Buildings

Maria Island

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Another ferry ride to an island, but this time as a passenger only. I am heading to Maria Island for the day so I can get an idea of why people talk about it so much. I was unsure if I would, as it is basically the ruins of a convict probation station (1842).

I was convinced by learning that there is no shop at all there … for anything, food, drink, souvenirs… and no vehicles allowed for visitors except bikes.

This young wombat was right by the road, setting my day off to a good start.

The road passes through an avenue of enormous and relatively ancient (almost 200 years) fir trees … the kind of settler legacy I have to be impressed by, as they are so very big.

A mature wombat ambles up the bank and across the road, ignoring me.

The windswept nature of the island was symbolised by this lone and humble little cottage, once Ruby Hunt’s, and its attendant struggling trees.

Not being a cyclist, I am only doing the shorter walks, like along Hopground Beach to the Painted Cliffs, where I learn that access is restricted due to geological issues.

We have been warned to leave any middens alone. The Puthikwilayti people of the Oyster Bay tribe visited this island over 40,000 years, until the whalers and sealers came in the 1800s. 

The British set up their penal probation colony in 1825. It wasn’t very successful, as prisoners could escape, and kept doing it… unlike from Sarah Island.

The scooped and scalloped layers are beautiful, although I cannot see the reason for ‘painted’. But likely they are further around, currently inaccessible; photos show quite stunning colours and patterns.

My walk takes me past the Oasthouse, where the remains of two round hop drying kilns demonstrate the bricklaying skills of the past. I am most interested in the patterns of the bricklaying.

As always, the higher and less fertile parts were less cleared, and the eucalypt forests, regrowth or not, are encouraging and calming.

I am struck by these teeny plants on the side of the track, looking like pale starfish, or daisy chain crochet stitches.

Buildings that were for grander purposes than Ruby’s home are still in fair or good condition. Many are used as basic accommodation; you can book to stay.

But for me the ones that attract are more for the patterns their ruins make than for the  elegance that the ruling classes enjoyed.

I want to walk to the Fossil Cliffs, but a gander from the island’s large population of Cape Barren Geese had other ideas, hissing and honking at me. Once the second rarest goose in the world, they were introduced to Maria in the 1970s and thrive here, helping the marsupials keep the native grass mown and fertilised.

I grew up with domestic geese, so I know to be wary…

After a picnic lunch in front of the convict barn, geese gone, I visit the desolate cemetery. Only one convict, a Maori, was buried here; the rest only got timber crosses elsewhere.

A small group of Forester Kangaroos, also introduced here in the ‘70s, are resting as I pass. I learn they are actually Eastern Greys, which I do know.

The Fossil Cliffs are wild and spectacular, and the part I can access was once a quarry.

It is hard to believe that such rich geological treasure was treated as a mere source of rocks. You cannot see a section that is not almost totally made of shellfish fossils. I know little about fossils, but as links to our distant pasts they have to be respected.

As our ferry leaves Maria Island, I am glad I came, so that I now have a concept of its mountains and cliffs, its bays and rolling slopes, but also feel the sadness that always follows such evidence of displacement, of colonisation and invasion, of clearing, of failed undertakings…

But I am glad it’s been a national park since 1972, and that it’s not been ‘developed’ as a tourism attraction in the way that Bruny Island has. Its natural beauty and its past seem enough to attract visitors.

Huon heights

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Whilst I am a wuss regarding heights, I decided I would gather up my courage and do the Tahune Airwalk, in an ‘eco-tourist’ complex which is a slow 60kmh 30 minute drive through plantations from Geeveston.

But it promised a rare mix of rainforest, giant eucalypts and Huon pines.

I was about to start when the rain came in; by the time lunch was over, it had stopped.

The bridge over the Huon leads to the two walks I would do. 

A trio of horse riders surprised me by appearing from a side track; and no, they were not here for the Airwalk.

Despite what their brochures say, the Airwalk does mainly pass over forests that were burnt in the huge 2019 fires, as most of this area was. It is still an interesting walk – and not really scary. I am giving the swinging bridge a miss…

Even enormous and ancient Eucalypts (obligua especially) were killed in those fires.

From the Airwalk, beyond the Huon River, you can see forests that were not burnt. 

There is plenty of information provided here regarding the post-fire regeneration of different species.

From the Huon Walk, you can gauge the power of this river at times from the large logs piled up along its banks.

The first actual Huon Pine we are pointed to is small, old and damaged. We know that Huon Pines were cut wholesale in the early settler days, floated down the rivers and used for all sorts of unworthy purposes.

We now acknowledge that Huon Pine is an ancient, very slow-growing tree, endemic to Tasmania, and it is now never cut down. Only the stockpiled remnants are allowed to be used, valued for the fine grained durable wood.

Huons need water, so favour river sides like this.

But we do see plenty of other sorts of trees that are old and grand… and still alive.

Trees like these put our puny lives in perspective.

However, the best thing about the Tahune was that outside the Visitors Centre I saw this young Eastern Quoll gambolling about, just as I’d always imagined them in the wild.

They are a cousin of the Spotted-tailed Quolls I had at my Mountain, but so much daintier.

I thought my day was made.

Then, coming back into Geeveston, I saw this fantastic owner builder creation-in-progress: Castle Phoenix.

Wild creatures and weird creations: what more could I wish from a day? 

Waldheim pioneers

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This is the view that Gustav and Kate Weindorfer would have had when they chose to build a chalet here at Waldheim (Forest home) near Cradle Mountain.

They are credited with inspiring the formation of this world famous national park. Gustav used to say he wanted ‘a national park for all people for all time’.

I encourage you to read this brief summary of their extraordinary story. 

The original Austrian-style chalet burnt down and a reproduction now exists, with interactive information. Kate facilitated his spending a lot of time up here building it… and there were no roads then. I found the relics of their efforts quite saddening.

Gustav liked to use the King Billy Pines common in the area, due to the straight grain of the timber. Shingles and boards for walls and floors were all from this timber.

On the Weindorfer Forest walk just behind their home there are some very large and old King Billy Pines.

Overall, it was a fantasy forest of twisted shapes and moss creations.

It looked like the moss had engulfed everything that had halted or lain down; I’m not sure I would call the inhabitants of this forest ‘trees’.

In fact, I think I disturbed some of its creatures in mid- action. Tolkein kept coming to my mind.

Sometimes the moss made a less fantastical shape, yet this perfect ball didn’t seem natural either…

The local wombats, appropriately furrier than our NSW ones, seem to have adopted the visitors’ amenities block as their home.

I was told that the local echidnas, smaller than ours, are also furrier… and with less spines.

Whinge alert:

My stay at Waldheim was less than idyllic, not the atmosphere for which I was hoping, as roadworks on the guest cabins’ carparks happened to have been postponed until the very two days I was there. Weather is paramount here.

So not only could I not partk next to my cabin but the roadworking machines outside the window and the smell of tar made it hard to rest after the next day’s walk around Dove Lake.

That walk was stunning, as you’ll see next post, but I needed that rest!

Living history

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The oldest timber house in the Hastings survives today, totally thanks to the volunteers in the Douglas Vale Conservation Group. In fact, it thrives today, as Douglas Vale Historic Homestead and Vineyard.

I finally got around to visiting it, and found many resonances and memories … and good wine. Founder George Francis would be proud of it.

The entry via a vast and ancient bamboo ‘forest’ is atmospheric for a start.

This vineyard has been producing wine since 1859 and I was charmed that its first plantings were of Black Isabella grapes, as I’d had those vines at my 1895 Minmi house.

Of course I bought a bottle of Black Isabella Ruby Port (Portobella) from the wine tasting and sales centre housed in the old oyster factory, showing ties with the Dick family, who had started the oyster industry on the Hastings River.

A vine of that grape grows along the front verandah of this little house. The house is modest in scale, even with its added-on rooms, and it was fortunate to have been rescued from the vandalism that occurred after the last occupant, family member Patsy Dick, died in 1993.

Although made waterproof with tin roofing, the original she-oak shingles can be seen under the verandah roof.

The whole house is unapologetically a working museum cum vineyard, not a reproduction/re-imagined historical monument. 

It’s free to look around the house, the outbuildings and gardens, with knowledgeable and enthusiastic guides to explain what you are seeing and what has gone before.

Apart from the unvarnished broad floorboards and wall and ceiling boards, I loved the displays of the historical layers of wallpapers and linoleums.

There were detailed family trees and much background information.  A Heritage site, it’s a dream for local history buffs.

I was intrigued to learn that George Francis had likely learnt the craft of winemaking when he worked on a Hunter property where German vineyard workers were employed. My German ancestors, the Nebauers, came here for that exact purpose…

As was the safety custom, the kitchen was in a separate building, and its Beacon fuel stove was the same as my Nanna’s, the kerosene fridge the same as I’d once had. History seems very close here.

The windows are small, the doors low, the decorations minimal, the chimneys few, the fireplace not real marble, but timber painted to look like it; this was not a rich man’s home. Maybe that’s why it is so relatable.

And by sheer coincidence, in Patsy Dick’s room, to show his trade as a grave digger, the timber grave marker used was of a Munro couple. I am a Munro.

And my father’s name was Francis…

Douglas Vale welcomes volunteers but do at least pay it a visit. You won’t be sorry!

History and Nature

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The charming Roto House is a gem in Port Macquarie’s armoury of attractions. John Flynn had it built in 1891 of local Red Mahogany (Eucalyptus resinifera). It was restored in the 1980s, with much work needed, especially on the foundations, but also the roof and verandahs.

You can wander through its timber panelled rooms for free; most have historic exhibitions on display. The light fittings are beautiful. ornate yet simple. The whole house gives one a vivid sense of the craftsmanship and solid materials used then.

With its many chimneys, of course most rooms have a fireplace. I am reminded of our 1895 house/police station at Minmi near Newcastle, which had five chimneys, each serving two fireplaces back-to-back. but they had marble fireplace surrounds and mantelpieces and were closed in with a metal face and a small grate.

Roto House has been hugely enlivened by the establishment of a café, Home at Roto. You can eat on the verandahs, at the picnic tables in the peaceful tree-studded grounds, or under the covered café addition. They also run special events, be it poetry or music, often with open microphone, adding culture to the charm of being in a building from a bygone era.

At the risk of sounding like a tourism spruiker, this has become my favourite coffee place; so un-modern and un-citified, where history meets nature.

City of water

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To replace the ancient water sources that had supplied Nîmes for centuries, the huge Fountain Gardens were built in the mid-18th century. 

Remnants are still there of the original water holding basin on the hill, which would have received the water via aqueducts, including the Pont du Gard where I will take you next. As these remnants, like those at Pompeii, are extremely rare, I tried to visit, but it was closed on a Sunday.

Fountains abound, with walkways shaded by large plane trees.

Fish and ducks and pigeons make use of the water, as does the occasional frolicking dog, and once I even saw a swan.

Even the gates are guarded from climbing trespassers by decorative extensions – rather more attractive than rolled barbed wire.

My favourite ruin was this Temple of Diana, from the 1st century BC: possibly not to Diana, possibly not even a temple. Romantically shrouded in mystery and time…

The central basin has this Nymph statue… with attendant pigeon, but as usual I wonder why the wingless cherubs below look so miserable.

This one looked positively demonic.

The Gardens were full of statues, but I especially liked this gentle one to Love… quite young love too.

From the formal pools and waterways, paths wind up through a shady forest to the 36 metre high Tour de Magne, once part of the defensive Roman walls around the city.

I had intended to climb up the internal spiral stairs, but I chickened out. From the outside, looking up at those who had made it, I knew I’d been wise. Bugger the view.

But even away from the Fountain Gardens, in the centre of main avenues there is water, shallow, unpretentious, just coolly flowing along.

Sometimes, as in the modern Place d’Assas, it is combined with statuary, non-mythological, but still symbolic.

Nîmes still appreciates its water origins. So do I.

Temples then and now

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Considered one of the best preserved and most elegant of the Corinthian temples, this 1st century homage to the Augustan imperial cult was built from local limestone. It has been known as the Maison Carrée since the XVIth century.

The columns of the impressive portico, 17 metres high to the gable, are freestanding, whereas those along the side are half embedded in the walls. Only priests of the cult were allowed in; any major events and sacrifices were done outside, in the large public forum space.

Under the portico you can see the naturalistic acanthus leaves atop each column. Out of the weather, this limestone is immaculate.

Exposed, the stone has not fared so well, but after 2000 years, you’d have to say the damage is only cosmetic and minor; the columns still do their job.

And on the enormously high timber doors, a key escutcheon like no other I will ever see…

Immediately across the square is the 1993 Museum of Modern Art, designed to echo the Maison Carrée… but somehow failing to carry that same sense of grandeur outside.

Inside it succeeds, being all light and space, with a huge atrium. It is the temple to Art, to connect the old and new Nîmes.

Modern paintings of vast size dominate each room.

I realise I should have known that I do not like what I see as the self-consciousness and self-indulgence of many of these periods.

I also realise that every museum or gallery I visit has an appointed guard or watcher in every single room.

Often young people, mostly looking bored, mostly wearing black, checking that I am not about to spray paint or throw tomatoes on a work. 

Except for my sandals squeaking a little on the parquet, the silence is deafening.

How do they spend a whole day like this?

Nîmes: history upon history

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While our First People are known to have an extremely long history of occupation, they trod so lightly that we newcomers cannot easily read that history. 

Not so here In Nîmes, where you walk up any of many streets and bang! right in front of you rises the imposing Arena, the best preserved Roman amphitheatre in the world.

They were setting up for a light and sound show that evening. How incredible for a 2000 year old venue to be still going!  Not that any gladiators would be seen here now, but the range of trained and very particular fighters was unknown to me until I read about them here.

Nîmes, considered the French capital of bullfighting, holds a three-day festival, the Feria, each year, with bull runs through the streets, acrobats, musicians, parades, stalls, horsemanship and of course, bullfights.

The Arena was carefully designed to allow for Roman social classes to access and exit which of the four levels they would occupy without a crush or running into the others.  It would seat 24,000.

Railings have been added but the stone seating remains the same. They were a bit of a stretch for a littlie like me.

I envisioned the hordes of tourists going up these steps tonight, the same steps that everyone since the Romans have used.

Just look at the width of the arch/wall… such huge blocks of stone.

Stones and bricks, and all still holding together.

This hole seemed deliberately done to show us that beneath the stone facing is a rubblestone wall?

Arches, arches everywhere… but I see no information as to who would have had to come up these steps from deep below 

I had expected more history, with Hollywood images of lions and Christians in my head; I will have to research more.

Just look at the narrow bricks in this arched roof. Gravity-defying yet perfectly logical…

The longevity of this craftsmanship, this knowledge and planning, makes a mockery of our gimcrack disposable modern buildings, unlikely to last 200 years, as our colonial ones have done, let alone 2000.

When I visit the attached museum, I am even more agog…

Versailles at Colorno

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A delightful day and dinner at the home of Claudio and Lisa, friends of Paola’s, meant I got to see Colorno.

It is famous for the Palace known as Reggia di Colorno, and although it was closed that day, their son Damiano, who speaks good English, volunteered to show me around the outside. (Photo by Reggia di Colorno)

Like most of the grand places still functioning, this Palace has been repurposed; chairs for an event that evening were being set up in between the elaborately styled formal gardens.

From a defensive castle to a palace for grand families, the fortunes of which rose and fell with the vagaries of Italian alliances, through several major renovations, it became the favourite home of Marie Louise, Napoleon’s wife. With 400 rooms!

In 1870 it was acquired by the province of Parma, and is now home to ALMA, a world-renowned Italian culinary school.

The Italian Baroque building is topped by many statues, and its grand gardens and fountains are backed by a forest, albeit a little untended.

Damiano shows me this lovely long leafy walk; I do not know what sort are the trees so intricately merged.

He also showed me this ancient tree, struck by lightning but still thriving.

Out the front, the grandeur of this ‘home’ is stately, tasteful. The building, which also houses historic library archives, where Lisa works, was damaged by the 2023 floods. She and a colleague worked frantically to save what they could as the water rose, but not enough was possible.

It is clear that the residents of the now-defunct adjoining Orphanage were not seen to be in need of such grandeur.

As always, I am drawn to interesting hardware, like this door knocker seen on the walk back.

I was lucky to have Damiano as a guide to this impressive complex, so I thank him.

Bobbio up close

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Must be about time I showed you another garbage bin; here’s Bobbio’s version, with a cigarette extinguisher and butt receptacle on the side. No chance of accidental bin fires.

I loved these wavy wooden seats, human body friendly; or perhaps hunchbacked like their bridge.

Although the streets are narrow, space is found for tubs of flowering plants. Pedestrians must listen for cars, and occupy doorways if need be.

Tiny three-wheeled utes and vans were perfect for such streets, needing little space to park, sounding like a cross between a motorbike and a wind-up car.

Doorways always drew my attention, as I constantly seek examples of ancient hardware, having once worked in architectural hardware. This unusually intricate arch had an equally intricately shaped timber door.

Above another doorway arch was this building date: over 100 years before England decided to offload its convicts on the Great South Land… and neglected to ask the owners if they minded…

Having written for The Owner Builder magazine for years, building methods fascinate me, like these deep and complex brick arches.

I have seen small square bricks used to make round pillars, but I hadn’t seen curved bricks before.

The soft pale colours of the old bricks in Bobbio add much to its gentle charm.

If you could afford it, the range of wonderful food shops in Bobbio would make a stay worthwhile alone, from small shops selling gourmet and local specialty bread and pastries, cheeses and cured meats, fruit and vegetables, wine… and truffles and truffle products.

The church interiors are as grand as anywhere, but I liked best the small chapel commemorating a local miracle that happened nearby, which is why the Madonna of Help is Bobbio’s patron.

This ceiling detail caught my eye: colomba is Itallan for ‘dove’, the universal symbol of peace, and St Colomban founded Bobbio…

Inside the church itself, we were fortunate to visit when the organ was being played … and played well. The resonances were deep, and so moving that I had trouble not being moved to tears.

On the last morning, the sunrise over Bobbio, with the high-tech antenna in the way, seemed to sum up its present state: beautiful, ancient, but a little spoiled by modernity and tourism and its needs.

Bello Bobbio

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When a town is crowned the most beautiful in Italy. as Bobbio was in 2019, expectations are high.  A friend had also said she loved it, having spent some months here. But I suspect that was prior to the accolade and the tourism boom.

Most images of Bobbio show the famous Devil’s Bridge or Hunchbacked Bridge, the Ponte Vecchio, which dips and rises across the Trebbia River. It is said that the bridge was built overnight by the Devil, after a deal with Bobbio’s founder in 615, the Irish monk San Colomban.

The first bridge was likely built by the Romans in the 1st century BC (!) as Bobbio was an important part of the Salt Way. Several floods have caused rebuilding and I could see buffers on each side of the river bank plus a large platform around the supports of the main flow.

Bobbio is indeed beautifully situated, with the hills close by, and its narrow streets wind up to the protective Castello and down to the river with many fascinating twists.

St Colomban certainly thought it was a great spot, as he founded his monastery here. It shows how interconnected the world was then.

The monastery and the many churches externally have the lovely simple lines of medieval architecture.

From the castle’s upper windows the views of the town and valley show why it is claimed that Da Vinci’s ‘Mona Lisa’ used many details from here in the background of the painting.

Even the castle’s adjacent tower is in there, in the bottom left corner, but for me the attraction of that was its self-supporting roof. I tried not to think about the room below, where criminals were thrown to die, impaled on the waiting knives.

Much of Bobbio has been restored, its pale bricks and stone walls repointed; much more is scaffolded now and in the process of restoration. 

It had the feeling of a Tidy Town, and I wondered if the council paid people to neaten and beautify, as most seemed to have done.  And of course it was teeming with tourists, in the summer holiday season. But as the next post will show, there was much to marvel at in Bobbio…

Mulini magic

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Just a short walk from the bridge to Piero is a turn to the famous Mills of Piero, the Mulini. Built of local stone in the 18th century to use the strong flow of the Giona torrent to turn the timber wheels that would turn the stone wheels to grind the local produce like wheat and chestnuts, it was the reason for small villages like Piero, to house the workers.

People would bring their grain and nuts from both sides of the slopes, when a stone bridge, now gone, connected the sides of the river. You can see here that they diverted the flow of the river to the mill wheels. It is overwhelming to see the sheer amount of stones carried, for buildings, paths and walls, and the skill of the dry stone laying.

So even before the British were invading Australia, the mills of Piero were at work.

Holding weirs were also built of stone.

I found I could not see enough of the intense green of the mossy roofs and walls and the soft light-filled green forest. I went up there three times to bathe in its magic. Sole abandoned stone huts kept appearing further up the hill; what were their stories?

The rushing of the river meant it was never silent, but one time we heard an ongoing tinkling approaching.

Crossing from two sides of the creek, a flow of small goats kept daintily picking their war past us. Most wore goat bells, most had horns, most were brown, some were cream. We counted about 50, and later we would eat the wonderful cheese Alessandro makes from their milk.

One goat stood as if on guard until the whole flock had passed, then stepped off his rock to join them in the enchanted forest beyond.

Like some of our rainforests, this is a mossed and lichened green world. Even the light through the trees is green.

So many mosses of every shape and shade of green…

We walk up beside the stream as far as our friendly guide Gigi decides is safe; while the ancient bridge is further up, the way past this first canyon in the river is too dangerous, ‘pericoloso’, for us, says Gigi, demonstrating how narrow and steep and broken the path gets. Gigi has good English so could translate what his friend Ambrogio said as he identified wild plants; often it was clear, as the Latin names are the same.

My images of this green valley and my imaginings of the lives lived here until less than my lifetime ago will stay with me and enrich my world forever.

I had loved the Heidi story as a child — still do — and now I have seen the goats, and later even a goatherd, I can see her on these meadows below the Alps. Although somehow Julie Andrews keeps intruding…