Travels with George

by Vivien Fallows

  At four o’clock I walked in to the bar of the Palace Hotel, Ravensthorpe, to see if they had a room, and found every bar stool occupied – it’s Friday. The occupants turned around as one at my entry which caused a slight pause on my part but the welcome I got was totally cheerful. And yes, a room was available at a reasonable back-packers rate of 49 dollars: that’s better!

  Two years previously, the census had recorded a population of 344 and I guess the figure for 2003 was fairly similar; it felt as if they were all at the Palace bar when in I walked.

  That night I dined on succulent roast chook and veggies, washed down with a cool beer and happily slept like the proverbial. The Palace Hotel had lived up to its imperial name and remains warmly remembered by this itinerant individual.

  Saturday 6th December: who’s pinched the sun?

  Oh dear! Weather not brilliant and it’s unexpectedly cold. Travelled via Jerramungup, the Aboriginal word to describe a place of the tall yate tree, the yate being a eucalypt found only in southern Western Australia. Here I stopped for fuel and a slab of banana cake. Dropping crumbs on a rather forlorn forecourt, I reflected that standing at this particular spot really did feel a long way from anywhere. Apart from the tall yate trees, not really aware of anything else of significance. Back on the road, next came the tiny town of Borden with its tiny population of fewer than 200, so it was passed in the blink of an eye. Close to Borden, the landscape begins to open up as the route continues over the Stirling Range. I regret to say that I drove this part of Western Australia’s Great Southern region in ignorance of the rare but abundant flora and fauna I was passing. The views and vistas were interrupted by swirling cloud and mist… out of which, unexpectedly, loomed a Dutch windmill. Thinking you don’t see too many of these in the southern hemisphere, I stopped for coffee and apple cake and then spent the rest of the day regretting my greed!

  Unexpectedly… out of the swirling cloud loomed a Dutch windmill…

  Arrived at Albany and visited several of the headlands which make up the dramatic coastline and clambered down to see some (in)active blowholes. Why is it that everything goes to sleep, hibernates, dies early or arrives late when I’m around? On one of my trips I really hope that the whales will be bubble-blowing, the banksias blooming and the blowholes, well, blowing. I drove out along the coast to Discovery Bay to visit Whale World – whaling is considered Australia’s first industry as whalers visited Australian shores before settlement and continued their trade well into the 20th century. After settlement, prison ships having discharged their human cargoes, returned to England as whalers. The coastal area around Albany supported bay whaling, as here the whales’ migratory route brings them close to the shoreline. In days of whaling, they were harpooned in the bay and hauled straight to the whaling station, where the blubber was removed and rendered down into oil.

  So here I was, both fascinated and horrified. Whale World has been established on the site of the Cheynes Beach Whaling Company, which reinvigorated whaling in the area when it began operating in 1952. The work continued until the station’s closure in 1978, the last whaling company in Australia to close. It must have been gruesome work, but as with so many grim occupations it bred a closeness and camaraderie amongst the workers and their families. This bond was evident in the photos which adorned the walls of silos which had once held whale oil.

  Perhaps I am sounding a little squeamish about Whale World, if so, I am doing the museum an injustice as the information was displayed imaginatively and, despite the desperate subject matter, it was interesting. I find it fascinating learning how people lived and worked over a century ago. It seems as if no settler occupation was without its own set of hazards. Even the men working on the whalers as late as the 1970s weren’t exactly enjoying an easy life. Sometimes it’s difficult to distance current day understanding of the need to preserve our planet and all who swim, fly and grow on it from the harsh reality of earning a living several decades or centuries ago.

  But before I leave, there is an unexpected bonus and I have to investigate. In a large shed I discover a surprising collection of aircraft which had been used as whale spotters, including an historic Catalina flying boat under whose wings the smaller planes were clustered. What a treat!

  Sightseeing over for the day, I found a motel in central Albany and booked in for a two day stay. That night I indulged in a two course meal: very unusual… I had obviously forgotten about the double rations of cake.

  Sunday 7th December: Albany and its environs

  I really warmed to (windy) Albany. In fact, I have warmed to just about everywhere I’ve visited but after the expanses of open land, here I was looking at expanses of open water. The town appears to run down towards the sea, but in reality Albany came into existence at the landing stage and then slowly expanded up the hill as the population grew. I didn’t have any plans for the day, so it made a welcome change to just wander. On a time-limited trip, there is always a pressing desire to see what’s over the next hill, but this was the next hill… so here I would stay and look. More Devonshire Cream Tea signs, but after my double-cake extravaganza yesterday, I didn’t indulge. No Cornish Cream Teas anywhere. I wonder… did Cornish tin miners travel to Australia to seek their fortunes in the Australian mines? Aha – yes they did and they were known as ‘Cousin Jacks’. Still don’t know why one county’s cream tea found favour over another’s.

  Back to now. Starting by the water, I decided it was time to take in a little of the town’s history which, in settlement terms, is a history dating back to Christmas Day 1826. A replica of the Brig Amity lies quietly on its moorings, a reminder of Albany’s seafaring importance as a strategic deep-water port. It grew in importance ahead of Perth and Fremantle, but eventually suffered a decline when these more northerly ports became established. In 1826 the Brig Amity set sail from Sydney bringing a party of soldiers, under the command of Major Edmund Lockyer, and twenty three convicts, the first white settlers to populate Western Australia.

  Clustered near the Amity are the town’s first buildings, including the Old Convict Gaol and Warders quarters. These buildings now house a glitz and glamour-free museum, which, peering into the dark cells, I decided helped to create an idea (a tiny idea) of how tough it would have been for both the prison inmates and the overseer and his family. I imagine the twenty three convicts had not been brought all the way from Sydney to simply occupy prison cells, but instead build them for future generations of miscreants. It is sobering to think that typically those sent from Britain to its penal colonies were guilty of only petty or political crimes, as anything more serious meant dangling from London’s Tyburn Tree.

  In the overseer’s quarters I peered at more sepia photographs and there, to my joy, was a picture of a windmill. The picture was dated circa 1860 and it showed a whitewashed windmill right in the middle of Albany: yesterday’s find had not been unique. From the mid-19th-century buildings close to the gaol, a store and convict hiring depot, evolved into accommodation for the government administrator: The Residency. The small community, which started with a gaol, married quarters for officers and little else, was on its way to becoming the town I was looking at today.

  For my next bit of sightseeing I drove a little way out of town to the Princess Royal Fortress. Built on a high granite outcrop overlooking the King George Sound, this spot served a strategic purpose. The fortress was officially commissioned in 1893, complete with two gun batteries to protect the bay. Decommissioned in 1956, the guns never fired a shot. In the deep waters of the King George Sound, in 1914 a fleet of troopships gathered to take Australian and New Zealand troops (and horses) to the battle front in Egypt. The troops on board became known as the ANZACS, the first time this nomenclature was attributed.

  As the day wore on, the weather improved and the wind, which obviously drove the windmill sails, abated. I was hoping for fair weather tomorrow as an outdoor activity had been planned – the tree top walk up in
the lofty branches of the giant karri trees.

  Monday 8th December: the Valley of the Giants

  The hoped for ongoing weather improvement has not materialised, as I awoke this morning to an even stronger wind and showers. Leaving Albany I bid farewell to the huge grain silo at the edge of the town. Three section road trains bring grain from the wheat fields I’d been driving through, and it’s stored in the silo before shipment around the coast of Australia and for export. This is where the giants of the road I had been dodging were headed and it was satisfying to note that Albany is still a thriving port, even if it has been superseded in size by Perth and Fremantle.

  Back on the road and undeterred by the elements, am happy to say that the drive to the Valley of the Giants was sublime. The open horizons of the last few days had vanished and it was now time to look at trees. The anticipated giant eucalypts lined the road like aged guards lolling at their duty, but it was disconcerting when bits kept dropping off in the wind. This truly is the land of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings Ents, if ever a land of Tolkien’s anthropomorphic Ents existed. As light drifted down through the canopy it reflected dramatically off the bark, intensifying the already present folkloric feel. I reiterate: a very, very impressive drive along the South Coast Highway, which took me through the pretty town of Denmark.

  On the outskirts of Denmark I stopped for a coffee and was bemused when two weather-beaten, baggy-shorts wearing gentlemen came in and had a head-to-head conflab about what to order. After a lengthy discussion, the first guy looked around the café and finally said, “I’ll have a cappuccino.” His companion nodded thoughtfully and, with determination, agreed, “So will I.” It made me smile, because it seemed such an incongruous choice (probably wouldn’t be quite so amusing today). And they so reminded me of Statler and Waldorf, two Muppet characters who first appeared in Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In. Odd, that’s the second 1960s TV recollection of the week.

  Returning to today. Drove a little further west, to an area known as the Walpole Wilderness, where I arrived at the Valley of the Giants Tree Top Walk. To get a better idea of a forested area, nothing beats being up in the canopy. At 40 metres above the ground and 600 metres long, this particular tree top walk is breathtaking – and wobbly but I think it wobbles even on wind-free days. Cleverly, the ascent to the full height is barely discernable as it is so gentle, which makes it fully accessible to all, including wheelchair users. There is also a terra firma walk but the heavens truly opened the moment my feet reached the ground, so I just dashed to say “hello” to the ancient Grandmother Tingle tree which really could have provided the template for the Ent characters. Inspecting her knobbly bark, decided she looked like a benign warty witch.

  Buoyed up by today’s adventure, I put behind me all bloody memories of whale harpoons and the blubber-covered flensing decks of Albany and set off again on my journey. The tree theme continued as I drove through Franklin Forest, where large swathes were regenerating after a bush-fire, with new tree growth appearing as green fuzz. Heading further west, I drove through the towns of Walpole and Pemberton before finally arriving at Margaret River, where I found a central motel for the night. Explored the busy town and strolled down to the eponymous river where, just over the bridge, sits a bright red steam engine, Kate, once used for hauling timber in the Margaret River area and now scrambled over by small children (it’s quite a small engine).

  Nearby, The Old Settlement represents another ‘slice of life’ of the settler communities. A cluster of 1920s wooden houses (some of which had been relocated to the spot) and a few pieces of basic farm equipment illustrate lifestyles that would have been in sharp contrast to those lived in the growing urban areas. I had grown used to seeing photographs of wood and corrugated iron dwellings of the 19th century, but these similarly humble abodes were dated rather later. And I complain when I break a fingernail weeding the garden…

  Time to potter back to my accommodation.

  Tuesday 9th December: Tingle, Tuart and Karri Trees

  After days of few trees, I was now surrounded by them. My morning drive had me humming along to the thumping rhythms of Ms Atwell. In contented mood, I decided that this was another beautiful part of the world, the Australian world. The weather during the remainder of my visit was ‘temperate’ rather than summer sunny weather, but that didn’t hamper my enjoyment. I explored the area down to Cape Leeuwin and became totally confused between Tingle, Tuart and Karri trees as I meandered through more forests hunting for the coast. When I drove through Boranup Forest, a sign told me that these were Karri trees. They are unique to this part of the world and are, I think, the tallest hardwood trees in the world growing up to 80 metres. They certainly do soar up into the skies. Some of the tallest specimens have been used as fire-lookouts… and I was squeamish about climbing 30 vertical metres in New Zealand. The climb here is via metal spikes hammered into the tree which spiral upwards. I’ll pass on this if you don’t mind.

  At one point, the sun broke through the canopy, transporting me in an instant to a different forest; the light shining through the branches provided a spectacular if spooky light display on the bark of these ancient trees – added to which, and to my joy, a nocturnal possum wandered blearily into view, obviously wondering who had rudely switched on the bright light. There must have been birds flitting in the branches, but alas none flew into view.

  Continuing along Cave Road, I realised it had been given that name for a reason. The route I was travelling sits atop the Naturaliste Ridge, a ridge stretching across an extensive calcified sand dune. Water erosion over the millennia has created a honeycomb cluster of over 100 caves of which eight are accessible to the public. With time to visit only one, I chose Lake Cave and was not disappointed. You cannot ‘self-guide’ but it was no hardship waiting to join the next descent and the numbers weren’t too overpowering… and the questions people asked were enthusiastically relevant (always a bonus). The main attraction of this particular cave is the dramatically suspended calcite column which splays out at the bottom like a table top. The column hangs inches above a freshwater lake and at an estimated five tons is one of the world’s rarest cave formations. It seems to float weightlessly above the water – it’s quite spectacular. The cave is also one of the most active in the area in terms of water dripping and crystals forming. Quite magical and a worthy visit… I drove away feeling blissfully happy and only a little concerned that a sink hole might open up at any moment.

  Having emerged from underground, the next stop took me skywards, to the top of Australia’s tallest mainland lighthouse: Cape Leeuwin lighthouse. Opened in 1896, this sparkling white edifice still functions guarding one of the world’s most treacherous shipping lanes. It now fulfils an additional function as an automatic weather station. Up the steep steps I clambered for a spectacular view across the seas to where the Southern Ocean and Indian Ocean collide. Wow – if it’s ‘mighty windy around Cape Horn’, the same can be said for Cape Leeuwin, the most south-westerly tip of Australia. During the months of May to September whales can be spotted on their migratory journey. I was peering out to sea in December.

  Elegant Cape Leeuwin lighthouse

  Historically, the lighthouse provided a safe passage for ships bound for England, carrying timber from the nearby and then bustling port of Hamelin Bay. For a brief time, access to timber from the colonies provided the necessary material for wooden pavements in Victorian England. The ‘Nicolson pavement’ lost popularity due to its slippery surface when wet, allowing granite to regain its status as the robust building material of choice. Back down at ground level I went to take a closer look at the sea and found the derelict remains of a calcified water wheel, although the wooden wheel had long since gone. The wheel was erected when a spring was tapped to provide freshwater for the lighthouse construction team and then the keepers. With my back to the lighthouse, I watched two fishermen who were precariously balanced on slippery rocks, casting out to sea, obli
vious to the waves which crashed threateningly around their ankles. I hope their seemingly perilous position proved fruitful and not fateful.

  With time running out, I didn’t drive down to Hamelin Bay to where stingrays are frequently seen, deciding that they would turn and head out to sea the moment I ventured towards the shoreline, so I called it a day and headed back to Margaret River… well, it was getting late.

  Wednesday 10th December: an apology to Busselton…

  Yesterday I travelled south out of Margaret River to the coast, and now my journey continues its clockwise route, taking me north to Cape Naturaliste and another lighthouse. But before I arrive at the lighthouse, a quick word about what I saw last night…emus strutting across a field – fantastic. Plus, the tally gets better, Western grey kangaroos. Hooray – at last. I saw several on my way back to Margaret River, not exactly large mobs, but enough to stop me feeling despondent about my abysmal wildlife count. Unexpectedly, it was the emus which set my pulse racing… they are big birds.

  In a jolly mood, I set off in search of another lighthouse and when I found it, it was not what I was expecting. After the tall elegance of the Cape Leeuwin lighthouse, this stubby version seemed way too small to undertake its designated task. As I approached the Cape Naturaliste beacon I started huffing and puffing. Of course, it was built on a hill sitting atop high ground. The puffing bought back memories of driving through Mundaring ‘a high place on a high place’… what a useful name.