Day tripper, yeah

I am seeing so much of the lovely state of Victoria and my Uncle Mick's wife Margaret, particularly, is a great source of ideas for excursions, zooming us off here, there and everywhere in her little car. She takes me for a quick scoot around St Kilda, a cool and quirky neighbourhood not far from the centre of Melbourne. We are distracted by a colourful community garden called Veg Out, which tells you more about St Kilda than I ever could.

We do a quick circuit of Luna Park fairground and marvel at the oldest rollercoaster in the country. Surely the rickety wooden structure can't support a train full of funsters? Apparently it can, though it's not operating today so Margaret and I can't put it to the test, much as we'd love to. Hmm.





We take in the foreshore and as town beaches go it's unpretentious and fun with all kinds of activities going on... kite flying, dog walking, even swimming. But it's cake o'clock and Acland Street, lined with cafes and bakeries, is calling. We choose the Monarch, a Jewish bakery, as many of them are in this area, and I order Chocolate Kooglehoupf and a cafe latte. It's the oldest cafe on the strip, I think, and we get chatting to the owner, who has now handed over to his sons.  

Another day Margaret and I drive down the Mornington peninsula. We stop in Mornington first, which has a pretty main street of cafes and and boutiques and a striking beach backed by red cliffs. Then we move on to Arthur's Seat, a well known national reserve and viewpoint. We manage to make out the Melbourne skyline, some 60km across the bay. Arthur's Seat's Aboriginal name is Wonga. I'm not sure which is better. It was a base for the Boonerwrung clan for whom it was a pretty useful way of seeing who was coming and going. There are information boards about how the plants growing here were used (nappies made from bark, anyone?) and yet again the land management of the Aborigines is praised – they way they sought to maintain the ecology for future generations and only took what was needed. Before we go, I can't resist being snapped in Arthur's actual seat.



We move on to the achingly picturesque seaside towns of Sorrento and Portsea at the very tip of the peninsula, via Blairgowrie and Rye... I have to say, the place names here just mess with my head. It's like being in a parallel universe where there are things you recognise but they're all in the wrong sequence. It's vaguely unsettling. 

Not to be outdone, Mick hosts a day out (albeit on the way to a Hash) to the Heide Museum of Modern Art in the north-east suburbs. I can't say enough about how fabulous this place is. Originally the home and 15-acre gardens of John and Sunday Reed, a Bohemian couple with cash, who were early adopters of all the new trends in art, architecture and self-sufficiency. Their home became a hub for artists such as Sydney Nolan and in 1963 they commissioned modernist David McGlashan to build them a new home, a 'gallery to be lived in'. I skip delightedly around the place, loving the buildings, the art, the sculptures in the grounds. I think, I hope, Mick enjoys it too.

There's a backdrop to my stay in Melbourne that grips the nation... for about one day. Julia Gillard's leadership of the Labor Party is challenged and there has to be a vote, but it turns out she's the only candidate, so she's back to fight another day.

My last day trip is spent in the Dandenongs, a range of mountains east of the city, which at its cooler elevation features towering forests of Mountain Ash and lush fern gulleys. We have coffee and cake in Sassafras but not in Miss Marple's Tearoom thankyou very much. I notice that some of the street poles are wearing leg warmers. Yes, there is a proper chill in the air.

In another town called Olinda, there's a shop with a flock of sheep made from scrap metal, just the thing for a rustic garden. Talking of gardens, nearby is one of the loveliest, Cloudehill, tumbling down the hillside with formal gardens and herbaceous bordery at the top (where Mick's choir once performed, he says) to a wilder rainforest of historic cool-climate trees at the bottom. It's very nippy indeed. One of the plants I lean in to photograph has ice around the petals, which means I've about half a suitcase of skimpy togs that won't see the light of day for a while. Brrr.

Fairy tales

Not long before I arrive in Melbourne, Margaret emails me and asks would I fancy a little side trip to Port Fairy while I'm with them? That sounds just grand, I reply, so the week after I arrive, we're off down the Great Ocean Road, taking in the major sights along the way, the best known being these limestone stacks, the Twelve Apostles, though there may only be seven. Actually the two I'm walking in front of are called Gog and Magog and the one underneath that is a separated island stack.

Port Fairy has an annual folk festival and that's mainly what it's known for. There's a strong focus on dairy farming in the area and a good smattering of Irish place names. Indeed, Margaret has family that emigrated here from Ireland in the 1840s. She met them at the festival one year and Mick did them a family tree, something he's very good at (our own is a cracker and we all have individual circle charts). Anyway, the town's streets are wide and open and the focus these days is predominantly tourism.
Mick, Margaret and I have a two-bedroom apartment not far from the bakeries, cafes and shops in the town 'centre' above. It's all very swish and push-button with a garage under the flat and free wifi, so the blog can live again. We don't stroll far to eat on our first night, across the road to the Caledonian Hotel, which I think is the oldest in town. It's had a new roof since the 19th century but that's about it. I love it. I order gnocchi.
A wander 'downtown' the next morning reveals a stunning waterfront, which is clearly where the millionaires live. There is also a windswept beach backed by holiday homes that doesn't stop until it gets to Warnambool, the nearest metropolis. The sky is streaked with whips of white cloud.

Mick and I drive to Tower Hill nature reserve, which is close by. Tower Hill was a volcano and the reserve is inside what was formerly the crater. Its visitor centre is a classic, designed by one of Australia's foremost modernist architects, Robin Boyd, and a delight to explore.

We join a group of teenage schoolchildren who are being given an educational tour by a shaggy-bearded gentle giant of a bush ranger. In terms of holding the kids' attention he seems to be a miracle worker. Mick and I are spellbound, too.

We learn all sorts of fascinating facts, from the leaves you can add to your salad, the berries you can munch, and the koalas you should not let near your gum trees as they'll chew their way through them all. He points to one who is having a rest having done just that. The park authorities are trying to move Tower Hill's four remaining koalas elsewhere and this involves flapping a plastic bag tied to the end of a stick to coax the animal down, then bundling it into a sack for transportation. 

Gentle giant also tells us about the kangaroo apple, which everyone is told not to eat when green as it's poisonous. But he goes on to say that one of the early botanists observed Aboriginal women eating them green and made enquiries. It turns out that, among other things, the plant is a natural contraceptive when green. Apparently it is the major ingredient of a type of steroid and is grown widely in Russia and Hungary, which supply most of the world's steroids.  

Gentle giant pulls a clod of bark or something off a tree and opens it to reveal a grub. He asks for a volunteer to eat it and one lad goes for it. 'How did it taste?' asks the ranger. 'I don't know,' says the boy. 'I didn't chew.' We also spot a bush wallaby. Later on Mick and I get right up close to a rock wallaby on Griffiths Island, a wildlife sanctuary just off the coast of Port Fairy, but connected by a causeway. We're lucky to spot it because, while I try and linger a little, I'm also trying to stay hot on the heels of Mick 'The Treadmill' Lyons.

There's a lighthouse on the island. I do like a lighthouse, particularly when they've picked out the woodwork in a pretty contrasting red. On our final day we drive west to Portland, almost at the border with South Australia. Built up around whaling originally, it's the oldest European settlement in Victoria. But we're now fired up by volcanic craters and geological marvels so we drive beyond the town, first to Cape Nelson, where there's another pretty lighthouse, with an exceedingly good cafe next door. It's never too early for sticky date pudding with caramel sauce and ice cream, I reckon. Here I am propping myself up afterwards. At Cape Bridgewater just along the coast we find a petrified forest, trees seemingly frozen in sand. It's hard to get a picture without a wind turbine in it. They've gone for these in a big way around here. Surely in an area of outstanding natural beauty there should be better controls. The landscape here is lunar-like and there isn't much shelter to be had in the ferocious heat we're suddenly experiencing. We move on to long cold drinks at a beachfront cafe and watch a line of backpackers slowly work their way around the shore.
We return to Port Fairy via Mount Eccles, an eerily deserted reserve with a deep crater containing a jade-green lake. There's a dry crater, too, evidence of a lava canal (a channel running out from the cone) and a natural bridge with cave underneath that makes quite a spooky descent and climb. Mount Eccles is heralded as an example of sophisticated Aboriginal farming techniques. They created an aquaculture operation here with eel traps in the streams, which meant the clans were more settled and built stone houses for themselves. Until the Europeans arrived, that is. The Massacre Map I saw in Melbourne was pretty busy around these parts. Thousands were massacred between 1837 and 1844. In Port Fairy there's a half-hearted memorial but it was only unveiled in 2011. We return to Melbourne via more geological wonders – a crater lake in the shape of a shamrock, a place called Red Rock boasting an amazing seven craters and views across the largest lake in Victoria. Lunch is served in the Winchelsea tea rooms, once the town council building. There's a fierce wind blowing and we can smell the smoke in the air. Grass fires are burning nearby. 

Having a niece time

I consider myself extremely fortunate that my visit coincides with several events on my Uncle Mick's social calendar. First up is Friday night Scottish Country Dancing in a local hall. It's a practise session and we learn a handful of new dances, none of which I've come across before, and I meet the regulars over fruit squash in the break. There's the Glaswegian in tartan troos whose accent is as broad as the day he left for Australia. There's a Mediterranean type called Achilles or something, who makes up in enthusiasm what he lacks in technique. There's a rather poe-faced woman who hisses at me when I take a wrong turn, but there's always one of those and I laugh it off. As a young (ish) Scot, I am quite the curiosity.

Another of Mick's favourite things to do is sing with the Melbourne Welsh Male Choir. He loves to organise, too, so as well as singing tenor he serves on the choir committee, which seems to deliver no end of behind-the-scenes drama, even the occasional hissy fit.

The choir has a performance while I'm here, in a community theatre in Kingston. We have stirring Welsh numbers and a poem, My Father Was A Miner, read to a background of voices that is exceptionally moving. Then the choir sings a medley from Les Mis and we have a captivating guest soloist, a soprano called Kate Amos. I'm told the chaps are not entirely happy with their performance but it all sounds just lovely to me. I can't quite believe I'm here, in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, watching a choir singing in Welsh.  

The day after the choir gig I join Mick on a foray with the Full Moon Hash. Today's Hash is in a suburban reserve with cracking views of Melbourne in the distance and we trot around a course set by a man known only as 'Non Stop'. Hashing involves following a trail of markers or arrows drawn with flour until you locate the Check, then you have to look for the next trail leading to the next Check. There's lots of shouting 'On on' and it's supposed to be non-competitive.

After a barbecue supper everyone stands in a circle and the ritual humiliations begin. I have to do a 'down down' as a Hash virgin – you are sung a bawdy song, then have to drink up in one go while everyone chants 'down down down down'. The strangely old-school customs originate from 1937 when the first Hash was founded in Kuala Lumpur by a group of ex-pat single men. Their British public-school backgrounds must have dictated the way the rules and regs developed, from cross-country paper chases with their 'hares' who set the courses, to the nicknames given to each member of the Hash. Mick is called 'Father' because he founded this particular Hash when he arrived in Melbourne. Margaret isn't Hashing at the moment but once upon a time she went by the moniker 'Mother Superior'. After the run, out comes Mick's coat-of-many-Hash-badges.

Finally, my uncle loves to go bushwalking, though this could be temporary training for the English Coast to Coast walk we'll be doing in August. Nevertheless, Mick is up and tramping around  most mornings by 7am. One walk I particularly enjoy is not in the bush but along the cliffs and beaches of the south coast, with Mick, cousin Bernard and Russ the Jack Russell. It's called the George Bass Coastal Walk, named after the man who explored much of the coastline some 200 years ago. I see it as a walkabout with family elders, albeit the fittest ones I know.
We are meant to start at sea level, hopping around the rocks linking one beach to another but here is Bernard realising that he forgot to check the tide. It's in.

Still, it's a glorious day and a spectacularly scenic hike along the coast of the Bass Strait, with waves roaring in and crashing onto the sand and rocks.

The final stretch is a rock-hop over, I assume, platforms formed by lava flow and a return to the car via an old tressle railway bridge, from a time when the line serviced coal mines in the area.