Fragment of the past

We can thank Sir Redmond Barry for the State Library of Victoria. His statue stands at the front steps of the library welcoming everyone, just as he did in 1856 on the day the library first opened. And, this, after staying up all the previous night helping to shelve some of the 3,800 books that he had ordered for the library that had just arrived by ship the previous day. A librarian had yet to be hired, but someone had to do the work. Which tells you a lot about Sir Redmond Barry.

He was the judge who acquitted thirteen of the Eureka Stockade miners in 1855, but who in 1880, when he sentenced Ned Kelly to death by hanging said, “May God have mercy on your soul”. Only to have Ned Kelly respond that he would see the judge anon in the afterlife. And, as if following a script, just twelve days after Ned’s execution, Sir Redmond Barry died.

Even today, there are many interesting links between the State Library of Victoria and the tale of Ned Kelly. We were lucky enough to arrive at the library in time for a guided walk offered by a volunteer, one of the friends of the library. This went, astonishingly, far longer than 2 hours, though we skipped out after two as we desperately needed a cool drink, but we could easily have gone back and done more the next day as the collections were so interesting. This, we were informed, is a reading library, not a borrowing library, and is heavily used by RMIT students whose lecture rooms are just across the street, and by the general public who throng the building and its various galleries in their hoards.

The building itself has some magnificent parts, particularly the great Domed Reading Room which is vast. Its floor space is spiked with long rows of study desks and tables, filled with patrons while the entire space is canopied by a huge lantern-like glass dome spilling light down from some thirty five feet above ground level. The dome room is encircled by arcaded pavilions, lined with shelved books, and eccentric and interesting exhibitions, some you would not expect to find in a reading library.

One of these being Ned Kelly’s actual suit of armour which Ned made in preparation for his final showdown at Glenrowan. It is pitted with bullet holes and hugely heavy given its plough metal construction which kept Ned the only gang member alive after that last bloody dawn battle. Until, of course, Sir Redmond Barry sentenced him.

Amazing pieces of Australian history are on display. Batman’s ‘agreement’ with the natives for him to occupy land along Port Phillip Bay. Early records of explorers. First editions of some of the rarest books, along with fine botanical drawings. Too much to really absorb in one visit. So, we’re determined to visit gain, and move slowly through the collections of interest to us.

Our passion to do this somewhat soothing, that such a library as the State Library of Victoria is not yet seen as the defunct species suggested in another work of sculpture outside the library, on the corner of Swanston and La Trobe streets, where Petrus Spronk of Holland, created a work slamming carved bluestone deep into the sidewalk like an ominous foreboding. As if what is left of the library is but a fragment of the past that you almost trip over.

Thank you for the library, Sir Redmond Barry

Spokes of study desks below the dome 

Bullets pitting the armour Ned Kelly made

Fragment of a library 

Old'n'gold

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! 

Exquisite garden, exquisite day 

Stepping stones, enticing you deeper into the garden

Moongate is a perfect frame 

A special memory 

Delicious coffee, lunch and gift gallery all in one

Quartz battery as it ever was

Old Methodist Church in Taradale

Old Court House - where Ned was acquitted

A page from Ned's letter 

Delicious deli 

Amazing historic structure 

Lovely old signage

One step ahead of the cobwebs

We have current National Trust Membership so our plan this trip was to see as many National Trust properties as possible during our three week stay in Melbourne. This took some juggling as they are not all offered for regular tours or viewings and some only opened once a month to complicate things. 

With only three weeks at our disposal we needed to plan carefully to see the sites of interest and even then we discovered we constantly had to stay open to disappointment, as so much to do with National Trust sites all over Australia we are discovering, seems to rely so heavily on volunteers, so if the volunteers happen not to be available that day, then nothing much is able to proceed. Added to which specific websites for specific National Trust sites often hold confusing, outdated, and even conflicting information. Which is not often able to be clarified by contacting full time staff, who seem to not want to be bothered. So, planning these visits tended to lean more towards the random.

As soon as our plane landed in Melbourne we taxied to our home for the next three weeks, dumped off our luggage, picked up the car we were to use, and drove south of Melbourne to visit one of the more rarely opened sites, Labassa. Labassa is an old mansion in present day Caulfield. It grew a little at a time, in a way reflecting the growth and development of the state of Victoria as it grew. As such, its tale is quite poignant.

The house, first called Sylliott Hill was built in 1862 for Melbourne lawyer, Richard Billing, who started construction from scratch then extended the house over the decades until his death there in 1882. The property was then leased to another Melbourne businessman who happened to be one of the Victorian Cobb and Co owners, and a director of R. Goldsbrough & Co. Ltd. His name was Alexander Robertson. 

After a time Alexander purchased the property along with some 15 acres of parkland surrounding the house. He renamed it Ontario which is from where his Scottish family were migrating at the time of his birth. He set to work organising his architect, John A B Koch, to remodel it according to his wishes. 

And the house grew grew and blossomed. Some of it was whimsical. Alexander had the money. He was born at sea and on the ceiling border in the billiard room are four painted cartouches, one of which depicts a ship at sea, believed to be a reference to Alexander’s sea birth. Above the grand staircase in the main hall an exquisite trompe l’oeil mural was uncovered in recent decades. Quite beautiful. It takes the eye from the four seasons motif on the stained glass windows of the landing, up over the graceful wooden curve of the staircase, to the expanded sky above. 

Pieces of geometric stained glass were inserted into the grand front door panels casting colourful slashes of light into the main hall. And in the luxurious drawing room 22 carat gold leaf decorates the extravagant cornices and pillars. There are even eucalyptus leaves and gum nuts included in the carvings here— a nod to a federated Australia, no doubt. Such amazing craftsmanship, at a time when such skills must have been in really short supply in Australia, are to be treasured. Alexander, sadly, did not live long enough to enjoy his renovations. He died in 1886 just weeks after it was completed. 

These were the last of her dressed up days. From 1921 onwards Labassa was sold to a series of owners and converted into flats for many decades. Great chunks of her beautiful ceilings and cornices were slashed and scarred and screwed to enable temporary partitions to be installed in the largest rooms, dividing the upstairs and downstairs into as many flats as could be squeezed into the spaces. Even the dark crawlspace under the stairs became a tiny roomed flat. 

Thank god for the lady in Flat #5, The Laundry. From 1921 onwards, here lived Mrs Emily Jane Brearley, and her husband, who were appointed caretakers of Labassa by the new owners. Thanks to the Brearleys much of the beautiful craftsmanship still survives. During this time the various flats were occupied by louche bohemians, actresses, playwrights and musicians. The space in the gardens was soon taken up by tenement type blocks of flats, closing in on Labassa’s breathing space. Barry Jones lived in one of the surrounding flats for a time, as did Graham Kennedy. The fireplaces in the old home still worked as there is a tale told of a disused telephone pole being dragged into the house by one of the tenants and as the winter progressed the giant log was fed further and further into the flames, slowly turning to coal, then ashes. Amazing that the place did not burn down.

Through until the sixties, when she died, Emily Brearley was the meticulous minder of the old mansion. Stairs were polished, tiles waxed, cherubs dusted, parquetry patches repaired. She would not allow it to decay on her watch. Which lasted over 40 years. The National Trust took over in the eighties, thanks to a donation that allowed them to purchase the property and demolish some of the intruding tenement dwellings that cramped its outlook. There is still damage. There is little money. But, at times, Labassa is able to live on graciously still: as a wedding venue, a film set for a period murder mystery series, or as an exhibition showplace. Its tales live on with it.

Labassa 

Glitter, gilt and gold

Ornate living room columns 

Elegant staircase, stained glass lit 

Atop the stairs the painted sky offers space and light

Break a leg

We are flying to Melbourne. It has long been a beef of mine that rapacious greed by airlines involves squeezing long-legged passengers, particularly Australians, into seats suited only to prepubescent children, and other short folk. Tigerair is probably no different than most other domestic airlines in Australia but flying to Melbourne from Brisbane these days you really need to break both legs in order to fit in the abbreviated space offered by this particular provider. So be warned. 

When we first started flying we could actually fit into the seating space provided. You didn't much have to bother your neighbour if you needed to take a walk, either. You could stand up and ease yourself out into the aisle. There was sufficient room as I recall. You could even manoeuvre passed anyone standing there, too. Those were the days, my friends. We thought they'd never end. Sadly, we were wrong.

Seats, now, are squeezed so closely together front to back that when the passenger in front reclines to take a kip, your nose is smashed against the back of his moving headrest, breaking in three places as you bleed all over his bald patch. You try to stand to apologise, but of course you can't. Your legs are stuck sideways in the aisle as they literally do not fit sitting straight as every other tall passenger in your row has occupied the last bit of air space for their own long legs. You remind yourself that of all of them in your row you are the lucky one, you have the aisle seat. You, again, endeavour to stand. 

You press heavily on the armrests to the right and left of you attempting to stand, even obliquely, to accommodate the damned slanted seat in front. Your legs are useless still. Numb from that awkward sideways positioning. Not yet ready to mobilise. Your entire body from numb feet to bleeding nose is skewed into the shape of the letter Z. Your back suddenly objects and spasms in a shaft of pain at the contortion. Involuntarily the pain lash whips you back into your seat so fast that your chin receives an uppercut on the offending headrest in front of you. You break two teeth. You are beyond Ibuprofen; or a back rub. But you are not beyond sense.

A relative's recent experiences come to mind. She tells of flying to Perth a few weeks back and spending four flying hours panicking because she'd watched the safety demonstration and read the guidelines about what position to assume in an Emergency, and couldn't. She'd had a seat reclined in front of her and couldn't move to assume any position of safety at all, if needed. And she is short. 

Logic tells us that this cannot be, should not be, legal. It most certainly is not safe. One wonders who is in charge of setting seating specifications on these planes? Who is the authority who should monitor those specs in the design and installation phase? Do any of the decision makers ever do any research whatsoever on what is actually safe? Or what is dangerous? And what airlines could be liable for if any of it comes to the crunch. As it will.

I try to think of parallel scenarios for such seating: children who have to sit still for long hours in classrooms comes to mind. Would children be allowed to be so crammed into their desks one behind the other so rigidly and restricted, that they are not even able to bend in that allowed space to take out a computer to work, let alone keep a notebook and pencil on a straight surface. Parents would start a class action if that happened to their children. As should airplane passengers. Because that is the reality on these planes.

So, I have had enough. I am not going to take it anymore. I am happy to be a card-carrying, badge-wearing, flag-waving dissenter. My message is a simple one, and it is to all who fly and bleed: Before you board, break a leg. That way you might fit. Or sue! I will be more than happy to support any class action suits that address such pitiful plane seating in the future. Growl.

Note: Adding salt to the wound: Little more than a year after this trip Tigerair announced they were planning to add six more seats to each of these already cramped planes in Australia We, of course, never used them again. Nor will we ever. 

It looks so graceful.  But it is so uncomfortable. 

Tiny seats all in a row