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Rupert and I left Sydney in the Falcon around 10am Friday morning and headed north up the freeway taking the Peats Ridge turn off, instantly in the country - instantly at peace! The countryside here is like much of the east-coast - a bit dry, burnt grasses and weeds along the roadside, the odd cattle farm here and there and numerous creeks. Along the way, we pulled in at one of the many unmanned roadside vendors, selling local flowers and vegetables - like cabbages and flowering zucchinis - and bought a posy of pink sweet peas for a mere two dollars. The Great North Road follows the old convict trail, so along the way there are numerous examples of convict masonry. In fact we stopped by the roadside at the Murray’s Run Culvert, which was built in 1830. The drainage arch looks just like an old hole in the wall, but when you find out the facts, you realise that it is just outstanding! A well-camouflaged memorial plaque describes how it was built by a convict gang out of dressed stone, but without the use of mortar. A masterful stroke in itself, they cut the rock with inadequate tools amongst the wild and difficult terrain. Today, though the terrain was absolutely lovely so we chose this as the spot for a picnic lunch of pate, fresh corn bread, avocado, apricots and Brie - delightful! The next stop was Wollombi, which means, “meeting place of the rivers” to the Aborigines, and we arrived there much sooner than expected, as it's only two hours away. It's a rather sweet little town; full of old churches, craft stores and Devonshire teas. It is also home to some fantastic architecture and a substantial amount of 19th Century sandstone buildings. We wandered around the town for most of the day, and enjoyed a beer and the best hot chips I’ve ever tasted at the Royal Hotel, which is also home to Dr Jurds’ famous Jungle Juice – a port and sherry knock-year-socks-off combo – which I’m sorry to say I did not have the opportunity to try. Our plan had been to catch up with Ruperts’ old camera technician, Hugo, who lives in the area, but by the end of the day we still had not heard from him, so we asked the locals for directions to his property. When we got there, it was a three gates drive and a fairly long one up the mountain. His property is very beautiful, he hasn't been there long, but has built a wooden house, a dam, and some very fertile looking veggie patches are on the way. Still no sign of him though and with the sun on it's way down, we decided to go in search of a bed for the night. Wollombi being mostly populated with guesthouses, we drove to the nearest largest town - Cessnock! Well it is not the most picturesque place on the map, but it was okay for the night. Cessnock began life at the turn of the century as a mining centre, with 17 collieries in the surrounding area. The conditions of the workers were poor, which led to unrest and finally revolt, when in 1923 a mine explosion killed twenty miners and their horses. The pits began to close in the 1950’s so that today it is best known for its surrounding vineyards, particularly the area of Pokolbin. We checked in to a motel and walked to the local pub for a T-bone and endless salad. Later that night, back at the motel we watched a rather dull doco on Dean Martin - too much singing –, which was enough to send us to sleep. I heard the next day that Cessnock has the fattest female population in NSW - I hope it is not the steak! We also got a call from Hugo that night -"Sorry I missed you, but please come and meet me! I will be at a biodynamic field day tomorrow in a town called Broke - please come!” So that is how I found myself in a reality version of Landline the next day... We awoke that morning to an absolutely splendid day - bright blue skies and Summer-like warmth, and off we went in the sunshine heading for the vineyards. We stopped first at Rothbury Estate, which was a bit sterile, so we didn't bother having a taste. Meandering along the road, through the vineyards though, is incredibly romantic and then we came upon the Tyrell’s estate, which was just beautiful. Rose bushes lined the gravel road leading to the winery and the rows of grapes in the background were hand labelled with Shiraz or Merlot and Chardonnay. At the end of the drive a lazy drunken dog, a mass of red geraniums curling around an old wooden shack and the winery across the way, greeted us. The Winery itself must be one of our oldest, established in 1858 on 330 acres. Walking inside its darkened rooms you are hit with the intense, heady smell of fermenting grapes. We made our way passed the old, enormous oak barrels to the tasting room. First tried the Eclipse Pinot Noir, the gentleman asked what we thought and we both agreed that it didn't go too well with the toothpaste (it was 11am!). He decided we needed a sip of the sparkling Ashmans N.V. Brut to cut through it - okay, not a problem. We walked out the door with two bottles of red - good prices though - cheaper than retail - a bottle of Vat 55 Shiraz Merlot, winemakers choice, and a bottle of the old trusty Long Flat Red. The Tyrell’s Winery is really a gorgeous spot, well manicured grounds with a bit of rustic appeal, picnic tables and barbecues so you can make a whole day of it. Unfortunately we couldn't, so we hit the road again in the direction of a town called Broke in the hunt for the elusive Hugo. Broke is an unfortunate name for a town. Even more so, when it doesn't really have much in the way of aesthetic appeal and no tidy town awards of which to boast. Yet it is a little known fact that much of the grapes from some of the Hunter Valleys best-known wines are grown in the Broke area. We followed the signs to the Hunter Biodynamic Group Field Day, which was another long haul. When we finally found the property, it was a five-gate run through the paddocks until we came upon the organic farm bunch. The whole group dressed in straw hats, shorts, T-shirts and rugged country shoes turned to peer as Rupert and I (a couple of city toffs) made our way towards the group - me dressed in bright floral silk dress, red thongs, pink lipstick, carrying a Chinese parasol. And there, leaning over and examining some chemical free bull grass, at last, was Hugo. He dropped the grass and waved at us frantically. Hoorah, Hoorah! We listened in on the discussion of soil types and the best way to get rid of blackberry bushes without using chemicals (goats). It was, actually, rather interesting, as Rupert and I are both fans of the ABC rural news program, Landline. Here we were - Landline Live! The group split up and then headed up to the farmhouse for lunch, and what a marvellous lunch! Duck egg quiche with home grown biodynamic vegetables. Organic fruit cake with prickly pear syrup and hot cups of freshly plundered coffee. We were made most welcome, and I even played hula-hoop with the organic kids (no lollies for these little ones!) Sadly, we had to leave our new friends behind and make our way along the unknown road to Capertee. Capertee Valley is essentially a small farming town about an hour from Lithgow on the road to Mudgee. To get there we took the Bells line of road via Kurrajong and Bilpin. These two towns are absolutely stunning. Green, lush pastures, wattle trees, blossoms, nurseries and cosy looking cottages - this is my kind of countryside. The drive there takes you right up into the mountains of the Great Dividing Range, the view is astonishing. I found it distinctly more attractive than the Blue Mountains, Katoomba area, because it seems to be less run down. Fresh and vital is the country here, with the apple orchards providing an attractive lyrical beauty for the eyes, a relief from the long bush drive along the Como River. Lithgow isn't much to write home about, so I won't. But I will say that it has the 1997 Tidiest Town Award of which to boast. We arrived in Capertee just before sundown. It was a much longer journey than we had expected so the sight of James' farmhouse was a huge relief. And what a country manor Bandanora is! James Corlis’ family fled Ireland during the potato famine and took up land here in the late 1840’s, where they established enormous sheep and cattle property and extended a great influence over the valley. The house itself is gorgeous, with all the original doors and fittings. It has at least six bedrooms, three bathrooms, a formal driveway, shearing sheds, servant’s quarters, guesthouse, farm-keepers house, and so many paddocks you'd think it covered half the state. Three years ago, with new markets opening up, James switched to farming goats, with only a handful of cattle now left on the property. Capertee is not only the largest enclosed valley in Australia, but is also the stronghold of the endangered Regent Honey-eater, so I was looking forward to doing a spot of bird-watching. First up though, James had prepared a roast leg of lamb (sadly no goats’ meat for us) and he cooked it in the most gorgeous combustion oven you have ever seen. A Rayburn oven that is so efficient, you can even use it to heat up the house! A wonderful feast and two bottles of plonk later - the country air and driving also making you sleepy - to bed I went. Next morning, I was up with the goats. The unabashed sun and grassy country air tend to wake the senses and I didn't want to waste a minute. After breakfast we took off in the 4WD ute to tour the property and check out the goats up close. The farm keeps around 4000 head of goats, which sell to the US market for around $60 a carcass. The meat is used in a lot of Indian and also Greek cooking, where the Indians think the coloured goats taste best and the Greeks prefer the white. "Which is all a load of nonsense really. Myself? - Can’t stand the taste of it. Lamb is a lot tastier!" claims James. I'll take his word for it, though next time I'm eating Indian, I'll try the goat. As I said before the property was huge, the drive around took about an hour and a half. It was a good property, well fenced and well looked after, with a distinct lack of blackberry bushes! We got back to the house and while the boys went to "have a look at the car", I took the opportunity to lie in the grass and have a bit of a read. Moments later, an engine roared and in a cloud of smoke, Rupert and James came cruising around the corner in a mint condition, 1957 Cadillac Coupe de Ville! Well, I was certainly impressed when they pulled up next to me and explained that we were going for a drive to Sofala. So I put on my best vintage dress, hat and gloves and off we went! Sofala is Australia’s oldest gold mining town, located on the Turon River about 45 minutes drive from Capertee. When we came down the mountain curve, the town lay below, nestled in the palm of the valley, looking very much like a microcosm of the world in a child’s imagination: River, bridge, road, church, small cottages and chimneys. The river snakes past and through the town, kept in by the strong arms of willows and all you know as you see it from this height and distance is that you could quite happily stay here forever. We crossed the old bridge into the town, with its narrow gravel streets and little doorways, past the old pub and there we found, lined along the main street, around 60 or so Harley Davidson Motorcycles, obviously on a country tour. There was a table booked for three at the old Sofala gaol, which is now a restaurant run and owned by James’ dear friend Harvey. So there we pulled up in style, much to the joy of the other eaters because the car certainly looks a treat. We decided to take a walking tour of the town before sitting down to eat. The streetscape of Sofala remains that of a 19th century mining town as no new buildings have been built since the villages boom-time in the 1850’s when it’s population peaked at 30 000. Because of it’s unique character, film-maker Peter Weir used it as the fictional town of Paris in his 1974 black comedy, The Cars That Ate Paris and it can also be seen in the Norman Lindsay bio-pic, Sirens. Today, though, as we wandered down the main street (there are only two streets in the town) there was no sign of a film crew. At least that is what I thought. The heat of the sun and the thick clean air kept a warm, comforting hand on us as we strolled gaily down the gravel road. A glorious walk taking us past colourful wooden shacks and two-storey terraces; veranda’s tangled up in the seductive cling of Jasmine, intoxicated on wobbly legs by the intensity of its mid day scent. I spotted purple irises growing like wildflowers, pink daisies in proliferation and the endangered purple coral pea flower standing proudly as if it had nothing to fear. I felt the same way, until I noticed the crowd of bikers lining the main strip, spilling out of the pub and general store. James said “You’ve got nothing to worry about, they don’t look like the real, tough, crime-gang kind.” “I wouldn’t tell them that” I deadpanned. We laughed our way down the main street, and it felt like the bikers were laughing at us. “You look fantastic! You look like you belong here!” a biker babe bellowed out to me. Rupert decided it was a great opportunity to take my picture – dressed in my vintage finery in front of the bikes. “Not unless I take your picture first” I bargained, as it was a little intimidating feeling all those eyes watching. Rupert happily posed, so I took my turn, feeling less and less like the Queen of Sheba and more like one of Solomon’s 800 wives. Next thing you know, that bellowing biker babe came out of the metal work and decided she wanted my picture too. So that was how I found myself as the living postcard relic of Sofala, as every biker with a camera had me posing around the main street, in front of the general store, the pub, the local bazaar and of course, in front of the Harleys. Rupert suggested later that perhaps I should go back every weekend and become the local tourist attraction! Indeed! Well, being so popular can tire a girl out, so it was back to the gaol for a cooked lunch. I ordered a locally farmed Brook Trout which was barbecued to melt-in-the-mouth perfection. The boys ordered locally farmed beefsteaks and we sat in the sun on the veranda of the old gaol. The owner, Harvey, sat down and informed us of the goings on in Sofala and his agitation with the National Parks, which - because of my own experiences in obtaining the lease of the Hill End Butcher Shop - were undeniably justified. It seems that the famous and picturesque Turon River, which runs through the town, is in grave danger of being lost. In the last five years, the Casuarina Tree has been spreading from the banks of the Turon into the actual River. Usually, when the floods came, the excess water would wash away the small trees. But in recent years, the lack of rain has allowed the Casuarina Tree to continue to grow and thrive within the river. This problem creates sandbars, stopping the continual flow of water and forming swampy pools, which allow mosquitoes to breed. What was once a full, free-flowing river where families picnicked, children swam and old men fished are now a swampy tree filled bog. So, “Get rid of the casuarinas!” I hear you say. Well, this is where the bureaucratic jargon and nonsense of the National Parks and Wildlife Service enters the game. You see, the Casuarina Tree is a “protected species” and as such is not allowed to be removed. No ifs, buts or please! Never mind, that the River is about to disappear. Harvey has long been campaigning for the removal of the trees, but the 23-year-old University graduate in charge of the areas’ River system rudely ignores his assertions. As Harvey explains, “the first time she saw a river, it was in a textbook!” As the sun settled over the mountains, we felt the feeling of life and lightness in the country, but the hazards of living in a natural museum. If only Sydney City Council had been as precious with the landscape of the city and perhaps we wouldn’t have the “toaster”, the Merriton apartments and the distinct lack of green. Yes, it was lovely sitting there, looking down to the river watching the wild goats on the mountain side, hearing the silent country noises and smelling that much needed oxygen. It creates this strange dream-like feeling in your body, almost a feeling of expectancy, waiting and wishing for the approval that says, “Yes, you are allowed to stay here forever,” and I would do just that. That seemed to be the unanimous feeling until the mosquitoes from the river came up for a feeding frenzy and we decided it was best to head back to Capertee in the Cadillac at 60 miles an hour. Unfortunately Rupert and I had to return to Sydney that evening, so on our return in the Cadillac, we switched over into the Falcon (parting is such sweet sorrow) and headed back to the smog of the city at 60 kilometres an hour. Yeeha! We took the usual highway that creeps and snakes its way over and out the Blue Mountains and tuned the radio to our new favourite station, 2WS. Arriving in Sydney, 10pm. welcome home to the traffic, the streetlights, the noise. Not a star to be seen in the sky, not a bird to be heard. It was a shock to the senses, a disappointment to be living here, and the country felt so far away. Violet |
