Lancefield reminds of the town in the movie, The Last Picture Show. I always feel slightly nostalgic there, although I’m not quite sure for what.

It might have something to do with the old buildings, the wide main street and the town’s small population, most of whom seem to be elsewhere during the week. Unlike the movie, though, Lancefield is far from monochrome.

Yesterday, being the fourth Saturday of the month, the Lancefield and District Farmers Market brought the old town alive. Despite freezing winds and the threat of rain, the parkland dividing the wide main street was packed with shoppers, farmers, stalls and animals. There were also cheesemakers, winemakers, flower sellers and a musician and dancer. We arrived late, just as two young women were packing up a beautifully crafted harp.

Beyond the market area on High Street, there’s a row of graceful old shop fronts, a magnificent Mechanics Institute and a well-kept post office. Old wooden shops and houses – some restored, others pretty much as they have been for the better part of 100 years – begin their march down either side of the tree-lined main road until they peter out towards the edge of town where larger blocks give way to farmland.

You can tell that something big once happened in Lancefield, but what?

Unlike many of the towns in Central Victoria – whose existence is due to the discovery of nearby gold  – in 1837 Lancefield was settled by squatters. In other parts of the world, squatters set up home in empty, derelict houses. Squatters in colonial Australia occupied crown lands under a lease or a licence.

Due to its excellent soil, the area first became a potato farming district followed by the farming of fat lambs, cattle and the growing of cereal crops. Bolstered by its booming agricultural economy, in the 1880s Lancefield became a popular Summer resort for Melburnians escaping the city’s humid heat.

An imposing three-storey building dominates one end of town. Bearing the name of the Antique Centre of Victoria, it was once known as Old Macedonia House and was built in 1889 as a luxury hotel. With the Antique Centre of Victoria now located elsewhere, these days the building houses a run-of-the-mill antique centre with a pleasant café on the second floor from where you can survey the district and the town.

In preparing to write this post I’ve learned a little of Lancefield’s pre-European historical significance.

Mount William, to the north-east of Lancefield, was once prized by the Wurundjeri people who travelled there to quarry stone to make hatchet heads for trade, hunting and gathering.

In 1843, James Mayne unearthed a collection of massive animal bones while he was digging a well at Lancefield Swamp. The bones are believed to have been those of extinct megafauna: a giant kangaroo, a rhinoceros-sized wombat and a giant flightless bird.

A number of notable people have been linked with Lancefield, including Burke and Wills. Their ill-fated expedition attempted to cross Australia from Melbourne to the Gulf of Carpentaria.

Coincidentally, today is the anniversary of their arrival in Lancefield. On 23 August 1860, the Burke & Wills expedition arrived at the property of William Henry Dunsford where they made their fourth camp since leaving Melbourne. To honour the explorers, the road to Mia Mia, which heads north from Lancefield, was named the ‘Burke and Wills Track’.

John Allan, the 29th Premier of Victoria, was born near Lancefield in 1866. Belying his slow and lumbering demeanour, the former dairy farmer was a shrewd politician who presided over a difficult Country-National coalition government between 18 November 1924 and 20 May 1927.

Two art galleries, several interesting shops and numerous wineries make Lancefield an interesting place to visit. But the farmers market really makes it sing.

Acknowledgement: Rotary Club of Romsey, The Age

Just so that I’m not bombarded with spam from porn sites, allow me to explain.

In Australia, a blowhole is a geological feature. It occurs when the action of waves pierces the roof of a seacave. The incoming waves force their way up through the hole in the rock, causing a plume of water to spray high into the air.

There’s a blowhole not farm from here. Imaginatively, it’s called The Blowhole. We’ve taken visitors there, mostly in Autumn, only to find that the viewing platform offered little to view but a stagnant pool of water.

Yesterday afternoon, planning a short drive to a place of interest where we could toddle without exerting ourselves, we set out for Breakneck Gorge. We failed to arrive.

Rest assured, dear reader, this was not through any misadventure as suggested by the name of our destination. No, it was because we passed the sign to The Blowhole which immediately suggested: The Blowhole + recent rain = something to see.

Australia’s positively lousy with blowholes of note. In New South Wales there’s the Kiama Blowhole south of Sydney. I have a photo taken some time in the 1960s of my family standing around it, hoping for a drenching after a hot drive to the coast from the suburbs. These days, after a number of accidental deaths, a fence and warning signs protect visitors from the dangers of the aperture.

In Victoria there are blowholes in Port Campbell National Park and there’s the Flinders Blowhole on the Mornington Peninsula. Western Australia has the Caiguna Blowhole and Tasmania has the Tasman Blowhole.

Despite its nondescript name, The Blowhole distinguishes itself. While others were formed by wave action, ours was man-made.

Dug in the early 1870s, The Blowhole formed a diversion tunnel on Sailor’s Creek, directing water from the creek through a spur of basalt.

That left the creek shallow enough to wash away (or sluice, if you’re a panning enthusiast) the lighter soil and gravel from the gold.

It was a harsh environment. In Winter the area would often flood, while in Summer and Autumn water was so scarce that illness and death were frequent visitors to the families who camped around the creek and on the ridges.

Presumably, after heavy rain and local flooding, the volume of water rushing through the tunnel spurts in a spectacular display. We’ve yet to witness that. Yesterday, it gave us a pretty waterfall.

The Blowhole is a fascinating aspect of the history of gold in the region, made all the more intriguing by the mystery that surrounds both the identity of its builders and their methods.

Yesterday we didn’t feel like retracing our steps on the routes of our two most common walks. We had the urge for adventure, to tread where we had never trodden before.

We unfolded our new-ish map of forest activities around Daylesford, Castlemaine and Ballarat. It was too late in the day to embark on anything too far afield. After lunch and half an hour of deliberation, we settled for the area on the map marked as Spring Gully Mine and Battery Ruins, not far from Fryerstown, bordered by walking tracks.

If we’d had more time, en route I’d have driven down the beguilingly named Crocodile Reserve Road, just to see what was there, but with the sun low in the west, we needed to reach our destination before having to break out the torches.

A short distance from the parking area, a sign told us that we were at Spring Gully Junction where the mine and battery (crushing machine) operated between 1898 and 1911. A little further down the hill, below a fenced look-out, ruins of a stone building are slowly being reclaimed by vegetation.

“The nature, as well as the size, of the mining population changed as the nature of gold mining changed. There were four main types of gold mining, each reflecting the geological characteristics of the gold deposits. The first was shallow alluvial gold, which was well suited to the individual digger. Deeper mining of alluvial gold through clay and rock, that is to a depth of less than 30 metres, could be done by a group of diggers. Mining of alluvial gold at greater depth, especially beneath lava flows (the deep leads), required expensive machinery and prolonged de-watering with large pumps, and was suited to mining companies (especially public companies) that employed miners. Mining of gold-bearing quartz on any large scale required similar equipment to deep lead mining, plus large treatment plants (batteries) to crush the ore and separate the gold. Although some batteries would do this on a fee basis, it was largely a company undertaking.” From the Victorian Historical Journal

The six main quartz mines of Spring Gully have left behind relics of mining operations carried out between the mid 1850s and the late 1930s.

At the turn of the century the Spring Gully Company, which operated the main mine, was the district’s premier gold producer. When it ceased operations in 1929, it left behind ruins in stone, brick and concrete, as well as the timber foundations for an engine and a crushing machine, or battery.

The Heritage Council of Victoria says that the Spring Gully Quartz Gold Mines are of historical, archaeological and scientific importance to the Sate of Victoria. Not only did they provide much of Victoria’s wealth in the nineteenth century, they also played a role in the development of the manufacturing industry in Victoria.

With roughly dug and eroding gullies, deep mine shafts and artificial hills formed by the mullock heaps, little of the land’s original characteristics remains. Even the course of the creek was severely messed about with. In those days, mining companies didn’t concern themselves with notions of rehabilitating the landscape once they’d finished roughing it up.

It must have been a beautiful valley before the prospectors arrived. I couldn’t help wondering about the deep sense of loss that must have been felt by the indigenous people at the wholesale destruction of their country.

English author and natural scientist William Howitt predicted the wholesale damage caused by gold fever. To listen to his warning, go to eGold and scroll down to the film icon in the right-hand column.

It seems that Howitt’s vision, however, wasn’t of sufficient concern to prevent him from resisting the lure of gold when he joined those diggers feverishly carving up pristine bushland in search of their fortunes.

]]> http://www.victoriainthecountry.com.au/2009/06/the-ruinous-past/feed/ 0 http://www.victoriainthecountry.com.au/2009/05/pure-gold/ http://www.victoriainthecountry.com.au/2009/05/pure-gold/#comments Sun, 03 May 2009 02:30:31 +0000 Victoria http://www.victoriainthecountry.com.au/?p=6074

After they’ve visited Maldon, people usually want to live there. If you read this week’s front page of the Tarrangower Times, you’ll see why. (Once you’ve clicked on the link, scroll down.)

It seems to me that Maldon is the epitome of the type of town about which Kenneth Slessor writes in his poem Country Towns. If you’re an Australian of a certain age, you might remember having to study that poem in high school. I loved it then and still do; every time I visit Maldon it springs to mind. 

Yesterday afternoon in Maldon the low Autumn sun lit up red and amber leaves and silhouetted lacy Pepper Trees. In that light (‘like paste of gold’) even the gouged earth around old gold mines – where operations had been most intense – looked attractive.

During the 1860s, Maldon’s Beehive Gold Mine yielded about 210,000 ounces of gold and was one of the richest areas in the Mount Alexander goldfields. The old mine pit is still visible, although with a high fence around it, as are the footings of cyanide vats, the furnace, battery, boiler and engines and the ruins of the Caledonian Kilns. They’re all part of Park’s Victoria Maldon Historic Reserve. One tall brickwork chimney still stands, the last of many that once formed the highest points of the town’s skyline.

To the west of the town looms the dark bulk of Mount Tarrangower. On its summit in the 1920s, a mine’s poppet head was erected as a lookout to provide spectacular district views. Mining operations having long declined, the good folk of Maldon knew they needed tourism to slow the town’s downward economic trajectory.

A town’s gutters, pubs and churches can tell you a lot. Maldon has deep stone gutters, splendid pubs and imposing churches, indicating its past wealth. Its wide streets, historic buildings and remnant gold-mining infrastructure contributed to Maldon’s naming, by The National Trust in 1965, as Australia’s ‘First Notable Town – a town worthy of preservation’.

It’s easy to imagine miners slaking their thirst at one of Maldon’s pubs after a hard day’s labour, or women bustling about the shops while children played on the steps of the old shire hall. It’s also easy to picture miners falling into one those deep stone gutters in a drunken stupor and spending the night there, huddled against the chill.

Daylesford was once labelled the world’s most ‘funky town’ by British Airways in-flight magazine, High Life. As far as I’m concerned, ‘notable’ beats ‘funky’ hands down, the first denoting a permanent value, the second suggesting a fashionable whim. Apart from Bathurst, I know of no other Australian town that has been declared ‘notable and worthy of preservation’. If you happen to know of any, I’d be obliged if you’d enlighten me.

Along with thousands of others who love visiting Maldon, I’m grateful to the National Trust for bestowing that honour upon the town. Had they decided otherwise, Maldon might have become just another country town, with the same chain stores as every other, the same types of houses and with very little to distinguish it other than beautiful views. Its preservation has turned it into one of the great attractions of the region.

Yesterday’s visit was a birthday treat for my partner. Not a spectacular gift, I grant you, but nevertheless an extravagance in these deprived times. I even threw in a couple of gelati (mango flavoured, waffle cones) to make it a little more memorable.

Maldon’s red brick, wrought-iron, slate, wood and corrugated iron have long out-lived the riches dug out of the ground. The town’s sense of history endures, as does its sense of community, and for residents and visitors that’s hard to beat. As country towns go, it’s pure gold.

As it’s Saint Patrick’s Day, this post is about notable Irish people in the history of central Victoria. I’ve only included two by name – that’s all I had time to research – but if you know of any others, please don’t hesitate to let me know.

I’d be particularly interested to know of any Irish women of note, of whom I’m sure there were many.

Perhaps one of the most important Irishman to have come to this region was Joseph Brady. Between 1858 and 1863 he was the surveyor and designer of the Coliban River water supply to the Bendigo and Mount Alexander goldfields.

Prior to this time, severe drought on the goldfields had caused the deaths of miners and their families. Said to be a genius with water, Joseph Brady established a reliable water supply for the rapidly growing villages and towns of the region.

Peter Lalor began his public life as leader of Australia’s most famous armed civilian insurrection, the Eureka Stockade.

In late 1854, after the government’s imposition of a miners’ licence, Lalor led 1,500 angry miners on a march to the Eureka diggings in Ballarat where they constructed the now famous Eureka Stockade. As a result of his injuries in the ensuing skirmish with police, he lost an arm.

Lalor became the first member of the Legislative Council for the seat of Ballarat in 1855, and in 1880 he became Speaker of the Legislative Assembly of the Victorian parliament.

Irish women played a significant role in Victoria, both before and after the gold-rush decade of the1850s. Having landed in Australia in their hundreds, they then used assisted immigration schemes to bring out large numbers of family, further boosting the Irish population of the colony.

Often choosing husbands from backgrounds quite different to their own, Irish women gave a more settled and domesticated aspect to the rough and tumble frontier society.

They bore large numbers of children, further increasing those Victorians who could claim an Irish heritage, and their friendliness helped many newly-arrived women from diverse backgrounds settle into their new country. 

Happy St Patrick’s Day and may the luck of the Irish be with you.

For overseas readers, ‘ratbag’ is Australian for ‘a person of eccentric or nonconforming ideas or behaviour’.

‘Stirrer’ is taken from the colloquialism ‘to stir the possum’, meaning: ‘to instigate a debate on a controversial topic, especially in the public arena’. (The Macquarie Dictionary)

Not many people know that Daylesford was once named Wombat. In 1854 the first government survey of the town showed it to be so. A year later Governor Hotham, unhappy with the increasingly affluent town being referred to as Wombat, re-named it.

He called it ‘Daylesford’, after a village in Worcestershire (now in Gloucestershire), home to Warren Hastings, the first British governor-general of India. 

When some friends visited from England last year, one of them remarked that he thought Daylesford was a stupid name for an Australian country town. I have to concede that it is a bit daft, although I am quite attached to it.

Another English visitor kept referring to the town as ‘Dagsford’, but we put that down to rudeness and to jealousy at our good fortune in living here. (If you don’t know what a dag is, click here.)

Upon first visiting the area, I thought that the names ‘Wombat Hill’, ‘Kangaroo Hill’, ‘Kangaroo Creek’, and ‘Wombat Creek’ were impossibly cheesy and guessed they’d been dreamt up by the local tourism office. 

But then I found out that they’d been named by gold prospectors who’d encountered the animals in large numbers around the so-named waterways and landmarks.

Porcupine Ridge is mystifying. Situated about 7kms from Daylesford, the locale name covers a large area of bushland and grazing country, with a few houses dotted here and there. The only history of the area I could find is on the website for Porcupine Ridge Estate.

In Spring, following good Winter rain, Porcupine Ridge is home to dozens of echidnas. We can only speculate that the American gold prospectors, who flocked to the area in the 1850s, named the echidnas ‘porcupines’ because they vaguely resembled the animals they knew from home. In fact, Australian ‘porcupines’ are vastly different to those in America.

If that was the reason for the area’s name, it’s probably time for a change. I’d put forward ‘Echidna Ridge’, except that the residents of the area probably enjoy living in a place that has a name which few Australians under the age of 30 can spell. (’No, not ‘P-A-W-K…’)

I think the mysterious name adds to the sense of ’splendid isolation’ which they no doubt revel in, distanced as they are from the weekend bunfight that is our tourist town.

But getting back to Daylesford… it’s just as well the original named was changed. If city folk were to talk about plans to spend a romantic weekend in Wombat… well, it just wouldn’t cut it, would it?

A dear friend has a dream of owning a French-style shop in town, which I suggested she call ‘La Vallée du Pont’ (roughly French for ‘Daylesford’). ‘Le Wombat‘, while charming, doesn’t sound quite so alluring.