Castlemaine, Victoria

Castlemaine (pronounced ‘Cassle-maine’ by the locals), was trying its best to be warm when I drove into town just after 9am. The skies were blue but that’s where any hint of warmth ended. Everyone – and I use the term lightly because there weren’t many people about – was wearing winter woollies – hats, coats, boots, gloves, scarves; even the coffee drinkers outside Saff’s Café, where I stopped for my first cup of light refreshment.

I sat across the table from a man struggling with the day’s crossword puzzle. I took his photo and he was so engrossed he didn’t even notice. I wanted to help but sometimes I find, it pays not to be a ‘foreign’ know-it-all, so I switched my attention to others – and to the giant cakes that sat under covers on the counter. Were ‘Castlemainians’ big cake eaters I wondered?

This wasn’t my first visit to this quirky, historic place. I’ve visited Castlemaine a number of times before, always in the perishing heat of a Victorian midsummer – so in that sense at least, the cooler temperatures were welcome. And as I watched slatted shadows from the window blinds playing across another man’s face, I wondered if Saff’s was more or less popular than the café (I didn’t choose) in the converted fire station, or Dot’s. It hadn’t seemed like too much of a competition at the time but one should never judge a café by its cover.

Like so many places in these parts, Castlemaine sprang to life as a gold rush boom town in 1851. It was named by the Chief Goldfield Commissioner of the time, Captain W Wright, who named it in honour of his Irish uncle, the Viscount of Castlemaine. It sits about 120km northwest of Melbourne, between fellow gold rush towns, Bendigo and Ballarat; and it has a population of around 9,730.

There’s a very visible nod to that early goldmining wealth in the historic streetscapes. There are many impressive buildings - the Town Hall, the Court House, the churches, the hotels and the dazzling array of domestic architecture that ranges from cute (and very tiny) gold miners’ cottages, to enormous stately homes. They were clearly Castlemaine’s ‘good times.’

I was stopped on a street corner by one old chap, who asked why I was taking photographs.

“Are you from the local newspaper?” he asked. (Close, but No). He went on to tell me about a local photographer, who had made it his mission to take photographs of the town’s buildings, mimicking early historic photos…. a then and now sort of thing. It seemed like a worthy undertaking. I like a town that looks after its old buildings.

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From the outset, it’s clear that Castlemaine is very good at three things – churches, pubs and antique shops. It doesn’t do a bad bookshop either – Stoneman’s Bookroom, Mount of Alex Bookshop, Soldier and Scholar. All three are perfect. Filled to the brim with every title and topic you could hope for – new, old, antiquarian, rare, contemporary, interesting, Celtic, children’s, plus a few more you might not have expected. And outside, walls covered in local notices.

I like a good noticeboard. You can learn so much about a community from its noticeboards.  Everything from cars and vans for sale to contemporary dance classes, reminders about the Castlemaine Comedy Night, car-boot and jumble sales, guitar lessons, yoga, even someone trying to get rid of two K.D.Lang tickets.

 Castlemaine Art Museum is a good stop – apart from the included clutter of the Information Centre and some rather tacky souvenir stock. Why do souvenir shops everywhere universally stock the tackiest mementoes? Probably made in Asia and usually bought by Asians who take them home again. Personally, I think it would be better if the souvenirs just stayed in Asia and local shops stocked something worth buying.

Tack aside, the Art Gallery was founded in 1913 and is now housed in a handsome Art Deco building, designed by one Percy Meldrum in 1931. It’s had a number of subsequent additions but it still presents a commanding front to the street. The gallery’s permanent collection focuses on Australian art – traditional landscape particularly, and it has some major works of the late 1800s and the Edwardian.

Unfortunately, none of the above were on display when I called in. I was instead, treated to what I assume is the annual Winter Show. And I use the term “treated” loosely. No matter how I say this, I will sound like a killjoy, so I may as well just say it - much of the work was abysmal. I’m all for everyone having a go (I’m even doing that myself at the moment), but perhaps the selection process for these local exhibitions could be more rigorously observed. For instance, let’s start with ‘Is this work actually painted well?’’

That said, I’m glad I went. Quality aside, it’s refreshing to know that so many local people are involved in the arts – and to be fair, there were some real gems among the works that I would gladly hang on my own wall.

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I noted the proverbial ‘pub on every corner’ – and some not on corners: the Imperial (1861 – great cellars apparently), the Empyre, the Criterion (1853) [the oldest continuously licensed premises in Castlemaine], the Midland, the Cumberland and so it goes on. It should be noted that a number of these are no longer operating as pubs or hotels but the original buildings are testament to a rather jolly past.

I looked again at the mind-boggling Restorers’ Barn – an emporium guaranteed to satisfy every home restorer on earth. I doubt there is a piece of a house that isn’t included in this magical place. When some people hear the word Castlemaine, they think of beer – I just think of the magnificent Restorers’ Barn, which is housed I might add, in what was once the Mt Alexander Hotel (1864-1907).

And on the topic of beer, the famous brand Castlemaine XXXX (pronounced for-ex), was launched in 1924 by Queensland-based Castlemaine Breweries and named after the town of Castlemaine, where the company was born in 1857. These days, the beer is actually brewed in Milton, Brisbane by Queensland brewers Castlemaine Perkins, now a division of Japanese-owned Lion.

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I could write all day about Castlemaine – about its quirky secondhand shops (where a rocking camel, a taxidermy frenzy of three cobras crushing a mongoose and an old metal sign espousing the virtues of Trump utility folding tables and chairs, were my picks of the day); and I could weave a tale about the pet shop window filled with buckets full of live crickets and their “Dog Coat Fittings" service. Mostly, I could wax lyrical about its wonderful architecture. But sometimes, a few (more) photos are enough.

People of Melbourne I

As I look back through my photo files it's easy to see that I tend to photograph architecture, landscapes etc without people in them. But that belies the fact that I actually love photographing people.

But I prefer to photograph them going about their daily business, unaware and, more often than not, unrecognizable. I like a sense of the unknown in a photograph.

An unanswered question.

On The Trains

When I stepped into the familiar old Woodend Railway Station (opened in 1861), I felt a surge of excitement. I was about to catch the train to Melbourne and regardless of how many times I’ve done this, I still feel a sense of anticipation I find hard to explain. I still get a small thrill out of leaning into the little glass-partitioned ‘station master’s’ post and asking for my return ticket.

These days, you need a Myki card (for this part of the Bendigo Line at least), onto which you load your fares and scan yourself in and out of each station – all terribly modern; and the ‘station master’ isn’t necessarily a man, or even a master at all, so much as a V-Line employee. Nonetheless, I do it all eagerly, like a child going on a first adventure.

I’m not the only person to feel this way about train journeys. Trains in fact, seem to stir passionate feelings in many people.  Think about how many ‘train appreciation societies’ there are worldwide, how many television shows and books dedicated to train travel, and the number of creative people who have claimed a strong sense of ‘’getting in touch with themselves’ when they’ve embarked on train journeys. I’m not alone in appreciating this singular form of transport and I celebrate the fact that Victoria still has an intricate network of V-Line stations and tracks for me to explore.

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For me, a train journey is about a kind of meditation, a tuning in – letting my mind wander, unfettered by the need to stay on the road avoiding collisions with other cars. It’s about watching, listening, both inside the carriage and out. It’s about studying people and surreptitiously listening to their conversations. It’s about watching the landscape slide by, seeing things not visible from the roads – the industrial and the semi-industrial, the farm buildings and the side roads that lead to who knows where? It’s about sliding passed the edges of towns, the edges of ordinary Australia and wondering who lives there and what makes all these places tick.

For some people this is routine - the daily commute that takes them to Melbourne to work. You can pick the regulars. They have an air of certainty about them. They know which seats they prefer, which way they want to face and whether or not they want to sit looking directly at two other people, or at the back of the chair in front of them.

They seat themselves quickly and set about their morning rituals, easing themselves into the comfortable, familiar patterns of getting from one place to another without stress. Some read the newspaper; others bring out a novel to read. Some tune into their cell phones, others open up computers or iPads and fiddle about looking busy and engaged – but not with each other. And others make a more obvious statement by donning headphones and plugging into their favourite music, pretending the rest of the passengers don’t exist.

Then there are the talkers. I’ve asked a number of travellers their preference and for the talkers, it’s all about making connections and nurturing friendships. Some sit beside the same people several times a week and chat about their lives. They amuse each other; they learn from each other. It’s a kind of accidental friendship – one that may possibly have never have happened outside of the train environment. But like morning coffee, it has become part of their daily commute.

Away from everyday lives, the disparate gathering of passengers has the potential to open doors on lives we would never have dreamed of encountering. And our lives can be the richer for it. Starting a conversation with a complete stranger doesn’t always work but it’s fun to imagine what you might learn in the hour (in this case), that you’re seated with others. It can be a surprising and humbling experience – and a salutary lesson in not judging people by their appearances.

On the other hand, being in close proximity to a compulsive chatterer for an hour can be frustrating – especially if, like me, you’re given to watching, listening, ‘meditating,’ and quietly thinking on a train journey. That’s where I found myself on my latest trip - sitting opposite two women, who I quickly gleaned had boarded the train in Bendigo. Given their conversation, I assumed they knew each. It later transpired they didn’t at all and it wasn’t until I was a good twenty minutes into the journey that I realised one woman – late fifties I’d guess – never stopped talking the whole way.

With grey hair tied back in a scrappy pony tail, she sat in her purple polar fleece and black trousers, clutching her black handbag, talking about whatever seemed to come into her head. I pretended to be asleep, so I could listen without being dragged into a one-sided conversation that I knew would make my head spin.

“I love kangaroos,” she said, looking out a big mob gathered outside of Gisborne, “but you have to watch them.

“I was hanging out the washing one day and I sensed something nearby. I turned around and there was a great big red standing right behind me. He just picked me up in his front paws. I’m only little, as you can see and they’re so big. He didn’t hurt me, he just put me down again and hopped off but they can kill the animals you know.”

I was riveted. I kept listening as her mind darted from one topic to another.

“Chinese and Thai food…. it’s all the same if you ask me….”

“He’s a nice fellow – not as nosy as the other one.”

“Why do these schoolgirls wear their skirts so short in winter? I just don’t understand it.”

“It’s not the sort of place you want to live now,” she pronounced of Footscray.

It was as we pulled out of the station, leaving the short-skirted girls clustered together on the platform, that she leaned over and tapped me on the knee and pointed to her shoes.

“Look we’ve both wearing black pants with black shoes – and your shoes are covered in stuff just like mine – are you a cleaner too?”

It was one of the rare occasions when I was lost for words. And I decided on the spot, that I would be buying nugget in Melbourne, to try and conceal some of the wayward paint splodges that had found their way to my shoes. I could almost hear my late mother butting into the conversation with a “see….I told you, you should have cleaned your shoes.”

These are the moments that stay with me – the human encounters that give every day its colour and texture. You don’t have to be in a train to experience it of course but in that close proximity to strangers over an extended period, it’s more likely to happen.

 It’s ironic that, in a world where are we technologically connected to more people than in any other point in human history, we are all too often, completely disconnected. Remember those people tuned out behind their ear phones, the ones glued to cell phones and laptops? I’m not saying they’re not learning something new but they’re certainly missing a golden opportunity to interact and learn about people and the human condition… in all its varied and unique guises.

There’s something honourable and enriching about reaching out to others, about fostering the unseen connections between us. There can be irritations and annoyances but there can also be immensely rewarding encounters that help us to see ourselves better, more fully.

And the truth of the matter is – we never know WHO we are sitting beside.  It may be someone who knows your cousin; it could be the sister of an old lover; it could be your grandmother’s old school friend; it could be the brother of someone you once worked with. Those small surprises, those interactions with strangers are  the tiny jewels of a train journey.

Bendigo, Victoria

The entrance to Bendigo is, as with most towns, something less than exciting. Swooping in off the freeway you pass through Big Hill and then into the outer suburb of Kangaroo Flat, which sits 5km southwest of the main Bendigo CBD.

Kangaroo Flat derived its name from the large mobs of Eastern Grey Kangaroos encountered around gold miners' campsites in the early days and in the vast bush (forest) landscapes around Bendigo. Local residents refer to it simply as "The Flat" and some still see it as a separate town. In 2016 it had a population of 17,000.

These days you pass by clusters of 60s and 70s brick bungalows, optimistic-looking motels, and all the usual ‘commercial clutter’ we surround ourselves with – Hungry Jacks, Pillow Talk, Thrifty Rentals plus a few extras like Rajmahal Embroidery Products, Olde Time Sweets and Dominoes Power Grunt Hobbies – before you actually get to the main city area.

There, rising up through the morning mist, the first of the many church steeples welcoming you into what is one of the prettiest and most architecturally interesting Victorian cities. Like Ballarat, it is riddled with gorgeous buildings, many of them ornate and grand to reflect the early goldmining wealth of the place. And interestingly, despite a downturn in fortunes after the goldmining peak, Bendigo is today, the largest finance centre in Victoria outside Melbourne. 

Since 1851 about 780,000 kilograms (25 million troy ounces) of gold have been extracted from Bendigo's goldmines, making it the highest-producing goldfield in Australia in the 19th century and the largest gold mining economy in eastern Australia. 

Greater Bendigo today has a population of around 111,000 (2015) and as such, is Victoria’s fourth largest and fourth most populous city. It sits around 150km northwest of Melbourne.

History aside – although you can’t really avoid it given the number of huge buildings and proud historic reminders they all wear by way of little brass plaques attached to their sides – this visit was filled with photographic promise. Last time I went to Bendigo was in 2012, in mid-summer. It was nudging 40-degrees and I trudged stubbornly through city streets, swearing and constantly seeking a tiny overhang of shade. I’m not big on Australian heat – which is another whole story for another time. Suffice to say it was an uncomfortable, sweaty introduction to a city that deserved better.

This time, it was a balmy 16-degrees by 1pm, the plane trees were clinging to the last of their golden autumn leaves and locals were busily going about their business, passing by shops with names like Neon Peach, Blue Illusion and the cheekily-named Shop No.12 – which rather oddly I thought, sat next to No. 26). And no matter which way you looked, the streetscape rose up in dreamy layers of architectural interest – old, older and oldest all happily nudging each other and coexisting with the new.

This is how a good city should be. I get cross with people (developers) who want to tear down all the old things to make way for something new and shiny that might make them more money. It’s not that I’m against progress but I am against the willful destruction of a city’s built history for the sake of a buck.

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I started at the Information Centre, which is housed in a rather splendid old hunk of a building.  I have a weakness for Information Centres - it goes back to my travel guide writing days.       

I like to collect brochures about things that interest me, which is why I thought information centres put these things on display. Turns out in Bendigo, that if you collect too many brochures, you arouse the suspicions of the officious lady volunteers. They queried me three times about what I was looking for (I said I was just browsing), saying that I appeared to be “wandering around aimlessly and obviously needed their expertise.”

Call me cantankerous if you will but I object to being hounded when I am “just browsing” and I like to think myself as grown-up enough to ask for help when I need it. Needless to say, I grabbed a swag of extra brochures I didn’t even want just to prove a point, and I marched out of the building with my nose in the air. Clearly one needs to appear helpless in these places.

And so to “wandering aimlessly,” which in my opinion, is far and away the best way to discover any new place. With my haul of brochures safely lodged in my car, I set out on a brisk walk that would take me nearly three hours around the streets -  down alleyways, into parks, around sights already seen, into art galleries and the local bookbinder’s store (Libris - a treat for all handmade book-lovers), into a café or two, around the fountain and local statues (Queen Victoria, “The Queen of Earthly Queens”), passed the grand Town Hall, the Military Museum,  the Golden Dragon Museum (highlighting the city’s Chinese goldminer history), and into churches and cathedrals.

It’s funny the things you ‘take away’ from a place – the things that stick in your memory long after the event. In 2012, it was the  insufferable heat and the wonder of discovering that Bendigo – or just out of – is home to The Great Stupa of Universal Compassion, the Western world’s largest Buddhist Temple – a 50 metre high monstrosity sitting in the middle of the Australian bush. (You can’t make this stuff up).

This time, I keep thinking about a number of other things. Firstly that one William Charles Vahland, a prodigious architect of the gold rush era (he actually arrived in Bendigo in search of gold), was responsible for the design of over 100 buildings and monuments in the city – there’s even an App you can download to take a self-guided walking tour of his achievements – which I wouldn’t have known but for the Information Centre.

I also keep wishing I had purchased a great book I saw at Bendigo Art Gallery (the largest regional gallery in Australia and home to over 5,000 works). It was called “Architecture According to Pigeons” by Speck Lee Tailfeather, published by Phaidon. The perfect gift for the architect who has everything.

I also ‘collect conversations.’ I think most writers do. There are two that are still with me – fragments, words taken out of context with only half their meaning. The first was between two girls at the table next to me in a café.

“It was $9.99,” the first girl said, slurping on her smoothie straw.

“That’s completely fucked,” her friend replied, viciously stabbing her poached egg.

I went away wondering what they were talking about. I still am.

Then, at the magnificent Bendigo Sacred Heart Cathedral – where I had sneaked quietly through the hefty wooden door feeling like a non-Catholic heathen hoping not to be caught -  I met a little old Irishman, who was photographing the three amazing aisles  and the staggering flying buttresses.

“It’s ‘loovely’ ain’t it?” he said, taking photos with his cumbersome-looking iPad.

 I agreed – who wouldn’t? The place is truly wonderful. It took 88 years to build (interrupted) – the foundations were begun in 1896; and it has some beautiful features – the Australian blackwood seating, the Calacatta Vagli Extra marble floor imported from Italy, the many carved wooden features, the stained glass – everything.  Remarkable craftsmanship. I feel a tiny bit religious just thinking about it all.

But in the words of the Irish visitor, “I hope they’ve got plenty of heaters!” He was pleased with himself when he said that. He giggled a bit. Then he pointed out the “Prints for Sale” – a printed replica drawing of the outside of the Cathedral.

“Only $2. That’s a bargain,” he said, and I left him wondering whether or not to invest. I drove away thinking about the Catholic parishioners shivering in a Bendigo winter inside their splendid building. I reckon I’d do it – if I wasn’t an “aimlessly wandering” heathen – just to feel the beauty of it all. That’s good architecture – when you can ‘feel’ the spirit of the place.