I spent the first few days getting some work done so I could do nothing for the rest of the week. Met up with David and Alita at an outer-suburban train station and went straight up to see Karl and Gladys. David and Karl are brothers; I’m their second nephew.
We stopped at a small town – Yea, I think it was – and took a brief survey of the lunchtime dining options available. Takeaway. Four bakeries. Pizza. Small-town Chinese takeaway. Up-market beer garden. Quaint rustic cafe. We really couldn’t decide, but eventually it all came down to David’s desire to sample the local pie scene. We chose the cafe with the most customers over the cafe with the Best Pie Award for three years straight – because the more people there are the better the shop must be. Supposedly. David’s verdict? Not the best he’d had, but respectable nonetheless.
The Yea offerings only served to remind me of the shocking pie experience on campus: a choice of four refrigerated varieties, microwaved on demand to a steaming, soggy mess that remains too hot to eat for over 10 minutes – and falls to bits thereafter. After the Yea episode, I have decided that never again will I indulge in what Monash has on offer. I didn’t intend to write a comparative review of pies, nor a whinge about Monash Clayton’s uninspiring campus atmosphere, so back to the story.
Karl & Gladys’ place was on the top of a hill, surrounded with cow paddocks and eucalyptus forest, the mountains in the distance not yet capped with snow. The air was crisp and clear, in contrast Gladys’ sharp, warm cooking. I can’t remember meat-and-three-veg ever being this good. Gladys informed me that the bull we were eating was called George Bush, for his eyes looked just like those of a past American president. Every day on dusk, David and Karl would make a trip to the ‘bottle-o’ (actually a well-stocked tin shed at the bottom of the hill) to select the night’s wine list. There was a dog called Blogs, and a dozen brown hens in a multi-million dollar security complex (to keep foxes out) and some lovely black cows. Home?
Alita and I spent one lazy morning walking to Power’s Lookout so we could check for troopers. This particular lookout was named after Harry Power, mentor in bushranging to Ned Kelly, who took advantage of the site’s well maintained steel stairs and lookout platforms to watch for adversaries pursuing him up the valley. Additionally, Power decided from time to time to use the lookout site as a base camp of sorts. I’m sure this was because the undercover fireplace, numerous camp oven sites and composting toilets provided all the mod cons a man on the run could ever dream of.
Another quarter day adventure was spent trying to locate a waterfall on the edge of the property. Alita and I thought we found it, but as there was no water flowing at the time, it was a bit hard to tell. What do you call a waterfall with no water? Our suspicions were confirmed a few days later when Karl took us back to the same spot and said it was indeed the waterfall.
The house features a wood fired heating system, so every autumn Karl stockpiles a shed full of dry wood to stay warm over the cold, wet months to come. There was also bracken fern to slash in the cow paddocks. I am happy to report that I remembered how to cook crepes, much to the satisfaction of everyone else at the dinner table. We ate them with Cointreau-soaked strawberries and icecream, and rum and brown sugar (something I hadn’t tried before).
The train ride back to Melbourne reminded me of how nice rail travel can be, for nice is something the suburban rail experience in Melbourne is not. Soon after we left, one of the hosties approached the lady in front of me. “Nah, sorry luv we’re runnin a bit behind schedule so unfortunately we can’t stop to let you have a ciggie break orright? Yeah, sorry but we jus’ can’t do it yunno.” I like the idea that the train could have make an unscheduled stop to let its passengers smoke their tobacco, it was an indicator of how relaxed the journey was.
Later on, a little girl was dragged up to the front of the carriage by her mother for a couple of stern words. Evidently the girl was guilty of not putting on her sock, and continued to protest until tears came out. At that point, another girl not much older than the first decided to go up and ask the young demonstrator if she’d like some gummy snakes. The mother quickly replied that her daughter was content, thank you anyway.
What a great week away.
