Lyonville – Victoria

I couldn’t count the number of times I’ve driven through the edges of the little settlement of Lyonville on my way to other places.

It’s the ‘so-small-sort-of-place’ that could be missed entirely on a quick drive to Daylesford. A mere spot on the map. Perhaps. If the map is a very detailed one.

The tiny hamlet – population a grand 175 in 2016-  sits in the Shire of Hepburn 5km northwest of Trentham (also small), and 80km northwest of Melbourne. It’s near the headwaters of the Lodden River and on the edge of the Wombat State Forest.

It began life as a sawmilling town in the 1860s to supply timber to the Ballarat and Bendigo goldfields; and at its peak, it had three hotels, several shops, a public hall, a school, three churches and a railway station. By comparison today, it is a ghost town. Little remains from that time apart from a few derelict relics and a town history map that marks former locations in the manner of: Ogden Brothers Mill (Site of), Eucalyptus Stills (Site of), Primary School (Site of).

It was that little old school ruin that drew encouraged me to drive the ten minutes from home. I’d seen a photo someone took of it on social media and I fell in love with it as a potential art studio. It seemed perfect from afar. And as dreams are free, I decided to find it. I figured it wouldn’t be hard in a place as small as Lyonville. And, as luck would have it, I found it in the first street I turned into off the main highway – sitting among the long green grass just waiting for someone to love it.

I’ve since found out that the school opened for millers’ children in 1877 and was originally called Lyon’s Steam Sawmills School – the town itself was named after John Lyon, who arrived in the district in the 1860s and obviously wasn’t shy about naming things after himself.

The old building is as cute as a button, no doubt about that. But it isn’t currently for sale and the realities of uplifting it and transporting and then renovating it quickly put me off it – in a practical sense; though naturally I still harboured the dream as I dawdled my way around the little network of Lyonville streets.

Calling them streets seems a bit of a stretch actually. They’re more your pretty, leafy country lane – narrows thoroughfares bordered by lush, lime green foliage, and great drifts of honeysuckle and blackberry, shining in the aftermath of three days rain. Lots of abandoned fruit trees and orchards with patrolling geese. I can see why increasing numbers of people are drawn to the place.

I saw no one, heard no vehicles. There are no shops, no schools, no noise apart from the birds. That in itself is a charm for many people and the growing number of new houses springing up among the old cottages, is testament to the settlement’s growing popularity as a rural retreat.

The old Radio Springs Hotel (circa 1927), is one of the few large landmarks from earlier settlement days. Even that was stone quiet. It had been closed for fifteen years when an enterprising couple purchased it and renovated to re-open in 2009. Since then, it’s been providing accommodation – along with a growing number of B&Bs in the area – for people who want to be close to Daylesford for a weekend of shopping and exploring. Inside, the rooms are appealing and you can spend a night for $200-$250.

Radio Springs Hotel

There’s a dog bowl outside – with four blue chairs – and two tyre pressure checkers – at least I think that’s what they were. They wouldn’t have been high on my list of hotel requirements but there you go.

The old railway station

The Town Hall

 I drove to the Railway Station next – Site of! A couple of the buildings are still there….to accommodate some sort of tourist train that runs from time to time I think. The original station opened in 1880 to connect the town with Daylesford and Woodend; it closed in 1978. On that note, the Lyonville Post Office opened in 1882 and closed in 1993.

The Old Town Hall – surprisingly – is still there and operational. This is thanks to the good going over it received to the tune of $135,000. The hall is a focal point for community activities. It hosts the annual Firemans’ Ball, Christmas Carols, an annual Bake-off and wood chop, plus small theatre shows, live music and weddings.

I side-tracked then, taking the road to Lyonville Mineral Springs. I’ve noted this sign for at least five years. This time I decided to satisfy my curiosity. Within minutes I was in the middle of huge stands of (very beautiful) Candlebark forest – part of the Wombat Sate Forest. It was dark, gloomy and very, very quiet. I was immediately reminded of my horror trip into the Lederderg Forest but least this road was sealed and the sign had said the springs were only 2km away.

This turned out to be another case of “Site of.”

The stone-lined pit for the springs is still there, with a very murky depth of water fenced off. I imagine it would take a lot to tempt anyone into it these days. That said, they were once “a Lyonville highlight.”

Discovered in 1912 and declared a reserve in 1914, the springs were apparently rich in carbonates, chlorine, magnesium and other trace elements and people visited from miles around. Unfortunately, by the middle of the 19th century, the landscape covering the basalt aquifer that supplied the springs with much of their water, had been cleared for agriculture and the springs days were thereafter numbered.

I stood there, in the silence of the candlebarks, looking at the historical photographs of people dressed in their best Victoria clobber – so impractical for the Australian bush – and tried to imagine what it might have been like to visit and immerse oneself in the murky mineral waters. My involuntary shudder told me all I needed to know.

I photographed gum trees on the way back to the main road, imagining all the paintings these gorgeous trees were going to inspire. Out on the main road, I sniggered, as I always do, in juvenile amusement at the sign for Peukers Lane. No doubt it was named for someone important and probably very pleasant, so it’s inappropriate perhaps, that it always reminds me of a good number of parties I’ve attended, that ended with unpleasant after effects.

Getting Lost

         

Yesterday, I decided to go for a drive to photograph gum trees. I’m captivated by them and getting a good photograph of them can be difficult, given their propensity to grow in groups, casting a myriad of shadows upon one another.

More often than not, for that very reason, I find myself photographing close-up details – the swirls of coloured bark, the smooth, white, ghost-like limbs, the coarse trunks, the giant cathedral arches they form over Victoria’s country roads.

I set off from home on an unplanned tour. I had it in my mind to head south, in the direction of the gloomy, dark roadsides that often give me a sense of unease. For the most part, gum tree stands fill me with joy but once in a while I come upon cold, deeply shaded areas that unsettle me. I don’t know what it is – a sombreness that speaks of something lonely and unknown. It doesn’t frighten me exactly but it does set my imagination racing. I thought familiarity may give me a better understanding.

As it was, I ended up taking a host of ‘diversionary roads’ – those little byways that seem to pull me in to a new exploration. I’ve always been keen on exploring ‘the side roads of life’ and when I came upon a dead fox on the road, I knew I was on the right path.

I’ve only ever seen two live foxes in Victoria – from a distance, despite the fact that they are very common here, so a dead one – roadkill – provided me with my best opportunity yet for a close-up look.

Vulpes vulpes (the red fox) was first introduced to Australia in 1871, when some bright spark thought they’d be good for sport hunting. They were released into the wild in South Australia and around Geelong in South Victoria and within two decades, they had been declared a pest. Today they range right across Australia in a wide variety of habitats and they are a significant threat to vulnerable farm animals and to native wildlife.

Trees and foxes aside, this area of Victoria (loosely Central) is endlessly pretty. I prefer it in summer when the colours are vibrant and raw but even in winter there are arresting landscapes in every direction.

I drove through Fernhill – little more than a herd of goats, a trio of alpaca and a cluster of houses - and one of those the former general store; and back up to Trentham and  potato-growing country; then back down to the Pig & Whistle.

It seems an unlikely location for a pub but back in the mining and peak potato-growing days this part of East Trentham apparently sported three stores (now the Plum Tuckered Inn), across the road. Over time they were converted into a residence and these days they welcome paying guests, who can slip across the road to sample the famous Pig & Whistle Sunday roast. There’s a beer garden too and people come from miles around.

When I parked outside, I could see straight into the dining room – all prissy and prim with white table cloths and a Christmas tree, complete with twinkling lights, beaming out from one corner (in July).

I was actually more interested in the crazy hedge that had burst through the fence to grow in an interesting, ungoverned fashion; and the house next door to the pub that had strung up its teapot collection along an internal fence and balcony.

It was at this crossroads that I had a decision to make – left back to Woodend, right towards Blackwood, or straight ahead on an unknown road to an unknown place called Bullengarook. I opted for the latter and a few hundred yards along, I noticed a small sign (warning enough for any sensible navigator), declaring Bullengarook 20km away. Why go the way everyone else goes, I thought to myself, and off I went.

Within minutes the unsealed, red dirt road had taken me into deep forest – wet, dank, gloomy, silent, and not a soul in sight. The road became progressively narrower, more potholed, more corrugated, more horrifying and I began to question my decision.

I’m all for getting lost in most circumstances. It’s a worthwhile part of any trip to anywhere. It takes you away from the comfortable, the familiar and it makes you think. You see more, you learn more and you (hopefully) learn to deal with panic. Being tossed into the unpredictable heightens your curiosity. So I wasn’t about to turn around unless something made continuing impossible.

All the above said, I travelled almost the 20 kilometres in second gear, praying the car wouldn’t stop. With every corner, every hillock I hoped to emerge but it was endless and with my car windows fogging up (sweaty anxiety), I wondered  not only where I would come out but if I would come out at all!

Signs indicated that was I adrift somewhere in the Wombat State Forest, later merging into Lerderderg State Park. That’s 700km sq and 142.5 km sq respectively. I think I could be justified in a small swell of panic. It felt like I was the last person left on earth - until suddenly, a white 4WD appeared in my rear vision mirror. That should have been a relief. It wasn’t. My head naturally turned to an unscheduled encounter with a mass murderer. Resigned to my fate, I pulled aside.

As he flashed passed – in his POLICE vehicle! – I waved furiously hoping he might stop to help but he just tooted and sped off. It gave me hope though, that I wasn’t too far from civilisation (or a murder scene), and I felt confident enough to stop and pick some of the pretty pink flowers that had been taunting me from the undergrowth.

Thankful for wintering snakes, I stepped into the bush to pick a handful of what looked to be some kind of heather. I kept a lookout over my shoulder, half expecting the policeman to reappear to apprehend me for picking some rare forest specimen in a state park.

(In later research I’d narrowed it down to two likely candidates – either the Common Heath (Epacris impressa), or some kind of Scoparia, notable for flowers exactly like these and it’s prickly foliage. The latter is apparently endemic to Tasmania – a long way from Lerderderg State Forest in Victoria; but then, I was a long way from home too.

A mere ten minutes later, I passed a group of off-road vehicles and dirt bikes and then a house emerged from the shadows and I hit a sealed road again. My relief was palpable.

I’m not sure I ever found Bullengarook. Other than a small cluster of houses and a recreation reserve, there seemed to be no visible sign of the 681 people (2006 Census) who reputedly live in the area. I never saw any wallabies, nor any wombats, echidnas, wedge-tail eagles or cockatoos who are said to live in the forest either. My memory is clouded by one policeman, a shocking road and a megaton of gloom.

It’s true though, you do learn by getting lost. Next time I see a small grey sign and a red dirt road leading into an Australian gum forest, I will go in exactly the opposite direction

Trentham, Victoria

Trentham is a pleasing little town – the gateway to the Wombat State Forest they call it - 97 kilometres north-west of Melbourne. Like many people, I’ve passed through it numerous times on my way to Daylesford because, as my Dad used to say, “Blink and you’ll miss this one love.”  It’s that sort of place – a little cluster of shops edging the main road and, until recently, not a lot of enticement to stop.

These days they call it a food hub, a gourmand’s little heaven. The former travel guide critic in me is always a little suspicious of these sorts of descriptions but for this, my first trip back to Trentham in over a year, I was prepared to give it the benefit of the doubt. It’s not like me to pass up a good meal after all.

It was just before 9am when I drove into town along the Avenue of Honour, admiring the bulky heft of St Mary Magdalen’s Catholic Church, its associated school and adjacent residence of some nature. The Catholics do a good church I have to say and the imposing cluster of brick buildings at the southern end of town hints at early settlement and the ‘jostling for best position.’

Down a slope and around the corner is the Anglican Church (above) – one of those little brick ‘storybook’ churches, resplendent in a modest, Anglican way, with bright red wooden doors (open!) and a little blackboard at the entry announcing “Sunday worship at 9am” followed by the almost erased words “Come in, rest, pray.”

I took them at their word. It’s not often these days that you actually find church doors open – not in New Zealand anyway; and as I have a liking for church architecture, I lifted the old black, metal latch on walked in. Tip toes for some obscure reason.

I love the silence of churches and the way the old timbers seem (to me) to harbour a multitude of personal histories. It was dark, with a scarlet carpet runner leading up to the sunlit altar – the light showing the way, you might say. The old wooden pews bore neat, tapestry-style upholstered cushions and I wondered how many years of ‘church bottoms’ they had gifted comfort to. Records of the first Anglican Church (wooden) start from 1864, so that suggests a pretty good bottom tally.

I didn’t linger. Call me a heathen if you must but at 9am I was more interested in finding coffee. I wandered in the general direction, taking in the unmissable presence of “Wooden Duck Antique Farmhouse and Vintage Industrial,” which inhabits the grand old wooden building that began life in 1863 as the Commercial Hotel. The hotel licence apparently ended in the 1970s but the cellars are still there – albeit with the lines to the bar now disconnected.

The line of wooden duck decoys along the upper balcony is a hint of the oddities within. Few things stir my curiosity like a good second hand or antique shop but even I was surprised by the blonde, pretty-boy mannequin’s head that stared back at me from a little glass case. He looked startled and if I’m not mistaken, a little indignant about being locked in a cabinet. Who wouldn’t be? Especially when your nearest neighbours are a metal flamingo and a pair of stuffed, wrestling foxes.

Two sections down, on a corner, the Trentham Post Office 3458 proudly announced itself as the ‘Agent for the Commonwealth Bank of Australia.’ The Australian flag was hoisted on the pole but hung there, sullen, determined not to flutter; and someone’s forgotten beige beanie hat was slung over the wall tap. I suppose I should have paid more attention to the town’s war memorial on the corner but I was distracted by the beanie and who might have left it there. And would they ever come and retrieve it?

It’s fair to say that not a lot happens in Trentham at 9am on a weekday. The town – like many in this area - comes to life from Thursday through Sunday, when over-worked Melbournians head out of the big smoke looking for a quiet country retreat, a spa, a bit of boutique shopping and some of that gourmet food I mentioned earlier. Then the shop doors open, the cash registers jingle and everyone looks busy and ready for a quiet Monday.

That said, the streets were lined with vehicles when I started my stroll towards caffeine, despite the fact that jaunty little shops like The Spotted Pony, Dr B’s Bookstore, Robin-a-Bobbin, Jargon and Two Fat Wombats were all sealed tight against the chill air.

And speaking of chill air, don’t think that for one minute that because this is Australia it doesn’t get cold. The coldest temperature ever recorded in Trentham was minus 8-degrees and snow and sleet fall here on average, 13 days per year.

But back to Two Fat Wombats with its store window jam-packed with a strange assortment of animals – some, like the sheep and the wombat, with lift-off backs that revealed a cunningly concealed Esky – or as we call them in New Zealand, a chilly bin. They appear to be made of some type of fibreglass material and, along with the door notice “Learn Chinese in Five Minutes,” the ”Sex After Death” joke taped to the glass and the ’backyard’ filled with a bewildering collection of wild (largely African) animals – from giraffe to gorillas – I couldn’t help wondering about sales figures. And who might buy a life-size fibreglass giraffe to take home.

Then I discovered Chaplin’s with its window notice “Best Coffee in Town, No Hashtag Required.” It seemed worth a shot. On all previous visits to Trentham, I’ve gone to Red Beard Bakery and Café, which is known for its fabulous sour dough breads (below) and its 100-year-old Scotch oven that ran in the original Trentham Bakery onsite from 1891-1987. The oven weighs 75 tonnes and stores enough heat from one firing to bake 600 loaves. The oven floor measures 16 square metres; and these days, visitors can watch bakers using the oven through a large viewing window.

But they were closed and Chaplin’s (above) wasn’t. Far from it in fact, it was pulsing with life – local life. This was clearly the community hub and I could see I was in the right place at the right time to watch Trentham locals hugging each other and getting about the important business of coffee drinking.

There were crocheted rugs slung over the backs of old wooden chairs – for those aforementioned freezing days no doubt; and a flurry of Charlie Chaplin memorabilia. I sat there wondering …why Charlie Chaplin…in Trentham? It wasn’t until later in the morning that it all made sense – when another local told me that Mel, who runs the show, also doubles as a Charlie Chaplin impersonator.

I fell upon a little collection of historical booklets, mostly put together by the Trentham Historical Society. “Take a Walk Around Trentham,” “The Trentham Falls Scenic Reserve,” ”Early History of the Trentham District,” “Trentham Bush Nursing Hospital,” “Trentham’s Sporting History,” “Trentham at War” and “A Hard Day’s Walk -  Growing Spuds around Trentham.”

It seems important at this point, to make reference to potatoes, given that they have played such a prominent role in the town’s history. From 1850 to the present day, the deep volcanic soils of the Trentham district have made it a prime potato-growing region. If you know where to look, you can still see many of the old spud huts that were used to house the itinerant spud diggers; and there are a number of farmers still producing spud crops –most of those have contracts with big companies like McDonald’s and McCain’s and others are growing niche varieties for the market and hospitality trades.

In the 1850s spuds were the staple diet of the nearby gold-diggers and the town still stages the annual Great Trentham Spud Fest, a quirky event which began in 2008. It was somehow reassuring too, to see that Chaplin’s, in time-honoured fashion, was giving the traditional baked spud pride of place on its lunch specials board – served with house-made coleslaw, candied bacon, sour cream, garlic butter and tasty cheese. (Eat your hearts out gourmands).

Talk of gold-diggers made me think of Trentham Falls, Victoria’s highest single-drop waterfall that plunges 32 metres into the Coliban River, just two kilometres from town. (That's the area where gold was first found). In “Early History of Trentham District” there’s a charming photo of a Victorian family sitting beside the falls sometime between 1900 and 1908. They’re decked out in typically prim Victorian wear – high-necked frilly blouses, hats, gloves and suits for the men. Completely impractical attire for Australia in any era!

But they look a whole lot happier than I remember being when, a couple of years ago, my son and family lured me to the falls with the promise of a picnic beside the river. I still remember it vividly –walking down the steep track then, as is my son’s wont, leaving the track completely and heading into thigh-high undergrowth in the vague direction of the sound of running water.

I couldn’t hear water and all I could think about was snakes and poisonous spiders lying in wait for one of my chubby legs to bite into. Every rustle, every tiny movement harboured some threat to my safety and I never relaxed for a minute, not even when the sandwiches came out of their wrapping. Suffice to say I’ve never been back.

Back at Chaplin’s, I moved on to “Trentham’s Sporting History.” I’m not a rugby or football fan of any description and I barely warm up at the mention of cricket but I figured the district must have spawned some famous person who liked donning whites, or rolling about in the mud.

And perhaps it has but I never found out. I was so completely enthralled by what must surely be the high point of Trentham’s sporting history – the annual Annelid (Worm) Race, which started in 1980 and continued for the next decade, ending rather abruptly for no apparent reason – although a change of date or a change of venue have been suggested as possible reasons.

I would like to have met the person who instigated the first Worm Race. He – I assume it was a man – sounds like a quirky character worthy of further investigation. And while you may wonder if he raced worms on his own, the answer is, No, he didn’t.  The first race attracted 26 entrants and over the years that number grew to over 200, with people travelling inter-state to attend the annual Australia Day event. It seems a shame – in this age of gourmands and boutique shoppers – that things like worm races have lost their place on the Trentham calendar.

I left Chaplin’s much wiser – and much more watchful. It had become clear over Mel’s coffee that there was much more to this little town that first meets the eye. It’s the same with any small town of course – that’s why I love these places. They seem slow and quiet but scratch the surface and you discover all manner of curiosities.

Trentham may be establishing itself as a gourmand’s little heaven but it’s the oddities, the curiosities and the mundane that enchant me about the place. It may be ‘trending’ for visiting Mellbournians but I love the fact that it’s still true to its rural roots. It still has handwritten notices for lost cats taped to shop windows; and town noticeboards that advertise things like Hay for Sale, a Writer’s Retreat to “unlock your inner voice,” and line dancing classes (Mondays. $4 per person).

And old men still gather at Trentham Town Square to laugh and talk together and play bowls – or maybe it’s petanque in this gourmand age?