Toscana del sud

A little after dawn. Riding in a car with my father. I'm entranced by the topography — angular, fissured hills; sere grassland with stands of spindly eucalypts. Barbed wire five-strand fences, old, silver-greyed strainer posts, ragged split timber fenceposts. A two-lane bitumen road running along the flats, the hills a few hundred metres beyond the fence line. But it's the shape of the hills that holds me. The endlessly varying but eternally uniform shape of those hills. As a small boy, say five or six, I don't have the language to describe them with any precision. But the shapes reach out, beguile, capture my imagination. I can see myself walking across the concavity of the river flats, to foothills, then scrambling up a gully to the ridge line, the gully split by smaller and smaller gullies; the low ridges giving way to higher and higher summits. Not huge mountains, but gentle, human-sized hills — the size where you could climb to the top in an hour, or less.

Not huge mountain ranges, for this is the Central West of NSW. If there is a part of Australia that feels like my bit of country, it's here. I'm a city boy — Sydney, born and bred, but the Central West is something special in my interior landscape. It was a place I learnt about early. My father was born in Wellington, at the northwestern end of the Central West, schooled in its heartland at Orange, then lived in Canowindra. That's where I first came to know the region, on visits to my grandmother, my Nanny, Dorry. They were the only holidays we ever had as kids. 

My Nanny, Dorry, and my father, at his graduation

Canowindra was a long way away, a drive to a place that was a different world from my home in the Inner West of Sydney. A place of climatic extremes — dry heatwave summers, when I spent all day at the swimming pool with my cousins, and cold, cold winters, when Nanny would — wonder of wonders — light a fire in the living room. A land of curiosities — two stoves in the kitchen: a wood stove that also kept the room cosy in winter; and an electric stove, for summer, to avoid heating the house up any more than it already was. A chip heater in the bathroom, that, along with drought, meant lukewarm baths in a few inches of water. All the wood burning gave the house a distinctive, smoky smell — not strong, but rich and warm, a dark brown smell. Like tobacco, and the leather of my grandfather's collar box, that sat on Dad's bedroom dresser, as it now sits on mine.

Other curios and oddities abounded. Nanny lived in a freestanding house — a wonder to a child who'd only ever lived in a small city flat. It had timber verandas on several sides, which meant you heard visitors long before they arrived at the door. There was an old garage, but no car — she didn't drive, and had been widowed for as long as I knew her. The garage was a magnet. Dark, dusty, with benches and cupboards full of potentially interesting things — tools, jars of nuts and bolts; it drew me, until Nanny saw a snake in there, and I was banned. Two big water tanks up on high stands; I learnt to knock the rings to see how deep the water was.

Further down the backyard was a corrugated iron dunny, which stunk, and resulted in a reluctance to go to the toilet. Next to it was a chopping block, where she split timber for the stove and chip heater. The washing line was up on clothes props — a Hill's Hoist was nowhere to be found in those days. Beyond the washing lines was a low fence, separating the grassed area from a rougher weed-strewn patch down the back, intended as a vegetable patch. I remember a photo of my father in his twenties, standing there, weedy rough ground then as well, holding up two chooks by their legs. I never learnt the fate of the chooks, but have always assumed they were dinner.

 It's not for decades after that early morning drive that I learn that the landscapes I see are fractal geometry — they exhibit repeating patterns that display at every scale. It's also later, as a geology student, that I gain the language to describe the topography that had held me. It's called a mature landscape, in the theoretical cycle of landscape evolution developed by geographers like William Morris Davis.

William Morris  Davis' model of landscape evolution

I realise that a trip from Sydney to the Central West is a trip through Davis' landscape model. The flattish Cumberland Plain of western Sydney could be the "Old" stage, as is the landscape beyond Parkes or around Hay, all big plains with minor residual ridges of harder rock. The Cumberland Plain is followed on the drive by the uplifted plateaux cut by box canyons of the Blue Mountains. They look like Davis' "Youthful" stage, but I quickly realise the impact of geological history here. They are actually a "Rejuvenated" stage, where uplift of the plateau at the Lapstone Monocline has kicked off the Davisian cycle again. But it's the Central West — part of the Western Slopes topographic division of NSW, that grabs me. And so perfectly exemplifies Davis' Mature stage of topography. 

That monotonically repeating landscape — all fractal slopes with nary a flat spot — is very appealing. On a world stage, the landscapes that capture popular imagination often resemble this. The lands of central Italy — Tuscany and Umbria, for instance; The Lakes District and the Cotswolds; or Appalachia (Davis was a Philadelphian, and Appalachian geology informed much of his thinking). Tuscany and Umbria are popular, I feel, not just because of their abundance of Mediaeval hill towns, good vineyards, and annoying renovating authors. The hills of central Italy are very similar in form to those of the Central West.

Tuscany

The Central West

The uplifted, eroded plateau — think of the Blue Mountains, or the Colorado Plateau cut by the Grand Canyon — is spectacular. But also intimidating. It overwhelms the individual; inducing awe, certainly, but not necessarily a sense of comfort or ease.

The Grand Canyon of the Colorado River, Thomas Moran, 1904.
A spectacular but intimidating landscape

 Mature landscapes like the Central West, or Tuscany, have a human scale and a more intimate feel. They are, I think, immediately appealing. I can immediately imagine myself in them, and fit them out with people and culture — roads, farms, villages, pasture, crop lands, railways and canals — that are unthinkable in a youthful and cliff-bound landscape. Whilst many people love the Blue Mountains, and, indeed, live there, for me they have always been the bit you have to drive through to get to the Central West.

My connections are not just childhood ones. As a geologist I've worked there a bit. For students in Sydney, it draws. Sydney has some fascinating geology, but it's all of a type, and lacks the diversity, the exposure to a wide variety of rocks in a small area. So, for me, the landscape and the memories make me want to say that the Central West is my patch.

This simple statement can be controversial amongst some circles in Australia. It's clear that Aboriginal Australians have a long connection to country. Over 40,000 years of it. It's a spiritual and custodial link. The Aboriginal people of what we now call the Central West are called the Wiradjuri. This is their country. They are the people of the goanna totem. They are the largest Aboriginal group in NSW, and Wiradjuri country is huge — ranging from the change from woodlands to open grassland in the east — approximately the alignment of the Great Dividing Range, to the more arid plains to the west. Wiradjuri country covers three major rivers in NSW — the Macquarie, Lachlan, and Murrumbidgee, and continues south to reach the Murray. They maintained a cycle of ceremonies that moved in a ring around the whole tribal area, that led to tribal coherence despite the large occupied area.

Wiradjuri country

I'm not denying the crucial, central role of Aboriginal custodianship in Australian culture. And I'm not comparing my connection to that of Aboriginal people. My ancestral links go back to England, mainly, with a bit of Scotland and Ireland as well. A multiple-times great grandfather arrived in Sydney town in the second fleet, courtesy of His Majesty, for helping himself to a few necessities. It's the typical Anglo-Celtic version of an Australian story. And anyone of my generation who grew up in Australia is steeped in British culture. But I didn't actually get to England until I was in my 40s. I enjoy going there. But it's not Home. That's Sydney, but with a strong touch of the Central West — Wiradjuri country. The Tuscany of the South.

On the how, and the where

I talked a bit about “why walking”. But now, what about How? And Where? They go together, and are, of course, intimately connected with Why?

Regarding how: a fundamental consideration is that I don’t want to turn my recreational walking into bushwalking. I don’t want to carry all the camping paraphernalia — tent, sleeping bag, cooking gear, several days worth of food. I’m lazy. I want someone else to look after those things, so I can focus on the walking bit, rather than spend time putting up tents.

Now, all this doesn’t happen without some effort and preparation. The decision to free myself of carrying kit means walking from place to place where I can find accommodation. It doesn’t have to be particularly high standard. I’m not a 5-star princess, but it does mean making landfall by night somewhere where I can find a roof, a wash, and a meal.

Walking the Camino — the mediaeval pilgrimage route from Paris to Santiago de Compostella in northwestern Spain, has become a popular pastime. I’ve not done it, but I know a few people who have done bits. The model seems to be one of moving on each day, walking for some hours, and gaining relatively simple and cheap lodging in a village each night. Somewhat like in mediaeval times, when the pilgrimage was the thing to do, establishments have again appeared along the route, providing modern-day pilgrims with accommodation.

Now, one day I might do some of the Camino. But that takes some funds, and I’m skint right now. Certainly, a few weeks walking in France and Spain, appealing as that sounds, is not in my budget. I started to cast my eye around local possibilities. The requirements seem simple on paper: a region where pubs or other cheap accommodation are available in settlements a day’s walk apart. Preferably somewhere scenic and appealing, with a good road network, so I’m not stuck on highways all day.

So — the thing about Australia is that its big. BIG! About as big as Europe, or the contiguous United States. But much less densely settled, so towns are a greater distance apart. It doesn’t take much map-gazing to realise that the southeastern crescent, roughly from a bit north of Brisbane to a bit west of Melbourne, is the area of operations. Anywhere else is too sparsely settled, with towns more than a reasonable day’s walk apart. As a rule of thumb, I am using 20 km as a distance for scoping walks. An option is to stay in one place that I like and make daily loop walks. I mean, it’s not like a I have some actual religious imperative to get to a particular spot.

Another problem is access. In the UK and Europe, there appears to be a long-standing, if not always legally codified, right to walk along public footpaths that traverse private property, as long as the walker obeys certain provisions such as not bothering stock, not lighting fires, and sticking to paths. Such a network of paths across private properly is lacking in Australia. I suspect this comes from the development, early in the European settlement, of the practices of free selection, where certain individuals were given total rights to hold property. And they often wanted to set up a “Bunyip aristocracy”, negating the concepts of public access to their land. Whatever the cause, it is difficult to just walk along a fence line or creek, without incurring the wrath of a landowner. The end result for a walker is that minor public roads become the most-accessible way to move around.

As well, changes in the patterns of settlement have an effect. The bush has had the economic shit kicked out of it over the last 50 years, with steady depopulation of rural towns, and a loss of services. Small towns that once had a pub have disappeared, or lost services. The options for somewhere to stay have reduced. Along with this has been the gentrification of the “bed and breakfast” market. Once, bed and breakfast accommodation establishments were just that — a place for cheap and simple accommodation in someone’s spare room. Now, they mainly seem to cater to the “dirty weekend” demographic. This has been accompanied by substantially increased prices, minimum stay periods, and death by twee. I don’t really need a crocheted dolly toilet roll cover, thanks very much.

Anyway, all this reflection – largely achieved over a few longer walks, has led to a fantasy conception of the ideal accommodation. It was envisaged by Almost John Buchan:

“Two hours before sunset I crested the ridge, and looked down into the long glen before me. The dusty road behind had been a long and lonely walk from breakfast at Muirtown markets. When I had alighted from the train in the dawn light, I’d looked carefully through the market crowd and my few fellow travelers. I saw no one I recognised, and no one seemed interested in me. I appeared to have outrun my followers of the last two days. It was hard to believe that only three nights before, I had returned from my club to the Mayfair flat and found Sofia dead — pinned to the parquetry floor, a long knife skewered through her heart, a look of terror frozen on her face — and the Karamanlis letter gone from my desk drawer.

The road ran down into the glen through some slow bends. About two miles ahead a stone bridge crossed the burn, and beyond lay a single croft, a thin drift of blue-grey smoke rising from the chimney. Beyond the croft, the burn emptied into a loch. A few rowboats were pulled up on the beach.

Far to my left, sun glinted off the sea, silvering it. The landward sides of the islands were already purple with shade. I sat on the heather with my back against a boulder and carefully scanned the glen with my field glasses. There was nothing moving below me. The glen had no cover — not a copse or a stand of pine in the whole place. I was relieved. Nothing could move in the glen without me knowing about it.

Carefully I crept the few yards back to the crest, and with my glasses surveyed the way I had come. There was very little traffic on the coast road, and none on my side road. There seemed to be no pursuit.

Not long after, I was crossing the burn on the bridge. I walked up to the croft. An elderly woman with grey hair and a worn face was tending a vegetable garden, a basket of beans and potatoes beside her. She bid me good evening. When I asked about lodging for the night, she gave a drawn smile. “I’ll show you what we have.” In a lean-to on the side of the croft was a small bedroom — spare, but neat and clean. “ You’re welcome to this” she said. “It was our son’s room. He ne’er came back fra’ France”. She pointed me to a well and stone tubs behind the croft, and offered to make tea whilst I washed.

Before the tea she gave me a bowl of creamy milk and fresh-baked bread. I sat in the gloaming watching the glen. There was neither man nor beast abroad, as far as I could see. For a few hours, it seemed I had escaped detection.

After dark, her man came home, carrying a creel with a salmon from the loch nestled in bracken. He was a tall, whip-thin, wind-burned man, a little grey starting to appear in his brick-red hair. We ate slabs of the salmon that she cooked in butter in a skillet, with beans and potatoes.

After the meal, he and I sat in front of the fire with our pipes and drams from my hip flask The conversation was halting, with long periods of silence as we stared into the coals. The talk was of stalking in the district. It was poor, as so many keepers and ghillies had left for the front. I ventured a few comments on the fishing and the game, and circumspectly asked about neighbours. All were old, established families, who had lived here since Noah. I was relieve to hear that no one new had come to the valley for years. When I cautiously expressed support for the new Labour government’s plan to use demobbed men in land and game restoration projects, he came to life.

“I ken fine the idea, and it’s a braw one. But our local member is a Tory and a high laird, and he’ll no be supporting it. I hold no time for either side, syne the war that took the best of us away, and left no benefit to ordinary wee folk. I’ll thank ye not to be a’ talking of the politics in this house. It upsets her too much, syne our lad died”. At this he fell into a brooding silence until our drams were finished and it was time for bed.

Between crisp sheets, the visions of Sofia and her terror mask, and of my escape from the Red Door gang, slipped away quickly. For the first time in days I slept a deep and dreamless sleep.

In the morning she served me ham and eggs with more strong tea. As I was taking my leave, I held out one of my sovereigns. They looked affronted. He said “There’ll be no need for that”, and she walked to the kitchen dresser, took out two baps, wrapped then in paper and held them out. “A wee bite to help you on your way” she said. I made my way down the road beside the loch, towards the sea. No one followed me.

An hour later, I heard the sound of an aeroplane. It came high over the far ridge then dropped, following my road. I stepped under an old pine and watched as a twin-seater biplane worked its way along the coast. I could see the pilot and observer both leaning out to scan the ground. My sense of security of the last few hours fell away. The gentlemen of the Red Door gang had taken their search to the skies. I was still hunted.

That fantasy accommodation isn’t about to happen in a hurry. But a country pub, with a simple room, and a bathroom down the hall, is enough. Especially if it has a decent wine list, a veranda, and a log fire in winter.

A decent network of minor roads; a few country pubs; some pleasant countryside to walk through. That’s what I’m looking. Within striking distance of Sydney, it announces itself. The Central West — stretching from Mudgee to Cowra. High country, rolling hills, big sky. It’s as close as I get to a bush home. Family connections, and a lot of work as a geologist has taken place in the Central West of NSW. That’s where I will start looking for walks.