Blog Archives

On the Quest for Gold

5/27/2018

“It changes you,” says Marty Pereira. “It changes your eyes when you find gold.”

Having prospected as a past time for many years, Marty was often asked to teach prospecting skills. Now he operates a self-contained ecological, transportable camp set up among the tall, bronze-trunked gimlet trees on his lease in the Great Western Woodlands. The directions are classic ‘bush directions’ involving gateways at unnamed waypoints and following tracks defined by the most recent tyre marks rather than wide avenues. Nevertheless, we twist and turn our way through the magnificent, glowing trees and arrive at an almost deserted camp: a number of tents, a couple of portable gazebos, a huge caravan, campfire and a colourful bus displaying the name of Marty’s Golden Nugget Tour company.

Marty is the only one there. He shows us our tents, in which each has a stretcher and decent mattress. We are supplied, like all his guests, with a brand new sleeping bag to keep. A small torch and an external lantern are there for our use, too.

Marty chucks some leaves on the fire in the ‘Bull Pit’ (named “because so much bull is talked there” he says) and soon the flames are crackling away on some logs.

As the evening creeps in and the bronzed trunks glitter in the last rays of the day, Marty’s guests drift into camp, unsaddling their metal detectors, slotting the batteries into the huge charging bank Marty has set up in the back of his caravan. Some walk in, some chug in in their utes or 4WD. Guests are fed and accommodated for the duration of their stay at Marty’s camp. They can prospect where they like on the lease and sometimes wander, legally, further afield with Marty guiding them. Guests get to keep whatever gold they find. Our new companions consist of three farmer friends from the Great Southern, a New South Welshman and a couple from Mandurah.

Two camp ovens are swung into action: one is filled with beef and vegetables, the other has a nonchalant mix of flour, yeast and water mixed and kneaded (plus another secret ingredient) in it. Both ovens end up on the embers of the fire.

As the darkness gathers, more cars turn up. Marty’s camp has become the site for quite the corroboree: there’s a couple who host a gold prospecting TV programme, a neighbouring leaseholder, another New South Welshman who comes to the Goldfields every winter for some prospecting. He shows me a nugget he found “Oh.. about one and a half kilometres that way.” A vague wave of the hand is the best direction I’m going to get. With gold prospecting, I soon learn, it was ever thus…

All the talk under the gibbous moon is of gold, tales of gold, prospectors, the bad things that can happen if you stray off lease. The single, repetitive mantra is “Dig every target”. The TV hosts reckon you should dig 150 targets each day for reasonable chance of success. The gold can come in tiny flakes or large nuggets. Previous treasures are displayed: ‘good looking’ nuggets which have been eroded by slow travel through the soil can be worth three times there weight if suitable for jewellery.
All the time Marty is tending to the ovens, occasionally shovelling embers around the bases or onto the lids to cook the contents just right.

The damper and beef stew are served - and I’ve got to tell you, it was very, very good: soft bread, meat which fell off the bones and all with a subtle smoky flavour perfectly matched to the setting.
Several of his guests attest to the high standard of Marty’s campfire cooking skills, remarking on the delight of a Peri Peri chicken he had concocted previously.

Cars drift away into the night, numbers dwindle: it will be an early start the next day.

“The rule is first one up gets the fire going again” is Marty’s good night greeting. “It’ll be cold in the morning.”

He is, of course, absolutely right. There’s a distinct chill which urgent cups of tea and coffee alleviate in front of the reinvigorated flames.

While the other guests saddle up and drive out for another day of optimism, Marty arms us beginners with his high-end metal detectors, shows us how to set them up, tune them in and swing them from the hips, keeping the flat disc close and level to the ground. How to sift and eliminate targets which are not gold, how to zero in on the elusive flecks. We carry small picks with magnets in the butt of the handle to pick up and discard the huge amount of iron and metal that has been dispersed over the ground. Gold, being non-magnetic will be left behind by the magnet to trigger again the detector’s demanding shriek…

Tiny fragments of tin, dustings of iron filings, much scratching and scraping, sweeping of magnet and then, then the time the detector keeps yelling after the magnet has done its work. It’s in a shoe-box sized heap of dirt I’ve scraped up, whatever it is. Marty directs the slow elimination process: handfuls of dirt are waved over the detector and cast aside if there is no screeching from the machine.

It squawks on one of my handfuls. I divide and divide again until the detector’s squealing is sparked by a small heap of crumbling dirt and powder which would barely fill half an egg cup.

I can see how prospecting ensnares you: you’ve whittled down the possibilities, chased down this last fragment of something, something which yet may not be gold. Now it’s down to the gentle brush of a finger sifting aside the red powder dirt. And there it is. A tiny nugget, undoubtedly gold in colour, about the size of a quarter of my fingernail.

I have found gold.

I’m off into town.

See you Marty, Bye…. I’ll shut the gate as I leave.

0 Comments

All Well in the Borough

5/20/2018

0 Comments

Well, this was unexpected.

I’ve picked my way through narrow, darkened streets wondering at several centuries' worth of dirty dealings definitely done there, only to emerge at a bright, bustling food market. I’m sipping from a disposable cup (ominously named ‘Snakecatcher’s Scrumpy’) of hot, spicy cider - because someone had to try it out - and bought a more traditional pie. Now I’m boggling my poor brain as I work my way along a curved, cobbled path between brightly lit stalls selling, for the most part, unusual food.

Borough Markets lies on the south side of the River Thames opposite the City of London. I’ve heard of it many times and expected, I suppose, a farmers' market of sorts. But it isn’t. The atmosphere for starters: The Markets are undercover but airy, with bright stalls and an air of quality, both of produce and display.
The names of the stalls mix the innovative and the exotic: Chocolicious, Ethiopian Flavours, Balkan Bites, Pate Moi, Spice Mountain, and Nana Fanny’s (OK, so that last one may not qualify as exotic…). The Pieminister administered unto me a “Matador” (a beef steak pie with chorizo and olives) and New Forest Cider tempted me beyond a reasonable man’s endurance by placing at its bar a steaming urn, its lid open, cosy, appley, spicy smells of that hot cider luring me, luring me…

To be honest, I could have meandered between the stalls filling up on all the samples that are handed out: cheeses, chocolates, nuts, cups of exotic-sounding teas. I was there for an hour or so and felt I had not even scratched the surface of what was on offer over the large area covered by the markets. It’s wonderfully incongruous, I feel, to its surrounds: the names of the pubs and cafes selling porter and oysters bordering the markets are of a style straight from the 17th century. And that’s not surprising for this area of London has a history; a heck of a lot of it - and I’ve just enjoyed a fascinating walk through it.

My journey to the Market had started on a rather more sober note when, emerging from the Underground at St Paul’s Cathedral, I walked around imposing colonnades, dodged the gargoyles’ stares and made my way to the Millennium Bridge.

This pedestrian bridge across the Thames affords some of the best views of the City of London. It did not have an auspicious start to its life when, in 2000, it was closed after a couple of hours on its opening day because it wobbled. Badly. It was reopened two years later after being strengthened.
The morning I crossed it there was not a whiff of a wobble. Instead a bright day with low clouds allowed me a view of the 95 storey Shard building, spearing into the sky through clouds shifting around its middle floors. Behind me , to the North, was a clear view to St Paul’s and the north bank of the Thames with the ancient “Square Mile” gathered behind it.

A head of me, lie Shakespeare's Globe, the Tate Modern and the Bankside Gallery.
Just how much history, how many places to visit, can be placed in such a short walk?

But wait! There’s more… quite a lot more, actually

Walking steadily east from the bridge, past The Globe Theatre, I enter the sort of place associated with the seedier part of Oliver Twist’s tale. Old London.Tall buildings, once warehouses, some now offices, flank narrow, dark streets. Footsteps ring on cobbles. That and a murmur of voices is what I’m aware of: no cars, no music. It must have been very much like this in Dickens’ time, bar some yelling and clanking, I suppose. I pass the “Clink Prison” - hence the English slang name for a prison - where you are invited to come in and torture a friend. Mmm. Very tempting…

And just as I’m thinking I’d better be mindful of pickpockets, thieves and urchins as well as friends, I encounter something different again. Something that reveals that area was not always so industrial.

Redevelopment in the 1980s exposed Winchester Palace. The gable end of the massive Great Hall, whose length once ran alongside the river, towers up on green-grey, weathered stone blocks in full view for passers by. Built in 1242 for the Kings brother, The Bishop of Winchester, that Hall witnessed royal feasts and wedding banquets until, in the 17th century, it was converted to warehouses and tenements before falling into disrepair.

Moored in its own quay 50 metres from the Palace is another significant item of British history: The Golden Hind. It’s a full size, historically accurate replica of the original ship, of course. But looking at the sleek lines, its towering masts, the bright, intricate decoration, it’s still impressive that, in the late 1500s, a handmade craft of that size circumnavigated the globe.

I’m still pondering that significance as I turn off the street into an insignificant entry to an undercover area, just past the Food Museum. And step into the sounds and smells of welcome at Borough Market.

There cannot be many short journeys that capture such history, modernity, adventure, royalty, poverty, art and architecture in so little time - well under half an hour if you don’t pause too long anywhere.

And did I mention hot spicey cider?

Don’t over do that cider: you may still need to navigate those dark ancient alleyways to get home….

0 Comments

Siberia

5/13/2018

0 Comments

Along the goldfields’ roads leading to Siberia, Western Australia, the sparse area once a townsite spawned by a fruitless goldrush, the muted greens of the scrub are coloured sporadically by patches of ruby dock, a small red plant brought to Australia by cameleers as feed for their camels or to pad the pack saddles. The exotic plant grows in patches, I am told, which indicate where cameleers paused, the seed either leaking from the camel bags or spilled as it was fed to camels. Another plant with a tale to tell has been growing in Siberia for more than 115 years, although to look at it you might not think it is that old - and that’s a story in itself, too.

Once you find Siberia*, you will find a solitary bougainvillea, out of place amidst the scrub and scrap of the former townsite. Nearby is a small pit in the ground with some rusty tin which may have once lined it. At the base of the bush is an assortment of vessels: tins, cans, 20 litre water containers.

The pit is all that remains of the Reward Hotel, one of two hotels built in the wake of the fatal goldrush of October 1898. The Reward was owned by James and Mabel Kirkham, whose fourth child, a boy, was stillborn or died soon after birth. His little body was buried in the garden of the hotel and the bougainvillea planted to mark his grave. The Kirkhams left Siberia for South Australia in about 1919 taking their hotel with them, but many years later Mabel returned to Siberia and the bougainvillea. She is reported to have said, while standing by the purple bush: “That bougainvillea will never die - my heart is buried under it.”

Mabel died in 1965.

Fifty years later the bougainvillea was not doing so well. All that now marked the grave, thanks to a severe drought, was a bunch of dry sticks poking out of he ground. Local passers-by started to water the twigs until eventually a green shoot appeared. The bush is not doing so badly now, standing at 2 metres tall, its similar diameter supported by an arch. A tradition has now developed: visitors are asked to pour a few drops of water from the containers left there onto the bush to help keep it going. A small history and visitors’ book is there for well-wishers to sign before heading on their way.

Mabel Kirkham would surely be pleased with that.

*Siberia is best found by following the Golden Quest Trail from Ora Banda. Full details are given in the Golden Quest Guide Book or app.

0 Comments

CoolGardie

5/6/2018

0 Comments

There are three reasons to stop at the Coolgardie Visitor Centre: first, the Centre is a prime source of up to date information on the condition of the roads on the Golden Quest Trail. I am setting off on the Trail the next day because Coolgardie is a perfect starting point.
   The second reason: there is an intriguing pharmacy museum, the beautiful, internationally renowned Waghorn bottle collection plus an intriguing display about the rescue of trapped miner Modesto Varischetti as well as artefacts and photographs from the town’s heyday.
   The third reason to stop: you may, if you are lucky, meet Vic Dale. He was there in the foyer of the magnificent building when I walked in and, it turned out, knows everything there is to know about Coolgardie in the most intricate detail.

   I spent the afternoon with him. Had I not I would never have discovered the school - still teaching Coolgardie kids - built by the Bunning brothers in 1894. And yes: there’s a certain popular WA-based hardware store named after them.
Vic told me tales of characters of the day, went into considerable detail about the politics of Coolgardie’s heyday, when the clamour from the Goldfields, heavily populated by native eastern-staters, threatened to form its own separate colony. A reluctant State premier was forced to call a referendum on Federation: the Goldfields vote ensured WA joined the rest of the States.

I learned about Coolgardie’s reign as capital of the would-be colony, Aurelia, and its decline once Kalgoorlie-Boulder’s Golden Mile proved to be so rich and enduring. Many of Coolgardie’s buildings succumbed to a fine Goldfields’ tradition they were recycled and moved: Merredin’s majestic Cummings Theatre and the Tavern at Westonia were both originally located in Coolgardie in its glory days.
The school, railway station, old hospital , morgue, and a few teetering shacks from that time are dotted around the town. They are all worth a visit, if only to admire the style of the solid buildings and fortitude of those early residents. The sights and sites are best located with help from the Golden Quest Trail Guidebook, App or Visitor Centre, itself located in one of the magnificent buildings peppering the main street.

Vic guided me to the still waters of the incongruous Coola Carbi gnamma hole - from which Coolgardie took its name - and recounted how it was enlarged, courtesy of explosives, to retain more water for the burgeoning township, named at that spot by the first warden Finnerty.

Warden Finnerty - one of Western Australia’s richer characters - was ordered from Southern Cross where he was Warden of the Yilgarn Goldfield, to live in Coolgardie. His Bunning-built house, originally the administrative seat of the Goldfields, commands a sweeping view from the hill above the gnamma hole. It is now a National trust property, open to the public for a nominal admission charge. Historic and ghost tours are also offered, admission otherwise is self-guided. Do consider a guided tour in order to hear details about the redoubtable Finnerty: as magistrate and administrator of the region he was a large figure, highly regarded for his determination and practical approach to the complications of leases, gold, not averse to administering swift justice to those found behaving badly in the town’s streets.

A small distance out of town toward Perth lies the graveyard, the last resting place of hundreds who died of illnesses and infections which rushed through the community. It was said, at one point that half the town was burying the other half. History’s sieve filters out wonderful stories in graveyards: Finnerty’s wife, Bertha lies there, as does the body of Italian cyclist, 23 year old Leo Beretta killed when the forks on his bike collapsed during an international race held in the town in 1900.
We all but stumbled upon the grave of redoubtable explorer Ernest Giles who, in numerous major expeditions, crossed to the Swan River Colony from the then Darwin-Adelaide Telegraph line, discovered The Olgas, Victoria and Gibson deserts, and mapped out large areas of the inhospitable interior. Pneumonia also took him, his exploring days over, working as a clerk, living with his nephew in Coolgardie.

I returned to Finnerty’s house in the dawn to witness, to the east, where the Superpit’s spoil heap hunkers down on the horizon, a golden mist hovering over invisible lakes, weaving among the eucalypts and gimlets.
That scene, soon burned away by the day, was the first of many not normally associated with the Goldfields. Let’s face it: most of us associate the area with big money, big mines, big machines, high vis-clad workers and skimpies.

Coolgardie and the subsequent journey around the Trail shows a very different side to the Goldfields. In the first few kilometres out of Coolgardie we passed a small lake. An enterprising humorist had placed imaginative art of a Loch Ness monster, a fisherman in a dinghy, a shark and a flamingo. A little later we passed the ruins of Kunanalling and all the time we are making our way through the bronze trunked gimlets of the Great Western Woodlands, now growing strong after their virtual eradication to fuel the gold rush. The humour, the ruined dreams, the resilience: I was realising the pulsing themes which has kept the Goldfields alive for so long in such adversity.

0 Comments

The House on the Hill

5/1/2018

0 Comments

You know you are onto a winner when the sign greeting you at the creaking iron gate states:
“NO DOGS (NOT EVEN YOURS)”. It is the humour that appeals, rather than the message; that moment when the dog-walking reader of the sign would realise that their mind has been read before they have even thought of bringing Fido into these unique, rarefied gardens.

I’ve absented myself from a(nother) shopping trip and, having heard about a secluded garden and stunning pergola in north London, I’ve rumbled up the Northern Line to Hampstead, walked an exhilarating kilometre through crisp, February air, fresh from an overnight frost, and a village that really should not be in London at all. I am now at the gate to Hill House Garden and Pergola.

It must have been a fun thing to do with a few hundred tons of dirt needing a home after excavations for the nearby Tube line. Lord Leverhulme, in 1904, had made enough money from his washing powder business to indulge in some legacy-building. Still there today, open to the public - and not many seem to know about it - a long, branched, raised walkway with seats and lookout points carries visitors high above or through tended gardens, affording views into the woodlands of Hampstead Heath.

It is unmistakably grand. Although the carved wooden beams that support vines, now in winter dormancy, are old and crumbling, the colonnades, the stone, the stairs all exude a statesmanly, if faded, grandeur harking back to the Edwardian era. The peacefulness is enhanced by silence: in the couple of hours I spent wandering this Thomas Mawson-designed creation, the three small groups of people I came across were all whispering- it has that effect. It is so peaceful and undisturbed that, apart from the occasional rumble of a train somewhere in the valley below, it’s hard to believe you are in the middle of a metropolis.

The Pergola, finished in 1925, now has an air of opulent glory long passed. Hill House, once Lord Leverhulme’s home is enormous. Easily visible from the Pergola, it sits in resplendent grandeur across an immaculate lawn beyond a pond and fountain. It has, I am told, been turned into apartments. Part of a deal in the development meant the Gardens and Pergola are now open to the public.

The walk back to the Tube line in Hampstead is also worth taking slowly. The suburb sits on the edge of Hampstead Heath, the highest point in London as well as being the largest park in the capital. Hampstead is renowned for its genteel ambience. With its beautifully preserved and clean, cared-for buildings, it is home to some of the UKs leading gliterati, celebrities and champagne socialists. Cobbled streets, period townhouses, quaint shops, discreet alleys and stairways are all there for anyone to investigate. I investigate a delicious, simple burger at Spielburgers, but there are a variety of eateries around if you fancy a meal before further exploring the suburb or heading back to catch up with the shopping party.

0 Comments

On the Quest for Gold

All Well in the Borough

Siberia

CoolGardie

The House on the Hill

Author

Archives

Categories