Until I get photographic evidence (which necessitates going to a store that sells cameras and buying a little cable with a jack on it that only Olympus uses, thank you very much), words will have to suffice to describe my experience. I realize this can be troubling, because I am suspect. As a blogger, which is a bit like a narrator but without the prestige or built-in credibility, one falls victim to the “Why the hell should I listen to him?” set of objections. Commonly referred to as jerk-isms (in my head at least), they range from problems of authority to excessive use of parentheses. Yes, I am aware of it (No, I will not stop). If my authority is suspect, then this is really all the better for me, because essentially I am a confused traveller in a foreign land. Admittedly they speak English, like a good fart joke, and drink a lot, so it’s not unlike my friends back home, but it is, in many ways (some in- and some just plain explicable) foreign. And it’s weekends like mine that really drive that home.
About an hour outside of Melbourne lies the small town of Glenlyon. It is bordered by the towns of Malmsbury and Daylesford, and I mention that not for pure geography but rather because their names should indicate something. They have, in my view at least, sheep farming names, these towns do. Rolling pastures of green cascade across gentle hills, and sheep and cattle stand idly by bleating and mooing and shitting through the day. All the while, they eat the fields; and eventually, we eat them. That’s pretty much how life is up there. It’s also the sight of numerous mineral springs, some other nature-y stuff, but mostly, it’s where sheep farmers ended up. Probably because, with the exception of gum trees and the odd wallaby, it looks like England’s countryside on steroids.
In the town of Glenlyon one turns right at the general store. Yeah, the general store. Then another right on Green Gully Road, a left of Torpys Lane and he or she eventually reaches my destination, the Turinga Stud Farm. It’s a horse farm (that’s the variety of stud) but really it’s a large estate occupied by one very friendly lady who rents out a guest house at very reasonable rates.
We arrived Friday evening, and looking out the windows the surreality began to hit. Yes, the fields were rolling, the green cascading, et cetera ad nauseam. But the hill immediately out the window had 20 cockatus sitting on it. The fields were ringed by wattles and eucalyptus trees. The air was pierced without end by the chattering of kookaburra’s and magpies (and not the English, give-me-that-shiny-thing magpies, either).
The sun went down and a calm replaced most of the apprehension. This was a quiet place. There were 5 other people within a mile of me, in all likelihood, and I had met all of them. I slept soundly, and was awoken in a manner not atypical at this point, to the sound of screaming children.
Saturday the weather was cold and damp, positively English out. Maybe even Welsh, though it didn’t get quite that bad until later. We set our sights on a local wilderness hike through what is called “Koala Park” in the town of Creswick. The resemblance to my last name alarmed me, but I was more excited about the prospect of seeing koalas in their native habitat, or at least some facsimile. Unfortunately Koala Park turned out to be a eucalyptus forest in the rain, which… Well, let me break it down for you.
Reasons tourists will never see koalas outside a zoo (Specifically on September 19, 2009 in Koala Park near Creswick, Victoria)
- It’s hard to look up in the rain.
- Koalas are grey lumps clinging motionlessly to tree trunks. The tree trunks are grey and lumpy.
- If one is looking up and walking forwards on a clay path that is increasingly turning into something in between a creek and play-doh, it’s pretty likely that he or she will fall.
- If the aforementioned one has small children with them, the small children will scream for no reason whatsoever.
And thus, I saw no koalas. I was not disheartened though, because I have been told by numerous Aussies, including several outdoorsy types that the only guaranteed koala viewing is done at a zoo. So other than the fact that I walked for an hour or two and got soaked in 45 degree rain, I was … not at all disheartened. Just cold, clammy, and fearing crotchrot. But that’s an entirely different genre of blog.
I returned to the house where I changed into pajamas and set my jeans, t-shirt and recently aquired douchebaggy hoodie in front of the fire. The afternoon passed slowly, though lunch was spent partially eating an utterly foul blue cheese picked up at a local winery. I will digress momentarily to discuss the cheese now.
This being dairy country, it is no great surprise that they make cheese. It’s like milk, but it can’t rot, because (as I hope they say) we crafty humans have already gone and rotted it! Genius. This particular specimen looked like it was old enough to vote. It was mottled with blue mold, and turning brown on the outside where it had begun to dry out. Taken out of refrigeration, it sweated and smoldered on the table, crying out silently with a smell not unlike feet and straight bacteria. It tasted, of course, phenomenal. No plasticky dullness of pasteurization. This was cheese that demanded the eater take a risk. Veer to the side of uncaution, and embrace potential listeria, salmonella, etc. And it was worth it.
Anyways, the clothes dried and I elected to take a walk around the stud farm. There were only two horses there currently (a he and a she) and in the night that had turned to three through the great power of male and female animals to apparently make more. There was a buckskin colored foal, half arabian half… some other kind of horse (I must confess I’m not up on my equine subtypes). It was cute and all that, but being greeted at the gate by the owner, I was given the kind of opportunity young Americans who’ve grown up with the mythos of Australia would dream about. This came in the form of a basket. The basket contained an electric blanket, a baby bottle, and an 8 month old kangaroo joey named Monty. Monty and I, I feel, connected on a level more profound than just curious animal and bemused petter-of-ears. It might have just been that my watch tasted good, but he spent a good amount of time investigating my wrist, attemptedly suckling at my fingertips, and generally being adorable and surprisingly soft. Pictures will follow. Monty was my hero for that brief span of time. A kangaroo small enough that I didn’t have to fear it, but developed enough that I could see what made it such a unique animal (Wallabys aside. Those dicks.). Monty had the recurved claws for digging and grabbing on his little fore-legs (arms?). His feet consisted of one large middle toe, flanked by 2 pairs of small balance toes. Imagine the concert-arena foam finger with different priorities. It’s a bit like that. The tail of a kangaroo is basically a lump of muscle. It feels like a warm, tightly bound leather cord, with a suede coverlet. It is the perfect mechanism for balance, and one can also imagine them quite easily sitting on it.
Monty is a great, great animal. And proved awkward enough on his feet to be adorable.
In addition to Monty, there were the horses, of course, though going near a newborn when both parents are about is kind of a no-no. There was also a titanic pig/garbage disposal named Sweetie, a cockatu or seven, and a peacock who just appeared to be hanging out. I saw the peacock later as he flew up to roost in the tree in the driveway of the guest house, and we watched the sun set together. Well, not really together, but we were both there. Had we been together I would have either had to kiss a peacock or get my eyes pecked out. That’s how romantic it was. Eye peckingly so.
Sunday morning saw a walk along the edge of the aptly named Breakneck Gorge. Probably a 300 foot drop down not-quite-sheer cliffs. Oh and the cliffs, the thing keeping them not quite sheer, maintaining some amount of slope against erosion? Blackberry brambles. Meaning it’s a gorge. With a 300 foot drop. That if you actually fell in. Would consist entirely of rolling through thorns. It would SUCK. The major highlights of Breakneck Gorge were that it didn’t rain and that I saw a wallaby, which is a bit like kangaroo lite. They’re smaller, fluffier, darker in color and generally cuter, but far more skittish. I got within a hundred yards and he was off.
Sunday afternoon was spent, not-at-all regrettably, sitting on the deck in the sunshine, reading a book and smoking a Cuban cigar. While many would likely say that I only did it because of certain embargos forbidding me from doing it back home, I personally believe in the quality of a Cuban cigar. If for no other reasons than they never make me barf, they don’t fall apart halfway through, and they don’t leave my mouth tasting like eagle scouts had firelighting/latrine digging practice in there. It was relaxing and fantastic. And made me realize that 3 weeks after having my last one, I would never go back to cigarettes: those tightly rolled, additive filled, corporate devils.
Late Sunday I went on a bit of a jaunt into the woods in search of, well, wilderness and stuff. I found it, but unfortunately a family accompanied me. Meaning that when I spotted the first wallaby plaintively scratching itself down by the creek, a piercing 4 year old scream broke the silence: “THERE’S ANOTHER ONE!!!” Within nanoseconds all wallabies, kangaroos, birds, and anything not bolted down within a mile was gone. Never to be seen again that particular Sunday. But since the rest of a rant about that would fall under non-travel updates, I will leave it out.
We returned home, played cards and ate cheese, and I grumbled about yelling children. Having a late night and an early morning 3 days in a row, I woke up today, and drove the 4 door sedan full of folks back to the suburbs. It was a quick trip back, which filled me with hope, because it means that within an hour, I know where to go to experience some nature stuff, some man-altered nature stuff, and generally get a little bit closer at stabbing at the heart of this country. Which of course means stabbing into the land that most appealed to the English who arrived here, set up shop, and put the Queen’s saggy face on their money.
The commonwealth is for chumps.
But that’s another story, for another time. I am very tired now, and will away to bed. As always, comment if you make it through the whole thing. And if not, you won’t read this anyways, so go to hell, you lazy bastards. But not those of you who read it. I know, it’s confusing. Sorry.
All the best,
RJC
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