kd lang and the Winter Olympics

I watched the opening of the Winter Olympics on the tellie the other night. Oh, it was gorgeous. I only got to see 10 minutes or so because I had to file an urgent travel story with my editor but the 10 minutes that I did get to see was, for the most part, pure bliss for me. There he was, my favourite Canadian singing his little heart out – kd lang. Good God, he’s gorgeous.

Mind you, he’s put on a bit of weight lately and in that gleaming white, neatly pressed suit he looked like a fridge. But, oh dear can that boy sing.

Halleluiah. Now I’ve never heard that song before and I suppose it’s some sort of Canadian hymn but it was just beautiful the way he sang it. Just gorgeous. It went on and on and on. I must see if we can sing it at St John’s some time.

I have a CD of kd lang that I’ve now cleverly put on to my Eyepod. The photo on the cover is beautiful. I’m always impressed with a well-dressed man and dear little kd (I still don’t understand why he can’t use capital letters) always wears the most beautifully tailored suits and with cuff links. It shows he has class. I suppose they’re all bespoke too as it wouldn’t be that easy for him to find clothes off the rack – poor pet, he’s quite barrel-chested.

As soon as he finished his little hymn another one of my favourite Canadians came walking on to the arena holding a flag - Anne Murray. Canada has so much talent. She was there with that Donald Sutherland creature, who, frankly needs a good shave – he’s starting to look more like Santa these days. Silly old fool.

But why didn’t they let Anne sing? I was appalled. It’s discrimination of the worst kind. I’ll admit that Anne is getting on a bit now but, like me, we mature women have a lot to offer and I, for one, want to hear her. And I know I’m not alone. Bryan Adams indeed. Who’s he when he’s at home? Scruffy little urchin.

Sweet Anne Murray would have been perfect for the international stage and would really have shown what Canada has to offer. Honestly, these organisers always get it wrong. I wanted to hear her sing You Needed Me or but no, the organisers wanted young music.

Snowbird. Now how perfect that would have been for the Winter Olympics. Snowbird – gorgeous. Or even, Walking In a Winter Wonderland that I have on one of her Christmas albums. I need to write a letter to the organisers.

If Bryan Adams is all they have to offer, it’s little wonder no one cares a fig about the Winter Olympics. I’m sure I was the only person in South Yarra who was watching it. Of course, I have Foxtel now. Disgusted at the arrogance of the organisers, I flicked off the Olympics and searched for the George Clooney channel that I happened upon the other day but, to no avail. I’ll just have to just settle for kd lang, even if he does look like a white packing crate, unlike George.

Oh, gorgeous George.

Dunkeld Highlights

You know pets, I always thought that little place down at the foot of the gorgeous Grampians was called Dunk Held – you know - as if someone kept someone else under water for much longer than is comfortable. Well, it’s not. No. It’s called Dunkeld and it’s gorgeous. There you are, you’ve learned something from me now.

Now, my very dear friends Pierre and Jana (that’s not their real names but they’re a teeny bit dull so I gave them a little French touch – really, my sense of style has made them what they are today) Anyway P and J have gone and done something radical.

The dear pets are trying desperately to superannuate themselves out of their dreary little lives so they scraped enough together to buy this darling little – what would you call it? - a farm? no, an orchard? – well , possibly. I don’t really know, but it’s a cute-as-a-button little cottage on the outskirts of town (they couldn’t afford anything closer – poor pets.) Their little farmchard or orchfarm is really very pretty, even if Jana’s taste for interior decorating doesn’t quite match mine – but then pets, really, whose does? With a good sprinkling of lace and some nice throw rugs the place will come up just beautifully, I’m sure.

But, it’s far from perfect - oh mark my words. Although the little place sits quite close to town it has those ghastly gum trees and animals – wild ones and ones that can eventually be cooked and eaten with a nice plate of vegies. But with animals comes animal poo. Oh dear, it’s such a shame that the country has to be littered with animal poo – especially cow poo. It’s such a blot on our landscape and really something needs to be done about it. I had to hold my nose the entire time and dab a little lavender oil on my hankie when I eventually had to breathe.

Look I’m sure Jana thinks it’s quite novel to pretend she’s Eva Gabor and swan around between the plum trees but she’ll soon come to learn the delights of the Great Indoors as I like to call them.

Now, Dunkeld. What a kempt little place that is. Of course, as soon as the old Merc pulled into the main street I was immediately drawn to the town’s two major attractions – the Royal Mail Hotel, which I had heard that man who swears review – you know the one – that nasty American fellow – Anthony Bourdain. Calls his show No Reservations, but I tell you I have reservations about him. Needs his mouth rinsed out with Omo if you ask me. The other major attraction of Dunkeld pets, is a fence. That’s right a beautiful stone fence that people come for miles around to see. Oh, it’s really the most exciting thing in town. I’ll tell you more about that little gem later.

Pierre and Jana treated me to dinner at the Royal Mail. Oh I was so looking forward to it. A beautiful little country pub with nooks and crannies, serving a lovely roast of the day. But as soon as I drew close I knew I was in for a shock. Oh dear -modern. I am really starting to think that this entire country is becoming modern and it’s such a shame. I blame that Rudd fellow. We used to have a lovely tone here but not these days. And like a cancer, this modern thing is spreading to the country. It’s simply not good enough!

I walked inside the establishment, sat at the modern bar on a stool of all things and ordered a peppy little G&T. My friends had wine which I thought was totally pretentious for a Saturday evening. The bar was expansive with beers on tap and a sitting area in front of an open fire which, of course, was not lit due to the fact that it was 35 degrees outside. Pleasant, very pleasant.

We moved from the bar to the bistro after I’d had five or six G&Ts and promptly read through the menu. Not a roast in sight! Instead there were all sorts of foreign sounding recipes that frankly, didn’t do much for me at all. And I was so looking forward to a nice plate of pork or beef. I settled for the chicken which came roasted (of sorts) and sitting in a little puddle of broth, which, for my liking should have been served before the main course, not under my chicken. Look, I struggled through and it was fine really. Just not what I expected.

We chatted and sipped and dined for a couple of hours and on the way out I looked at the menu for the restaurant, which really is just on the other side of the bistro. They have this thing called a degustation which is far too many courses served with matching wines. I was so pleased that Pierre and Jana elected for the Bistro as the prices for the restaurant were extreme to say the least. Look pets, I know they enjoy a little tipple butt to pay nearly $300 a head for a dinner with matching wines is just unspeakable, especially in a little spec of a place like Dunkeld. And not being a wine drinker myself, I wondered how many different gins they had behind the bar that could possible keep me amused through the marathon ‘degustation’ sitting.

We moved on and left the Royal Mail. It was not as I expected and not what I appreciate – modern indeed.

The following morning I had to see the other town attraction – the fence. I drove the old Merc down through town and made my own observations, needing no official information. The fence obviously encompasses a private park. It stands about eight feet high and is built of solid stone. Gorgeous and its cold stone face reminded me a little of my late mother in law. It encased several acres of God knows what – I couldn’t tell as the wretched thing was closed. I tried several gates but to no avail. Shut up like a drum! Over the tops of the fence I could see towering trees and the roofs of building that resembled conservatories, which obviously housed all sorts of beautiful orchids and petunias, but do you think I could get in? Oh no. I huffed away and decided to leave this little town. But it was clean.

I’d decided I’d had enough of Dunkeld and wanted to explore more of the Western District where my dear friend Tammy Fraser hailed from. Gorgeous Tammy, I wonder how they’re getting on these days. Along the road about fifteen miles or so towards South Yarra was a little place that I thought sounded like and Australian Cricket Team member – Glenthompson – isn’t that darling? Of course I’ve always had a soft spot for cricketers ever since that extremely virile Dennis Lillee boy unfastened at least four buttons on his whiter than white shirt, so I stopped at this curious little town. I needed a pick me up so I hopped into the general store and ordered myself a little cup of coffee. There were no cricketers in sight.

“A cafe latte if you would please pet” I asked the lady behind the counter who had a definite ‘country’ quality to her appearance. “With a napkin”

Well, if Glenthompson knows one thing, it’s how to make a good coffee – just the way I like it. My beverage arrived to me after about ten minutes and it was so hot pets, I could barely hold the large cardboard cup. Absolutely boiling and steaming. I waited almost half an hour before I took the first sip so as not to burn my lips. Oh the taste! It was deliciously weak and sweet as a first grade school girl, filled with generous scoops of white sugar. The two inches of froth on top had deflated and all that remained was the grey skim milk with just the slightest hint of coffee. I wondered how the lass behind the counter knew how I liked my coffee; maybe she made it like that for everyone. Just delicious.

Look pets, there’s not really much to see in this part of the Western District so after my coffee, I was feeling all fired up and believed I could make it all the way back to South Yarra in one day. I made a bee line for home arriving there somewhere about dinnertime. All in all, it was pleasant little escape but next time I’ll give Tammy a call and let her know I’m in her neck of the woods Then I can have some real fun.

Now I've been to Hepburn Springs

Hepburn Springs – now there’s a darling little place that hasn’t changed in years. And you know my thoughts on gratuitous change, don’t you?

Christmas was such a tiring time for me – oh, it always is. What, with all my charity work and what have you. I spent three long hours down at the mission with my arms elbow deep in fruit mince, making little mince pies for the poor. It was such a chore. But we all have to do our bit and I must say though, the half dozen pies I baked were the best I’d ever tasted. Everyone said so. I just get such a warm feeling out of helping.

But I was so exhausted, I desperately needed some inspiration to restore my tired old body and spirit. And then I remembered – the old bath house at Hepburn Springs – gorgeous. How perfect it would be to ‘take the waters’ again. It’s been at least 40 years since I was there and I remember it all so fondly. Cute little red-tiled building, mineral spas bubbling from little rusty pipes sticking out of the ground and wide, green open lawns. Oh yes, and that gorgeous pool filled with the rusty brown water and all those European type people ‘taking the waters’, being healed of whatever ails them. And that dear little town. I had to go.

So there I was driving the old Merc up the Ballarat Road past all those western suburbs through Bacchus Marsh. I fumbled around with my cassettes and found one of a young Canadian man called kd lang – beautiful photo on the front and oh, he has such a sweet, sweet voice, the likes of which I hadn’t heard since Wayne Newton’s heyday. I had my cassette player on volume level three – just gorgeous, even if he can’t use capital letters.

Once past Ballan, we turned off the highway, into the countryside and through that strange little place called Korweinguboora. What an odd name for a town! It had one pub and a pothole, so we kept going through to Daylesford where things are a little more tasteful. Up and over the hill into the town and it was busy, so busy - there were so many cars I wondered if I was in the country at all. All the shops looked very smart though, I must admit. If I had to describe the town of Daylesford I’d say that it was like Chapel Street with just a hint of gum boot. Pretty enough though, I thought. I looked at a curious building on the left and thought I read the words Franger and Franger written in rusted old wrought iron but on closer inspection I realised it was Frango and Frango. I think it was some sort of restaurant or cafe but I couldn’t stop to explore, pets. I was a woman on a mission – I had to get to the spa baths.

As I drove through into Hepburn my keen sense of observation spied the gorgeous Belinzona on my right, the old Macaroni factory on my left, the Savoy, the Palais and a darling little general store, just before you come to grand old dame – The Hepburn Springs Hotel down the street, a little on the left. It’s all so compact and pretty. I really wanted to stop and investigate but my aching body was crying out for a relaxing dip in the mineral waters.

It was like the old Merc know exactly where to go – down the hill and around the bend to the right. There we were pets - right in front of the Hepburn Springs Mineral Spa.

Oh dear God. What was this? An extremely modern looking building with soaring glass walls and cantilevered roof lines right were the spa pool should have been. Modern, totally modern. I knew I was in the right place because of the signs but what was this ghastly looking thing doing here in the middle of dear, sweet old Hepburn? There’s just no place for modern in Hepburn. None at all. I was a little miffed I must say, Pets. It was like I was looking at that absolutely revolting thing they call the Convention Centre down by the Yarra, or that mess of a thing they call the museum next to that gorgeous Exhibition Building in Carlton. Oh it was gosh – all shards and blades. In Hepburn!

“Now Winnie...” I said to myself as I parked the old Merc over two parking spots so that no one would scratch my duco with their car doors, “...keep an open mind”. I picked up my overnight bag from the boot of the car and walked down a little ramp into the glass cathedral. It had a reception desk of all things – just like a hotel. I marched right up to the sweet young thing behind the counter and asked for directions. “Hello Pet, I’m Mrs Baygo and I’ve come all the way from South Yarra to take the waters. Can you help me with directions to the pool please dear” I said.

Lovely little thing, she was. She said that I was in the right place and handed me what looked like a menu. “No Pet, I’m not here to eat, I just wasn’t a little dip – take the waters”

“This is our range of treatments” she said pointing to the ‘menu’ thing.

“Treatments?”

I looked further at the brochure and found the entire experience so confusing I was starting to get one of my heads. All these foreign terms like Hepburn Collection, La Gaia, Thalgo, Sodashi, Indulgent Bathing, Private Mineral Baths, Body Exfoliation, Cocoon, Aquatic Glow Awakening and Smooth Revival.


“Pet” I tried to convince this sweet little thing. “I just want to swim”


“Certainly” she said, recognising my seniority and status. “I’d recommend the Sanctuary”

“Perfect, dear, thank you”

I reached into my upper undergarment and handed over two fifty dollar notes, receiving change of thirty – it’s quite expensive to swim here these days, I thought. The pretty young things ushered me down some highly polished stairs to another reception area where I was issued with a sweet little grey bag containing a gorgeous fluffy robe and a nicely laundered towel. “Now, if you’d just direct me to the ladies changing room dear, I’ll be on my way”

“The room is unisex and just over there to your left” She said.

“I BEG YOUR PARDON!”

She explained that there were individual private changing booths inside the room but that the room was in fact shared between men and women. “ Oh no, I’ll not have any of that”

I had no option, pets. I had to change in an area where gentlemen are present. This was not good enough. But then again I said to myself. “Winnie. Be daring – that’s what travel’s all about”

Clutching my overnight bag and the little bag the girl gave me close to me person I ventured into the room. There were men and woman in various stages of undress. I averted my eyes and hoped all in the room would do the same. Immediately, I jumped in to one of the changing boxes that looked remarkably like a toilet cubicle, without the porcelain ware, or a dressing room in a boutique. I took several deep breaths, made sure the door was tightly snibbed and disrobed after selecting one of my three bathing costumes – the blue, I thought. Thank goodness for the robe, is all I could think.

Oh, I didn’t think that I could still scurry pets, but scurry I did in my white Birkenstocks and robe – straight from the cubicle, past a man in his little yellow bathers, which the young folk refer to as Budgie Smugglers (I’m not familiar that particular brand of swimwear, but I certainly know what they look like) right out of that room to the pool area.

I felt a lot more comfortable once I was surrounded by water and people of my own kind. Bravely, I hung my robe on a peg, popped on my bathing cap, slipped off my sandals and tottered down the long ramp into the pool. Gorgeous – wet, cool and gorgeous. I could feel the miracle powers of the waters doing their magic already. The pool was long enough for me to swim a couple of laps breast stroke, keeping my head above water all the time, of course. The handful of people in the pool had different coloured plastic wristbands to mine. Mine allowed me access to other little pleasures such as the area I called the bubble pool. You see, I bought the sanctuary package, not the cheap one.

Now the bubble pool was a real experience. Let me tell you about it. It’s a smallish pool, full of pure mineral spring water but what makes it different is that it has these darling little beds in it, just below the water’s surface. There was no one in it, so, being intrepid, I took the plunge. I manoeuvred myself along the pool to one of these strange looking metallic beds which resembled the banana lounges we had on our terrace when Harold and I had the big house. Up I popped and lay there, letting the water gently lap about my person when a voice came from behind saying “I’ll turn it on for you”.

Oh dear God, what happened next was well, exhilarating? No. It was more than that. It was gorgeous.

Immediately, the entire pool started to gurgle and shake with millions of bubbles being shot from holes underneath my bed. Honestly Pets, it was like I was in a Simpson Delta 10 on spin cycle, but really very pleasant. With all these bubbles shooting onto my person, I could feel all the tensions and strain being effervesced right from my body. I imagined myself as a sliver of lemon, bobbing in the tiny Schweppes bubbles of a frosty G&T. Oh how beautiful. Before too long the millions of tiny bubbles started filling my swimsuit and I ballooned up to the ghastly shape of hippo. Oh it was just so funny. Hysterical. I pushed down on the fabric of my costume and the expelling air made an extremely unattractive sound but it didn’t matter – there was no one else in the pool – no, just me.

I lay there being bubble pummelled and moving into different positions allowing the fizz to hit different and unusual parts of my person. Some positions were quite confronting, I have to say, and I found one or two to be particularly, oh, what’s the word I’m looking for, pleasurable. Oh, I do believe I went into another world there for a minute.

An hour and a half of bobbing about in all sorts of pools and steam rooms and I was starting to look a little like a little steamed pork bun that you buy in those Chinese take away shops and that’s not a particularly attractive look for a girl of my vintage. I walked out of the pool back into the unisex changing room, showered in the ladies section, dried my hair and popped on my sundress in one of those little cubicles. I waited in the changing room watching all the men and women in various states of undress while I gathered all my belongings in to my overnight bag. I felt like a new woman – all fizzed, relaxed and ready to take on the world again. Just delightful.

I sat in the driver’s seat of the old Merc and actually had a little snooze before heading off back in to town to the Springs Hotel where I remembered they served a particularly fine G&T around five o’clock.

My Travel Diary

Look, it’s not that far to Hepburn Springs and there’s a lot of pretty little shops to root around in at Daylesford – gorgeous really. Once you get past the modernity of the spa complex, it’s really quite a pleasant place - I’d recommend it. Especially the bubble pool. But if you go through the week and avoid weekends, it’s half price. That’s even better don’t you think?

Oh dear God - I'm in Dromana

Chatting to my dear friend Sherri the other day and I mentioned that I was a bit restless. I needed another travel experience. “Where can I go pet?” I said “Just a daytrip”

Well, guess what she suggested – Dromana of all places. Yes, that’s right Dromana! “Oh dear” I said “The last time I stopped in Dromana was when the engine blew up in to old Merc on the way to see my friends at Portsea. Well no one ever told me the silly thing needs oil as well as petrol.

Dromana? Are you sure, dear? But there are so many caravans there”

Sweet Sherri convinced me that there was this gorgeous little place called Heronswood somewhere in the wilds of Dromana that I really needed to explore, so before I braved all those ghastly seaside holiday suburbs, I thought I’d do the right thing and research. I managed to find a brochure called Peninsular Visitor and instantly I knew Sherri was right.

I read all the information, which only a gifted travel writer with a passion for adjectives could create, and I was sold. Listen to this - this was what was in the book – “Satiate the desire to savour the array of sublime wine in the disarmingly charming cellar door”. Of course they were referring to one of those continental wineries but I thought, how charming, the whole place sounds just so floral. I had to see it. Thank goodness for travel writers like him and me.

Down the old Nepean we went and once past Brighton I was overwhelmed with the feeling of being intrepid again. Along the way I couldn’t help but notice that the bayside suburbs have changed. There are very few fibro beach shacks any more – most of the houses along the highway are now brick. How modern.

I arrived at Dromana two and a half hours after leaving South Yarra and pulled out the old Melways that always sits under my spare handbag in the glove box. I found the address of Heronswood and climbed up the hill from the highway pushing the old Merc to her absolute limit. And there I was pets, atop a little mountain by the beach. Any higher and I would have been right up Arthur’s Seat, so to speak.

“But this is a house”. I thought. “A house, in among other houses. I hope Sherri hasn’t sent me on a wild goose chase” I parked the car, pinned on my wide sun hat and walked towards the gate. Oh the view was breathtaking – absolutely breathtaking. In the distance I could see dear little Port Phillip bay with a couple of large container ships bobbing on the horizon. But between me and the bay was a garden –a beautiful, green, lush and neatly laid out garden. I opened the gate and felt like a Bronte girl. Oh it was just beautiful. Large trees, pockets of neat little plants, (I could live without some of those succulents though– they should all be replaced with petunias, but each to her own) and wide stretches of green, green lawn. I meandered through the plants along windy little paths, trying to pronounce all the botanical names that were written on little signs until I came to a curious looking building with a thatched roof. A THATCHED ROOF! Was I dreaming? Oh no, it wasn’t just my vivid imagination playing tricks on me again, it really was a thatched roof.

“Hello, you gorgeous little piece of England. I haven’t seen anything a pretty as you since I was in the Cotswolds” I squealed to the building. “Aren’t you just perfect?”

Below this gorgeous roof was a restaurant, or cafe or kiosk thing that had little tables sitting under big umbrellas which overlooked the garden. Gorgeous. I spoke to the polite young gentleman who had the most divine English accent and asked him for a table in the shade. I also asked him several questions about the garden and the cafe because, in part, I just wanted to hear him speak. Mmmmm. He told me nearly everything on the menu comes from the “garden to the plate” reducing the “food miles” which is a term I’d never heard of before. I was glad he used the word ‘miles’ instead of ‘kilometres’ – much more romantic. Nice fellow – big eyes, dark hair, strong jaw. I sat there at my little table - the air filled with the aroma of the most fragrant array of herbs growing all around me and swaying in the seaside breeze. Oh, I just wanted to pick them and fill a basket. Honestly pets, I felt I was living that Simon and Garfunkel song one on of my favourite cassettes, sitting there among the Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme. Good God, that Garfunkel had dreadful hair!

Within minutes the young man with the accent and tight apron was back at my table asking me what I’d like for lunch. I’d had plenty of time to peruse the menu and reading through it made me feel a little bit sorry for them all here, poor things. Let me explain. Usually when I read a menu, I have my little French/English dictionary in my handbag to translate. I love the challenge of all those cute little French terms. But the poor little Heronswood menu– not a foreign term at all! I could understand the menu perfectly and didn’t get a chance to use my dictionary at all. A bit of a disappointment I must say – not a ‘mille feuille’, ‘jus’ or ‘beurre noir’ to be seen. A woman with my skills could really smarten up this menu, I thought, as I popped my dictionary back in my handbag for another time.

The blackboard was presented in front of me which invited me to partake in a luncheon of either pork loin, lamb rump or chicken breast (all those rumps, loins and breasts sounded a little risqué to me). “I’ll have the pork, thank you dear” I said flicking through the wine list just for show – “...and a Bitters Lime and Lemonade please, with a straw. Thank you pet”.

As I sat there for a short while, counting the pretty little cumquats on the shaped tree in front of me, a group of women walked past the al fresco part of the cafe where I sat. They were obviously foreign. Each of them picked the tips off the growing herbs in the garden and spoke in Spanish or Italian or some other language about their scent. Then another woman – (she wasn’t foreign but she was American) said to her husband. “Look George. Look at all these ‘erbs”.

Oh why can’t Americans speak properly?

My meal arrived and the gorgeous young man with the big lips and beautiful hands explained that all the vegies, served separately, were from the garden and probably picked that morning. How pretty they looked. Ruby coloured beetroots with pomegranate and Roquefort , mixed string beans with sesame seeds and garden zucchini with lemon thyme and goat curd. Gorgeous.

My pork was absolutely divine and served with a little apple puree drizzled over its top. When asked if I wanted dessert, I immediately declined but asked to see the menu anyway so as not to offend. Oh, thank goodness – a foreign term. Panacotta.
“I’ll have the panacotta please dear” I said.

Dear me, it was the most delicious little blancmange I’ve ever tasted. So smooth - just like they’d whipped cream through it! And it came with a tiny little pile of baked rhubarb that looked like a neat little stack of quisonnaire rods in a pretty pale pink sauce which could probably have been called a ‘jus’– sublime.

After an hour and a half sitting there, writing little notes and taking in the beautiful atmosphere, I asked for the bill. Now this is unusual, pets. I only had to reach into my upper undergarment and peel off one fifty dollar note – and I got change! I thought that was real bargain. I really did.

There’s more to Heronswood than a garden or a cafe, or a thatched roof or even the fragrance, the views over the bay or the gorgeous house in the middle of the garden. Or, even the pool lawn. So, so much more than that.

I remember some clever person or other saying something to the effect that “The meaning of synergy is that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts”. I’ve never really known what that means because I’m not really good with sums – I used to leave all that sort of thing to Harold, but I think whoever it was that said it, must have been talking about Heronswood, pets. – Yes, that’s it. Heronswood is a synergy. Or is it a Whole.

No, I think synergy sounds better – don’t you?

My travel diary

Look, if you can’t really bring yourself to a trip to Dromana, just say that Heronswood is on the Mornington Peninsular. It’s gorgeous, believe me. You can’t see any of those ghastly caravan parks from on top of the hill but you can get a few pretty views over the bay. On the way back, take the Nepean Highway and go through Brighton, otherwise you’ll have to travel through Springvale or on that dreadful Eastlink thing where they dumped all that rubbish but called it “art” Hmmmm.

There’s Not Much Gold Left in Maldon

Hello there,

I‘m finding it harder and harder to go down to the village these days without someone stopping me to ask me for my travel tips. I can’t walk more than about 10 yards along Toorak Road before there’s a tap on the shoulder -. “Winnie, can you recommend such and such” or “Winnie, we’re off in the car on the weekend, where should we go”.

Look, to be honest, I don’t really mind. All the girls know I’ve become quite the travelista these days. The Old Merc and I have seen quite some sights I can tell you!

It was only last Thursday when I was having my roots done at Sylvio’s that an old pal, Jean asked me for my advice. Bless her. Poor Jean’s only got a year or two to go and I suppose she wants to make the most of things. Poor Jean. Well what could I say? Of course I was happy to help.

“Maldon” I said, quick as a flash. “Gorgeous”

Now what I love best about Maldon is that it really hasn’t changed in about 150 years. Honestly, it’s just as it was during the Gold Rush – in every respect.
It was a hot day the last time I pointed the old Merc along the Calder. Now that’s something interesting – the old Calder. Do you know that it’s a freeway all the way through to Bendigo now – fabulous. You can leave the city and not stop at a traffic light until you’re outside Myer’s in the middle of Bendigo. Well almost. And the signs along the freeway say you can do 110 kilometres an hour which I, of course think is totally excessive. I prefer to cruise along at about 70 – you get to see so much more. And from the outside lane, the views are even better. That’s one of my big tips, pets. Travel is not always about the destination. No, no, no – it’s the getting there that’s the most fun.

Well, fun? Maybe. I know I could have stayed on the freeway thing for the entire trip but I decided to live by my own lesson and explore a bit. I just love being intrepid.

After a few hours, I coaxed the old Merc off the highway and found myself in a quaint little place called Malmsbury which, of course is named after the Malmsbury in dear old England (well, I presumed so anyway). Quite a nice little town but nothing more than a few shops along the old highway. Peckish, I swooped on the bakery which I’d heard about from a couple of the girls at my Bridge club. Now I have to be honest with you here, pets. Although Harold provided well for me before, and after, he passed, I’m a careful woman. Oh yes, I love a bargain as much as the next girl but I won’t throw money away on ‘un-necessaries’ as I like to call them. I asked the woman behind the bakery counter all about her gorgeous looking muffins and all of her scrummy looking breads and cakes. “Oh, I’ll have that, that and that” I said, pointing to the pretty array of delectables and comestibles in the cabinet. We’ll you could have buttered me on both sides when she told me the price. “No, no, no. Too dear, too dear” I said sharply, gathering my bag and throwing my favourite turquoise scarf over my left shoulder. I left without so much as a crumb. Outrageous prices!

It was another thirty or so miles on to Maldon so after another hour or two, there I was driving up the main street of this sweet little town. Honestly pets, it was like stepping back in time. It’s just so quaint. Of course, the first thing to catch my eye was a gorgeous shop on the left hand side of the road. I marched straight from the old Merc into this little oasis and honestly, I thought I was in heaven – what do you think the shop was called? I’ll tell you. Lavender and Lace. That’s right, an entire shop stuffed and brimming with the most gorgeous bits of tatting I’ve ever seen, and you know I just adore tat. Beds draped with tulle, shelves festooned with all sorts of divine shrouds and lace, lace, lace! Sublime. I could have perched myself happily on a bentwood with a little cup of Earl Grey and let the lace take me, but, being the adventurous traveller that I am, I had to move on. Reluctantly, I left the shop after I’d fingered just about every piece of fabric, put my nails through every beautifully formed eyelet and opened every bottle of lavender fragrance for a quick sniff. I could have bought so much there but no, I restrained myself and walked out empty handed.

I was starting to get one of my ‘heads’ – sitting in the car from several hours can do that to me (the old Merc’s starting to collect quite a few petrol fumes inside these days) so I just needed to pop into the chemist for a Panadol. Oh dash it – closed! It was 1.00pm on a Saturday afternoon and the only chemist in town – a tourist town at that, was closed. And that’s when it dawned on me. Oh that’s right – nothing here’s changed in 150 years! Of course, ancient shopping hours. A quick walk around the town might clear my head.

It’s a cute, quaint, kempt and pleasant little town, if not a little, well, grey. They really could have called the town Fowlers Vacola as it all had a lovely preserved quality to it. All the shop awnings and verandas match in a grey arrangement of iron and timber and as the main street gently bends in the middle of the shops it’s every amateur photographer’s dream. Gorgeous! At the bottom of the main street the road forks and of course, my eye told me immediately what was needed. A big bubbly fountain in the middle of a roundabout - just perfect. But that’s just me. I have the gift of imagination and the eye of a trained artist. There’s plenty of room here for a fountain and I do believe this little town needs a boost – a landmark.

Not far from where the possible roundabout with a fountain is missing is an olde worlde pub. Now I’m not one to normally frequent pubs but this one looked different – ‘olde worlde’ covers a multitude of sins – even an old girl like me entering a public bar. It was quaint and I was sure I’d be able to get a little ploughman’s there to tide me over until dinner. I walked in to the public bar which had a beaut red Axminster on the floor (which smelt a bit like beer, I hasten to add). There was a nice wooden bar with leadlight panelling where I could see myself returning for a snifter at around 5.00. I also noticed a couple of bottles of Gilby’s which was an encouraging sign.

I didn’t much appreciate being ignored by the bartender so I let out a little “Ahem, cough” to gain her attention. She looked my way, passed me a menu and said “ What can I get you?”

“A Bitters, Lime and Lemonade, please dear. With a straw. I’m parched” I said following my golden rule of never being tempted before five. I took my menu to one of the laminex tables in the dining room while I waited for her to make my drink. After several minutes she appeared beside my table and politely said “Your drink’s on the bar”. She actually walked from the bar to my table to tell me that my drink was sitting on the bar. Wasn’t that sweet of her? There were three other patrons in the hotel eating lunch so I presumed she was just very busy.

I perused the menu and looked at the meal that was being delivered to the other couple. One had what looked like the roast of the day (still in the grey theme that the town enjoys) and other one had a meal that looked like a cheese capped mountain range – perhaps the Dolomites. Oh that’s so funny. I leaned over and asked the young girl what the meal was and she told me it was a Chicken Parma (whatever that is). Honestly pets, it was enormous – bigger than my overnight bag! How anyone could possibly eat all that and not require an entire bottle of Mylanta is beyond me. I felt sick. I looked at the menu again and it left me cold. And then it also occurred to me. (This is marvellous – I’m having all these incredible insights today) The menu is probably themed to match the town too– all these things on the menu are food they probably ate during the Gold Rush. How quaint to have such an old fashioned menu. Huge meals that miners would appreciate. Such a darling little culinary time warp.

I left the pub, walked back up the street and passed another pub that was painted in the most unattractive shade of grey. “Oh that won’t do” I said to myself. “ugly, ugly” Casting my eyes around I noticed yet another bakery at the top end of the street and thought I’d see if the practice of charging like a wounded bull extends from Malmsbury right up to Maldon. Pleasantly surprised, I left the cute little bakery with two gorgeous little saussie rolls, an apple cake and a little bottle of soft drink with a straw. I sat on a bench in the main street with my hankie draped over my knees and pretended to be on a picnic. Lovely, just lovely.

Groups of elderly people walked by me all totally enthralled with the charm and quaintness of the village. They poked their noses into the antique and bric-a-brack shops. No one bought anything but they were enjoying the experience. So many times I heard people say “Remember these?” or “That’s just like the one Mum used to use” referring to some of the curios in the shop windows.

I started to feel just a little sad. Maldon was making me feel this way. And I just couldn’t put my finger on the reason. Perhaps it was that all the shops looked the same as they did so many years ago. Perhaps it was because the street was a bit grubby. It could have been the dozens of cigarette butts on the footpath outside the pub or maybe it was just that I really wanted a nice little lunch but had to settle for a saussie roll on my lap. Now, I know it’s a tourist town, but there just wasn’t the zing that I’d seen in other parts. Take Berrima for example. You know, up in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales – just gorgeous – absolutely gorgeous.

I picked up a little brochure in Maldon that told me it is Australia’s “First Notable Town” Well, will someone please tell me what that means? The only thing I thought that was notable about Maldon was that it was dry, a bit grubby, the service in the pub a bit snooty, and for goodness sake – more foreign imports in the shops – probably from China. If I wanted Chinese imports I could always just cross the river and pop into one of those dreadful shops in Richmond.

The other notable thing about Maldon of course, is that in every respect it hasn’t changed in 150 years. And nor has the food. Gorgeous.


My Travel Diary

Maldon’s supposed to be about 1.5 hours from Melbourne now that the freeway has been completed. I decided not to stay the night there although apparently there are several B&Bs that probably would have been just the ticket.

Look, for my money, the place needs a bit of a scrub. I know it’s old; in fact, it’s so old, it’s ‘notable’. But that doesn’t mean that it can’t be pretty, does it pets? That’s it! Maldon’s just not pretty.

Note to self. Remember that stunning little Lavender and Lace shop for the future – gorgeous.

I’ve never slept in a diary

I know I might be considered a bit old fashioned but that’s just me. I was up in New South Wales for Christmas visiting my sister Kitty at Bowral or as she says it, “Burradoo actually”, as if Burradoo Actually was the name of her town.

After I left Kitty’s place on Boxing Day full of Christmas pud and boring stories from her dreary husband Keith, I jumped in the old Merc and totted around the gorgeous Southern Highlands for a while before heading down that dreadful winding road through Fitzroy Falls to Kangaroo Valley near Nowra. It took me forever on that road. I hate hairpin turns and so does the old Merc I’m afraid to say. I had so many cars banked up behind me for miles going down that escarpment. I don’t think I got out of second gear for at least 30 miles.

Now, what a lovely spot Kangaroo Valley is. Pretty, pretty views, rivers, mist, mountains and green, green pastures – it reminds me a lot of England. Oh, sweet, sweet England. Such a change from brown old Victoria! I had to get my dear son Gaven to book me some accommodation on the computer internet thing – he knows how to use that. I don’t know why I can’t just pick up a brochure and ring to make a booking followed by popping a cheque in the mail any more. Everyone wants to be paid by credit card on the internet computer. I don’t have a credit card and I certainly wouldn’t know how to put it into an internet computer even if I had one, which I don’t. It’s such a fag.

Anyway, Gaven booked me three nights at a place called the dairy@cavan and after consulting the map I managed to find the place which as the name suggests, is, or once was a dairy. I was a little dubious about staying in such a place (I’ll tell you a secret here. There’s not too much that I don’t like but I have a real aversion to - how can I say this delicately - cow poo) All I could hope for was that the dairy was a dairy a long, long time ago and all traces of the offending material had long gone.

I drove up the dirt driveway past a ramshackle old building to what looked like my destination. There were several metal fence structures that looked like cattle holding pens and a new, modern building of iron and stone that, I suppose, looked quite smart in a very modern sort of way. I parked the old Merc on the paved area beside the door and let myself in – the door was unlocked. Just beside the front door was a frothy little mountain of suds, obviously where the cleaner had emptied the bucket after washing the floors. “Well” I huffed, “That’s a nice how do you do!”

Inside, thankfully, the place didn’t look like a dairy at all. In fact, I don’t really know how to describe it but I’ll have a go for you. First, I suppose it could be described as modern (and you know my thoughts on modern. Mmm) I’m not an old fogey when it comes to interior design and I’ve even read some modern architectural magazines while I’ve waited at my doctor’s surgery, but I was having difficulty trying to decide what was interior and what was exterior to this house.

The owner obviously had a limited budget when it was being renovated and couldn’t afford to replace the old timber trusses and building frame. He just painted them white and made what young people call a ‘feature’ of them. He couldn’t even afford to have the walls lined in some nice plaster board. No, they were just exposed. Painted, but exposed. The floor was dressed in a natural stone which was cut in to large square shapes and grouted like you would a nice patio. I’d prefer a nice carpet of course, but I suppose this is what I get for allowing Alan to book my accommodation on the internet computer – modern. Some of the interior walls were lined with corrugated iron. Can you imagine my disbelief. Corrugated iron! How bohemian. At least the architraves were beautifully polished pieces of wood that I suspect might have been jarrah. They looked remarkably similar to the timber they used to make Harold’s coffin – deep, rich and smooth. Nicely polished, I thought
The lounge room faced north out through large sliding glass doors to a paved patio where the views of the countryside were spectacular. I walked out but immediately returned inside as I copped a hint of a whiff of cow poo. I’ll look at the view from behind the glass I thought. There was a little tellie on a low sideboard (that will be nice to watch a Midsommer Murder tonight, I thought. I could curl up on this leather couch with a stiff G&T and sink in. Yes, very nice)

Further over towards the bedroom past the walls that were really only frames because the owner couldn’t afford the plaster, were a dining table and some more leather chairs – the type you’d see in a Freedom Furniture catalogue. Then past that was sort of dressing room that lead off to the only bedroom at the end of the building. All quite nice, but modern.

The bathroom which was near the bedroom was also modern, with stone floors and a large walk in shower and those down light things casting soft light over the surfaces. I knew I’d feel self conscious showering in such a facility without a shower curtain or door so I think I’ll opt for the bath tonight. It was one of those baths which had chrome holes placed along the sides. I’ve never been able to work out what those holes are for and I can’t understand why a bath with so many holes in it can actually hold water. Oh well, we’ll see. I’m going to be here for three nights but noticed there is only one towel for me for the whole time. That won’t do.

There was no one there to welcome me when I arrived at the diary and no one left a note saying “Welcome, we hope you have a nice stay”. Hospitality in these parts is different, I thought. The place was unlocked and who knows could have just walked in and set up camp. I couldn’t find a guest book, which is usually the first thing I consult when staying a B&B (oh, but this place is only a B – isn’t that funny? There’s no one around to cook you bacon and eggs in the morning and there are no provisions for breakfast either like there was at the last place I stayed in – you have to fend for yourself here.)

A cup of tea, that’s what I need. I walked to the kitchen which looked like something out of a very modern magazine. I opened every cupboard and drawer but not an Earl Grey tea bag in sight. No milk in the fridge, no coffee (not that I drink it anyway, but it’s always nice to know it’s there), not even a little biscuit wrapped in a plastic wrapper. Nothing. Oh, how disappointing.

And then it struck me. There is not one feminine touch in this place. No nice flowers, not enough towels, no welcome touch, no hanging space my frocks, no tea or coffee, no pillow gift and not even a Womans’ Weekly among the stack of books and magazines in the bookshelf. Oh no, there’s no woman’s touch here at all. The only sign that there’s been some human activity is the pile of suds by the front door, but would a woman do that?

I rinsed out my pantyhose and draped them over the rafter in the living room as there was no clothes rack to be found. That’s better, feels more like home now.
I spent three days on my own at thediary@cavan. I read several of the books the owner had in the bookshelf. I watched a Midsommer Murder or two and stocked up at the sweet little supermarket down the road. At the end of the road is a pie shop that boasts ‘The Best Pies in the world” on their sign. I have to say, they’re pretty good you know. All in all it was a nice couple of days and I got used to the modern accommodation - it’s quite easy to live with you know.

My Diary Notes

Some young folk describe thedairy@cavan (honestly, what sort of a name is that for a B&B?) as boutique country accommodation with an edge ( and if you can tell me just what that statement means I’d be very grateful). I know for a fact that its heritage listed because the information says so – maybe that’s why the owner didn’t fill in the interior walls with plaster. I noticed another article in a magazine there that has been cut out saying that it was an architectural masterpiece – well that’s what the writer said. Quite possibly I thought, but I’d need a few nice columns arches and timber fretwork for that to be true. And carpet of course– I love carpet. There was another article there that said it won some tourism award too, but I’ve never put much weight in tourism awards – there are so many of them. It did have a pretty little garden that I’m sure I could do a few nice things with – put in some petunias and Daphne bushes – you know, pretty things with a nice scent.

Where is it – Cavan Road Barrengarry, which is quite near Kangaroo Valley in NSW – a little bit tricky to find especially if you’re coming from Nowra but once you know where it is, it’s fine.

How much? Well, I think it’s quite expensive. Very expensive in fact when you consider that you don’t get as much as an Earl Grey thrown in and no one services the room on a daily basis. I had to write out a cheque to reimburse Gaven’s credit card for $900 for the three nights (thank goodness Harold had a nice life insurance policy)
Note to self. After three days, one becomes quite accustomed to the smell of cow poo, several pats of which I saw in the paddock which abuts the dairy. But worse than that were the flies. Oh, shocking. And no fly wire screens on the glass sliding doors either – obviously another thing the owner couldn’t afford – poor dear.

I got a real shock in Sale

For those of you that know me, you’ll be more than aware of my love of the finer things – nice things.

Ever since I started on my travels, just after poor Harold departed this world, I’ve developed an uncanny knack of picking the perfect accommodation with my inbuilt sense of style. I’ve become so gifted at it now that people ask my expert opinion on just about all matters related to the perfect travel experience. They trust me and know that my opinion counts for more than what they might be able to find on their internet computer.

But there are occasions when even an old veteran girl like me can, well; not exactly ‘get it wrong’ but let life take me on an adventure into another world. I suppose even I have a thing or two to learn.

Several months ago I was heading off to the country to see my good friend Margaret who lives at the caravan park at Lakes Entrance. Poor Margaret. Things have never been quite the same for her since Jim passed.

It was a warm day and after travelling from Melbourne for five hours on that ghastly Princes Highway past all those La Trobe Valley electrical chimneys, I had to refill the old Merc up at Sale. Gaven, my son said it should take about three hours from Melbourne to Sale but I don’t like to speed. Whatever Alan says, I always add half as much time again just to be safe. And I’m usually right.

After the marathon drive with caravans, cars and all sorts of other vehicles stretched out behind me for miles and miles, the thought of being quite intrepid and stopping the night in Sale was tempting. It was quite a tiring trip on my own and with only Neil Diamond and Anne Murray to keep me company on the cassette player I was feeling the taxing effects and loneliness of a real journey.

After I handed over several twenty dollar notes in payment for my petrol, I asked the sweet young thing behind the counter at the BP if there was anywhere ‘nice’ to stay in her town. “I want a B&B. Somewhere nice with all the usual things – can you recommend something nice” I asked politely, stifling a little yawn.

“Minnies” she said “Down the highway, through town, turn at Gibsons Lane and you’ll find it.”

Minnies. That sounds perfect. I can tell a lot by a name. Minnies. I sat back in the driver’s seat of the old Merc and gently coaxed her in the direction the nice young attendant told me.

Minnies. I can judge a book by its cover and I can also judge a good B&B by its name. Nice floral prints, maybe a four poster bed, lovely rugs and deep tapestry works on all the walls. Minnies. If it had have been a colder day there would have been a fire lit in the parlour too. Minnies. How perfect for this weary traveller. And it’s probably run by someone of my vintage who knows a thing or two about running a country B&B. A little stiff gin and tonic, a rest in a soft chair and a good night’s sleep would be perfect.

The little blue sign saying “Minnies B&B” indicated that I needed to turn right off the highway. The car’s indicator had been on for at least a mile just let all those people behind me know that I may need to turn sometime soon so there was not need to pause to turn it on again. The long driveway was lined with adolescent oak trees and meandered up towards what looked like a modern house.

Modern! Am I in the right place?

With the fading light gently reflecting off the car’s yellow bonnet I saw a young woman walk towards my old Merc.

“Hello dear, can you direct me to Minnies please, I think I’m in the wrong place” I asked graciously,
despite my obvious weariness.

“Hello, I’m Mandy and you’ve come to the right place. This is Minnies over here.”

I collected my handbag from the passenger seat and walked with her away from what was obviously her own house – the modern thing, towards another building of a similar vintage. A discreet but colourful sign at the front said “Minnies”

Well, you could just imagine my shock. This is not what I’d imagined at all or even what the young woman at the BP led me to believe. This place was modern. B&Bs aren’t supposed to be modern. It only looked a couple of years old, if that. And its exterior walls were iron – corrugated, shiny iron. Mandy led me up the couple of steps and into the building.

As I walked inside I almost had to reach for my prescription sunglasses. The colours on the furniture were the most vibrant I had ever seen in my life. Hot pinks, lime greens, against a black velvet background which dressed the huge club lounge in the centre of what looked like a living room. The same motifs were featured in the very modern pendant lights that hung in a neat row from the ceiling. Highly polished floor boards extended through the living room through to the kitchen which ran along half the length of the building. I suppose this is what modern people call open plan living. Well, it’s not for me. That’s all I can say about it. Open plan indeed.

There were no mats or doyleys on the kitchen bench, there were no curtains on the windows. Only those roll down blinds that you see in the modern decor magazines. It’s absolutely not what I expected.

At one end of the living room was a very pretty bedroom but with some more of the those hot pink touches jarring at my senses, however, the large bed was dressed in a gleaming white cotton bedspread that reminded me of a perfectly iced wedding cake. My personal taste would have been more sated with a nice floral with a ruffle or two and some billowing curtains to match, but apparently in modern decor, there is no room for ‘nice things’

Oh, the bathroom was harsh. Stone floors, shiny tiled walls, a deep ceramic basin with those sparkling, contemporary flick mixer things instead of two lovely brass taps and it even had a huge walk in shower which, of course, I thought was ostentatious, showy and totally unnecessary. And no peek-a-boo window in there either, just a large panoramic window letting in all the late afternoon light. Big fluffy white towels however, looked nice. Very nice. And there was even some of those little bottles of toiletries that you find in big hotels. Sanctum, I think the label said, but I did have my sunglasses on.

At the other end of the living room there was another bedroom in the same oversized proportions as the first one AND another bathroom. But this was too much. Black Thai silk billowing curtains (very foreign isn’t it?) and shocking lime green splashings of dramatic interior design. Who on Earth did the interior design of this place?

I inspected the house more closely. It was immaculate. Well at least if Mandy has no taste in interior design and can’t afford to place a few nice little pieces of lace around the place to make it more welcoming, she knows how to keep a sparkling home. Even the dishwasher and monstrous oven sparkled.

“I’ll take it.” I said graciously, knowing full well that she would have difficulty renting out the place, poor dear. “Just one night thank you dear” Poor Mandy, she’ll get the hang of things eventually.

I gathered my overnight bag from the boot of the Merc and settled in for the night. As I walked around the place trying to get comfortable in such a modern environment, I looked for the guest book to see what others had said about the place. It’s the first thing I always do in a B&B – have a little squiz at the guest book. Above the bookshelf was a laminated page from a travel magazine which, according to a travel writer by the name of Kevin Moloney, “...a night at Minnies is perfect.” He must be young, I thought.

But the comments from other guests said similar things.

‘Well’. I thought. ‘ If this is perfect, then there is absolutely no room in this world any more for good old fashion country accommodation, with gentle pastels, soft curtains, cream teas, lace trimmings, a welcome mat that features a picture of a cat, a collection of baskets on top of the kitchen cupboards brimming with dried flowers and gum leaves, an embroidery sign above the stove - Bless this House, a garden full of hydrangeas and petunias, an old wheelbarrow at the front door with cactus growing from it and the lingering, heady scent of lavender permeating every room.

“Perfect! My fat aunt!”


MY DIARY NOTES

If you have absolutely no taste for the finer things in country accommodation – Minnies will be perfect for you. Others in the guest book describe it as funky, living art, contemporary and cutting edge (whatever that means). All I can say is that it needs a good dose of lace and lavender.

It’s address is Gibson’s Lane (off Cobains St) Sale, Victoria. Phone 03 5144 3344
They have one of those computer internet things which is www.minnies.com.au
Stars ****
Cost – As a single woman, it cost me, $150.00 for the night with breakfast (which was scrummy by the way)
Owner - Mandy Rowe (sweet young thing – she’s the artist) but her husband Shane, is gorgeous

Note to self – next time in Sale ring Phyllis – she knows someone on a farm down that way who does some beautiful quilting – might teach Mandy a thing or two