Up the bush

 

 

I have been up the bush.  This, of course, does not mean that I have been trekking across the red centre, dodging man-eating crocodiles while skinning snakes and collecting witchetty grubs for my tucker (although, I must say, I was rather tempted by the kangaroo steaks for sale in Aldi last week).   No, it simply means that I have ventured out of the city, and travelled some 200 miles north east to the great dividing range.  I did, however, take the precaution of informing, slightly bemused looking, colleagues of my intrepid expedition, and of my expected date of return, while stocking the car with several litres of water, blankets, bug spray, first aid kit, compass, spade and knife ( not entirely sure what I intended to do with the knife, but it seemed somehow the sort of thing one should have).  Thus fully provisioned and prepared, I set off.                                      

 

                                               

Do you know, Australian motorways look almost exactly the same as English motorways? Most of the road signs are the same, the slip-roads are the same, the markings are the same, and they are just as straight, and just as grey as those in England.  The bush, at this time of the year, is, for the most part, a sort of khaki brown, dotted with varying numbers of, mainly gum, trees, and many of the paddocks appear empty of crops or stock.  The land has been baked dry by the latest in a series of excessively hot summers, and, although well-cared for, much of it seems empty. Road and scenery are the same, mile after mile. The driving, in many respects, is easy, for the main difference from similar English roads is the relative lack of traffic. The chief danger is falling asleep at the wheel, and the principal difference in road signage lies in the number and variety of signs warning drivers to rest.  The weather is warm, the sun bright and eyes quickly become tired.  It would be so easy to let one's eyes close for just a few seconds, and never open them again.   Sleep, it appears, not the snake or the spider, is the greatest danger in much of the twenty first century  Australian bush.

 

With frequent breaks for long blacks, I reached Beechworth,  a picture perfect Victorian town which appears to have transited the twentieth century with barely a mark on its nineteenth century streetscape.  If it were not for the cars, you could believe that you had stepped back in time; how could anything so seemingly fragile as clapboard buildings survive in such a perfect state for so long?  The effect is compounded upon stepping into the wonderful Tanswell’s Commercial Hotel, where I had booked to stay, and where Ned Kelly once took refuge in the cellar (let's face it, he was no fool, a well-stocked cellar is the place to hide).  Were he to return, I am sure he would have little difficulty in recognising either the exterior, or much of the interior, of the oldest hotel in town, built in 1853 to house and entertain the miners of the gold rush.  It has survived intact, with few concessions to modernity, and still serves good, honest meals at lunch and dinner, along with a shared board for breakfast.  It has the original public bar, and is well-patronised by locals, as well as tourists. It is just perfect.

 

 

 

 

 Tanswell's

 

 

 

 

 

After some time spent exploring Beechworth and its history, I returned to Ballarat via the King Valley and Brown Brothers’ vineyard, where, after several tastings (one can’t be too careful when faced with this sort of decision), I bought a bottle of wine called Patricia, which is a 2008 vintage Noble Riesling.  It is without doubt the best pudding wine ever made, and would in itself be sufficient reason for emigration to Australia, were it not also available in England.  If you ever get the chance to taste it, you must do so ( I’m afraid mine may have evaporated by the time I get home). It is truly the amber nectar, and, once tasted, is never to be forgotten.

Tracked down in the Australian bush