Gold and Graffiti: Tales of Melbourne: At the bottom of the garden

One of the more eccentric things we viewed this trip was a photographic recreation of a Victorian Pleasure Garden spectacle inspired by the famed garden parties held at one of Melbourne’s historic mansions, Rippon Lea.

Rippon Lea was home to the Sargood family. Sir Frederick Thomas Sargood grew his wealth selling drapery during the gold rush days. He later became a politician in Melbourne, frequently entertaining his guests to fabulous parties in the grounds of the exotic pleasure gardens he and his wife had created on their property at Rippon Lea, with its expansive lake, waterfall, archery hut and arched bridges over meandering walkways; all of which covered more than fourteen acres of land.

Inspired by the tales of such magical themed parties, professional photographers and stylists, makeup artists and actors playing dressup together with the National Trust for support, set up a three day photo shoot to capture the essence of such a lush and exotic party.

Mythical characters were researched. Museums scoured for costumes and jewellery. Tables laid with the extravagant feasts typical of the times. Characters were dressed and posed including arrogant butlers, insouciant hostesses, and peeking at them from the green boughs were woodland nymphs, fanciful unicorns, foxes, peacocks and faerie queens. The exhibition showed it all to be quite magical, slightly wicked, and delightfully fanciful.

In keeping with the garden theme, we followed the exhibition with a wander through the Fitzroy Gardens which were close. And what a boon to have this lovely open space such a short walk from the city centre. So commendable of our forefathers to ensure such green spaces were set aside for us to enjoy, even today.

Here, too, we found faeries at the bottom of the garden. The gnarled trunk of a three hundred year old tree, long dead, was carved by a lady sculptress and storyteller, Ola Cohn, who, in the 1930s, on returning from London where she’d trained under Henry Moore, was spilling over with new ideas and technologies and wanting to start something new.

Taking up her mallet and chisel she set about chipping away to release the little creatures she imagined hidden in the cracked whorls and knots of the dead redwood in the park. She uncovered faeries and spiders, imps, wizards and elves. Here, a kangaroo, there a lyrebird, even a sorcerer spider’s web was exposed. The trunk became a veritable cornucopia of dozens of delightful fairytale characters that Ola spent three years imagining and carving.

It was a work of love that she gifted to the children of Melbourne whose families were in the midst of a depression at the time, so had very little. But the children then, and now, have treated Ola’s gift gently. With help from the city fathers who contributed to its preservation by installing metal rods to keep the trunk standing, and fluids to prevent rot setting in around the wee characters.

And, once a year, in the summer, children gather at the base of the trunk and Ola’s characters spring, as if to life. The folk of the fairies tree dance, sing, and cavort as villains are vanquished and heroes rise up and rejoice. A touch of Enid Blyton enmeshed with Beatrix Potter. These are indelible memories for impressionable young minds. Deeply imprinted. Stirring their imaginings.

And close by the fairies tree is a tiny model village, not at all exceptional, until you read its intent. It came from the folk of the City of Lambeth in England to the folk of Victoria, as a thank you, for food packages sent and desperately needed, given the food shortage caused by the second world war.

This little village of the Tudor period, with its thatches and half timbers, churches, barns and stocks, was lovingly carved by the wizened hands of a seventy-seven year old pensioner with such a passion for his hobby that he scoured the rubble of bombed out London war sites hunting down suitable material for his task. These tiny homes, and no doubt visiting children think they are for faerie folk, grew out of the rubble of war.

And the tales from Fitzroy Gardens keep on keeping on. A grainy old noticeboard near one of the footpaths we trod told us of the early days of Melbourne’s hospital care. Prior to 1900, hospitals in Victoria were essentially charitable institutions. If you were well off, but poorly, you paid for any treatment needed at home. You did not go to hospital.

Hospitals were set up for the poor. Workhouses, as in England, were not a feature that the early fathers encouraged in Australia. They considered hospitals the better option for the poor. Typically, they were run by nuns, volunteers, and funded by private donors in the main. But public donations were welcome, too.

And that is where Fitzroy Gardens played its part. Once a year, from as early as 1873 and right though until the1920s, Fitzroy Gardens was a venue for fund raising activities for a special event that came to be called, Hospital Sunday.

Hospital Sunday would often involve the Bishop delivering a special service in the town hall. Different churches, throughout town, would offer different choral services. Donation plates were passed around. Sacred music would be laid on in the afternoon in the gardens. Crowds would come to listen. Collections would be made at the entrance gate, or on board excursion steamers, if listeners came by boat.

Collection points came together in the early evening, and the total of the funds donated was published in the newpaper in the following days. And folk were amazingly generous. In 1888 one Hospital Sunday raised over £14,000. Mind you, they were the good times still. The banks had not yet toppled. And finally, as we headed back to the city to find some lunch we passed Captain Cook’s parents house, dismantled stone by stone in Great Ayton, in Yorkshire, in the 1930s, and shipped to Australia in hundreds of cases and dozens of barrels, along with a cutting of ivy from the front garden, to be re-erected in Fitzroy Gardens where today you can stop and chat to the volunteers playing the part of Cook’s folk.

We take a shortcut through the Conservatory and are enchanted by the display. Today, the arrangements are exceptionally romantic with a pink and purple vibe, separated by little puffs of white.

The Conservatory garden, like much of what we have seen today has stood here since the 1930's, changes form and flowers every two to three months. This involves moving dozens of hanging baskets, laying out hundreds of pots of background plants and greenery, and arranging nearly two thousand pots of coloured flowers. Quite an expensive operation it would seem, to change these so regularly, but most of the plants, we are told, are recycled, so that’s a relief. Tho’ still, the work involved is a huge expense.

But, it is all so very beautiful. And every little seating rock (and sadly, there are not nearly enough. People want to sit and gape) is occupied by a pair of city workers taking a romantic respite as they slowly munch on their lunch time sandwiches in one of the most beautiful settings to be found.

Lunch is not a sandwich for us. We find a place called Lucy Liu, in one of the city lanes, and dive into platters of Michael Lambie’s delicious soft shelled crab, and blackened ham hock served as if it were Beijing duck with delicate pancakes, pickled greens and a tart, spicy sauce. Superb. We will return.