Chapter 14 - The Great Ocean Road

The Great Ocean Road - is it a great road along an average ocean or a great ocean next to an average road? It was a topic of discussion and one we debated heavily as our car travelled south-west out of the city towards Torquay. This was the second instalment of my Easter week adventure and I was thoroughly looking forward to it. Having arrived back from Bendigo, Skip had fed me and then shipped me off to LJ's as he had some interviews to attend. It is difficult as a traveller, as you do not wish to burden people with your presence, but then any opportunity to spend a night in a bed not infested with cockroaches must be ceased upon. Mel and I hadn't exactly asked Lisa-Jayne for her hospitality, instead we had merely subtly implied that it would be a large help to us and our diminishing funds. The fact that she had a lovely suburban home with a swimming pool may have swayed our decision ever so slightly too. Anyway, we spent an enjoyable couple of days visiting good shopping spots around Melbourne as well as seeing the Gaol where Ned Kelly was hanged, before Mel flew to Cairns to continue her travels around Australia. I was sad to see her leave as her energetic and optimistic outlook had never failed to cheer me up. But more than that, I envied her incredible lifestyle
'Where are you going to stay when you get to Cairns' I had asked her
'Lisa's got some grandparents up there and she's arranged for me to have a bed at their place while I get settled down. But after that - who knows? I'll go wherever the wind takes me'
Many people may view this as a rather wasteful lifestyle adopted by those unsure of their role in life. But I saw it as an incredibly brave adventure conducted by someone unwilling to waste her life in an office. She travelled from place to place until she got bored, and then simply moved on - what could be more rewarding than that? Drifters like Mel should not be looked down upon and pitied by society, but instead admired - for they are the only people daring enough to live life to the full. Everyone dreams of carpe diem, but little do we realise that it's only people like Mel who can truly achieve it. I hoped I would see her again on my travels. Now though, I had my own mini-adventure to conduct.

Being locals to the area, LJ and Tess had travelled along The Great Ocean road many times as children, but had since become oblivious to its charm. It’s understandable really as most people never really appreciate the something that’s on their doorstep – here I was touring Australia and I hadn’t ever been to Scotland. With my tourist-like enthusiasm acting as a catalyst, both seemed to have had their wilted spirit restored as we embarked on the trip with a great sense of anticipation. Stretching for over 300km, the road provides debatably the most spectacular coastline scenery in the world, through an area incorporating world-famous surf beaches, the Otways rainforest and (le pièce de résistance) the lighthouse from ‘Round the Twist’. With the surfboards loaded on LJ’s roof-rack, we arrived at the road’s gateway in Torquay. Taking advantage of its status as a famous surfing town, the streets were dominated by commercial billboards advertising expensive beach merchandise none of us could afford. Each of the famous brands had its own huge, extravagantly built department store which we looked around with interest. Deciding that food for the next two months was a far greater priority, I resisted the temptation to purchase a pair of overpriced board-shorts even though the devilishly attractive assistant insisted I should. Apparently they would’ve made me look like ‘a spunk’ on the beach, but I don’t think she’d noticed my freakishly white skin. Escaping the prowl of these dangerously, irresistible sales women, we jumped back in the car quickly and sped off along The Surfcoast Highway. ………….

………………This first section of The Surfcoast Highway was inland by about 1km and so provided quite an anti-climax for the start of The Great Ocean Road, despite providing some charming countryside views. It was just the lack of ocean that worried us slightly, however this all changed upon arrival at Anglesea. Hoping to take part in some water sports, we soon found ourselves a quiet little beach just west of the town. Having unloaded the boards, we were just preparing for my first lesson when the sun suddenly disappeared and the heavens opened from above. Having not seen much rain for months, Victoria was certainly trying to make up for it now. Running back to the car, Tessa shouted back at me
‘Johnny Boy, where the hell are you going?’
‘Into the car – it’s raining!’ I shouted back, surprised at her question
‘Don’t be such a Pommie wimp! Come on, the rain won’t hurt you’
‘It’s bloody freezing! You’re ok, you’ve got a wet suit on – I’ve just got my feeble English skin’
‘Come on, surfing in the rain is way more fun anyway. You’re going to get wet in the water so what’s the problem? Plus, sharks never attacked people when it’s raining so you’ll be fine’
She had a good point – not about the sharks, but about the whole ‘getting wet’ scenario, plus I admired her perseverance so decided to give the surfing a shot. Luckily, one of her friends had joined us and she just happened to be a qualified instructor which was rather convenient. Lying on a surfboard drawn in the wet sand, I acted out her instructions on how to ‘catch a wave’ and the technique for standing up. I wasn’t sure why I was learning how to stand up, as I was convinced that such a complex skill would be beyond me. Quite naively though, I though it all seemed rather simple. A little too simple perhaps, but I was still full of optimism as I ran towards the rough looking sea. Then I remembered the sharks and stopped in my tracks
‘Tess?’
‘Yes’
‘Are there any sharks around? It seems a little stupid to use a beach without a shark net’
‘You’ve got nothing to worry about – just put the thought of sharks out of your mind. They don’t even like the taste of humans anyway and usually only eat an arm’
‘That’s really put my mind at rest – thank you. But seriously, have there been many attacks around here?’
‘None for years that I’ve heard of’
‘Right there are two things in that reply that worry me. For starts you said ‘not for years’ which suggests there have been some before, which in turn suggests that sharks like it around here. The other thing you said is ‘that I’ve heard of’ which, since you don’t read the newspapers, makes your statement irrelevant’
‘Just get on your board and shut up’
She was right of course – I mean, why worry about going into water infested with something generally considered to be the greatest hunter on the planet. Some people may even refer to it as ‘the perfect killing machine’ but of course it’s probably just misunderstood. With ten other surfers in the sea however, I calculated that my chances of being taken were only 10% even if a shark did attack and so began paddling out towards the breaking waves. This in itself may seem like a relatively straight forward exercise, especially when watching the professionals from the beach, nevertheless I soon discovered that it was deceivingly difficult. Having been embarrassingly flipped over a couple of times by breaking waves it became apparent that your timing was imperative. Unfortunately, it appeared that mine wasn’t. Every time I thought it was a good opportunity to paddle out, another wave would pick me up and ceremoniously dump me upside down into the water below. Imagine (if you will) going to play basketball and then realising in front of loads of onlookers that you can’t even catch a ball and you can start to gauge the sort of humiliation I was feeling. Like a mother helping her child who’s just dribbled all down himself, Tessa thankfully came to the rescue and got me out into the sea so I could finally excel. Obviously I didn’t, but I was a lot better than my efforts to paddle out would suggest. The highlight came towards the end when, after a number of failed attempts, I almost stood up. Looking out to sea, I had seen one particularly large wave approaching and prepared myself for it carefully. Spinning my board around quickly and paddling as fast as my arms could manage, I was picked up by its incredible power. With a sudden burst of energy, I was flying along at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. Grabbing the sides of the board, I pulled myself up and was just about to let out a triumphant cheer when my foot slipped, I fell backwards the board shot out from underneath me. Emerging from the freezing sea and coughing up pints of salt water, I attempted to get my bearings but before I could, another gigantic wave took out its fury on my head. This pattern of events inevitably continued until I was eventually beached on the sandy shoreline like a piece of discarded driftwood. And that, I’m afraid to say, is as good as it got. It was great fun though and I was slightly disappointed when the experience was cut short due to a large rash developing on my chest caused by the abrasion of the board. Thinking about it, I had probably been tempting fate earlier in the day by claiming ‘rash vests were for wimps’. I’ll know never to make that mistake again.

After having some food in a café made entirely out of corrugated iron, we continued on our trip from Anglesea towards Lorne. Immediately, all the doubts I had concerning the greatness of this road were forgotten as we embarked on some of the finest scenery I have ever seen. Hugging the ocean for the entire span, the road meandered round the steep cliffs. As dusk approached, the subtle light accentuated the definition between the contrasting green cliffs and powerful grey sea creating an incredible backdrop. The road was so close to the sea in points that, as I peered out of the car window, it almost felt like we were driving through the raging waves. Rounding a headland, the sun began to set and the clouded skies were illuminated creating an awe inspiring red and purple canvas above our heads. Asking LJ to pull over, I jumped out and captured the image before it vanished for all of eternity. Taking a moment to gather my thoughts, I looked out across the swirling ocean which seemed have calmed since earlier. Instead of waves crashing into the cliff below, the whole sea seemed to be rocking periodically in elegant unison. As the light dissolved, the intricate details of the massive cliffs became clear as they provided a perfect framework for this overpowering picture. With such attention to detail, God had blatantly been swigging Red Bull just before designing this small corner of the Earth. Unfortunately, night fall was approaching and LJ was keen to get on. We continued past The Split Point lighthouse where ‘Round the Twist’ was filmed and onto Lorne – described as the Surfer’s Paradise of The Great Ocean Road. I could see why people would say that, although the overall feel was ever so slightly more tasteful. Desperate to get to a camping site before nightfall though, we drove through relatively quickly and didn’t get a chance to experience it enough to pass any significant judgement. Continuing along this glorious costal road, we eventually arrived at a small settlement called Wye River where we set up camp near the beach and squeezed into a tiny two man tent for some well deserved rest…………….

………………………We then faced a dilemma – turn left and travel directly south to the Cape Otway Lighthouse, or continue on our path towards The Twelve Apostles? I had read quite a bit of literature concerning the lighthouse which was the longest running on mainland Australia until it was decommissioned in 1994. Constructed in 1846, it was seen as an essential piece of engineering to help ships on their difficult and dangerous journey through the windswept western gateway of the Bass Straight known as ‘The Eye of the Needle’. However, since the next region of shoreline was known as ‘The Shipwreck Coast’ it appears all their efforts may well have been in vain. Still, it was a nice symbol and represented an important piece of Australian maritime heritage so I was quite keen to see it. Unfortunately the others were not and I was subsequently outvoted. Still, it gave us time to enjoy a relaxing lunch in a delightful little bakery in Johanna before setting off for the real tourist attractions.

The power of marketing is a wonder to behold. Nobody thinks they are taken in by it, yet we all are. Here we were making a 200km pilgrimage so we could have our photos taken in front of some limestone stacks. When you think about it that way, it seems like pure and utter madness. I’m sure we all loved studying the processes of erosion in geography class, but making such efforts just to witness its effects seems a little extreme. Prior to the 1950s when the world wasn’t dominated by such media propaganda, these stone stacks, standing 20-30 metres from the shoreline, were simply known as ‘The Sow and Piglets’. However, looking for a more appealing name in order to boost tourism in the area, this was soon changed to ‘The 12 Apostles’ despite the fact that there were only 9 of them. But my God did it work. I was expecting a small lay-by, perhaps with a roadside hot-dog van and a tiny platform on which to take photos. Instead, there was a huge car park in the shadow of the ultra-modern visitor centre and hundreds of metres of intricate walkways linking many look-out-points. No wonder everybody I had met seemed to have an incredible photo of The Twelve Apostles – I just thought they had been adventurous enough to climb out onto the delicate cliffs, but it seems they had put in far less effort. On closer inspection though, I was pleasantly surprised to see that these amendments had been implemented with a large amount of dignity. Thankfully, the visitor centre was not a hoard of cheap, tacky t-shirts featuring the statement ‘I love Victoria!’ but instead presented a number of elegant poems written about this astonishing coastline. As we crossed the road, I suddenly began to get quite excited by the prospect just in front of me and realised just how strong the effects of their powerful advertising had been. Having seen so many photos, I suppose I had developed a strange sense of familiarity with the scene, even though I had never visited before. There they were in front of me – The 12 Apostles standing proud and solid amidst the crashing waves on the inaccessible and untouched beach below. The wind was so strong that we all had to hold onto the railings to stop ourselves being knocked over, which gave testament to the extreme conditions this stretch of coast lashes out for those hoping to sail it. I wouldn’t describe the sight as divine like many people, but thinking about what these stone stacks had achieved was certainly inspiring. Unlike the rest of the cliffs around them, these small pillars of strength had not fallen into the sea beneath. Under continuous, immense pressure they had been tough and defiant in the face of adversity. For me, they were not a mythical symbol of religious descent, more importantly, they were a defining example of resilience, courage and spirit. As if to reiterate my point, I recently read that one of the largest ones has fallen down. It seems strange to name something that is slowly eroding away after such important religious icons, although thinking about, it probably provides a good representation of how our modern society is changing.

In 1878, the Loch Ard ship set sail from England on its way to Melbourne. It took about three months before the passengers on board saw the great land of Australia from deck. Relief short lived, imagine their dismay when, just a few miles from entering the Bass Strait, they hit a patch of dense fog. I think you know that luck is not on your side if, having just entered an area of ocean known as ‘Shipwreck Coast’ you have your visibility cut to just a few metres. It would be like wondering into a bear trap testing field blindfolded, which I think you’ll agree is a situation nobody wants to find themselves in. So, it is no surprise (although I’m sure it was to the passengers) to hear that the ship never made it to Melbourne and instead crashed into a reef just off Mutton Bird Island. With a strong, swirling ocean pounding the hull, the ship sank within fifteen minutes preventing any life boats being launched effectively. Shockingly, only 2 of the 54 on board survived. One was an apprentice named Tom Pearce who, having found himself washed ashore in a small cove swam back out to sea in order to save a screaming women named Eva Carmichael. Alive but deserted and cold, the two found themselves on small beach just ten minutes west of The Twelve Apostles, and this is where we found ourselves now. When we got out of the car and walked across the headland, there was an eerie silence in the air. Now named after the wreck, Loch Ard Gorge is a fabulous place to view the extremities of costal erosion. High above the devastating ocean below, we had a fabulous view of the caves, arches and stacks being carefully carved by the relentless sea. Seeing the extent of this damage only made the survivors’ story seem even more miraculous. The beach itself was a tiny circular cove, surrounded almost entirely by steep cliffs with only a small gap for the sea to approach. Modern steps has been built down to the beach, however these obviously wouldn’t have been presented when Eva and Tom were washed ashore here. I tried to imagine what it must’ve been like for them and how (in a cruel twist of fate) their spirits would have been crushed having discovered that they had been washed into an impenetrable cove. As far as I could see, the only feasible escape route would’ve been back the way they had entered. To this day, I still do not know how they escaped but it is an interesting problem to try and contemplate. Still, although I had read the story and was standing in its menacing setting, the reality of it had not registered with me entirely. I suppose I treated it the same way was some kind of mythical legend. Then, we came across the graves of four of the unfortunate and the reality of it became hauntingly apparent. The mood was suddenly very sombre. In a somewhat ironic act of nature, the sun then appeared, brightly illuminating the golden sand and transforming the sea into a warm bath of turquoise. It was hard to believe what sinister acts it was capable of.

With time running out we made one final stop just down the coast at ‘The London Arch’. As the name suggests, it is a huge limestone arch located in the middle of the ocean. I had never seen waves this big in my life, and although we were sixty or seventy metres above the beach, the destructive force of the waves could be felt as their crushing vibrations transferred up through the cliffs and into my feet. The power they portrayed was simply devastating.
‘Those waves are so powerful’ I mused with LJ
‘Yeah, you can see how strong they are just there’ pointing at the arch ‘it used to be called ‘London Bridge’, but the bridge collapsed back in 1990 and trapped some tourists!’
‘Really? Was anyone killed?’
‘No, thankfully nobody was walking across the bridge when it collapsed, but the tourists had to get rescued by helicopter. It just goes to show how much force those waves possess’
With that, we jumped back in the car and started back for Melbourne. It had been a wonderful few days allowing me to experience majestic scenery, exciting legends and the thrill of (almost) riding the waves. The answer to my very first question was now blatantly apparent - this was a great road next to a great ocean.

The next week we were back in Licola for the last few days of the season. Our last camp was cancelled, so we spent our week reflecting on the past few months. Ending the season in style, we purchased all the alcohol the shop could provide and danced the night away! With no neighbours around, we could simply make as much noise as was humanly possible, which was all the encouragement I needed to get on the karaoke machine. Nevertheless, I was ultimately very sad to leave. This incredible little town in the mountains had provided me with the comfort and stability I associated with home. The people too had made Grant and I welcome, incorporating us in their very special Australian society. I appreciated everything they had all done for me and would miss them deeply, but it was time to take this country by storm and unlock some more of its secrets.

CHAPTER 13 - BENDIGO

When a train conductor describes somewhere as ‘rather close’, you would be forgiven for thinking it was within walking distance. Nevertheless, you wouldn’t necessarily expect to be travelling for more than say, ten minutes. Pulling into Bendigo station two hours and over 150km later though, I was reminded of the mammoth scale the Australian people work on. Believing I would be alighting relatively quickly, I hadn’t actually taken a seat at the Spencer Street central Melbourne station, but instead stood by the door with keen anticipation. Having returned from Wilsons Prom, we had endured two weeks of solid work with a school for disabled children before conducting a sponsored camp for those who were disadvantaged. Both were incredibly rewarding experiences, but ultimately very exhausting. It was quite a relief to be offered a week’s holiday, so we all accepted with enthusiasm. Fancying a change of scenery and taking advantage of some distant relatives'' hospitality, Grant had flown to Hobart for a week of relaxation. Although I was happy he was going to spend Easter in a lovely furnished family home with a comfy bed and a never ending supply of food, this did nonetheless leave me in a little bit of a pickle. Depressed and facing the prospect of Easter alone in a hostel room that had the uncanny knack of making a prison cell seem luxurious, Skip, Tess and LJ had mercifully come in for the rescue. Like a child burdening his divorced parents, I hassled them for attention, forcing them to take on the responsibility of entertaining me over the next week. Skip had volunteered himself for the first leg and very kindly invited me along on a camping trip to Bendigo, where we could light big fires whilst drinking copious amounts of alcohol, relatively consequence free and without caution.

 

It was early evening when the train eventually pulled into the station, but the town was alive with that strange bubbly energy that seems to accompany fun fairs on their travels. Discussing our plans for the evening, we decided to take a walk around the rides - not so much to have a go on 'The Big Wheel' but more to soak up the enjoyable festivities. Perhaps it was the dazzling lights and vivacious atmosphere, but I certainly warmed to Bendigo much more than expected. Like other settlements in the area, its origins had occurred during the great gold rush in the late 1950s, in contrast to its brothers though, it had a deep sense of character that was still evolving. Far from mundane, the buildings lining the street actually displayed a large amount of variety in their architecture making me feel like I had finally arrived in a real town. Yes, the large boulevards still existed, but they were surrounded by huge Victorian stone buildings, decorated with beautiful carvings worthy of an avenue in Paris. The proud cathedral was not made out of wood, nor was it painted in any obscene colours – it was made with thick stone and with a traditional gothic design. I loved Bendigo, for this was not the result of a scribbling in a mathematician’s notepad during coffee break - it was an ever-changing example of artistic flamboyance. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating ever so slightly, but I was just so happy to find a town whose design wasn't inspired by a depressingly logical mind. The fact that the high street wasn't merely a never-ending, perfectly straight stretch of repetitive tarmac, periodically intercepted at right-angles by hundreds of cloned roads and littered by a few thousand pedestrian crossings, just made me want to weep with joy. A typical English town (with the exception of Milton Keynes) proudly exhibits pieces of inspiration from many different people, ranging over hundreds of years and incorporating a great diversity in style. Many would say that the result is simply an untidy mess where the confusing streets and alleyways will take you in every direction except the one in which you wish to travel. But, I say to you my friends, you have failed to realise that it is this fantastic characteristic that creates the brilliant sense of adventure and unpredictability our towns are famed - for even the simplest stroll has the potential to turn into a three day expedition through the unknown. In contrast, Victorian settlements are somewhat smothered with an aura of inevitable certainty. Of course, there were still areas of Bendigo that were dominated by this terrible grid formation, but certain parts around the CBD had escaped unharmed, and these were the parts I cherished with joyful enthusiasm.

 

Skip had loads of female friends, so he had invited two along for a little variation in conversation. It surprised me that Kylie and Jess (being typical city girls) were willing to come camping in the middle of nowhere. To be honest, I don’t know many women who would eagerly sign up for a night in the wilderness in England, but add to the mix redback spiders, along with the ten most deadliest snakes in the world and you’ve got yourself a scenario about as appealing as a honeymoon in Baghdad. I was keen to get their take on things so fired a few questions at them as we enjoyed a schooner in one of the bars

‘Does the fact that every animal in this country is out to kill you not play on your mind slightly?’ I asked

‘Well, how long have you been here? Kylie replied

‘About four months now’

‘And during all that time you’ve been working in the bush. So how many animals have attacked you?’

‘Ah, I see where you’re going with this but, even if a serial killer hadn’t attacked me yet I still wouldn’t want to sit next to him on a bus’

‘Ok fine, but how many spiders or snakes have you seen?’

‘Well a brown snake groped my feet the other day, but I haven’t seen any spiders. Well, actually we had loads of massive spiders in our flat in Licola but Skip said they were just huntsman and not to worry’

‘Umm’ Skip said suddenly joining in our conversation ‘about that – I wasn’t actually sure if they were huntsman or not, I just didn’t want you to panic’

‘Right’ I said in disbelief ‘so in order to stop me panicking, you sent me to bed with a huge, potentially fatal spider. Good thinking – I mean, how can I panic when I’m dead?’

‘Sorry dude, you’re fine though so I wouldn’t worry about it – nobody in Australia really thinks about it’

‘It’s true’ Kylie said ‘we’ve been brought up around all this wildlife and you generally just forget about it. It’s best not to let yourself worry. I haven’t seen a snake in years’

I couldn’t help think that this comment may have been tempting fate. Fortunately, this proved not to be case as our first evening passed completely snake free. Still, if someone had said something like that to me before this trip had begun, I would’ve said ‘yeah right – forget about the deadly assassins all around me?! No chance!’ It was true though – the thought about snakes and spiders had generally slipped to the back of my mind, so much so that I never even checked my boxer shorts when putting them on in the mornings. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

 

Our camp site was located in a small area of bush next to a river. In order to get there, we turned off the road into a field, crossed that for about half a mile, before meandering our way through some trees. Basically, it wasn't what you would call an 'official' camping spot

'Are we allowed to camp here?' I asked Skip 'I mean - will anyone mind?'

'This is OZ mate, nobody minds where you camp as long as you clean up after yourself and don't start a bush fire' he said while ferreting around in the back of his car for something

'What if we do start a bush fire?'

'Hmmm, I don't know really. I suppose we'd just have to drive and get away from here as quickly as possible. The public don't take kindly to that sort of thing so it'd probably be best to distant ourselves from it. Don't worry though, my car's fast so we'd have no problems'

On saying these words, he finally emerged from the car with his find - a giant chainsaw. Grabbing the pull cord, he fired it up with a huge grin and announced

'I'm off to get some fire wood'

Why is it that us men get so excited by the prospect of burning things? There must be something in testosterone that turns us all into raging pyromaniacs. Talk to men about football and some will show an interest - talk to men about breasts and many will show an interest. But talk to men about fires and I guarantee they will shake uncontrollably with intense excitement and anticipation. Sweat will drip down their forehead as you report the height of the flames and how the crackles from within were produced with deafening volume. Maybe it is that caveman instinct attempting to free itself from the chains of oppression in which modern society holds it. For some reason, the people who govern our land have seen fit to outlaw random acts of destructive satisfaction, causing those natural urges to remain suppressed beneath our peaceful demeanour. It is my theory that fire provides a unique opportunity to release these feelings and allow them to blossom once again. Am I trying to rationalise the irrational? Perhaps it is just an unexplainable truth, but a truth nonetheless and one I was very aware of when I saw Skip return with a mountain of wood. This was going to be a big fire. Unwilling to settle for just big however, we set off into the wilderness with one goal in mind - make the biggest fire imaginable. The girls were oblivious to our efforts and remained seated by the radio as we gathered fuel for the furnace. They wouldn't understand anyway. We trekked across bush-land looking for that ultimate trophy, until finally, we found it. Rounding a corner, we found a felled, dry tree truck lying in the long grass. I wasn't sure what type of tree it had been, but it certainly wasn't a conventional one with many irregular branches and knobbly shapes coming from the body. I was however, perfectly aware of its potential. About a metre in diameter and two long, it possessed the capability to make all our dreams come true. Attempting to lift it, we soon realised that help would be required. Unwilling to cut it open with the fear of disturbing a deadly spider’s home, we instead used the brute force of the car to drag it into position. The girls were shocked by the sheer size and even more shocked by the effort we had put in just for a log. But this wasn’t any log - it burned all through the day and long into the night with heat so intense we had to sit ten metres from its mesmerising flicker. Taking advantage of the huge energy it radiated, we cooked three meals (including Easter lunch) before huddling around and exchanging ghost stories long into the night.

 

Suddenly through the a gap in the trees, I caught a glimpse of headlights. They were moving erratically as if the car were travelling across uneven ground. What’s more, they were coming towards us. Looking at our watches, we saw it was nearly midnight

‘Who the hell could this be? Shit, they’re coming straight for us’ said Jess obviously quite scared

‘Get a couple of knives, it could be a mental case’ chipped in Kylie. I tried to calm the mood

‘I tell you what guys - look at us- four youths having a fun day camping in the middle of nowhere and then we completely vanish. This is just like the start of horror movie’

‘Ah shit mate, shut up’ Skip shouted as he reached around for a weapon. All he could muster was a spatchelor though as the lights continued to home in on us and we could hear the high revs of the engine. Standing in a line, each gripping a different kitchen utensil for protection, we waited for the inevitable. I had never really considered how I would react in such a situation. Thinking back now, I am surprised I didn’t run away as my mind was telling me to do. The lights got so bright I could see the whites of Skip’s eyes as they illuminated his face.

‘Guys this is really scary, I think we need to do runner’ Kylie said slowly in a terrified voice

‘And leave all this stuff here? I’m not leaving my car here for them to smash to pieces. Whatever it is, I’m sure we’ll be able to sort it out’ Skip replied with an authoritative whisper.

The car was much closer now – less than twenty metres as it made its way through the bushes just as Skip’s car had earlier that day. It couldn’t be a coincidence, they were coming straight for our location. Ten metres now and we could see the white body work, of the 4x4. Then it stopped. Ten metres away from us with the headlights right in our face to blind our vision. Then a door opened and a voice spoke

‘What the hell is going on here?!’ it said. We looked at each other looking for something to say

‘What? Who the hell are you?’ Skip shouted back ‘we’re just camping’

‘Ah bloody hell’ replied the voice as the driver killed the lights and started walking towards us ‘I’m the ranger from around here – some drivers reported a fire in the woods so I came to check it out. Bloody hell, that’s one hell of a fire!’

‘Jesus mate, you scared the hell out of us’ I said with a sudden sigh of relief. The girls were now laughing at how scared they had been just moments before

‘Sorry guys, I just wanted to check out what was going on. You scared me too to be honest’ turning, he examined our camp ‘that fire’s bloody impressive, how’d you move that tree trunk?!’ he said, obviously impressed

‘We towed it with the car’ Skip said ‘do you want a beer mate?’

‘Now you’re talking my language’

We had a few drinks as he told us some of the funny things he had caught campers doing throughout the past few weeks. He stayed for an hour or so before declaring he ‘probably should get back to the wife’. It was certainly a marvellous experience and one that made me admire this country even more. I couldn’t image a warden (or whatever he was) being so laid back at home. Usually, people abuse authority, but like most Australians he had shown an element of common sense along with the great ability to ‘have a laugh’. Then, without warning, the heavens opened and it started to pour. This was the first rain I had seen in months and I could feel the countryside dancing for joy as it fell. I went back to my tent for some cover, laughing at Skip who was sleeping in just a 'swag' – a full body sleeping bag incorporating a small mattress. These are incredibly popular with campers, especially on tours of Uluru as they keep you ‘in touch with nature’. As the water drained through the feeble face netting, Skip confirmed this claim to be true. A better friend would’ve invited him into the tent, but I was laughing way too much to think about such trivial things.  

CHAPTER 12 - SNAKES...AND WILSONS PROM

Setting up a picnic, we ate lunch on a veranda attached to the separate barbeque buildings that was across the main lawn. Intrigued as to how the inhabitants grew their own food, Grant, Cherry’s uncle and I made our way down to the organic vegetable garden by the river. It was relatively modest in size, but as I wandered round I couldn’t help feel impressed by the diversity of vegetables they were growing. Looking to investigate further I walked deeper into some longer vegetation and it was then that I heard a frantic rustling up ahead. Stopping dead in my tracks, the grass up ahead started shaking violently and moving straight in my direction – it was just like a velociraptor attack in ‘Jurassic Park’. Thinking back to my initial training and attempting to remain calm, I stood as still as I possibly could. It is a strange sensation as it goes against every natural instinct you possess. My mind was willing my body to run and escape the danger as quickly as possible, but I knew that move could be fatal. Remaining still, the bushes continued to rustle as the noise got louder converging on my feet. Three metres. Two metres. One metre…I dared myself to look down at the ground and as I did, I saw its black body shoot out from the grass, followed by a long tail. The rat sprinted across my feet, not paying any attention to my presence. I sighed with relief as my heart kicked in and started beating again. But then a shuddering thought crossed my mind – what was it running from? Then, from where the rat had just emerged, I noticed the grass move again. This time though, the movements were not of an animal frantically panicking – they were subtle, calculated and produced with purpose. Right then I knew exactly what was coming. Holding my breath, I remained as still as possible and waited for my fate to reveal itself. The nearest hospital was a river crossing, two kilometre walk and eighty minute drive away, so any sort of attack would pretty much mean certain death. It was exactly that thought that was passing through my head when I felt it touch my leg. Before I looked down, I knew exactly what I was about to witness. It was a Brown Snake – generally considered to be the second deadliest in the whole world. With its tongue periodically flicking to taste the surrounding air, it had slithered in between my feet with its dark maroon body following. It moved with the focus of predator – a predator out to kill. Two metres of its body passed between my feet before it was finally gone. Fearing to move, I remained perfectly still for a few more moments before I heard a shout the left. With such drama unfolding I had forgotten that Grant and Cherry’s uncle were here.

‘Look here guys – it’s a bloody brown snake!’ shouted Cherry’s uncle with incredible enthusiasm ‘lets catch the bastard!’

With those words, he ran through the undergrowth chasing it in a style Steve Irwin would’ve been proud of. For so many obvious reasons, this seemed like the most stupid thing to do. Stupid in the same way as playing around with the wires of an armed nuclear bomb ‘just for a laugh’ would be. It is simply madness. Thankfully though, the snake evaded his lunges and we were able to return home venom free.

Five hours later and our Subaru car was finally pulling into Tidal River some 230km away. Bomber was an experienced camper and seasoned traveller, so his claim that Wilsons Prom was ‘the must see place in Victoria’ made this trip rather exciting. Having once described Southend-on-sea as ‘a place that rivals Auschwitz as the most depressing on Earth’, I knew his astute travel analysis was fairly accurate. In his mid-thirties, Bomber (his real name was Anthony, but nobody used it) was a bachelor, freelancing in outdoor education at schools and camps. One of the main reasons he was so good at it was because it was his passion. It is a rare thing to be able to combine a hobby with a job, but Bomber had achieved this feat and appeared a very happy being as a result. Throughout our entire journey, he had entertained us through singing songs, telling comedy stories and playing a huge game of ‘Horse’. This involved spotting horses in the fields, pointing at them and shouting ‘horse’ as loud as you possibly could. The first person to दो सो would receive ten points. Of course other animals were included along the way, including a tortoise which Bomber spotted and subsequently landed him fifty points – that lucky guy. To be honest, it did seem a little like he was making up the rules as we went along, although he assured us that it was purely experience that had seen him romp through to a 500 point victory.

By the time we arrived, the camp site was bathed in darkness, so we set up camp quickly on the sand floor and cracked open our beers. Earlier in the night Bomber had introduced us to a truly fantastic Australian invention – the drive through off-licence. We drove in, ordered our beer and ice and then simply waited as it was carried to our car. Then we drove off, stocked full of alcohol and having wasted no additional calories in the process. Why had no one in England thought of this before? It is quite simply, a genius idea – now, we no longer have to put any effort into getting booze, we can simply roll from the sofa into the car, have someone else load the alcohol at the shop, before driving home and calling our wives to move it into the fridge. Marvellous stuff. Getting the gas-stove burning quickly we settled down for a bit of food after our long journey. Whilst chopping some peppers, I noticed Bomber examining something on his arm

‘What’s up mate, you look concerned’ I enquired.

‘Nothing mate, just checking out this mole on my skin – if it goes black it’s a sign of skin cancer’. He must’ve seen my concerned look ‘don’t worry though John boy, it’s just one of the hazards of living in this beautiful place. Believe me, there’s a flip-side to most things and this is one of Australia’s’

‘Yeah and the fact that every animal is trying its hardest to kill you’ I added, trying to lighten the mood.

Bomber wasn’t depressed though, as it was something he and most Australians had come to live with. They simply saw it as an inevitable consequence of their life, but not a life threatening one if precautions were taken to catch it. I found it difficult to contemplate living in the knowledge that you had a 33% chance of developing skin cancer. I was surprised with how well they were coping with it – their behaviour was admirable. Following a good, fulfilling meal, we were all feeling rather lethargic so I suggested a stroll down to the beach to finish off the beers. It was 11pm at night so, the walk wasn’t exactly straight forward, but as we emerged onto Norman Bay, I immediately knew it was worth it. We couldn’t see the ocean, only hear the roar of the waves and feel the earth trembling as they crashed onto the sand. Taking refuge in a small gap in the sand dunes, we took out a beer each and just sat. The lighthouse flashed intermittently in the distance as a cruise ship sailed across our view. Above us, another incredible canvas of stars again revealed themselves to provide a perfect backdrop. It was nights like this I had dreamed about when planning my gap year. Now I was here and the reality was even better,

‘Quite a night hey Bomber? So, why do you love it here so much’ I asked

‘It’s हार्ड to describe really, hopefully you’ll understand by the end of the trip. I suppose it’s just such a unique place. You get that a lot with this country – just when you think you’ve seen it all, something else of interest emerges. You’ll see tomorrow’

And with that, Bomber quite spontaneously (as he was quite inclined to do) burst into a rousing rendition of a Collingwood football song.

Wilsons Promontory is a national park situated at the most southerly tip of mainland Australia. With an abundance of diverse wildlife it stretches over 90 square kilometres incorporating wild bush land, mountainous walks and some glorious beaches. As with many national parks in the country, there is a strong Aboriginal spiritual connection with some archaeological records, suggesting it was occupied up to 6500 years ago and was possibly used as part of a walkway to Tasmania during ice ages. Having read this information in a local brochure, I could immediately see why Bomber spoke so highly of it. I had already experienced the ‘diverse’ wildlife having had two particularly aggressive possums fight outside my tent for what seemed like the entire evening. Still, it was nice to be up early to witness the sunrise before toasting some hot-cross buns on the fire for breakfast. I had been in Australia for two months now, but it was still hard to believe all the things I had achieved in that time. There were more memories to be had though. So, eager to get my own back on Grant from his early morning wake-up call during the Grand Prix I grabbed a frying pan and wooden spoon. Attempting to keep in my childish laughter, I sneaked into his tent, positioned it by his ear and banged as loud as I possibly could.

‘WAKE UP GRANT! TIME TO GO WALKING!’

‘You’re….an…….absolute……bastard’ is all he could muster in response

Happy that I had finally returned this most annoying favour, I walked across to the modern shower block for a wash. However, having spotted about twenty leaches climbing up the wall of my cubicle, I quickly left. Eager not to have my blood extracted, I decided the sea would provide a much better alternative for a wash. It was then that I remembered that the waters were shark infested – so it was a toss up – leaches or sharks? For some bizarre reason that still remains a mystery to this day, I chose to take my chances with the Great Whites.

The beach we had been on the previous evening was Norman Bay, so we decided to hike north and visit the much talked about ‘Squeaky Beach’. Thinking there may be some kind of exciting fable behind such an unusual name, I asked Bomber about the origins

‘So where does the name come from – is it some kind of Aboriginal legend?’ I asked

‘Ha-ha, no mate, it’s because when you walk on the sand it makes a high-pitch noise. It’s a little bit like a squeak actually’

I was quickly learning not to read too much into place names in Australia as they’re usually fairly straight forward. Take ’90-mile beach’ for example – it’s a beach that stretches for 90 miles. Simple. So with our rations packed and map in hand, we began our 1.5km hike along the headland. The first half provided us with some spectacular views across Norman Bay, which was nice since we had enjoyed it thoroughly but not actually seen it. High above the sea, we had stumbled across a couple of fantastic look-out-points and took the opportunity to have some photos taken. The dense green vegetation along the two headlands provided a perfect frame for the contrasting blue sea and crystal white beach. Across the bay, I could see the ocean vary in colour like the surface of a marble, before becoming clear as the waves broke and blended into the sandy beach below. It was such a wonderful view but what made it even more spectacular was its relatively modest nature. For although this was such a beautiful spot, there were only ten people walking across the 1km beach which gave us an exclusive sense of remoteness. With our hiking gear on, it almost felt like we were explorers who had just discovered this new, natural and unspoiled land. And it was this that made Wilsons Prom special. I was finally realising why Bomber had talked it up so much. Yes it was a great place for hiking and seeing some lovely beaches, but there was more to it than that – it was a real place not dominated by tourism and contempt to be accepted for what it was. The tourist board had not constructed huge bill-boards saying ‘Hey come to Wilsons Prom – it’s swell!’, they were happy to let the fine natural beauty of the spot speak for itself. Thankfully, they had identified the pure essence of the place and realised that by increasing visitor numbers, this would be completely destroyed. So on that note, I issue you this warning – do not visit Wilsons Prom, for your presence will ruin the experience for everyone else. Thank you.

Continuing up to the top of the headland, we took a rest on a strange rock formation. As I looked behind me to the left, I could see Norman Bay with Squeaky Beach on our right. It was a strange sensation to be standing right out in the middle of the sea, trying to imagine a time when this was one solid stone face. Through years of erosion, the two huge bays had been produced giving testament to the sheer power possessed by the ocean below.

‘Bomber, why is the sand so squeaky on that beach’ I said pointing towards Squeaky beach ‘and not on Norman Bay? It just seems strange when they’re both so close together

‘I’ve heard it’s something to do with the quartz content in the sand. But I can’t be sure mate’

‘Just how squeaky is it?’ Grant asked

‘Honestly? You probably won’t notice it’ Bomber said with a smile.

Much to our disappointment, he was right. Climbing down from the rocks, I must admit I was quite excited imagining some sort of orchestral noise occurring when my foot made contact with the quartz sand below. Sadly, I was let down . There was no squeak. There was no noise at all really. I was ultimately a very frustrated victim of false advertising. Not to worry though, for this was a splendid beach which I only had to share with five others. There was a man walking his dog, a couple walking hand-in-hand, Bomber and Grant. Just like earlier, I truly appreciated the remoteness but couldn’t believe such a beautiful spot had remained this untouched.

‘Come on Granty boy, let’s go for a swim’ I said dumping my stuff on the beach

‘Watch out lads cos there’s some strong rips around here. You don’t want to end up like poor old Harold Holt’ Bomber said as we ran off down the beach

‘Harold who?’ I enquired, stopping suddenly in my tracks

‘Harold Holt – he was Prime Minister of Australia back in the 1960s. One day however, he decided to go for a quick dip in the sea near Portsea and was never seen again’

‘He just disappeared?’ Grant asked ‘was it a shark attack?’

‘Nobody knows – he simply vanished. Experts in the area think the most likely scenario was a drowning as there were really strong rips around’

‘What exactly are rips? Grant asked again

‘They’re strong and unpredictable currents which can easily deceive and drown the most experienced swimmer. So you guys watch yourselves’

‘But how the hell are we going to see them? How can we watch out?’ I demanded

‘Hmmm, good point. Well, if you feel yourself going under just make loads of noise and pray someone comes to help you. Sure as hell won’t be me though, I’m going for quick nap.’

With Bomber’s words still ringing, and the unfortunate death of Harold Holt in my mind, I only ventured a few metres into the water. Of course, this decision was made a lot easier for me by the freezing temperature. Even so, the strength of the currents around the beach were very apparent, almost knocking me off my feet on numerous occasions. Determined not to meet such an unfortunate end, I made my way back to camp and threw my wet towel on Bomber’s smiling, sleeping face. Gant too had been a little put off by the story of woe, so we decided to stay on land for the remainder of the trip. With that in mind, we got the map out and planned the afternoon’s activities. Having run over a couple of ideas, Bomber made a suggestion

‘Well guys, we’ve got very limited time here so you’re not going to be able to see much. I think we should do what we can to try and take in as much as possible. And where can you do that? Up there’ he said, pointing behind us towards the top of Mount Bishop ‘from up there, you can see The Prom at its very best’

‘Ok Bomber, it’s just the name that puts me off – Mount Bishop. You see, it has the word ‘mount’ in it which suggests a lot of effort will be required to reach the summit’ I said in response

‘Don’t worry, it’s not too bad a climb and we don’t need to go all the way to the top – I know a great look-out point. Trust me, this will be the best way to see this place’

We began the hike by crossing the inlet at tidal river. Apparently (as the name would suggest) it varies in depth quite dramatically during different tides and has been known to flood sporadically. Thankfully (for the young toddler paddling along the shoreline), it was rather shallow on this occasion. Reaching the base of the mount, I peered skywards towards the rocky peak, contemplating the task in front of us. For the past 2 months I had been encouraging children to challenge themselves and now I found myself in a similar situation. Focusing on the glory that would greet us at the top, we set off at a quick pace entering some typical Australian bush land. The climb wasn’t too steep during these initial stages which allowed us to enjoy the wonderful wildlife in the surrounding environment. Our first sighting (and my first in Australia) was a Kookaburra sitting nonchalantly in nearby gum tree, making a noise that sounded distinctly like an overweight man laughing. After a quick photograph session and a few cricket bat jokes, we soon continued on our way, progressing deeper into a forest that looked distinctly like the Amazon rainforest. It seemed that even in this short 3km walk, the diversity of the Australian countryside could be seen in all its glory. From the open, light and relatively dry Kookaburra filled land, we now found ourselves deep under a thick canopy, navigating around ferns larger than Shane Warne’s ego. Stopping for lunch, we sat down and ate at ‘The Quaint Place’ which had a lovely view dedicated to the lives of those rangers who had served The Prom throughout many years. We sat in silence and simply admired the setting in front of our very eyes before. Then, just as I was tucking into a piece of cheese, I saw something from the corner of my eye. A flash of crimson I thought, but when I turned there was nothing to be seen. Going back to my lunch, I tried to ignore it, thinking it must simply be a trick of the light. But then it happened again - this time though the colour was a deep purple. I tried to ignore it again, but in an instant I was surrounded by four of the most vibrant birds I had ever seen.

‘What are they?’ I asked Bomber as they all began to converge on my sandwich

‘Rosella parrots’ Bomber shouted back ‘they’re native to Australia’

I had never heard of them, but here in front of me, scavenging at my feet like city pigeons, were four of the most flamboyant birds I have ever seen. Even the rainbow itself could not produce such rich and elegant colours. They were the sort of magical creature a child would produced in their colouring-in book and you would simply reject as being a part of their overactive imagination. Incredibly, they were real and trying to steal my lunch. I felt bad kicking (be it rather gently) something that displayed such impressive flair, however, nobody takes my food without a fight.

Passing back from The Amazon, we began towards the summit and hit a landscape that looked somewhat like The Rocky Mountains of Colorado. This truly had been a remarkable journey so far and I couldn’t believe the best was yet to come. Finally, we had reached the peak. Well, it wasn’t really a peak – more a gathering of rocks that formed an impressive overhang facing east. With mount Bishop producing such an air of permanence and stability, these rocks appeared awfully vulnerable, but Bomber assured us that we had to venture out if the view were to be appreciated. To me, that sounded like the exact speech a serial killer would give, just prior to pushing his unsuspecting victims off a cliff. Still, ‘the view will probably be worth it’ I thought and duly began climbing up the sides of the huge boulders with Grant. There were no safety railings or nets, it was simply us and nature. Pulling myself up, I resisted the temptation to glimpse a peak and instead gave Grant a hand up onto his feet. When we eventually turned however, the view was quite simply breathtaking. In fact, it was more than breathtaking – it was awe inspiring. Looking across the sea front, we could see the beaches we had so happily walked along earlier that day and could just about make out others enjoying them now. Tracing a line with our hands, we mapped out the route we had taken along our hike from Squeaky Beach. I was impressed with our achievement as this wonderful secret garden, soared to an even higher level in my estimation. Along the way, all its enchanting qualities had revealed themselves to us, but now we stood and tried to take them all in at once. The result was overwhelming and indescribable. I actually considered not writing about it at all, as there are simply no words that could possibly do it justice. We each sat on our own rock and looked out towards sea. Being so far out from Mount Bishop itself, I felt like I was simply floating gently through the air.

‘Do you ever get bored of this place?’ I asked Bomber

‘Mate, I’ll tell you now that this is one of those places nobody could ever possibly get bored of. Not because there’s so much to do, or so much entertainment going on, but because every time you come back it fills you such an overwhelming feeling. I’m not even sure what the feeling is – you can’t describe it to anyone, but everyone feels it. You know what I mean? It’s an incredible feeling and one I only really experience here. That makes it worth coming back and so I could never get bored. It is one of those truly special regions on this Earth and should be treasured – not just by Victorians, but by everyone’

And with that, two Wedge-Tailed Eagles flew out from the cliffs and circled high above our heads.

We left early the next morning just as the sun was rising on the horizon. Luckily, there was still time to complete our Australian wildlife tour in style as six kangaroos and two emus crossed the road in front of our car. As I watched these defining national symbols silhouette themselves against the poignant red sunlight, I thought about Bomber’s words and felt a real sense of satisfaction - for in this small corner of the country, I had experienced the real Australia. This was not a place you read about in tourism brochures or saw on postcards. Nor was it a marketing trap set up for commercial gain. It was genuine Australia, finally revealing itself to the world in one small, enchanting flash. I felt lucky to have captured it.