Deepdene Caves—Margaret Caves—A Welcome Lunch—Cape Leeuwin.
The Deepdene Caves were my next place of call, Mr. Bruce kindly driving a
party of us to them, and explaining everything to us in a most agreeable
fashion. I enjoyed the drive so much that I was almost sorry to arrive.
The approach to the caves is through a deep dell, where there is a brook,
called Turner’s Brook. A very quaint old house stood on a slope, and
the high cliffs in the distance looked picturesque. But I could see no
sign of a cave, and when we came to a stop I was still looking for one.
However, Mr. Bruce soon stopped the trap, and we got out and were guided
by him through some dense bush up the hill until we came to a yawning
gulf, like a gigantic chasm. I own to feeling a desire to turn back,
without seeing the caves at all, so forbidding did the approach look,
but pride came to the rescue. It would never do to say I was afraid,
so assuming a valour, though I had it not, I followed my guides, who
had now lit candles and also armed themselves with bundles of blackboy
rushes. We entered the cavern, and I found the chasm not so terrible as
I had anticipated. The first large gallery once had a number of fine
stalactites, but some vandals have torn them away. The path now became
very steep, and I had to cling to jutting stalactites. It was very dark,
the candles had gone out, and the vapours we breathed were not exactly
refreshing; but I had to go on—on—on. I was not sorry when my friends
set light to the friendly blackboys and lightened the darkness. We were
now in a splendid hall, roofed with icicles. There was an almost perfect
opera-box, with lace curtains, carved arm-rest, pillars, and everything
complete. The ground sounded rather hollow; I did not feel comfortable,
so we moved on to another vast cavern, called the King’s Council Chamber.
It was a grand sight. The light, of course, was imperfect, as the cave
is of enormous size, fully 100 feet high. The stalactites hang from the
domed roof like huge crystal lights, and shadows play about the walls,
which look as if festooned with lovely lace. Great seats seem to fill the
cavern in the middle. One could almost imagine a king and queen holding
court there, with all their attendants, and being suddenly turned to
marble. It was all very grand, but I felt glad when I was out in God’s
sunshine again, with the blue sky over my head and the blue sea at my
feet. Darkness and gloom, however grand, do not forcibly appeal to me.
Various other beautiful caves have been discovered comparatively
recently, and named the Margaret Caves, in compliment to Lady Forrest.
No beaver ever made a more artful concealment of the entrance to his nest
than the lip of the Wallcliffe Cave. Part some peppermints, push aside
the flowing fronds of ferns and bend low, almost on all-fours, creep
slowly for 30 feet, eyes bent to ground, and then, what a transformation
scene! The fairy grotto of a pantomime, the lustrous lair of the King of
Jewels in the Arabian Nights—these are the only similes that give even a
prosaic idea of it. A circular chamber, richly bedecked by gleaming white
stalactites, with mammoth bunches of grapes, fleecy wefts apparently as
soft as lambs-wool, but solid as marble, and—upspringing from the floor
of the chamber, as if greedy to clutch the fruit, yet frozen in making
the grasp—a monstrous hand several feet long—these are just hints of what
we see.
[Illustration: A WESTERN AUSTRALIAN CAVE]
The Warrawerrie or Blackboy Hollow Cave is about 2 miles south of
Wallcliffe, and is a mantrap for the unwary, for if you fall in instead
of using the ladder that the discoverer (Mr. John Bussell) made in order
to sound his find, and was thoughtful enough to leave behind him, you
drop 15 feet. This vertical hole will not take in any one of very round
proportions. So rough and high are the boulders that we scrambled over
on the floor of this cave by the dim, flickering light of a candle,
that we called it “Spion Kop.” It was more than worth the scramble,
however. There is another chamber of this cave that has never been
entered. A broken column, apparently cut from Italian marble, as pure
as alabaster, would make a noble monument for a patriot. There are also
semi-transparent shields which look like snow-white tapestry from an
Indian loom, but which touch shows to be hard as flint.
While all the caves we saw are worth many times the journey, the most
beautiful is, in my opinion, that known as Doodjijup, a mile south of
Blackboy Hollow, and 100 feet above the slanderously entitled “Devil’s
Pool.” A lady could go through this cave without soiling her dress. You
enter this lovely “bower” from the side of a high limestone ridge and the
commanding situation allows a pretty prospect of water and lea, with the
shimmering streak of the Doodjijup brook in the foreground. The access
to the cave is rather steep and somewhat rugged, but when once the inlet
is gained the labour is rewarded, and the visitor can move at ease and
admire the terraces, the columns like the pipes of a cathedral organ, and
the pendants that glow like the stars of night in the three chambers of
this wondrous arcade.
Nearly 3 miles south there is a descent of about 100 feet, first through
an enormous pit like the excavation of a quarry, and then by the side
of a limestone cliff, when the “door” of Calgadup Cave is disclosed.
The floor of this cave is moist enough to show that it is the bed of a
subterranean creek; it is about 70 feet across. The chamber sides are
hung with many stalactites of myriad shapes and colours under the rays
of our artificial light. What would be taken in a lady’s boudoir for a
very beautiful opera-cloak of swansdown thrown over the top of a low
pillar stands out in the foreground. This is a stalagmite “growing”
upwards, while the stalactite is formed downwards like the tendrils or
fruit of a vine. Here, too, in my opinion, is the gem of all the caves,
the suspended dome, the delicate tracery of whose splendid and fantastic
fretwork hangs in mid-air, held by almost gossamer crystalline threads.
A running stream which flows over the bed of Crystal Cave, half a mile
south of Nannup Caves, gives it its name. This cave, of sandstone
formation, is almost a ruin owing to the ravages of marauders and the
falling of karri timber overhead, which have wrought havoc among its
former grandeur. Ascending some 50 or 60 feet another vast chamber is
entered; the dome-shaped roof that is set off by colonnades is cracked,
and to all appearance unsafe. Already this season, although there are
few facilities for visiting the caves or for enjoying the fishing and
shooting of Hardy’s Inlet in the cool climate by the seaside, about 70
goldfield visitors have equipped themselves at special expense for the
tour, which, I understand, they found highly beneficial, interesting and
enjoyable.
From the caves we returned to Karridale, and during the pleasant drive
I somewhat recovered from the fatigue of so much cave clambering. The
next morning early I was fortunate in getting a seat in a buggy to Cape
Leeuwin, the first Australian land sighted by mail-boats coming from
England, and the last seen by those that leave for the dear homeland.
I was anxious to see this place and to go up the famous lighthouse.
So off we went, bidding a regretful farewell to the hospitable people
of Karridale. We had a drive of 16 miles before us, but I am never so
happy as when seated behind a good pair of horses and spinning merrily
along. I feel sure that, though thousands of people have seen the cape
and lighthouse from the sea, very few have been so fortunate as I was
in being able to visit it by land. So I felt particularly well pleased
with myself and my trip through the west that day. As we drove along
for 7 miles nothing particular was to be seen, except perhaps that the
forest vegetation seemed to grow more luxuriantly than ever, and in
greater variety; I noticed several kind of trees that I had not seen in
other parts. Then we got occasional gleams of water shining through the
foliage, and the hills around loomed in grandeur to the sky. The trees
seemed to become smaller as we went along; that was because we were
near the coast. A few miles farther on a pretty house on the banks of a
lovely broad sheet of water, the Blackwood estuary, came into view. A
lady, seeing us driving along, came out to meet us, and cordially invited
us into the house to partake of refreshments in the shape of fruit and
fresh milk with hot scones, which had just been baked for the family
lunch, and of which we had arrived in time to partake. The horses were
glad of a little breathing-time, during which I looked round at the scene
before me. Over the broad sheet of placid water wild ducks and swans were
dotted. A fisherman had just come up with a haul of fish, the finest
whiting I have seen for some time, and a tremendous schnapper. In the
distance could be seen the white sandy bar, with its long white breakers
stretching out into the depths of the ocean beyond. What an ideal spot
for a sportsman, a convalescent, or a pair of honeymooners, so quiet,
so peaceful, so beautiful! Mr. Ellis has lived in this place for years,
and will tell you how, 50 years ago, food was almost unobtainable, and
American whalers were looked to for nearly all supplies. It is most
interesting to talk to this gentleman. Governor Broome, Governor Weld,
and Sir Gerard Smith (the late Governor), have visited this place, and
enjoyed Mr. Ellis’s hospitality. We soon passed through the old and once
ill-fated settlement of Augusta, and I wondered why fate was so unkind
to such a charming spot, especially as there is such a natural harbour
as Flinders Bay close by. On we went and reached Point Matthew. Now we
were near the corner where two great oceans meet. On we drove to the
edge of the peninsula and soon arrived at Cape Leeuwin, and its fine
lighthouse. In 1867 the coast east of Cape Leeuwin was called Nuyts Land
from a passenger on board the _Guilde Zeepart_, or Good Shepherd, on her
voyage to Japan. Cape Leeuwin, or Lioness, was so named in 1822, after
the vessel from which it was first seen, or, as others say, because the
cape standing at the corner of the two oceans, with the breakers dashing
round, seemed like a lioness defending her home. Be this as it may, I
came here, and was delighted. Years ago, during a heavy storm, I was a
passenger in a sailing barque loaded with pearl shell that was blown out
to sea 600 miles beyond Cape Leeuwin, but we safely weathered the storm
and I live to tell the tale. Since that time I have always had strong
recollections of this particular cape.
As we drove up the lighthouse stood before us like a sentinel guarding
the seas. We were now on that corner of our continent where the Indian
and Southern Oceans meet. Right on the southern point at the foot of the
high bare hills, and 700 feet above the sea, stands the white lighthouse
and its shining dome, the building of which was an event of national
importance. It was a solemn and magnificent sight. To-day the sea was
beautifully calm, but sometimes the breakers roar and lash the strong
lighthouse in their fury; then mariners have to beware of the Lioness
and to keep at a safe and civil distance. The base is 70 feet above
high water-mark, the foundations are deep down to bed rock, 23 feet.
The building was erected by Messrs. Davies and Wishart, and cost £6000,
exclusive of the dome and light. The handsome white stone of which it
is built was all quarried half a mile away. The walls are 7 feet in
thickness on the ground-floor. To get to the top we had to mount a spiral
iron staircase, broken at intervals by 7 floors. These breaks give one
time to breathe and comment on the peculiar sensation of mounting to
the top of a lighthouse; strange it is certainly, but I would not on
any account have missed it. A heavy iron column goes down the centre to
hold the chain and the three-quarters of a ton weight propelling the
clockwork that causes the light to revolve. It takes 7 gallons of oil
each night to keep this burning. Mr. Tattersall, the head keeper, was
most attentive and kind in explaining all this to me. On the fifth floor
is the telephone connected with the men’s quarters and with the Karridale
Post Office, from which all messages are forwarded by telegraph. Here
also observations are taken every two hours and recorded. Down the wall
there is a lightning conductor. The lighting apparatus is on the sixth
floor, and is a wonderful piece of mechanical work. The operative power
is clockwork, and the light reflected is equal to 250,000 candles. The
flash is sighted fully 30 miles out from land on a clear night. Are
not the improvements in lighthouses since the days when little Grace
Darling stood on her bible to reach the lamp that lighted the shipwrecked
mariners to safety truly wonderful?
[Illustration: LIGHTHOUSE (OLD AND NEW)]
I must confess to feeling very giddy in the head when I stepped on the
balcony outside the dome, but it was the grandest sight of my tour. On
the north side was Hamelin Bay, on the east the mouth of the beautiful
Blackwood, and the many little islands, reefs and rocks, lying at our
feet; also Cumberland Island; while away on the land side stretches the
vast forest with its millions of giant trees, combining to form a picture
not easily forgotten.
The lighthouse-keepers, of whom there are six, work four hours each and
are then relieved. They report every ship that passes, and wind up the
clockwork weights every hour. Coming down to _terra firma_ again, and
before leaving this grand piece of man’s work, I read the following
inscription on a huge block of stone: “Foundation-stone laid by Sir John
Forrest, Premier of the Colony, 13th December 1895.” And on the other
side: “Dedicated to the World’s Mariners, 10th December 1896.”
Outside are some comfortable-looking stone cottages, where the
lighthouse-keepers live. My only feeling of regret as I left was that
Leeuwin Lighthouse is not more accessible, so that many people could take
the same enjoyable tour that I had taken; but time may change even this
cape’s inaccessibility.