Into the hills, north and west, we drove next day, on the recommendation of a friend who visits there regularly, and who once had relatives digging for gold in the region. After a quick coffee at Mr in Macedon we discovered an idyllic garden to visit enroute: Forest Glade. Another treasure. The day was glorious and sunny, but not hot, and the bees buzzed all around us, so heavily laden with pollen that you could almost smell honey in the air. So many, that we were not surprised to learn there were hives for it to be collected at the bottom of the garden.
The garden was on twelve hectares and had magical little walkways winding through all of it. We likely wandered it in its entirety, it was so spectacular, and we could not bear to leave. The daffodils and bluebell glades were just finishing; the elegant poppies stood tall and magnificent; the azaleas, rhododendrons and peonies were opening up fresh and new. Garden ornaments were a feature, too. There were tasteful pieces of sculpture in perfect little spots all over the place. We particularly loved the exquisite Japanese moongate, opening onto a singing streamlet topped with stepping stones, and delicately arched bridges hidden around secret corners.
On talking to a gardener we learned that Forest Glade was owned by Cyril Stokes. Cyril, now a philanthropist, once trained to be a minister but was chucked out of the church for his gay leanings we learned. He married, had children and divorced; then found a gay partner, some three decades younger than him, with whom he built a relationship. He also built a hugely successful bathhouse in Melbourne, bought and sold retirement homes, and became seriously wealthy, sufficient to indulge his passion for collecting 18th and 19th century porcelain pieces. In fact his collection is one of the largest of its kind in the world and is occasionally on display here at the bottom of the garden. The garden was Trevor's refuge, one he built from scratch after a bushfire raged through here in the 80s. Sadly it was not enough to assuage his demons. He was found dead here one morning not so long ago by Cyril and a gardener. Cyril had a sculptured piece made of the two of them that was scheduled to be unveiled the weekend after our visit. In remembrance.
After lunch, looking out over the magnificent views from the Top of the Range tea rooms, we headed across country to Taradale, a tiny town settled well before the gold rush days, but one that became a busy working hub once gold was discovered in the region. At one stage some 5,000 folk lived in Taradale, and that’s not counting some 3,000 Chinese who were digging up the dirt along the Back Creek tributary. In those days there were hotels, churches, banks, and civic offices vying for business, and houses aplenty.
Today, instead of mullock heaps pocking the goldfields, horses graze in peaceful paddocks amiably dodging rusted relics of ancient farm machinery. A quartz battery, fully outfitted yet, still stands to one side of a dipping roadway, which would once have been a sea of moving wheelbarrows and drays loaded with rich stone heading for the crusher.
Other little oddities have survived. The streets were named after scientists and the old busy Faraday street, once the heart of the town, is still lined with buildings that grew from the town’s gold: the old police station, the historic courthouse, and the solicitor’s house, once used as the Mining Register’s Office, are now all private homes. As is the old Catholic Church built out of the ballast bricks that were carried aboard one of the sailing ships coming out from England in the 18th century. The picturesque old Methodist church, too, was built using bricks recycled from an earlier church in town.
Today Taradale is a mere shadow of its former self in terms of size, but, is a peaceful, rural and picturesque hamlet of fewer than two hundred folk, many of whom are living in the solid stone dwellings of their town’s past, that are still standing strong.
All the little towns on the drive back to Melbourne offer up a history that links them to the discovery of gold. And, of course, bushrangers. We were charmed by Kyneton which before the gold rush days was all slab huts and tents, but now proudly boasts some lovely historic stone buildings as part of its gold history.
One of these, the Old Court House, was home for a time to Ned Kelly accused of ‘robbery in company’ but from where he was soon acquitted due to lack of evidence. A letter he wrote to Sergeant James Babington of the Kyneton police is the only written document of Ned’s that survives. We happened upon this letter just a couple of days after this, when we visited the Melbourne library exhibition. And, though it had a few spelling and grammatical errors, it certainly showed that Ned could put his hand to a well constructed plea for help and consideration without too many difficulties, after sadly realising that “everyone looks on me like A black snake”.
We stopped for afternoon tea at a charmingly named delicatessen and coffee house in Kyneton: Duck, Duck, Goose & Larder. We chatted with the busy and productive owner who told us that the name for the business came via his family. His daughter, who worked in the shop was nicknamed Duck. His wife, too, was lovingly called Duck. He was the Goose, he said, and the provisions they stored, of course, were the Larder. Delightful.
Just as interesting as their name for the shop is its history. The building, still, in amazing condition today, was constructed in 1878 by the Shire. And is a rare example of that sort of commercial venture. Well, it was half built, actually. Huge as it is today, the Shire intended it to be double its size. Thinking they might boost business in the community, they installed five butchers as well as a pie and coffee stand in their Market building.Sadly, it did not do well for the Shire, and has spent over a hundred more years finding its successful self, as Duck, Duck, Goose & Larder. We just loved it!
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