Today we bad farewell to David and Kay at Warragul. Their hospitality has been fabulous and we really admired all the love and sweat that went into hand-crafting their mud brick house. Now it’s time to make our final stop in Australia and spend a night with one of Francine’s former colleagues. She and her family live at Macedon on the far side of Melbourne. Whilst we have to cross Melbourne, the advantage is that Macedon is on the same side of the city as the airport from which we will fly to New Zealand tomorrow evening. So, our subsequent trip to the airport should be relatively easy.

Crossing Melbourne should have been easy, too, using a few toll motorways (our car has an automatic tag for the tolls). It wasn’t.

“There are traffic disruptions on the route”, chirped our female Australian satnav.

We sailed on until, about 26km south of a glitch and probably Melbourne, we came to a halt. Progress was stop-start with the emphasis firmly on stop. Eventually we got to a point where various drivers were dropping a U-turn and heading back to the previous exit. We glanced at our Strine Satnav, saw what might be happening and followed.

Almost as soon as we’d clambered off the M1, we hit gravel road. We were following a truck that had also turned around so things were likely to be OK. They were. Eventually we worked our way westwards and picked up the M420 north into Melbourne.

The M420, we thought, really should have been a pretty straight shot, too. However, for reasons which still remain a mystery, our satnav decided to take us off the M420 and into the heart of downtown Melbourne. Here, we did a circuit or two with frustration levels increasing until we finally figured out how to override Strine Satnav and pick up the main road north towards Macedon.

Oh how we wished Francine had had a proper map with which to navigate. Not knowing the lie of the land and not being able to see enough in one view, we had been captive.

What should have been a 2.5 hour journey had turned into a 4-hour journey. Nothing some reminiscing and a few drinks couldn’t sort out.

Well wha’d’ya know? We had rain again overnight which persisted into the morning. The pattern continues. If I ever meet the person responsible for the rumour that Australia is a warm, dry country, I’m gonna strangle them.

Yesterday, David and Kay had arranged an evening BBQ with several of their friends attending. They wanted the Australian contingent to meet their weird English friends. One of their Ozzie friends was a lady called Judy who was also into wild flowers. We saw a collection of here pictures from Western Australia and guess who would like to visit there, now? 😉 We mentioned our curiosity with and lack of success at finding the so-called Flying Duck Orchid. “Ah, yes”, she said, “there are  some of those very close to here”. Well, say no more. Once again David was engaged to take us on another hunt, this time for Flying Ducks.

We were heading for what turned out to be the completely inappropriately named Sweetwater Creek. We did eventually make it down to said creek and the waters therein were a dense, muddy brown colour; there was absolutely nothing sweet about the waters at all.

Our approach took us down a rough forest track. David was in his element playing with a few toys on his recently acquired Land Rover Discovery 4. As we rode over the forest equivalent of speed bumps, he had an excuse to raise the ride height and use descent control. The Landie was in its element, too. Fun though riding down the track was, we explained that it was nigh on impossible to spot much at all while driving by, albeit slowly, in a vehicle. He dropped us off to walk while he and Kay continued to drive. They’d walk back up to meet us.

Early on during our downhill wander, we found several examples of an orchid, so we were already reasonably content. These were clearly nothing that resembled a flying duck, though. They were, we think, Purplish Beard Orchids.

Continuing our search, at the top of a slight rise which I’d already passed, Francine went slightly off piste to look at something else. As she came back on piste, she spotted a small cluster of excitement; eight stems or so. She called me back. I stared in awe at the most amazingly shaped orchid I’ve ever had the pleasure of clapping eyes on. Looked at head on, it’s just an attractive orchid, deep purple in colour. Looked at from the side though, in profile, the attractive orchid was transformed into the most unlikely looking cartoon-like representation of a flying duck. Some shots even make it appear to have eyes above the beak. Absolutely incredible. Every time I look, I still can’t believe it.

I’m beginning to detect a pattern. Once again we had some rain overnight at Warragul which persisted in drifting across Wallaby Wood into the the mid-morning. The rain was supposed to stop but the temperature was not expected to rise above about 14-15°C. Whilst we might expect some sunny spells developing, this was not dragonfly weather. So, noticing that my dragonfly contact was also an orchid enthusiast, I posed a question: where might we go in the vicinity to stand a chance of finding some orchids? He responded with several suggestions, one of which looked reachable and held the promise of the fascinatingly named Purple Donkey Orchid () which, he said, was “not common”. Red rag to a bull.

Our target was the Langwarrin Flora and Fauna Reserve. David, who enjoys watching people with a passion and getting in on the act, was keen to drive us. Knowing the roads and the general direction, this arrangement made perfect sense and we happily agreed.

Arriving at Langwarrin, we chose the wrong direction at one roundabout. David found another local to help steer us in the correct direction which was the opposite direction at said roundabout. Our instructions included the statement that the main car park was “where Centre Break meats the main road”. Nobody, including David, understood what Centre Break meant. We did, however, find what appeared to be the main car park, complete with a sort of “you are here” map of the reserve. The largely wooded old military establishment (WW I) was criss-crossed and surrounded by various wider pathways called breaks. Other narrower pathways were tracks. All became clear. Well, most of it anyway – we couldn’t find anything called a slashed break, which we’d been directed to.

Fortune was with us. David, who, you will be beginning to surmise, likes talking to complete strangers, had found and quizzed another family who knew where to find our primary target, the Purple Donkey Orchid. We got specific directions – a few were located a mere 300m away down the perimeter track – and were soon delightedly snapping away at a new orchid for our collection. It really is a charmer and most appropriately named.

David’s newly found acquaintances mentioned another suspect, the intriguingly named Flying Duck Orchid. This was supposedly found along the Dune Track.

“What’s it look like?”, questioned Francine.

“A flying duck”, replied our new friend, rather obviously.

Much as we couldn’t imagine a flower looking like a flying duck, we consulted the you-are-here map to find Dune Track and set off, passing a reservoir en route. No odos, unfortunately, even though we managed to coordinate our passage with a sunny spell.

The three of us combed the whole of Dune Track but found nothing resembling an orchid of any shape, far less anything that might resemble a duck of any description. At the end of the track, though, we did see a few odos flying back and forth hunting over some scrub. I suspect they were one of the Emeralds (Tau or Australian) but they weren’t posing for passport photographs so don’t bank on it.

Returning to the car park down what we suspected was a “slashed break”, Francine bumped into a few examples of something resembling the Small White Orchid of the UK. Later study led her to suspect that it was, in fact, a Common Onion Orchid.

For a late lunch, we visited a fair dinkum Aussie fish ‘n’ chip shop … run by an Egyptian. Well, most of ours are run by Chinese so what the hell.We chose the barramundi which was OK but not great, as real fresh barramundi should have been – probably frozen. Maybe we should’ve gone for Mr. Egyptian’s home made falafels as a more reliable selection. They would’ve sustained us through David’s typically GPS-free, circuitous, heavily trafficked route home.

A drink or three were in order to celebrate two new orchids to add to the collection. A reasonable day given the conditions.

We had spent our first and very comfortable night in David and Kay’s guest room in their mud-brick self built mansion. There had been a briefly uncomfortable feeling as Buddy, their dog, had peered longingly at us through our French doors – he lives outside on the veranda – but we got over that and fell asleep.

We awoke to rain which drifted across the property while we breakfasted. The rain did eventually desist and we embarked upon an excursion that David and Kay were keen to take us on. We were heading to Tarra-Bulga National Park, in the Strzeleki Hills [pronounced Strez-leki] for a fern walk. The ferns in question were tree ferns which were on Francine’s hit list for New Zealand. However, if all went to plan today, she’d be seeing them ahead of time. [Speaking of ahead of time, I’ve already seen a couple of dragonflies that were on my NZ hit list.]

I say “we were heading for” but David’s idea of heading for is more like steering an oscillating course  which might, if you are lucky, average to the correct direction. We were soon off the tarmac on on gravel forest roads. I’d call them tracks but in Oz they seem to be considered to be roads. David’s recently acquired Land Rover Discovery 4 felt in its element. David had two satnavs, one in the car and one on his smartphone. Both remained studiously turned off. Eventually he accosted a local and asked how far his target road was. Go figure.

We did eventually arrive at the car park and rumbling tummies demanded lunch. We were surrounded by a small gang of Crimson Rosellas which also expressed an interest in our lunch. Shy they were not. I’m sure to locals they are as irritating as seagulls can be in the UK but feeding a parrot is something memorable to us.

The walk through the trees took us down into a gulley which we crossed via a pedestrian suspension bridge. Tree Ferns were all around. Francine was in her element. Giant gum trees towered above us, too, and we even caught a fleeting glimpse of a Lyre Bird as it rummaged in the forest litter. It was not about to pose for a tourist photo but at least we’d now seen one.

Many will know of my legendary love of children. [Ahem] Along with dogs, children are one of the things I tend to avoid given the choice. I wasn’t. Not only do David and Kay have a dog – he’s mostly quiet and therefore OK – but they were also baby-sitting their grandson Jaxon for two days. Jaxon was, of course, with us, too. Here is a very rare photograph.

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Today we left our self-catering cottage in Metung to head for our friends, David and Kay, in Darnum, near Warragul, Victoria. This is a stepping stone on our way back towards Melbourne where we will catch our flight to New Zealand. David and Kay are friends that we met a few years ago in Southern France when their campervan, which is garaged in England, suffered a mechanical. They limped into our favourite French dairy sheep farm site for repairs to be arranged. They have visited us in the UK and now it is our turn to visit them.

Our route was pleasant enough though unexceptional save for a side trip back into the mountains to see an historic old mining town called Walhalla. Being back into the mountains and given our meteorological track record, it also took us back into the grey and rain. Victoria’s weather is suffering an unsettled spell.

Perhaps because of the general conditions, we appeared to have Walhalla to ourselves; there appeared to be no other tourists in town. This, I suspect, is a very unusual state of affairs. I’m sure that the place would normally be heaving with tourists. Not today. Indeed, several of the few businesses hadn’t even opened. One coffee shop was open and we bought a couple of espressos/short blacks [the Australian term] which we soon regretted and threw away after a couple of sips.

The town had a western feel and many charismatic buildings still remain. Here’s a few images, taken before the rain began, to give you a flavour. The building that spans the river, incidentally, is the old fire station. Wonderful.

We briefly considered buying replacements for our discarded coffees from another open establishment but, as the rain had started and as there weren’t even any other people to watch, there seemed little point in dallying so we hopped back in the car and continued to Darnum, arriving at 16:00.

David and Kay’s place is called Wallaby Wood. It is an expansive house standing in 40 acres, much of which is wooded with gum trees. David has recently celebrated his 70th birthday and has been living here with Kay for 30 years.

Walking into the house, I was immediately struck by the unusual appearance of the building materials. The main structure of the house is made of mud bricks, mud bricks that were all individually handmade by David and Kay themselves, fashioned from clay dug from the site itself. The bricks were made in moulds, some of which were wooden, these also being made by David. Inside the house, all else is large wooden beams and pillars, also individually cut and fitted by this pair of artisans. The combination reminds me rather of a Swiss chalet, mainly because of the extensive wood – I doubt the Swiss would be using mud bricks. It was an enormous self-build effort that must have been a labour of love. Given the situation and outlook, I can fully understand why.

David took us on a 30-minute bush walk to acquaint us with some of the wilder parts of the property. We did see a Kangaroo bounce past just beyond the boundary fence. What a place.

Today we bad farewell to Francine’s brother and sister-in-law, with the requisite weepy eyes, of course, and headed for Metung on the south coast, where we have a self-catering chalet booked for the night.Regrettably our old weather jinx was in action and a darkling sky was throwing occasional rain at us. We left Stanley at 09:00 and 9°C.

Our route took us along the Great Alpine Way over Mount Hotham. Francine’s brother had been keen to warn us that the road could be quite tricky and that it would be cool/cold at the summit. Once we hit the ascent, for anyone used to driving on European alpine roads and/or mountain roads in Spain, it was clear that this road was actually a doddle, being smooth tarmac all the way and relatively wide (i.e. two generous lanes). If you can’t drive on this, you shouldn’t be driving at all.

Another friend had described the drive as being bleak. On the lower slopes, we were looking at the grey clouds beneath us in the valley through the leafy canopy of trees. As we climbed higher, however, the leafy trees were replaced largely by bare skeletal frames of trees. We began to see what he meant.

Between Stanley and the beginning of our ascent, the temperature had risen to 11°C. As we climbed towards the col on the road over Mount Hotham, the temperature quite naturally fell inexorably. Once we’d gained enough altitude, the white lines gave way to yellow lines, supposedly more visible in snow. The precipitous left hand side of the road also became edged with substantial snow poles. Every so often, a pole bore the words, “Keep right of poles”. Excellent advice, I’d say, given the hundreds of metres drop beyond.

We paused for a more scenic view. If you look in this picture you’ll see the road winding its way up the mountain. If you squint just to the right of centre, you may be able to see a small white shape. That white shape is a vehicle wedged in the vegetation on the precipitous hillside beneath the stretch of road. Clearly this had not heeded the warning to “keep right of poles”. :O

A little distance before the summit, we paused again by a wall of snow, the snow being about all our restricted visibility permitted us to see at this point, with the temperature on our car’s satnav display reading 1°C. Over the top at 1845m/6050ft, the car briefly recorded 0°C.

“Come to sunny Australia”, they said. Well, there had been a bit but precious little.

Our descent down the southern side of the  mountain towards Metung was gentler and took us through Omeo [“Omeo, Omeo, wherefore art thou Omeo?”] where, now being about 13:00, we availed ourselves of a cafe. Judging by the other clientele, it looked like a centre for WI meetings. Muscling in on the nattering ladies, a mug-sized cappuccino revived us after the hairpin-rich climb up.

The view from our coffee table revealed that we’d inadvertently parked our rental car outside a shop whose sign just had to be a mistake: “Cuckoo Clock’s”, read the sign across the top. Hmmm?

[Aside: Incidentally, we had left behind in Beechworth a cafe whose shop sign reads “PEDDDLAR”. The sign is comprised of two engraved stones butted together, one reading “PEDD” and the second reading “DLAR”; and yes, it IS a mistake. Being engraved stone, they decided it would be too expensive to fix, though.]

During a short wander around Omeo, shortened further by the rain beginning again, we passed a handful of properties empty or businesses closing – a town having a hard time, methinks. Sad.

Finally we arrived in Metung and checked in to our accommodation where we were, indeed, expected. Wonderful! Our apartment is spacious and has a reasonably equipped kitchen. For some evening entertainment, we decided to self-cater. There was a village store in Metung which had almost countless ways to get rat-arsed but very little in the way of real food, save for a bag or two of Brussel sprouts which should have been discarded last week. There was a Fish and Chip shop (shut) and a bakery (also shut). A man wandered past us muttering “everything is shut”. We muttered “food to cook”, he further muttered, “Lake’s Entrance”.

We drove the 15 miles to the descriptively name town of Lake’s Entrance where we found a very good Woolworths supermarket [not the same Woolworths as the now defunct British High Street tat shop]. Here, we found a much more exciting selection of ingredients and bought everything for an adventurous Aussie evening meal based on Kangaroo Fillet Steak together with some Kangaroo and Bush Tomato Sausages. The sausages were entirely superfluous but I couldn’t resist them. Wonderful, some dinkum Aussie fare.

In our cottage, a sign on our refrigerator includes the request, “Please keep noise levels on Verandah’s to a minimum after 11:30 PM”. Again!?

You’ve met the Oxford Comma, now meet the Aussie Apostrophe.

Francine has been digging around in a pamphlet containing walks in the vicinity of Beechworth and has settled on one taking in Ingram’s Rock, where wild flowers are mentioned. The written route of the walk is actually a circular walk beginning and ending in Beechworth itself but we’ve  already explored Beechworth so we chose to begin at one of the more interesting points en route, the Powder Magazine, which also has a parking area. The Powder Magazine was a gunpowder store for the gold mining activity in the late 19th century. It was designed with care so that, should there be an explosion, the blast all went upwards through the roof. Latterly, the roof was removed to prevent vagrants from sleeping in it.

We planned a there-and-back walk through the woodland of Beechworth Historic Park from the Powder Magazine to Ingram’s Rock, which would be a round trip of 6kms.

The path took us along an undulating track, mostly upwards on the way out. Steps had generally been cut on most of the uphill sections to make progress easier. Francine was delighted to find a couple of examples of what she suspected was an orchid on our outbound trip. Her first Ozzie orchid – excellent. As is often the case, precise species is thus far eluding us.

After three kilometres we we arrived at Ingram’s Rock. I was somewhat surprised to find a car parked on our approach. No matter, it had been a most enjoyable walk and the point was to get some exercise. Mr. Ingram was a Beechworth Mr. Bigwig from the mid-1800s. His named was engraved with the expanse of granite before us. Mr. Bigwig had taste; the views were worth the (mostly) gentle climb.

Shortly after beginning our return, Francine discovered another suspect flower beside the path. As she was photographing her new specimen she went into raptures over a third specimen and changed target. She could hardly contain herself, though access was very difficult. Francine had found two more orchids and the last, a Green Spider Orchid, was certainly one of nature’s masterpieces. We found a few more examples on the way down which were easier to access and photograph. Happy camper.

Also on the way back down, for those keen on scatology, we found an example of what we believe to Wombat poo. Wombats have a habit of leaving their scat on prominent rocks to mark their territory and this dollop of poo was certainly on a prominent rock in the centre of the path. There was also a large burrow which could well have been a wombat’s burrow though, since there was debris in the entrance, I doubt that it was still in active use.

Driving back out of the Beechworth Historic Park, we paused by Spring Creek again and met an Ozzie couple on tour bound for Tasmania. They shared an interest in orchids and pointed Francine back up the road a short distance where she’d find a Blue Sun Orchid. Four in a day – good stuff.