A weekend in the Goldfields. What a prospect!

See what I did there, Jarrod? I hope you aren’t expecting more gold puns though. I mean, I would hate to have dangled a big fat carat in front of you… Now. You’d have to agree, when most people think Victorian Goldfields, they think Ballarat–thanks to the tourism juggernaut slash propaganda machine that is Sovereign Hill. And Sovereign Hill is pretty great. You can pan for gold, dress up in period clothing for sepia toned photographs, buy jars and jars of those boiled raspberry lollies that tear the interior of your mouth to ribbons, AND get your Grown Men Dressed As 1850’s Troopers fix (Hey, we all have our thing, I don’t judge you 50 Shades ladies. Actually, that’s not true at all. I am judging you. Judging you hard…).

But what about the other Goldfields towns?

“WHAT other Goldfields towns?” you bleat. Well, how about Clunes and Talbot, for starters. That’s where I’m headed for the weekend, with friend and general history buff Morven.

Clunes is where Victoria had it’s first registered gold strike (1851) and publication of the discovery triggered the whole Victorian gold rush. It’s a gorgeous little Colonial town, with beautifully preserved buildings and streets still wide enough to turn a horse and wagon.  They filmed a scene from Mad Max in Clunes (!!) and tbh I’m quite hopeful they might return to film the 5th instalment in the franchise. “Max returns, and goes on an Antiquing Rampage!”

These photos may give the impression Clunes is a veritable ghost town. I can reassure you it isn’t. I had to patiently wait FIVE minutes for local youths on scooters to clear the frame for my shot.

Point your camera in any direction: Something old. A stunning facade. A gas lamp. Someone using an iPHone 4 non-ironically. It’s the kind of place that makes you murmur sage phrases like “steeped in history.” We pause outside the Town Hall (closed for foundation work) and pause to reflect on the historic struggles that were fought here. This would have been where the local youths had to passionately petition City Council for their right to dance. My knowledge of small town life is gleaned almost exclusively from repeated viewing of 80’s classic Footloose.

The font lover in me appreciates the detail on the old bank windows:

And we adore the original signage on the opposite side of the street. Alf’s Boot Palace now serves as a local hairdressers–

Somewhat confusingly, right next door to the old hairdressers, which is now a news agency….

Clunes has a plethora of antique and vintage stores and second hand book shops, which may not be everyone’s jam, but for Morven and I, it’s a veritable nirvana.

We splash out on some books and vintage prints but I warn you, readers,  it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. Morven still harbours regrets over a shortbread stamp she didn’t purchase, and I abandoned– yes, ABANDONED an Art Deco vase that I cannot even bring myself to post a picture of, because the non-buyers remorse gives me actual stomach cramps.

We find a store that has shelves of pianola rolls and I’m immediately transported back to my nan’s lounge room where we’d lock a roll into the music sheet holder and pedal our feet.. Wa-la! Transformed into virtual virtuosos… Suddenly very hungry for scones with jam and cream as pianola and promise of sconnery always went hand in hand.

Note, vases below are not the vase I left behind. That baby is still too raw. But aren’t they pretty?!

After a pub dinner at The National, we make the drive to nearby Talbot hoping to hit the observatory there for some stargazing. Alas, the clouds roll in and the observatory is closed that night, but we still have a wee browse around. Talbot is smaller than Clunes but still has some exquisite details from back in the day.

An antique store owner in Clunes recommends that if we are hitting Talbot, we absolutely must visit the old train station. Selling points: beautifully restored, and the caretaker there has set up a a second hand store, and a nursery where he sells succulents. She speaks the truth. It is so incredibly sweet!

It’s almost 8:30pm when we arrive but everything seems open, which we find odd… and we can find no sign of anybody as we wander through the various rooms teeming with second hand goods and train station paraphernalia in the old station building.

We’re briefly anxious that we are going to discover a body. (In addition to Footloose, my knowledge of small town life is also gleaned from episodes of Midsommer Murders so I know that whilst quaint and pretty, small towns almost always harbour a sinister underbelly)

Momentarily distracted by this adorable sign–

It turns out the station caretaker is alive and well, he appears and assures us we can browse at our leisure. Back to it then! A wall of old train tickets for sale. $1 each. Anyone??? Anyone???

I’ve picked up a second hand book about animals that aren’t traditionally adorable called ‘Mother Nature’s Unlovables’ so when I spot these tickets, I’ve got to admit, it feels a little pointed.

We finalise our purchases (Morven: an entire stoneware tea set and six books for $25, me: the unlovables book and four little plants for $20) and then retreat to the hotel room, where we gorge on cake purchased that afternoon and collapse into bed. Day 2, we have two things on the agenda. The Tuki Trout Farm in nearby Smeaton, and THE LEE MEDLYN HOME OF BOTTLES.

The Bottle Museum is on the same street as our hotel and we both become obsessed with the idea of visiting. Home to 6000 bottles! Really, why would you go to Clunes and not see it? Is it going to be like something from Hoarders, where we could be buried alive by falling bottles? I hope not. I have a pathological fear of shards. We are at the museum at 11am sharp: opening hour and first through the door when they open up.

The lovely lady on the door asks us as we go in if we’re “just here for a look around, or are you interested in the history of bottles?” Without thinking I answer that we’re just here for a look and she looks ever so slightly crestfallen and leaves us to it. We feel the brutal sting of breaking a bottle lover’s heart.

I’m first to admit, we did kind of come to the HOB almost a little tongue in cheek about the visit, ready to take the piss but it’s actually strangely fascinating! It’s nothing like an episode of Hoarders, they’re really well sorted and displayed and there’s quite a lot of interesting information.

I fall under a sort of bottle spell, unable to stop taking photos of everything…(Seriously, what’s here is only about 5% of the photos I took)

Did you know, for example, that in the 1870’s, sherries sold in and around most country centres were actually comprised of methylated spirits, furniture polish and a bit of orange juice?

Or that there used to be a cocktail sold around Melbourne suburbs in the late 1800’s called Fitzroy Nightmares, made from methylated spirits, ginger beer, sherry, orange juice, boot polish and pepper?? Give it 18 months and they’ll be rebranding them and selling them in mason jars.

There are old milk bottles. *Rabid reminiscing from anyone  over 50 guaranteed:

and pretty coloured bottles

and I genuinely can’t stop myself from papping all these bottles WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

I think we all know though, that trout waits for no woman, so eventually we must tear ourselves away from Le bottiglie and head to Smeaton for some fishing! En route we go through some truly beautiful scenery and like the shameless city girls we are, we stop to take photos of a barn like structure in a field.

Tuki Trout Farm in Smeaton, costs $10 general admission plus $6 rod hire if you don’t have your own gear. You then pay $16.50 per kg for the fish you catch and they clean and package them for you. We’re handed our rods and bait our hooks with corn, and head out to the trout ponds. We opt for the one with the prettiest vista, as opposed to the one the owner tells is is VERY well stocked.

Lines cast, I’m struck with the realisation that I’m actually really worried about possibly getting a bite. I feel as though anything tugging on my line is going to startle me so much that I’m a 90% chance to fall into the water from sheer shock. So I sit down for stability.

I get a few nibbles but when I pull the rod out, the canny trout have successfully taken the bait off the line without getting hooked. I’m equal amounts frustrated and impressed with their evolutionary resolve. Give it a few months and they’ll no doubt be luring US into the water somehow. I move around, try a different pond, and after about an hour I’m jack of it. What is it they say about fishing being meditative and teaching you patience? F&%k that. I head off to take some photos and leave Morven to it.

Now WHO would have thought it, but ambling around with your camera does not in fact, lure the fish to leap out of the water to be captured in Instagram glory, so I catch nothing, but Morven scores herself a bit fat trout!

I’m meanwhile reminded that in the event of any apocalypse, I’m going to be fairly useless fending for myself and catching my own food, and I’d best hope that there is a post apocalypse gift shop where you can purchase smoked trout….

Anyway, we had a fabulous weekend in Clunes and Talbot–we didn’t get to the observatory as planned, but *spoiler alert! I did get there this week so there’s a future blog coming on that. Meanwhile though, Jarrod, as always, I’ll toss it over to you! Clunes/Talbot/Trout Fishing, Jarrod, would you go there??