BUSH HOLIDAYS
The ideal holiday in Australia is a holiday in the “bush.” There are
two Australias--one of the cities and towns; another of the country
and the bush. The “country” is the cultivated portion of the land,
reclaimed from desolation. In whichever direction the traveller passes,
he soon encounters the “country,” and begins to understand something of
the enormous wealth of the soil.
Great farms come into view, covered with a multitude of sheep and
oxen and horses. The soil in the north-east of Victoria is one of the
richest on this great continent. In many places all that is needed
is to fling the seed upon the soil, and harrow it in lightly, with
the certainty of a speedy and rich crop. Land that was bought but a
few years ago for £4 an acre now sells for anything from £50 to £150
an acre. And therein, perhaps, lies one of the great problems of
this country. It is the land problem. These immense spaces are not
divided amongst a multitude of small holders. They are the property
of a comparatively few men. A huge blunder was made when the country
was in the infancy of its development. Young Australia should have
profited by the example of the Old Country, and never have allowed a
land proprietorship like that which is the handicap of the Motherland.
The Governments are already perceiving their error, and land is
being repurchased for the State. They understand that no country can
prosper as it should while the land is at the disposal of a few men
who can command their own price, dictate their own terms, and gamble
in a commodity which cannot be increased in bulk. Now, happily, in
Victoria the large territories are being split up, and townships are
consequently springing up, consisting of men who woo the land to
fruitfulness. Towards Warrnambool the remnants of the clearing of
the bush are in evidence, thousands of gaunt trees, without leaf or
bark, white as phantom trees, stand in great spaces waiting to be cut
down. At their base runs the plough and the seed-planter. One day the
clearance will be completed, and this whole country, brought under
complete cultivation, will be among the most fertile in the world.
* * * * *
One of the fairest holiday spots in Victoria is Lorne, where bush,
gully, and sea meet.
Primitive, retired, quiet, fifteen miles from a railway station,
reached by a difficult road which passes through the bush, Lorne is
the last word of holiday solitude combined with happy companionships.
No policeman is there; none is ever required; the doors and windows of
hotels and pensions are left open all night; there are no marauders to
fear. The wide balconies surrounding the pensions are transformed into
bedrooms at night, and men and women sleep out, while the sea quietly
croons to them throughout the period of darkness. And every wind brings
the scent of the eucalyptus to the sleeper. Lorne is a delightful
place--a combination of Devonshire and Switzerland; that is, of course,
on the small scale. The hills rise from the water’s edge very much as
Clovelly rises from the sea. The illusion that we are in Devonshire is
aided by the presence upon the table at every meal of clotted cream--a
dish beloved of Australians. The numerous hills surrounding Lorne,
with their zigzag paths and waterfalls and gullies, are reminiscent
of Switzerland, and here again the illusion is aided by the style of
the boarding-houses. For everything save the balconies recalls the
Swiss pension among the mountains. The fever of the city and the town
has never descended upon this retreat. There is no fear of man lying
upon bird or beast. The kangaroo and the wallaby do not move when the
visitor appears upon the scene. Even the snake leisurely crawls away
at the approach of the walker. As for the birds, they are a delight
to behold. Little creatures clad in the most gorgeous plumage gather
round our feet and pick up the crumbs we drop for them. They have
not the slightest fear of us. It is likely they have never heard the
detonation of a gun nor the bark of a pistol. Larrikins are barred--by
distance--from coming to Lorne; hence the birds have never been chased
by rude ruffians. St. Francis, if he came to Lorne, might easily
imagine that he had lighted upon some of his old brothers and sisters
who had not forgotten him. Besides these birds of beautiful plumage we
have our perennial friend the jackass, banished by rude noise from the
city, here entering into happy relations with us. Parties of laughing
jackasses perch on trees at our very door and make the house ring with
their infectious laughter. Life _al fresco_ for us as well as for them;
it is a magnificent change from the roar and nerve rack of the city.
Whoever comes to Lorne must walk. There is only one carriage excursion.
All other promenades are made on foot. The choice lies between the sea,
the mountain, and the gully. Few folk can resist the sport of cray
fishing amongst the rocks upon the shore. Once commenced, it becomes a
veritable fascination. They have a simple method of snaring the fish.
Two bamboo canes--to the end of one a decayed fish is lashed; to the
end of the other a loop of wire is attached--and that is all. But it is
not quite so easy as it looks. The art consists in lowering the bait
into the rock pool, where a crayfish may possibly hide. If the fish
is there, he smells the bait, and in a moment crawls out to seize it.
Then the second cane is lowered, and the loop passed under and around
the creature’s tail. Tickled by the wire, the fish curls his tail. That
action seals his doom. The wire loop is immediately tightened, and the
astonished crayfish, instead of regaling himself upon the bait, is
hauled up to the shore. It requires more than a little cleverness of
manipulation to ensnare the fish. There is no difficulty in enticing
it from its rocky fortress to attack the bait; the trouble is to
encircle the body with the loop.
The great excursions, however, are to the mountain and the gully.
Parties leave in the early morning, provided with luncheon and the
indispensable “billy” for tea. In every direction waterfalls and fern
gullies are found.
Excursions to these gullies rank among the most pleasant experiences of
a holiday. After a tramp of an hour or two through the “scrub,” a halt
is made for luncheon, and then the “billy” is boiled. The “billy” is
an Australian boiling-pot in which delicious tea is made. A suitable
spot is selected, stones are gathered upon which the pot is placed, and
then the “scrub” is searched for pieces of wood and dried fern. The pot
is surrounded with these and the fire is kindled. A muslin bag filled
with tea is immersed in the boiling water, where it remains for a few
moments. Then it is withdrawn and the tea is ready. I confess to having
had a great prejudice against “billy” tea at first. It seemed to me to
be only another form of the stewing-pot in the North of England, and to
be a deliberate invitation to dyspepsia. And now I have quite a liking
for it. Any who wish may try the experiment for themselves. The one
thing to avoid is keeping the muslin bag in the pot for too long a time.
The “bush” is being slowly conquered. Town and city folk hardly know
that it exists, so rapidly have the plough and the “forest devil”
cleared the ground in the great centres. But in many parts it still
offers great obstacles to pioneers. Where roads are not yet made, and
river beds not yet formed or deepened, life is by no means easy. At
a pension like ours in Lorne, where people from all over the State
assemble, some weird and curious stories are told by visitors of the
adventures which have befallen them. One of the most interesting was
related by a clergyman who has served in various parts of the State.
A few months ago he received a request asking him to marry a young
couple in the bush. The day was fixed, and he was preparing to ride
over to perform the ceremony, when suddenly a monsoonal storm burst
upon the landscape, and in a few hours the creek had become a river.
There was no means of telegraphic communication between the parson and
the bridegroom, but simultaneously each went out to meet the other,
directed by their sense of the fitness of things. They met at the
stream, but lo! the bride was missing; the swollen river had cut her
off. The ready bridegroom, however, was not easily daunted, and he had
no intention of postponing the wedding. While the clergyman waited
at the river bank the bridegroom rode off for his bride. The happy
pair arrived in due time, and both of them waded through the river
and presented themselves to be married. Dripping with water they were
made man and wife, and then, reentering the stream, they crossed it,
took to their horses, and rode off to commence their new career. There
have been many romantic marriages in the world, but none surely more
romantic than this.