Warburton

Queen’s Birthday Monday was a good day to leave the city limits. The diluted winter sun tried its best to warm a still, cold morning.

Pictures first for those short of time/attention span. Story below.

 

 

I completed the public transport trifecta getting to Warburton, first leg, a tram to Box hill – and a lap around the awesome and exotically dated food court and market (the ‘vegetable puff’ highly recommended for time constrained consumers), then a train to Lilydale. The Warbutron buses are only once an hour, so had a bit of time to kill. Crows circled and prowled the bus bays, foraging through bins and emitting their curdling calls from the roofs of bus shelters.
I strolled up the highway, past the string of fish n chips shops and the stately Olinda Creek Hotel. I turned into the parklands and showgrounds. Corrugated pavilions standing long empty, waiting for their one time to shine in November at the annual show.
The swimming pool was closed, the water greying and neglected, a family of ducks had moved in. There was not much to see at the museum, the footy oval sits beside the station, and has a lovely line of towering trees along one flank, low slung grandstands are dotted around one end. There was a man in active wear sitting on one of the interchange benches and a huge black mass of circling crows above. The crows noisily passed and were replaced by the shrill screech of cockatoos.
I walked back to the bus stop where a scruffy haired lady of indeterminable vintage was intently pacing back and forward. She asked me the time, and hearing my response muttered about the bus being late. She strode past again lamenting the cold, and inquired as to whether a half-finished can of Cola Cola ™ on the other end of the seat from me was mine. I replied that it wasn’t and somehow on the next lap past she knocked it over.
She made a big fuss of picking it up and taking it to the bin, and skulled it in one big gulp before disposing of it. You can’t blame her, have you seen how expensive Coke is these days? I saw a 600ml bottle being sold for $5.75 the other day, and it wasn’t even at the footy, but at the super market!
Anyway, the bus arrived after about 26 more passes by my freshly caffeinated fellow commuter, and the driver was instantly enlightened by a particularly long story with the end result being my new friend needed to be told where the stop was for the caravan park. Something the driver was only too happy to do. In fact there wasn’t a single thing that the driver wasn’t too happy to do, and he knew pretty much everybody by name that got on and had a nice yarn or message for everyone too. It was really nice. He even gallantly lifted one commuters trolley full of fresh produce both on and off the bus and even had a cheeky salutation for one local who was getting the bus home without her fella “When the cat’s away, the mice will play, aye!”
The scenery too, was pretty damn decent. A few clicks out of Lilydale as if on cue as we rolled into ‘the country’ there was a kangaroo and its little joey standing there in a paddock, just standing around looking at some horses, who themselves were just standing around looking at some grass. It was very rural.
We passed the historic Sam Knott Hotel which dates back to 1860, and if you were wondering, like I just was, who Sam Knott is, then you’ll be amazed to discover that he is that beardy bloke in the old Carlton Ale posters with the catch phrase ‘I allus have wan at eleven’. Read more of this great story here
There was some more rustic scenery around the next bend, a timber farmhouse was slowly fading back into nature behind a front yard filled with clapped out vintage cars with chickens pecking around the wheels.

Millgrove is particularly well named, it’s got a saw mill, and great damp piles of lengths of timber that had at some point in the distant past, been through the mill more tree shaped, and less rectangular. There was an eccentric looking shop called Mt. Little Joe’s Music and Nursery with its hand drawn and painted signs promoting wares including guitar strings, drums, blues harps and musical accessories that I definitely would have stopped into had I been in a car instead of the 683 bus.
One potential attraction of the area was the Blue Lotus Water Garden – which quite unluckily was closed, as lotus season only runs from December to April! It sounds pretty great though, with a GIANT Amazon Lily, and 14 acres of loti to look at. All just made by a feller who got sick of fishing, and cabbages.
Other places I would have also stopped if I was driving included Glady’s Bakehouse, The Upper Yarra Museum, the great looking old Cunninghams Hotel, an Irish pub with a faded ancient Guinness sign out front, and some colourful characters within apparently and the German Clocks Cafe.
The Yarra loomed on the left and the township of Warburton soon followed. It was bustling – people, cars and colour everywhere. And history, I lobbed off the bus and landed in the Lace And Things shop, which was a passion project by local lady Valda Street. She had the old Boot Shop at Walhalla – a former gold mine town, now turned ghost town/tourist attraction – relocated to Warburton’s main street and it was now a museum of not only boots, but thimbles, and needle things, and buttons, lots and lots of buttons. As well as the shelves and shelves of 1800s ephemera, there was a recreated kitchen and a special display of Valda’s own working life as private secretary to decorated surgeon and second world war hero ‘Weary’ Dunlop. It was so good I gave $2 in the gold coin donation box.
There was an Old Tea Shop, lots of ‘rusticly quaint’ cafes, an old timey lolly and confectionary shop, rural gift and homewares, one of those mumsy clothes shops, new age stuff, an antiques and collectible store, which had a strangely strong amount of KISS merchandise in among the old tea towels, bakelite, dusty books and trinkets.
The Arts Centre looks like it’s a vital social and creative hub of the area, with posters for all manner of excellent things filling the front window and notice board. But nothing on today. I went over to the ‘high’ side of the highway, which had a visitors centre – from which I grabbed a few maps and pamphlets – which are probably still scrunched up in the bottom of my bag now. They also had a ‘habitat centre’ which had lots of taxidermed Australian critters and laminated signs with snippets of information all about the walls. They also had a gold coin donation box to use the bathrooms, I didn’t go. There were also some excellent ‘community art’ pieces decorating the steps of the bright colours, shapes and random phrases variety.
The old siding of the no longer present Warburton railway station was now sections of murals, there was also a bunch of carved wooden totem poles and a pretty terrific view from where the platform used to be over the town and across to the mountains.
Lots of lycra-clad people were undertaking the 38km Warburton to Lilydale rail trail ride on their bicycles. Not me, I was headed to the river. Back on December 31st, I as ever, over-optimistically gave myself a New Years challenge. As well as some actually achievable things, I vowed to attempt to walk the length of the Yarra River in 2016. Which is 241km – most of which is inaccessible or restricted areas due to being water catchment areas. Anyway, I made it as far as Heidelberg, and now am just visiting towns along the way where I can actually get beside the banks.
Even better I had to go past the bakery on the way, where there were pies and bikies in abundance. The Yarra is actually clear here! You can see the bottom! Amazing. The first section of the Yarra Walk takes you to a near right-angled bend and some rocky rapids. There are large strangely geometrically straight-shaped rocks poking above the rushing water, and dead trees and branches fading back into the banks. You go behind a superbly scenic footy oval, and through a strange fenced-off vacant lot that has an old rusting and graffiti tagged ‘thing’ of some unknown (to me anyway) formerly industrial type use.
Then there’s another of many ace bridges, a timber-made swing bridge that gives a nice gentle sway as you make your way across. There was a seemingly often overlooked ‘Nature Walk’ to the right on the other side, I had ventured not more than 50 of its 500 metres when I came across a particularly striking King Parrot sitting about minding its own business. Good stuff.
Back to the Yarra and the sun was streaming down over rambling gardens and towering trees. Age old sediment has created numerous islands in the stream and the water swirls and rushes through the narrows, or reflectively shimmers like frosted glass in the deeper, stiller water. It almost feels like a rain forest at some points, ferns and fungi in among the vast grey gums.

There were some parents taking their hesitant kid along the walk and getting her to pose for photos standing daftly on all manner of rocks. A family had a sprawling array of foods filling the BBQ area table, the adults sat and sank beers on camping chairs whilst the kids ran amok all around them.

The best of all the bridges is revealed after a long sweeping bend of the river. You first see a splash of orange leaves, then the white framework pokes out and reveals itself as a simple, but grand river crossing, connecting the picnic area and the tennis courts, but at a height safe enough from flooding. I continued on to the next, and last bridge, and crossed over and connected up to the rail trail. It was some nice flat walking, all paved path and cuttings. There were some alpacas, and generally excellent scenery. I walked a long while, and eventually came close to the road again, and saw a bus was soon arriving, and a minute later was headed back to Lilydale. This driver didn’t know anyone’s name though, and even told some kids to ‘get the next one’ as there wasn’t enough room in the lockers underneath for their razor scooters.
It was kind of disappointing to be driving back towards civilization after seeing such nice, natural things. But the hydroponic strawberry farm was the last gasp of rural Melbourne, before hitting the outer suburbs, then the huge crater of earth that is a lime mine and later a solitary brick chimney standing stoically in a huge vacant lot, the last remnants of a brick pit kind of curtailed the idyllic scenes of the day. And by the time the tram was clanging through the Victoria Street traffic on the city fringe I was back in my own little world checking my phone and ignoring everyone else’s presence like all the other urbanites. Had to see if the Dees beat the Pies after all. Was good while it lasted though. Happy birthday Liz.

Imprisoned – Escape from Pentridge

It was worse than being sentenced to solitary confinement.  Having to line up and be exposed to the blandest of electro-chart-pop while the hum of food truck generators sound-tracked puffer jacket patents queuing up for coffee.

It was billed as Pentridge Open day, which sounded appealing,  as the place is an imposing pile of bluestone horror that subjected a hundred and forty years worth of dire and draconian incarceration to Victoria’s worst criminals. Now it’s the property developers inflicting the crimes.  Half the buildings have been torn down, the rest being absorbed into bland apartments. There was a local action group handing out flyers at the gate, and a display suite, so you could see your potential new mix tap sink , water efficient toilet and marble benchtops in amidst the slightly sinister, but historical surrounds of an old prison laundry.

There was inexplicably a petting zoo next to B Division; lots of excitable toddlers fenced in doing time with the goats and rabbits.

In amidst the local families,  there were a few hard looking blokes curious for a gander. One guy with a creased, chiselled face and a stare of steel poised and glared hard at the line and moved on. I saw him walk past twenty minutes later with a loop of razor wire he’d obtained from somewhere.  I don’t think anyone was going to stop him.

The tour itself, after an hour or so of lining up subject to the blaring music tastes of the bearded bakers,  was brief – this wing is the original bit, the other wings were added later, there’s a chapel upstairs and underground cells are on the left. Then self guided. Which was fine by me! There were three levels of barred barbarity to explore, mums were taking photos of their kids in the cells making hollow threats of this is where they’d end up if they don’t behave!  Ha. Well it was a bit funnier when one of the helpers warned don’t close the doors some of them we can’t open again.

Some of the scrawled graffiti and notes on the wall were pretty potent and made you realise there was an actual living person in these crumbling dark concrete cells, and as recently as 1997.

 

History interlude:

HMS Pentridge was first built in December 1850, crime was up in Melbourne due to the gold rush and the gaol in town was getting full. Prisoners labours were utilised breaking up bluestone rocks to pave Sydney Road. The prison was expanded from crude huts to large structures based on the infamous Pentoville Prison in England, with new theories on prisoner isolation seeing large wings with large separate individual cells. The remains of the panopticon designed exercise yard were unearthed during site clearing for the proposed development. Some famous an infamous tenants of the goal include Ronald Ryan (no relation) the last person hung in Australia, early gangster Squizzy Taylor, Mark ‘Chopper’ Read – the ghost of whom is apparently still haunting his old cell – yelling to a law week ghost tour in 2014 – “Get the F-ck Out!”. The grave of Ned Kelly is also within the grounds of the prison. How’s this for one a story of how it was discovered:

“However, Ned Kelly’s grave along with 33 others was located on the left hand side of D division. This grave was found after a construction worker on the site was killed on the exact same spot as the mass grave. Heavy machinery which fell on top of the deceased worker was dug out and the remains were found. Ironically, the surname of the deceased worker was Kelly. There is now an apartment block being built over the grave site. F Division is being renovated into office blocks and in the basement of F Division remains of a 10 year old boy were located in a cell, forgotten for over a 100 years. Also bags of human bones were located in F division. No-one knows the identity of these remains and when or how they perished.” If you thought YouTube comments section could get out of hand, check out the too and fro from a couple of ex-inmates on here

 

 

 

Echuca

Any port in a storm
Not only have the wheels been falling off V Line trains, but they’ve also not been triggering the boom gates at level crossings, so they’ve given the brave and foolhardy travelers of Victoria free services for a week. Travel at your own risk. I’m not really sure why I chose Echuca, I figured it’s on the river, has a bit of history and it would be near three hours of countryside rolling past the window to get there. And Australia Day jingoistic celebrations are not really my go. I only just made the train with two minutes to spare, it was pretty much full. Everybody loves a bargain!
I had a world champion throat expectorator behind me and a bunch of old dearies in front discussing their health foibles “She’s alright when the sun’s out, otherwise she’s as blind as me”.

The 16 metre gold statue of Heavenly Queen on the banks of the Maribyrnong and its accordant temple never fail to astound. You go past the bold graffitied fence that proclaims “West Side is the Best Side” and think they may have something as you see a flock of white cockatoos pecking about a vacant lot in front of an impressively imposing mosque.

The suburbs give out to dry, rock strewn fields dotted with power lines. Some goats are moseying about a barren field with a long-empty dam wedged between the train line and the highway. A cactus farm is strange neighbourly next to a field of alpacas.
The first buildings in twenty minutes are on the industrial outskirts of Sunbury, where new outpost suburbs are springing up clinging tightly to the base of a hill. Riddell’s Creek has lines of pines and two-toned bulls.

Gisbourne is a place I have heard advertised on low brow sports radio station SEN. The next boom suburb with the advantages of rural life, but still a close enough commute to the city. Raw land is being filled with off the rack houses. There’s two footy fields already, one has a wonky post leaning in as if it’s eavesdropping on a conversation. Bring on the sprawl, sports fans.
The trees get denser as we passed through Macedon, all towering grey gums, pines and even a billabong. Woodend was well named, the foliage gives way to streets lined with old timber houses, most with clapped out cars slowly rusting away out front. Then there’s the open fields of sheep stations (the ones you don’t play for) dotted with rolled up hay bales.

The train doesn’t stop at Elphinstone anymore. The station and its yards have seemingly been reclaimed by a master ‘tinkerer’. There’s a busted up old pick up truck, a corroding caravan and a trailer among the works in progress parked beside the rail line, and a glimpse of a strange sculpture in a shed – some kind of fantasy humanoid crafted from concrete and car parts. A great old pub lay mostly dormant across the road, a sun-bleached VB logo barely visible on the side. The thirsts would be very hard earned around here.
Coming in to Castlemaine the train passes through amazing seams of multi-coloured rock exposed from the rail cutting. A correctional facility loomed ominously on the hill on the outskirts of town, but the first impressions of the town itself are much more inviting. An emerald green footy oval, the striking timber Victorian era station building and old stone buildings cresting the hill.
Kangaroo Flat provides an opportunity to ponder Australia’s national identify. I’m sure the place was once a beautiful haven for our marsupial emblem, and the local Jaara Jaara people. But now the ‘flat’ has been leveled and a massive shopping centre stands there instead, surrounded by a suburb of people in 4 Wheel Drives that want to be close to the shops. What we’ve done and where we are heading is nothing to be proud of.
‘The Spires of Bendigo’ would probably be a pretty good title/subject for a folk song. The numerous pointed spires and steeples that dot the city reflecting a more god-fearing times.
A gang of youths waved and otherwise gestured to the train from the railside BMX track at Epsom. Piles of disassembled sheds and farm buildings lined the paddocks of Elmore with lonely wind mills and occasional clusters of sheep and cattle crowding under the shade of gnarled old trees.

Rochester looked intriguing, grand old hotels and a stately awning lined high street focused towards a noble town hall. The grass here was a bit greener, on account of the river, though it soon gave way to gravel roads and dry grass. As the voice over announced that we would soon be arriving in Echuca a large corrugated fence seemed to mark the border, the paddocks stopped and suburbia started.

The town itself starts off a bit slow around the railway station. You’ve got to go past a big open gravel patch and the Cheap As Chips warehouse (sadly closed) before you get to anything worth looking at. There’s a Woollies and a Coles in close competition and a big ole corner pub that looks like it’s been imported down from North Queensland, XXXX sign and all. High street has a strange mix of shops open for a public holiday, want some durable and inexpensive women’s fashion – you’re in luck! Katie’s is open for business, need a new pair of Asics gels and a sweatband, Riverside Sports has got your back! There was even a sanity open, which I went into for nostalgic reasons, but if there’s any reflection on the current currency of CDs, David Bowie’s chart topping last album Black Star already had a 2 for $20 SALE sticker on it less than two week’s after its release. There were only two small walls of music, the main categories ‘Dance Music Compilations ‘ and ‘Country Music Compilations’ which took up half a wall each, the rest of the store DVD box sets. The vinyl revival has yet to hit the Murray.
I popped in to the visitors centre where the lady was almost disappointed that I only had the afternoon there. She suggested a quick paddlesteamer trip and then the Holden museum right across the road from the wharf would see me through; and gave me a rather thoroughly highlighted, but short trail to follow on my map.
The Murray River is super impressive when you get your first glimpse of it. It’s impressive brown girth framed with drooping ghost gums. I wandered over the bridge towards Moama sticking a foot in New South Wales – it still looked pretty much the same, so headed back into Victoria. There was a most alluring parkland, a time-old billabong formed by the changing water courses, shrill galahs squawked about overhead, swans and ducks got about a bit more gracefully on the water’s surface.
The old port is striking indeed, all timber frame and bobbing boats, looking in it’s original gold rush era condition. You can imagine it being a flurry of activity and churned water back then, but it’s all rather still today. The whole town’s a bit sleepy really. I do the High Street block, there’s some great musty bookshops filled with overflowing shelves of old knowledge getting more obsolete by the day, whole great swathes of Mills & Boon and the biography of seemingly any semi-literate footballer/cricketer that ever played.
You’d better believe there were some great bakeries though. Medal-winning pie boasting ones. By the end of the day I’d managed a Bronze medal winner, a Silver worthy salad roll and also a Beesting from the always excellent Beechworth Bakery (three down, three to go to get the VIP Membership by visiting all six!).

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I baulked at going in to the Holden Museum, old cars are better seen on the road or in the suburbs, not in an old community centre, but I did a lap of the gift shop and perused the souvenirs that has every hard-drinkin, hard-driving, hard-rockin man’s needs covered.
I did some of the river walk, past the footy oval and holiday park, which gave me some fond bygone summer memories of times spent with Nana & Pa sleeping in the annex of their old caravan after staying up watching day night cricket back when 240 was a competitive score. Dean Jones would always get stumped charging the wicket and it was always seemingly left for a hero of villain last over featuring Michael Bevan. The big wire fence surrounding the perimeter seemed at odds with the usual free wandering packs of kids and the thong-worn routes between the nearest swimming spots and ablution blocks.

The ‘Houseboat District’ boasted tenants such as ‘Cheers’, ‘Overdraft’ and ‘Froth and Bubbles’ on the party side of the river (VIC), and the more esteemed ‘Indulgence’ and ‘Decadence’ on the apparently more luxurious NSW’s banks of the Murray. A fair few were tenanted, the barbies were still smouldering with the odd blackened snag, groups lazing about on the decking under Oz flag bunting a fair few drinks in. A family on jet skis bust open the serenity. A mostly empty paddlesteamer chugged past a handful of people mostly ignoring the Captain’s narration. Echuca was almost Australia’s capital at one point. The weather would be much nicer than Canberra’s anyway.

The ‘Port of Echuca’ as it’s officially known is a tourist district designed to extract money from travelers by plying old-timey wares and attractions in mostly-unscathed era-authentic buildings. There’s a stoic old wood turner, a sawmill, steam display, an old fudge shop and penny arcade, a ‘Discovery Centre’, a kid-scaring magician, the Steampacket Inn historic pub and lots of garish giftware and art.
I stopped in at the Shamrock for a well deserved beer. They boasted wading pools, the hottest 100 countdown, a beer garden BBQ and backyard cricket. Most people just sat in the shade or under the mist fans, one err, ‘big boned’ chap plopped down unceremoniously in one of the wading pools, his mate, who was obviously quite the salad dodger himself yelled out “Somebody call Greenpeace!”. Cheap laughs are good laughs.

I didn’t like any of the songs I heard on the part of the countdown I heard. The over-excited announced proclaimed the average BPM of songs for this year was 20% up on previous years, maybe that’s why?

I had time to squeeze in the aforementioned Beesting at the river-side Beechworth bakery before strolling through town and awaiting the coach in the shadows of the station.
The bus ride home was a great golden-hour illuminated sojourn back through the dry, dusty fields and nowhere towns to the bright lights and big city of Melbourne. It can be best summed up with a Gillian Welch quote: “I’ve never been bored in a car. In every street sign there is poetry and history and all these beautiful images.”

On the road: Olinda

A sunny spring Sunday was a perfect time to get the Corolla rolling. One of the features of Melbourne’s roadways is long, straight roads, so much so, only four turns were needed the entire way to our first stop at Belgrave – and two of those were just getting out of our street! The best thing about these long, and not winding, roads is that suburbs just loom and pass as a strip of shops. Pubs and hip cafes signal South Yarra, jewellery, galleries, home furnishing, and various human body perfecting services at Toorak, fancry clothes draperies and financial institutions for the Camberwell off before finally a bit of suburban dining exotica in Burwood – dumplings! oh my! A Red Rooster the first sign of the outskirts, then the tram line ended, and a monolithic Westfield meant we were really in the sticks. One bit even looked like we’d inadvertently driven to Canberra, a crane on the horizon doing a decent job of impersonating parliament house at the end of a procession like hill and gunbarrel straight stretch of road. Leafiness encroached beside the lanes, and we were soon driving through a really nice part of the world.

Belgrave announced itself with a shiny silvered lettered cinema and the sound of tribal drumming. We’d have no trouble at all it seems finding the markets. Landed the perfect park on the main road then wandered the seemingly many delights in this quaint two-curve roadside strip of a town. A classic old pub, a ripping op-shop, from which I will probably regret not buying an awesome pictorial history of airline stewardesses book, and some quite well-stocked vintage type places in amidst the usual mumsy homewares stores and cheap shops. A few Puffing Billy themed tourist lairs, a nicely dusty and craggy bookstore, a quirky music venue/lounge sort of place, and the obligatory medal winning pie stocking country bakery all getting our thumbs up. The market itself was a good n wholesome mix of local growers, crafts, creative types and cute kids – one who was selling fur trees to be able to afford “a party for me and four friends, and it’s note even my birthday”. The Melways suburb badges earnt our custom, and rhubarbs and ridiculously multi-seeded bagels made for our morning snack. Then it was one last promenade down town and off on the Monbulk road., being passed the other way by a parade of shining-chromed and souped up cars, which six kilometres and a couple of helpful banners later we learnt were part of the classic car show on Monbulk’s main drag that day!

We had a quick but passive window-viewed sticky beak then made it through a most gloriously winding and tall-timber-treed forest to the National Rododendron Garden. I probably wont be using or writing that word ever gain, but they are a nice flower, which can tend to droop and look wilted, even if well watered, but instead of ill-health, is an inbuilt trick originially designed to release snow from its leaves/petals in its more colder natural climates.

The gardens are pretty amazing, tracks, paths and diversions shoot forth all directions, roads low and high flanked by all manner of trees, and the imposing blue-tinged Dandenong Ranges loom stoically in the background of most vistas. The Cherry Blossoms were being shy, and its annual celebration of all things Japanese had thusly been cancelled, but they were still a terrific sight with brightly sprouted daffodils at their feet. After a long and colour-drenched wander we drove down to Olinda town itself for some gold medal winning pies, some candy store treats and fancy local craft beer and lots of girly stationery/cards/cutesy things, well Amy mostly for the latter, as I pondered that the town really needed a pub for all the blokes to go while their better halves looked thru hokey homewares. Drove home into a sparkling sunset and a Rod  Stewart super special. Terrific. ****1/2

Down the Lanes

Our first full day in Melbourne had us brandishing the shopping bags onwards for the short stroll to the Queen Victoria Markets where we imagined we would stock our empty shelves with fresh produce for a pittance. Our research was found wanting however, as the markets are closed each and every Wednesday… and Monday FYI. So we took our empty bags into town and were almost instantly rewarded with a free talk at Michael’s camera house, on what makes a photo a masterpiece due to start imminently. There were some really interesting examples where they showed the shots immediately before and after on the roll of what are widely considered ‘classic’ images. It is such a fine line between an image becoming iconic and on tea towels, and just a good image. We then marvelled at the shuttered wonder contained in the camera museum and vowed to wallpaper our next house with one of my photos – only $69 per square metre!

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We wound our way to Fed Square, after a brief marvel at the gothicly imposing Manchester Unity building, and saw Angelica Mesiti: The Calling at ACMI. An amazing video work documenting a time-lost whistling language still used in some small pockets of the world. Headed across for the Sue Ford retrospective at the NGV, we’re members there don’t you know, thanks to the kindness of Amy’s former co-workers.

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Braving the Collingwood badlands past Smith Street we eventually made our way to a friend’s gallery opening and met a whole swathe of super nice people, both interested and interesting and were taken to a superb local pub for a few pints of the brilliant Temple Bicycle Beer – brewed a mere few blocks away, A Trippy Taco for tea and a short walk home – bravo Melbourne, you’re pretty tops.