place rather than just along a highway. Trunks like burnt toast held leaves which glimmered like spilling silver and gold coins from a treasure chest to the ocean floor.

I came over a ridge just south of Moonie and the Cyprus looked like an army of medieval worriers with their fluffy beards, chain mail suits over their full bellies, with black spears and pointy steel helmets. They were all standing clumped in long battalions along the highway. The rain had cleaned all the leaves and revealed all their colours. It was time for the plants to show off rather than the dirt and rock. After Hebel, heading south, the foliage became more silver and seemed like it had a light dusting of icing sugar. Lilies stretch up from low lying areas like white straggly spiders on sticks. Seeing the old locals gather at Lightning Ridge was like looking at a table at a primary school fete - old skin like caramel, amber toffees with hundreds and thousands of melanomas - and fudges, and chocolate with whiskers of coconut.

I set my alarm to go for my swim this morning because the pool was only open from 6.30 - 7.30am for morning swimmers. It opened again at 11am until 7pm at night. It reminded me of primary school swimming training - dark sky with twinkles above the flood lights I think the first time I was cognisant of seasons was at primary school swimming training, when I used to observe the position of the sun over the blocks on our breast-stoke set. I was glad as the season progressed toward Easter because the sun became less invasive into my eyeballs! It was beautiful this morning observing the apricot hues of the sunrise on the rim of my goggles as the sky turned a dusky blue as I looked upward when I was kicking on my back.

Not sure where I am off to today. Macquarie marshes I think for a bit of a look - but I think the good rains stop a little further south from here, so I best prepare myself for the dry conditions ahead."

To Melbourne day 2

.next description of my trip from an email to a friend.

"The road traveller is at Bendigo at the moment. Not exactly where I expected to be, but accommodation shortages channeled me here.

Lightening Ridge was beautiful. The soft cloak of green was spectacular. I decided to go to Bourke to have a look at the land since they had 10 inches of rain 2 weeks ago. It was phenomenal. Water everywhere. I could feel everything was relieved. I could also see the struggle of life though. Trees with dead extremities with fluffy green half way along their limbs, determined not to succumb to thirst. Some trees were just skeletons, but most were really flourishing. It is phenomenal to realise how such a thin strand of existence can hold on until the rain comes.

I stopped at Cobar in a funny daggy motel. Cheapie, clean, and I was the only one there. Outback towns are struggling with tourism at the moment. No one is driving around. Buses have cancelled their tours. Cobar pool was fabulous. The local radio was broadcast from grey speakers high on the posts, toddlers were squealing under falling sprays of water, teens were bomb diving at the deep end, lap swimmers - stroke after stroke going up and down the vinyl black line, and adults were in clumps laughing and chatting about the rain. It was such a lovely atmosphere.

I decided to take the dirt road to Ivanhoe. It took me 3 and 1/2 hours to do 230 kms. Such a challenging drive, but probably the best I have ever done. The red land was beautiful. The ditches made by trucks in the soft dirt and the corrugations seemed insignificant compared with the beautiful country. Wedge tailed eagles, emus, brown speckled goannas, rough scaled lizards, and a beautiful big white feather blew across the road just in front of me.

I haven't had the radio or my cd's playing. The only sound in the car is the road noise of the tyres, the occasional thump of a pothole, - and my thoughts. When I stop, as soon as I open the car door, another realm of sound becomes apparent. Melodies from the leaves, and morse code of crickets and grasshoppers as they flick from spears of grasses and bombard my legs. Along the road to Ivanhoe the westerly wind was strong. I stopped the car and got out. It was amazing. Driving along I don' notice the sounds of the bush. All that is missed unless I stop. I closed my eyes and it sounded like the rolling of surf as the waves slid up the sand, just like at night lying listening to the waves across the esplanade when we were at a beach house for the holidays. The wind came in sets. Building then abating. The birds let the wind speak, and then when it was their turn they did their thing. Communities of nests and chatters clumped sporadically across the land. There was also silence. I have never felt so far from anywhere as along this road. It was beautiful.

I thought I would top up my fuel at Ivanhoe. The population of 330 was at Ron Stanmores funeral - a note was on the shop, and sure enough, just up the road, hankies and black suits and Akubras. 5km left on my trip info got me to Hay.

Deniliquin was quiet. Saturday afternoon with nothing open was quite lovely really. The thought of people home with their families, doing their jobs or laughing with friends and family was so much nicer than having all the retail open with us all buying more stuff that we didn't need, and people working all week without connection time.

What a boring drive around Hay. Desperate country with parched land, pastures replaced with prickles. I was aiming for Echuca, hmm, Celtic festival left no beds, Rochester?, Annual Show, Elmore 4 rooms attached to the pub, Bendigo - concert and Olive festival. Found the last bed in town. Dumpy but clean and somewhere to have a sleep, so all is good and I'm on my way to Melb today."

To Melbourne day 3

Continued description of my journey in an email to a friend.

"After I left Bendigo, I thought I would head south. Such a contrast. Yellow and brown and so much dust. The animals are sitting near the waterholes - tired of pointlessly wandering for food. Whole tops of trees are blown over and hang with heads of dead leaves. Wind and brittleness from being dry I'm sure is the cause. The bark on the gums looks like they have been painted on to the landscape using a layer with an opacity of 60%. Their colour and stature is insipid. They seem frail and worn.

Castlemaine on the map caught my eye. I seemed to remember they had a farmers market, and I hit the jackpot :) First Sunday of the month. I was only wearing a sarong and a little shoestring top and red thongs. 36 degrees when I arrived in Bendigo the evening before...and I wasn't prepared for the goosebumps appearing so soon!. I managed to forage out my bushwalking vest from my day-travel area in my car. I didn't want to have to do the whole unzip of the suitcase thing - but as I walked closer to the market, hand knitted bini's, black leggings, fluffy scarves and black coats everywhere made me think I should have done the suitcase rummage.

Salty soft fresh hand-made feta made me instantly wished I lived in Victoria - regardless of the goosebumps which were now double goosebumps on my exposed arms. Soft green pistachio's with skin splitting were scooped out of a box by a young woman with a hand knitted scarf, sundrenched working hands and Jackie Onassis sunglasses which couldn't block the dreams in her eyes. Sweet date and lime chutney with just enough fire to leave a warm tingle on my tongue and lips - two jars of that one went into my silk carry bag! An old man apologised that he didn't have any plain olives - only marinated ones from vats on a neighboring farm. His had all been lost in the fire. He said to come next year and he would have some then. Such optimism I felt in my chest. The artists filled a little alley and had their wonky trestles and children on checkered mats with colouring books. Glistening glass beads and brooches, wire skeleton birds stationary in lumps of wood, bulging bottoms and breasts on canvas and artists hoping to pack up less into their old rusty cars than they brought.

I thought about lunch, but it was a bit early so I wanted to see if the little shop at Guilford still had some hand spun wool. The yellow screen door squeaked then slammed - the spring broken in the 18 months since I was last through it. The door to the little wool cave was shut and the lady with an accent like Wallace on Wallace and Grommet said she was reorganizing things, and only accepting really top notch wool products from now on... and the wool store in Castlemaine had closed down so she could see a real opportunity now for her wool room to do really well. She had owned the store for 2 years and she said that she could really feel this was going to be a good year for opportunities for her. Such optimism everywhere.

Daylesford was windy. I so wished I had delved into my suitcase to find my cardy - or even my coat!.., but I thought I wouldn't be long in the wind...just enough time to get from the car into my favourite cafe in the main street, for some pumpkin or lentil soup...and a dandy tea with honey... and a piece of crumbly gluten free cake with pineapple and nuts and dates and a big dollop of freshly whipped cream. I was looking through the menu and everything seemed to become quiet. The power had gone out. Nothing to boil water...heat up soup...run cash registers. A common conversation piece kept us all there for a while, but those who hadn't ordered yet decided to leave - and that included me. Bummer. Oh well, an excuse for a drive up there another time. "

Journal of my journey home.

Home From Melbourne Day 1

Rough grey boulders were plonked on slopes and ridges. I had been through Kinglake West, Flowerdale, Broadford. In the valleys, the sides of the cuttings like freshly sliced salmon encased old wooden bridges. The air was empty.

In the middle of nowhere, I found the best little place with a great cafe and a gluten free cake with fresh cream! Yum!!! Jars of jam, olives and oil were packed into the car in brown paper bags.

Trellises with the poles poking out of the ground, criss-crossed like knitting needles with yarn of wire down length of the rows were loosely drapsed with kiwifruit. Empty red bins in clumps sat on gravel ready to be filled with new season apples.

On to Shepparton, Bunbartha, Barmah and settled in at a motel in Mathoura.

A farmer with sun bleached eyes, grey with dust and unfulfilled wishes sat and spoke to me about the wedge-tailed eagles which would come and kill newborn lambs. He said that they lamb early in this area to fill the gap in supply from Victoria, where they lamb in spring. He said he would see them circling and he knew a ewe had just lambed, and before he could drive down to the paddock to her, the lamb was dead. The wedgie was so hungry it had resorted to killing a live animal. That's how hungry they are.

The motel owner's roses bloom like lollies on sticks. The breeze is hot. Dinner for the farmer is brought to an outside table on a floral plate. Lamb chops, potatoes, pumpkin and peas. My motel for the night is clean, simple and quiet.

Home from Melbourne day 2

Noisy cattle grazing the long paddock also had an early start as I left Mathoura as the sun was rising. The young farmer was in his blue ute, elbow out the window and a cigarette sticking to his bottom lip. Saddles and swags were absent. He was mid way along the herd. Perhaps unbeknown to us, our role driving along was to bring up the rear.

Intermittently along the road, the driveways into properties had old spoked wheels and other redundant farm machinery either side of their dirt entrance. I thought then how kitsch this looks when I've seen it in the outer suburbs adorning small 5 acre blocks.

Paddocks were empty. Fences lined the paddocks and highways like scattered toothpicks. You could tell that some farmers had been broken. Green prickle bushes now stand instead of sheep. The further north I drove, into areas which had recent rain, the prickle bushes became larger. Their size is quite deceptive. I walked amongst a clump of them and they were up to my chest. This area was the envy of farmers further south. The rain had come, but for some - not their ploughs.

A sign to Moulamein - turn left - came into view on my way to Hay. I couldn't resist. I looked at the map and thought 'Why not!' I stopped along this road to have my Muesli, and oh my goodness...the flies!! I burst out laughing when I went to take my second scoop, and there beside my macadamias and pumpkin seeds were 5 swimmers drowning in my milk. Each mouthful - well before each mouthful, I had to do a fish out and flick them off my spoon. Pesky trams replaced by pesky flies!

I stopped often to feel what it was like outside the car. Menthol and the fragrance of freshly cut herbs always seemed to surround me as soon as I opened my door. The warm northerly wind encouraged the flush of new green growth to exude their aromas. At my feet lay smooth weathered skulls - small lizard, birds and others I could not identify. The white bone still remained, slowly crumbling, yet the thoughts which were once encased, are long gone.

Often the trees were dark, like overcooked broccoli, with a border alongside the road of soft brushy ground cover. Undulating mounds of sand were dimpled with cushions of green. Galahs in pairs with their pink and screech fired from the treetops like pellets from a rifle. Large irregular white rocks although they looked like they had been placed along the edge of the road like the barrier around a campfire, I think were the consequence of a large blade of a grader.

All day the wind was from the north and was hot. 38 degrees. Dry. Not at all uncomfortable. I did however have a plan to spend the late afternoon at the Cobar pool. The cool water was enjoyed by children catapulting from the diving board, adults with kick boards and goggles, tots with flower cloth hats and me! I met the manager - a local for four generations. We chatted for ages and he shared with me some adventuring tips for my next trip!

Home from Melbourne day 3

There was one light on at the shallow end and in solitude I swam. My alarm went off at 5.15am. Togs on, a short walk across the road, and in no time I was doing my laps.

Rings of shadows rippled from the lane rope floats like a monotone kaleidoscope on to the bottom of the pool. The splash from my stroke and blowing bubbles were the only sounds held in this dark space.

Off to Bourke the back way - along lots of dirt, and dust, and flies. Lorikeets' opal feathers flashed in the sunrise as they screeched and darted. Plump goats scrambled in groups across the road. They were so fat they looked like they were about to explode.

There were areas where the trees were all the same height, nothing coming up underneath. I wonder whether grazing or climate has caused this pause in the generation. Some areas the shrubs trunks from the dirt were branched and black, with soft olive foliage - like black coral from the sea. Old prickle bushes were big, brown and grey, and were held up against the fences by the wind like large balls of wire. Across the dirt road were straw coloured stars, toppling and rolling and skipping and skidding, then became trapped against the fence until the wind changed direction.

The wind became stronger and I could taste the dust when I got out. The condensation on a grape in my hand even after a few minutes was a magnet to the dust. At my feet were succulents, with pink limbs veined across the sand. Their leaves were closed in pairs, together, like pages of a pamphlet. The sound of budgerigars, and lorikeets silenced the wind. Seed heads which looked deceptively soft and fluffy were scratchy and crumbled when touched and stuck to my socks, determined to find another place to rejuvenate.

Twisting coils of dust and dead dry prickle bushes rose haphazardly across the paddocks. Plants were grabbed and dropped at random, a pulsing whirling of frenzy and subsiding. Willy-willies generated spontaneously as the heat rose over bare dusty ground. The wind pushed and ushered them across the land. At times they looked like they resisted, and paused then pulled away in another direction like a sulky precocious child. The sound of flickering leaves and dirt and dead bushes in a whirling flurry became quieter as the tube of twirling heat dissipated just as quickly as it generated.

From Hebel , cotton clumps lined the roadside, like confetti after the bride and groom had gone. All the grasses which looked like fireworks three weeks ago had been slashed. The celebration is over. The puddles have dried. The earth is crazed. The seeds are spreading, in the hope for follow up rain so that there can be celebration again.

I'm tucked up early in a little motel in Dirinbandi. I've had a great trip home - being spontaneous and just going where the flies take me...