Of Beginnings & Beyond

Drought was upon us as we ventured down to the Prom for our first trip. It was late November 1972. The Macmahon Government was about to be swept from power. And yours truly, a walker of suns, was in Grade One.

October 1972, in my favourite skivvy!

Parents aside, there were six of us at the time (our sister Kathleen, born nine months later, was a glitter in our father's eye). Expectations were heightened beyond measure when Dad parked a caravan at the top of the drive and duly informed us that we were going on holiday for the first time in years.

In the beginning, at the top of 77 McGowans Road Donvale. 

Our destination was a mysterious place called Wilson's Prom which was terra incognita to us. Mind you, he could have said South Georgia Island and we would've been none the wiser. We were permitted to comb through the caravan in our excitement. Cupboards were scrutinised. The tap in the kitchen was worked over. Claiming primogeniture, I snared the top bunk on the right, with my sister Bridget taking the berth below. Liz and Margaret were encastled on the bunk opposite, with baby Clare to sleep on the floor if she could withstand the barrages of socks and underpants. Each of the bunks had a small compartment built into the wall; they were soon filled with torches, comics and other bric-a-brac. Who could say, adventure-wise, what lay ahead?

On the eve of our departure, our paternal grandmother babysat us for the night. In her stately voice, she read fairytales to us before bedtime. In retrospect, that was no accident: magic was nigh.

Come the next morning, we suggested to Dad that we should undertake the journey inside the caravan itself; this suggestion was dismissed with good reason. I was also concerned that the petrol in our other vehicle would 'go off' like foodstuffs while we were away - Dad offered reassurance. And so we took off in the shit-brown Valiant station-wagon. The open road lay ahead. As was the custom of the day, there were no seatbelts or child-restraints in use - the six of us crammed into the back. The journey itself took the better part of three hours. It remains nebulous in my mind. I remember being taken aback by the name of Fish Creek and that's about it. The first instalment of bliss came when we rounded the corner deep inside the Park itself to behold the Great Glennie Islands, framed by Whisky Bay and Picnic Bay. Enfiladed by colour, light and the seascape itself, it was an ambush - as if the panorama had been lying in wait for us since Genesis. Collectively, we were mesmerised with wonder. The sea itself looked Homeric as it glittered under the radiance of the sun. Besotted with bliss, I fell in love with the Prom at that point - and irreparably so. Not long afterwards, we pulled into Tidal River. My mother insisted that we camp adjacent to a toilet and shower block; we settled on a site near the boat-ramp. Upon opening the caravan, we realised that Dad had been wise beyond measure: the interior was in disarray from all the bumps on the journey. Thus began the most glorious two weeks of my life.

The next day or so were spent gaining compass. A patient had told our Dad to seek out a spring that was half-way up the road to Mt Oberon: its water was pure. Find it we did; it is located on a bend in the road. Someone had connected a pipe to the source, thus facilitating the collection of water. The dell itself is as numinous as the Spring of Juturna in the Roman Forum - and the pipe is still in situ to this day. Fully hydrated, it was time to play.

For whatever dumb reason, we spurned Norman Bay. Squeaky Beach was visited but once - we built sandcastles in the rocks at its southern end. I daresay that the surf precluded a second visit. The next day was spent at Picnic Bay. I cannot recall any precise details but the unadulterated happiness of those hours resonates yet in my being. I'm yet to leave it in some ways.

Northern End of Picnic Bay, November 1972. Happiness!

The long haul back to the carpark, when my parents acted as a pack-camels, forestalled a second trip. My love of Picnic Bay is attributable to that day but it has never been a favourite among the family, not least because of the lack of cover. I do not know how the Oxford Dictionary defines Eternity, but to my mind, the best approximation would be to spend an entire day, from sunrise to sunset, at the cove on its southern end and thus transcend the passing spectacle of material things.

Picnic Bay as seen from Picnic Point,

Whisky Bay seen from Picnic Point

Third time lucky: we fell utterly in love with Whisky Bay: its caves and shells; its granite outcrops at both ends, and its 'gigantic' surf. In the week prior to our departure, Liz Bridget and I - the Big Three - has been provided with an inflatable ring each and here was the perfect opportunity to baptise them. Mine was a black ring in the form of a tyre with stop and give way signs. Whisky Bay is a flat beach so the waves are usually no higher than my knees as I stand today; even so, they seemed like monsters to us as we battled their fury. Hours were spent exploring the corridors and caves of the south headland. We all became prospectors of shells and sifted excitedly through the specimens. Oh, it was richness beyond coin or note.

My sister Liz and I, Whisky Bay November 1972

"The Big Three" Whisky Bay November 1972

Bernard, Liz, Bridget, Margaret and Mum, Whisky Bay 1072

Mount Oberon loomed large in our thoughts. Like Mallory gazing longingly at Everest, we stared at its summit and undertook an ascent in our minds. Given how young we were, such a feat was beyond us. It would have to wait. While it is dwarfed by many other mountains in the world, to my mind it is insurpassable, character-wise. Stubbled with outcrops of granite, it never fails to repay scrutiny. Akin to God, Mt Oberon is inexhaustible.

Mt Oberon, as eternal as ever, seen from Pillar Point.

Self-servingly, flocks of Rosellas befriended us and took up residence at our campsite where many a crust of white bread was on offer. In our wisdom, we decided that the 'red ones' were boys and the 'greenies' were their counterparts. We revered them as Birds of Paradise.

Bernard with Rosella, December 1972

Campsite fun with the rosellas - with Clare on the right

One day we visited Millers' Landing. This was no mean feat for my parents, with six kids under the age of seven in tow. When we arrrived at the beach, it was low tide: the mangroves stretched out to Doughboy Island. Much to our delight, shells were strewn across the ground. That occasion was the only time that I have ever beheld Black Swans at the Prom. I can still see them in my mind, soaring effortlessly above Corner Inlet.

En masse, we also trooped up to Pillar Point. From its lofty height, we surveyed Norman Bay and its like. Indeed, it seemed like we were standing on the roof of the world and if we were to tumble over the edge, it would take us a full hour to incarnadine the sea. Now, I am deeply grateful that various plans to develop the Prom have been thwarted over the years, but if a Temple of Posideon were to be built at Pillar Point, I'd laud the idea. The location is already sacred to him; the temple would be an afterthought.

Our sister Mary Jane was eight months at the time. Lest she be parched by the sun, we dug an enormous trench from the shoreline to her location and the tide did the rest. In our minds, it was a stupendous feat of engineering. While it has been erased a thousandfold, the accomplishment resonates to this day.

At the north end of Whisky Bay with baby Mary-Jane, December 1972.

Apple or no apple, everyone is eventually expelled from Paradise. On our last full day at the Prom, we visited Whisky Bay to bid farewell. We climbed some rocks to behold the sea itself. Unlike the two weeks past, the sun was an absentee landlord. As we looked out across the watery expanse, could we not see a sea monster - say, a giant octopus - lying in wait offshore? It made us shudder. When we returned to the beach, some schoolboys were strolling across the dunes and casting a knife into the sand; verily, it was time to leave. Farewell to Cythera and eternally so!

When we returned home, the treasury of shells became progressively less interesting until they were dispatched to landfill or crumbled into dust. Dragging my feet, I returned back to Grade 1 with one week left on the curriculum but everyone was too consumed by the Nativity Play to lend ear to my tales of transfiguration. Tans faded. Soon Christmas was upon us - and it was joyful enough but afterglow it was.

Christmas Day, 1972,with Liz, Dad and sadness. 

We returned to the Prom in late 1974. We travelled down in the Toyota Hiace and stayed in a tent which was less interesting than a caravan.

No caravan here!

Pillar Point, 1974 - a brave act with so many kids in train!

Hard at work, Whisky Bay

Surprisingly, I recall few details of this week. We camped on one of the avenues and were besieged by school-kids who sang long into the night and defied sleep.

In November 1977, I returned yet again to the Prom, this time as a participant in the St Peter and Paul's Grade 6 camp. Primary school was coming to an end. Inexorably, we were transforming into teenagers. Now, I was a late developer, as they say: I was unrelentingly teased by my sisters whenever I expressed an interest in any of their friends, leaving me hesitant in the extreme. Inside class, the malevolence of my adversaries - Donna Smith (the Wicked Witch of the West) and Jenny Ryan (her eastern counterpart) widened the abyss between longing and consummation. Anyway, we left for the Prom on a frosty morning. As we travelled down in the bus, there was some 'hot and heavy' action occuring down the back - much to my consternation, some of my mates were actually contracting 'girl germs' with lovelies such as Catherine Mason, Lisa McAuliffe, Madeline Arter (wow), Julie Hart and Bronwyn Davies, while I sat primly at the front of the bus with my friend Terry Dunn. I was left affronted - and edgy. All in all, the camp was a mediocre affair. The sun absconded for most of the week; the camp-food was offal; we were housed in tents that were pervious to rain, and our teacher, John Hirst, who had served in the skies above Germany, came down with a bout of gastro: that curtailed everyone's movements, so to speak. Oberon was left unconquered: John was willing enough to man a machine-gun in a Lancaster but shepherding a class of brats to its summit was too risky. On one occasion, after nightfall, we marched to the end of Norman Bay in the blackness: that was the highlight of the week. Baseball was played on the sand next to the old bridge. We caught a toady from the aforementioned structure by yanking up the line when the hook was directly under its body. When the sun finally appeared, we ventured to Lilly Pilly Gully. There was a race back to the camp: boys v girls; we won in a canter. There was one memorable day at Squeaky Beach: Tracy Ham, the prettiest girl in the class, took to the surf in her black bikinis, leaving me - and others - with our tongues hanging out. Biblically speaking, there was a stirring in my loins but dare I speak with . . . . . a girl ! What would my sisters say? Lamentably, the opportunity passed away into oblivion like so many others.

Tidal River as it bends into Norman Bay. 

An interregnum occured at this point: secondary schooling. Our parents bought a beachhouse on the Mornington Peninsula and that became our preferred destination. But the siren call of the Prom was never mute. In 1984, empowered by a licence and a Fiat 132 GLS (a sensational set of wheels), I drove down to the Prom by myself and camped in a two man tent. I spent much of the time luxuriating in the sun as I read Frank Herbert's Dune. On relay from Melbourne, I remember listening to Paul McCartney's Wanderlust: it was as evocative as a locomotive whistle, fathoming out the soul. Yep, sadly I was alone - what a pity that Tracey Ham or some updates were not in reach - but I was determined to summit Mt Oberon; indeed, that was the raison d'etre for the trip. One morning, I drove my Italian buzz-box up to the carpark and took off on foot. Three quarters of the way up to the summit, I espied Little Waterloo Bay; it was my first sighting of the eastern side of the Prom. I melted. Half a dozen new action-items appeared on the to-do list. Five minutes later, I finally stood on Mt Oberon's granite skull-cap. Looking south, I was overwhelmed by the blueness of Oberon Bay and the gnarly prow of Mt Norgate as it plunges into the depths of Bass Strait. It had taken fourteen years to stand on this spot but now the Grail was on my lips.

During my stay, I also spent one night at Oberon Bay by myself. Somewhere or other, I had seen an old map - perhaps it dated to WW2 when the Park was used to train commandos. It delineated a track that led to the top of Mt Norgate - one of my favourite peaks of the Prom - and on its other side lay Sea Eagle Bay which can only be visited by boat. With little wisdom, I mounted an assault on the summit. Resolutely, I set forth. It was arduous. If the track had once existed, it had now been fully reclaimed by the flora. Mt Norgate itself is only some four hundred metres high. One third of the way up, I turned-tail. Insofar as victory had been possible, I had been vanquished - and comprehensively so.

Mt Norgate - Boring and Aloof

With the Southern Circuit and the Lighthouse itself being firmly on the agenda, I galvanised a hike around the southern circuit in January 1985 - the back-pack I received at the Christmas past was also a stimulant. My sister Bridget and a friend, Nick (the brother of my future brother-in-law) accompanied me. Our first night was spent at Roaring Meg. Leaving out packs in the tents, we undertook the five kilometre hike to the Lighthouse on the morning of the second day. The map indicated a number of gradients between Roaring Meg and the Lighthouse itself, but we were left sapped by the steepness of the climb, particularly on the way back. Beholding the whiteness of the Lighthouse for the first time, set against the tempest of Bass Strait, well, I should have knelt in awe like a Crusader reaching the Holy Sepulchre.

"At the Imagined Ends of the World"

An hour or so was spent immersing ourselves in the panorama. My love of Bax lay fifteen years into the future, but surely this location, with islands so windswept and tempestuous seas, has greater claim to being called Tintagel than its Cornish counterpart. How easy it is to imagine Tristan astride the Lighthouse, waiting impatiently for the longship that carries Isolde. All well and good, but the ridiculous banishes the sublime at this point. Being novices in the craft of bushwalking, we had seriously underestimated how much food would be required to energise us throughout the journey. On the last night at Sealers Cove, we feasted on a packet of instant noodles each and that was about it - and a Mars Bar had served as lunch a few hours beforehand. I've never been so hungry in my life. When we stumbled into the Tidal River cafe, we were no less famished than Burke and Wills at Cooper's Creek. Foodwise, we broke the bank.

In May 1985, I undertook the southern walks again. My mates from medicine, Edward Oakley and Ramon Mocellin, accompanied me. Some mistakes one only makes once; on this occasion, I was accompanied by a veritable pantry. Here are some photos from that venture:

On the road to Roaring Meg, Day 1 of the May '85 Expedition. Go Dees!

Ed and Ramon, Waterloo Bay at dusk May 1985

Ed at Refuge Bay, May 1985

The western half of the Cathedral at Sealers Cove, May 1985

The old telegraph that ran down to the lighthouse. Nowadays, it's gone the way of all flesh and iron

Our destination. 

Ed, Ramon and I at the Lighthouse, May Holidays 1985

Emboldened and fearless, the three of us decided to undertake the biggest challenge of them all in the December of that year: the famed Northern Walks. We drove down in the 1985 Toyota Corolla (it might have been new but this 1.3L gutless wonder was still a piece of crap, even then). After obtaining a permit from the ranger, we drove back to the Miller’s Landing car park, loaded up and strode off. Five Mile Beach lay some 18 kilometres to the east. The hike was uneventful but mesmerising. The Northern section of the Prom lacks the grandeur of its southern counterpart: boulders, for instance, are few. It was also profoundly quiet, as if some terrible evil had occurred in the past and the region had yet to regain its equilibrium. Being a Tolkein fan, it reminded me of the lost kingdom of Arnor, where a civilisation was extirpated, with not one stone being left upon another. Passage through Chinaman Seamp was akin to a mosquito tollway. St Kilda Junction, with magic in the air, urged us onwards. We reached Five Mile Beach in the late afternoon. As it had been a warm day, our canteens were empty. Cavalierly, we had dismissed the Ranger's warnings that freshwater was sparse, expecting to replenish our supplies easily. Such was not the case. After a prolonged search upstream (a small tidal creek runs onto the beach), we located some brackish water that was drinkable enough once it had been boiled. The rest of the afternoon was spent walking on Five Mile Beach itself. A small lake, as I well knew from the maps, was located at its southern end, filled with the run-off from the Cathedral (Sealers Cove lay on the other side of the headland).

Lake at the southern end of Five Mile Beach

Even so, we were too exhausted to undertake a ten mile return trip across sand; it remains unvisited. Thus ended the first day. Now at that time, the route to Tin Mine Cove passed along the eastern side of Mt Margaret (its successor runs along Three Mile Beach and then cuts across the very top of the Prom). We set off at first light, returned to St Kilda Junction and marched northwards. The sun accompanied us. As we would have to retrace our steps homewards, we mirrored Burke and Wills by burying provisions next to a tree that lay in the shadow of Mt Margaret. Hours later, we reached the northern end of Chinaman's Beach. All that lay between us and our destination was a headland of rocks, akin to the Second Step on Everest. The comparison is warranted: they are a bugger. Fully laden with thirty kilograms each, we sweated it out, one treacherous step after another as the nearby high tide soaked the rocks. Knackered and sore, at last we stood triumphantly at Tin Mine Cove itself. Sovereignty was ours.

Ramon Mocellin and Ed Oakley - Ready for adventure !!!

The plan was simple: spend two nights at Tin Mine Cove, thereby allowing us time to recover from our exertions and thoroughly explore the area (surely traces of the old mine itself must be in the vicinity, so we mused, and Mt Singapore, a one hundred and twenty metre goliath, was demanding to be scaled). On the journey home, we'd return to Five Mile Beach and camp for the night before hiking back to the carpark. Now Tin Mine Cove itself is quietly breathtaking. A freshwater stream trickles onto the beach - it is so numinous, we should've raised an altar to Artemis and the Naiads. We sat on the golden sand, elated and tired, and tore into our iron-rations. Come nightfall, the multicoloured lights from the Esso refinery on the other side of Corner Inlet blinked unremittingly at us. On the next morning, however, the weather worsened seismically. Indeed, it seemed as if the Four Winds had amassed together to blow us off the face of the earth. We quickly relocated our tent to a less exposed position - even then, we felt as if we were taxiing on a tarmac and about to take off. Our plans to climb nearby Mt Singapore came to nothing as the tempest raged. We were confined to the tent, playing one meaningless game of 500 after another. Every so often I ventured onto the beach itself and curse the elements. It was tedium personified.

Come the next day, we gladly set forth for home. The weather was kind. We made good progress. The DIG tree was identified and provisions were retrieved. Before long, we stood at St Kilda Junction. Did we really want to spend another night at Five Mile Beach? The siren call of the car-park was strong: we turned west rather than east. By the time we reached the car, we had marched some thirty six kilometres and our feet were raw from blisters that resembled golf-balls. Moreover, I had failed in a major objective: goaded beyond endurance, I deposited an enormous coprolite at the Barry's Creek campsite (I always hate going for a shit when hiking - and it was a shocker). Collectively, the stench was unbearable in the car as we drove back to Melbourne. Thus ended the saga. That was the last contact I had with Edward and Ramon. I wish them well. Having conquered both ends of the Prom, they belong to a special band of brothers.

Regalvanised by my interest, the O'Hanlons returned to Wilson's Prom in the summer of 85/86 & 86/87. My father had purchased a tent that was the size of Versailles. On both occasions, we camped in Twenty Third Avenue, near the Norman Bay carpark

The Eighties come to the Prom - with Nick Tune

They were not great holidays: the weather was crap, there was a lot of tension in the family - we were all a bit ratty - and the bush-rats adopted the tent as their new home.

Margs, Bridget and Clare - Bored and Looking for Trouble

Here I am with some 15+ on my face so there must have been some sunlight on offer. I am accompanied by two 'Hopefuls': my future brother in law, Phil, and his brother Nick (who walked away without a cupie doll).

Picnic at Norman Bay carpark summer of 1985-1986.

Damian Conway, the Sith Lord of Perl, joined us in 86/87. On one occasion - astoundingly - he jogged from the campsite to the summit of Mt Oberon itself. I do not profess to understand his wider accomplishments - to my mind, one poem by Horace is worth a billion computer programs - but this feat must surely be among his greatest exploits. Bravo Damian!

Yes, that is Damian Conway, Conqueror of Oberon, front-row.

It was around this time that we became acquainted with Derby Beach. Sure, it is not as picturesque as, say, Refuge Cove, but it's compelling all the same. The ruins of the old Chalet are prelude. The waters of Derby River itself bank up in the sand dunes before making their way subterraneously onto the beach. Come low tide, one can visit a grief-encrusted cave that faces the sea on the south headland. Now, Victoria is Greenwich Mean Time plus eleven hours. No such considerations apply to Derby Beach. It speaks of 'older creations, time and ruinations'. Once, it was the epicentre of the Prom, much like Norman Bay is today. The families that promenaded on the beach in the 1920s are gone - or are they? The wind whispers otherwise. There is an enormous sandstone ridge - the Great Wall of China - on its northern side. I wouldn't be surprised in the least if gigantic fossils were to be unearthed from its keep. If - God preserve us - a madman were to remake Planet of the Apes for a second time, Derby Beach would be the ideal setting for the Statue of Liberty, staring out forlornly into Bass Strait with its torch held aloft.

In those days, unfettered fishing was still allowed at the Prom. Some old bugger who was a chum of my parents invited me to tag along one day. His vessel was a tin-can. The day was calm enough. With the antiquated motor chugging away, we set sail for Norman Island and anchored some one kilometre from its rocks & seals. Now, I belong to the lowest percentile of fishermen, talent-wise, but that day was an exception. I caught twenty plus flathead, leather-jackets and a few parrot-fish. This was all well and good but my aged companion - who was supposedly an old sea-salt - became violently ill and the entire boat shuddered from side to side. I held onto its sides for grim life while I gloomily calculated if I could swim the distance to Norman Island. Eventually his bout of sea-sickness came to an end. In the interim, however, the fish stopped biting and abruptly at that. When queried, my companion replied: "Because there is a bloody shark in the area - gees, I hate those bastards". Great, I thought to myself, looking back wistfully at Norman Bay. Then, all of a sudden, the old bugger pulled a small shark into the boat itself and it was on for young and old. Completely oblivious to considerations such as stability & mental well-being, my companion rose irately to his feet, snatched up a club and played baseball with the intruder. The shark responded in kind: snappily, it was trying to bite anything or anyone in range. To this day, I cannot explain how a capsize was averted: at the end of the bout - miraculously - we were still afloat and the poor shark had been bludgeoned to death. It was heavenly to feel the sand between my toes when we returned to shore, and the dinner that followed was just as good. The scraps were fed to the seagulls over the days that followed.

Nice legs if nothing else, summer of 1985-1986

Upon our return from the 86/87 trip, we laboriously set up the tent in the front garden to dry it out, lest it become mouldy. And such tents are never easy to pack away; indeed, they are designed never to fit back entirely into their original bags. The conclusion was inescapable: we were not tent-people. Not one of us could envisage a return to the Prom under similar circumstances. Perhaps - sad to say - an epoch had petered out.

But a few years later, in February 1991, a new era was inaugurated when we hired one of the lodges for the first time. Hitherto they had escaped our attention; perhaps we assumed they were reserved for the ranger or school-bookings. Now there was no stopping us. Over the next few years, Mattingly was followed by Kershaw, Vereker (which had the famous view of Tidal River), Wilson, Norgate and even the Seagull flats. They must have been the better part of fifty years old but they were as homely as can be. En masse, the family trooped down again to the Prom. Legendary six-handed gamed of Five Hundred were staged. We had a ball (even if that claim is belied by the photo below):

Out the back of Mattingly, February 1991

Walking to Squeaky Beach, February 1991.

Mum, Clare and Mares, February 1991

Mum and Dad, Picnic Point, February 1991

Bridget and Clare, Picnic Bay, Feb 1991

Each of the lodges had their own identity. I always preferred Latrobe; its mustiness spoke of 'distant times and faraway places'. We ventured down there in the late spring of 1992. A deluge had just pounded the Prom. As we took possession of Latrobe, we gazed up at Mt Oberon: near to the summit, a waterfall was cascading over a rock-ledge into the valley below. Grace befell us. I have never seen such a sight again.


In late June 1993, I returned to the Prom with three buddies from Newman College: Luke, Peter and Doug. At the time we were great mates. Some friends one should never live with - and this mistake was made in the year that followed. Blame is collective for the shitfight that occured - and I will always regret my vindictiveness. Even so, this trip to the Prom was a golden time and worthy of remembrance. It started in the cold: Pete, Luke and I had packed up the famous Barina and were waiting in the Newman carpark at 6 am but Doug was snoozing on. A Gestapo-like raid on his room brought him to his senses - and we were away. Just out of Cranbourne, we stopped at a petrol station, and some Sikhs cooked up Bacon and Eggs Surprise (the surprise came some six hours later). From memory, my companions were novices to the Prom: they were just as overwhelmed as I had been in 1972 as we rounded the famous corner to behold the Great Glennie Islands - and nor did the winter Sun fail us for the entire week. After obtaining a permit, we left the Barina at the Mt Oberon carpark and took off towards Sealers Cove. Here we are at Windy Saddle.

Luke and Pete, Windy Saddle, May 1993

Luke, Douglas McQueen-Thomson, Pete, Windy Saddle May 1993.

Now inadvertently, we (& the Sikhs) had done Luke no favours: either Doug or Pete had supplied him with an old backpack that was so decrepit, it could have been a relic from the Burke & Wills expedition. Critically, it lacked a hip strap to distribute the weight. It is no wonder that Luke struggled somewhat - he was lugging around some thirty kilos plus. Anyway, a few hours afterwards, we forded the creek and stood at Sealers Cove.

At Sealers Cove

Not quite sure what is going on here -  the water must have been cold!

Sealers Cove was at its most numinous. I had brought along a Sony Discman; the slow movement of Sibelius' Fourth Symphony was immolating my being as I looked out to sea. There is something unsettling about the bay itself inside Sealers Cove. Yes, it's a mere puddle compared with the Mariana Trench, but contemplate its depths with such music in your ears, it assumes a  more sinister guise - as if some elemental power lies in a state of dormition on the seabed itself. I'd never swim across it, headland to headland. Never.

Come the next morning, we took off towards Kersop's Peak. Half an hour or so out from Sealers Cove, we were ambushed. Eastwardly facing, a rock ledge overlooks Bass Strait and has done so since Creation. It was not a mere sunrise. It was an epiphany. In the moments that followed, we were fellow idolaters with Akhenaton, heretic pharaoh of the Sun.

Outstaring the Pacific on the way to Kersop's Peak

We camped at Little Waterloo Bay that night, thus allowing Peter to feast on his kingly gruel:

Not a kingly meal!

Roaring Meg was reached in the afternoon of the following day. After dumping our packs, we undertook a hit and run on the Lighthouse.

On-route and grumpy

A vehicle approached us as we finally walked up the energy-sapping hill that led to our goal. It was the Lighthouse Keeper. He was standing imperiously in the back of the ute (which was being driven by an underling). We were ignored. His visage was granite-like; the gaze was steely. We dubbed him 'Caesar', as if his ute were a chariot and he was being propelled through the streets of Rome in triumph. May his bones lie softly in the earth.

Lighthouse attained, May 1993

Luke above Bass Strait

Twilight was all-encompassing as we staggered back to Roaring Meg, affording us a Samuel Palmer-esque moment in the gloom.

At eventide in the forest

Upon our return to Tidal River on the following day, sweat and grime were erased by an hour-long 'power-shower'. In those days, one could be prodigal in the usage of water (droughts down at the Prom are rare). The remainder of the trip was spent in one of the lodges. While Luke and Pete recuperated, Doug and I undertook the Vereker Trail. This particular track is one of the most frustrating at the Prom. All kudos to the rangers for opening up such vistas, but the real prize - an unnamed summit - lies a mere kilometre away or so beyond. It would have been so easy to extend the track to that point, thus creating a 'Pillar Point' for the North. Mind you, the rangers have done their best to ensure that no-one goes beyond the prescribed track: its end is thoroughly blocked off with bracken. Anyway, with Doug in the front - who was determination personified - we made a bold attempt to reach this summit. We battled on for the better part of an hour. Nature thwarted us at this point: the vegetation was too thick. Thoroughly scratched, we retreated back to the track - and just in time too: for whatever reason, a ranger materialised out of nowhere and engaged us in small talk. We replied sheepishly in monosyllables and bolted back to the Barina.

In October 1995 or thereabouts, my mother hired Norgate and I promptly invited Luke and Pete down to the Prom. The quartet did not widen into a larger ensemble; my sisters were otherwise occupied. Late one afternoon, warmed by the sun, we trooped over to Picnic Bay. The beach was ours alone. It was time to body-surf. Its waves were powerful, repetitious and clean. While my mother said her prayers on the beach, Luke and I traded blows with that old southpaw - Bass Strait - whereas Peter paddled around on his 'shark-biscuit' beyond the first break (spasmodically, we would yell out words of encouragement to our buddy; in our minds, he was acting as a decoy for the 'Big Boys' - and if Pete had to take a 'hit' for the team, then so be it). While most surfers gravitate towards the southern end of Norman Bay or Squeaky Beach, to my mind the best waves are to be found at Picnic Bay. It was two hours of unalloyed happiness. The three of us also hiked to Sealers Cove. Here is a memento of that day, taken at its northerly end:

Forever Geelong at the northern end of Sealers Cove '95

In November of the following year, the three of us trooped down to the Lighthouse and stayed there for two nights. Rob Citrone accompanied us. Rather than taking the usual route from the Mt Oberon carpark, we bestrode the Oberon Bay alternative.

Rob Citrone, yours truly and I, Norman Bay

Little Oberon Bay - as mesmerising as ever.

On the way to Oberon Bay

At the end of Oberon Bay we turned inland, marched to the crossroads and took the access-track that led to the Lighthouse. Two hours or so later, we stood tall at the navel of the world.

In Paradise again

We spent the next few days luxuriating in the splendour. When viewed from the rocky stronghold of the Lighthouse, Bass Strait is a canvas for the elements. Storms are followed in quick succession by azure skies. The islands in view gleamed with an imperative: visit me, visit me, visit me. It begs the thought: how do any of the personnel go about their daily chores when the backdrop is so beguiling? Wine and books accompanied us.

Exploring the headland of the Lighthouse

The lodge itself contained a stack of magazines; some of them were old pornos from the late 1970s that had seen better days; they were deflating in every way. Now Monopoly accompanied us and I duly challenged Luke and Pete to a joust (Rob was otherwise occupied). A miracle occurred - and indeed, this is my greatest claim to fame: I won a game with only Old Kent Road & Whitechapel (the 'Cheapy Death Stars'). I had swiftly acquired the two 'purples' in the first few rounds and purchased hotels. Much to my delight, my adversaries were drawn to these properties like moths to a flame. Invariably upon passing 'Go', they landed on one or the other, round after round after round. Before too long, bankruptcy loomed. My opponents ululated but it was to no avail: doom was upon them. Soon afterwards, they capitulated like the Frogs in 1940. It was the most comprehensive pussy-whipping in the history of the game. It's impossible to win Monopoly with just the utilities or the railroads; the achievement, therefore, is imperishable.

For shame, Luke! For shame, Peter!

What the Via Appia is to the Eternal City, the South Gippy Highway is to the Prom. In closing, it must be mentioned. Normally it is a two and a half hour drive from metropolitan Melbourne. Many a traveller has come to grief on its bends; it warrants caution. The first pit-stop normally occurs at Loch where tradition demands that one purchase a chocolate Big M from the milk bar (to my mind, it's a pity that a bypass has been put through as the hamlet has its own attractions). I've never been tempted to stop at Tooradin by the sea, though its fleet of fishing boats looks ambient enough. Korumburra is the gateway to Gippsland. A railway line runs in parallel to the highway at this point, and our son, Paul Arthur, became convinced that it hosted the Ghost Train at night. I've always preferred Leongatha with its Winged Victory on the courthouse. This town is also the home of the notorious 'Gatha Burger. Contrary to counsel, Luke became somewhat of a 'Gatha Burger Gladiator and I cannot say that it was to his good. Meeniyan has never detained me, though the golf-course looks enticing enough. The opposite could be said of Fish Creek, the hometown of the legendary Wayne Weidemann; the pub with the fibreglass fish on the roof is a great eatery, and my mother has dragged me on occasions to Mass in its little chapel on the hill. Yanakie is handy for petrol, grog and that's about it. For those visitors to the Prom who rightly refuse to be bankrupted by the store at Tidal River, a fifty minute trip will bring you to Foster, the capital of Gippsland. Anyone who lives out their three score and ten in this township has no right to complain about anything. The Foster Bakery (on the Exchange Hotel side of the main street) must surely provide bread to Elysium itself. On the town's outskirts, there are a series of creeks: Gold Creek, Silver Creek; Poor Fellow Me Creek; Dead Horse Creek and Old Hat Creek. Their collective significance, whilst undeniable, can only be guessed at.

During the early 1990s, an old Dutch priest used to celebrate Mass in the Visitors' Centre. It seemed like a good man. Mass never took very long; he was apologetic, in a way, that he had taken up our time and urged us to commune with God in the chapel of the Prom itself.

In the mid-1990s, Jeff Kennett - let's blame him personally - demolished the huts. The old bridge, which was a 'Walk of Death' (it only had a railing on one side - baby carriages were to be circumnavigated with care) shared the same fate. At the time, I lamented their passing. But when I first stayed in the updated lodges, I came to terms with the new arrangement. Over the next few years, now saddled with a family of my own, we spent one December after another in the likes of Banksia (our favourite), Tea Tree and the infamous Boobiala. Here are some photos, taken a few years ago:

Paul and I, on the track to Ghost Rock, March 03

Paul and Little Mt Oberon, 2004

In 2005, Paul Arthur, Miranda and I constructed a dam across Tidal River at that point where it winds onto Norman Bay, opposite the little beach on the other side of the river. It was a stupendous feat of engineering. For a full hour, it withstood Tidal River in its entirety as every droplet banked up behind its walls. It eventually succumbed to the pressure. We remember it with fondness.

Mention should also be made of an infamous episode that bore resemblance to Chernobyl. Whenever my mother journeys down to the Prom, the usual provisions accompany her: biscuits, chocolate and lollies (her staple diet). Come the end of one stay, she was left with a slab of Sara Lee Chocolate Cake. Not wanting to "waste it", she tipped it over the edge of the balcony. This windfall delighted the wombats no end, though I cannot say that it was beneficial to their health, much like the infamous 'Gatha burger!!!

Now here are my favourite Top Ten spots on the Prom in no particular order:

1. The walk from the Bridge to the end of Norman Bay and back. It's so commonplace and yet 'what dreams may come' - and they do.

Northern End of Norman Bay, looking north

2. Picnic Bay. Make sure you walk to the little cove at twilight.

Cove at the end of Picnic Bay

3. Frasers Creek - this stream runs onto the beach at the north end of Oberon Bay. It's a place that 'we're yet to disappoint'.

Fraser's Creek as runs into Oberon Bay

4. Tidal Overlook with the Memorial to the Rangers. We undertake this walk whenever we visit the Prom. Opposite the Lily Pilly car-park, there is a large granite rock that resembles a WW2-bunker. In our family, it is known as the Ghost Rock or, in a Golgotha-sense, the Place of the Skull where Luke "did it tough" (albeit mythologically). This rock is adjacent to the Tidal Overlook trail and it can be climbed with ease, thus allowing one to cast an almighty 'Cooooeeee' at Mt Bishop.

Towards Tidal Overlook - An update of 'Lady with a Parasol'

5. Pillar Point
6. Sealers Cove & The Cathedral - self recommending - but don't expect me to throw on the togs.



















7. Whisky Bay & Picnic Point

Whisky Bay at low tide and gloaming

8. The entire walk from Millers Landing to Five Mile Beach, especially St Kilda Junction.
9. Derby Beach. Go on a sunny day at low tide. Then you will understand.

Derby Bay looking south

10. The Board Walk. There is a saying: "not even perfection can withstand the tedium of indefinite repetition". The Board Walk refutes this statement.

Tidal River, looking towards Mt Ramsay and stillness

And here is my To-Do List while I still have air in my lungs.

1. A return to the Northern Walks - and all the more so as the track to Tin Mine Cove has changed since 1985, thus providing access to Lighthouse Point & Three Mile Beach.
2. Johnny Souey Cove - one of the few places I have yet to visit
3. Tongue Point. I hiked there once in 1986 and a return visit is warranted.
4. Sea Eagle Bay - easier said than done.
5. The walk between the Lighthouse and Waterloo Bay - it was implemented some ten years ago and I have yet to traverse it.
6. The small lake at the end of Five Mile Beach.
7. Chinaman Long Beach - and I see no reason why one could not walk all the way back to Millers Landing at low tide
8. The summit of Mt Singapore - if I succeed in climbing this 124m goliath, roll over Reinhold Messner.
9. Well, I would like to be choppered to the summits of Mt Latrobe, Mt Ramsay & Mt Wilson but I doubt that the Ranger would ever be so obliging. A clearing has been cleared out on Mt Latrobe for a helicopter; it can be seen with binoculars.
10. A canoe ride upon Derby River.

TOWARDS A CONCLUSION

A question needs to be addressed, even if it cannot be readily answered: what makes the Prom so compulsive, to the point where I - and many others - spend a lifetime trying to fathom its immensity and pulchritude? Is it the bewitchment of colours, framed by the sea? The hint of primordial powers in the surrounds? Being immolated in its purity? Or have we been enslaved by its stillness? Each of these suggestions carries weight but none is conclusive. Clues exist. In my dreams - vividly - there is a Prom beyond the Prom, as if everything we experience south of the Ranger's gate is Shadowlands. Such dreams recur frequently; they commence with a hike to the western shoulder of Mt Oberon, where a mighty castle-like structure is located. From there, a grassland stretches to the other side of the Prom, running into the sea itself. Near Lighthouse Point (in the north of the Prom), an outpost lies on the shoreline - an Inner Station in a way - suffused with magic and illumination. It was abandoned long ago. Even so, it is luminous at night, though not from globe or lantern. Perhaps if St Augustine had visited the Prom and partaken of its Dreaming, he would have called it The City of God. In many instances, my attempts to reach it are thwarted for whatever reason - but on one occasion years ago, dreamlike myself, I strode through the gates to walk its pavement (which was made of planks taken from old clippers). I was accompanied by my friend Luke who, like me, is a bondman of the Prom. Bells abounded; their sonority bestirred the air. Solitary we were but alone we were not.

This 'Lighthouse Point' dream - or part thereof - is a common occurrence, but the most astounding dream of my life - a once-off - also featured the Prom as centre stage. I was walking along Tidal River as it runs into the sea. On the shoreline, someone had dumped bric-a-brac - or so I thought. I strode over. An area had been squared off by clothes-racks. Much to my astonishment, they held all the clothes I had worn since infancy. For instance, the beloved jumper that I had worn to shreds as a nine year old was present and pristine. At the foot of the clothes-racks were all the toys that I had loved so dearly and lost over the years. Like the jumper, they were immaculate. Mesmerising as they were, my attention was drawn to the centre of the square. A well had been bored into the sand itself, and its depths reached to the centre of the earth. Its waters were an unearthly blue. As I watched, old photographs bubbled to the surface, taken from my earliest years. Spontaneously, the thought arose: nothing is ever lost. Nothing. Then I woke up, as they say.

Such dreams do little to answer the question above. Perhaps it's better to leave the mystery unanswered and opt instead for a stroll on Norman Bay as the sun scuttles itself in the west.

The Prom may not be eternal - or eternity itself - but it's kin in the very least.


POSTSCRIPT 1
Well we did it. In April 2012, Paul Arthur (11 years old) and I hiked all the way from Millers Landing to Five Mile Beach where we stayed for one night before returning on the next day. This was no mean trip for the Little Fella - thirty nine kilometers in two days.

Now, I had not been to the Northern Section of the Park since December 1985 so it really was a trip down memory-lane - not that many memories surfaced. To pass the time, PA came up with names for the various hills and features: there was Fat Sheep Field (a distant hill covered with granite outcrops which looked like sheep from a distance); Dickhead Rock (this needs no explanation) and JDM Hill (named after my nephews John, Davey and Mikey). Lunch on the first day was spent at Chinaman Creek. It was late in the afternoon by the time we approached Five Mile Beach. One feature I could remember from 1985 was the so-called Giants Causeway: it's essentially a sturdily-made bridge across the tidal creek which flows onto the beach. It was eerie; I was retracing steps that were twenty five years old - what should one say to a much younger self if the opportunity arose? Do this, do that? I don't know. Madness bekcons. Sadly, St Kilda Junction is no more. It was once a glade sacred to the Dyads; from there, one could turn north to Tin Mine Cove. In their fervour to eradicate such a path (and any temptation on the part of the hiker to re-walk those steps), the Rangers have extirpated its magic. Likewise, the stand-alone track to Johnny Souey Cove has been boarded off, so to speak, though one can still see its route in the vegetation.

As one approaches Five Mile Beach, it is abundantly apparent that the sand-dunes are effectively serving as a dike - the swamp behind it is clearly below sea-level.
Here are some photos, with more commentary to come.

Chinaman's Creek

The "Causeway of the Giants" - this is actually a bridge with many a pipe underneath to regulate the flow of the tidal river.

Causeway of the Giants

Now here are some photos of Five Mile Beach itself - what a magical spot it is. Looking south, you can see the other side of the Cathedral.

Paul at Five Mile Beach

Ditto

Hiking back to Civilisation

Five Mile Beach - A Place you'd rather be!

The grim reality

Goodbye Paradise!

Is it ever warm at Five Mile Beach? I doubt it. It's genuine wilderness. It is quite a hike along the seashore to the camp itself. There are thousands of beautiful shells - the necklaces of Neptune indeed. They temporarily made us forget our aching joints and hungry bellies. Some one had constructed a cairn near the campsite; Paul Arthur was endlessly entranced by it - oh for a firebrand !

Horsing around with driftwood

Ditto

"We ain't in Kansas now"

Five Mile Beach is always short of water. In retrospect, we were damned lucky back in December 1985 as the tidal river itself was at low tide. Paul Arthur and I last replenished our water at Chinaman's Creek, thinking that there would be plenty of water on the way. There wasn't. We reached Five Mile Beach with 750ml between the two of us (I went without) and the tidal creek was in floodtide (there is a dirty little spring on the other side). Come the next morning, a fellow camper, having already forded the creek to obtain some water for himself, offered to fill up our own bottles; stupidly, I declined his generous offer.
It rained that night. Courtesy of a cheap tent, we were regalled by the sight of an internal cascade as drops of water seaped through the seams. Sleep was elusive.
The hike back to the car-park commenced. We had some 250ml of water between the two of us which was reserved for PA. What with his eleven year old legs, he was starting to flag and all the more so as the day was warm. We walked on for the better part of four hours. At times PA was pushed to the limit:

Short of Water and Buggered

We were damned dry. Paul Arthur was starting to wither. Had we inadverently become Burke and Wills? And then, a kilometre short of Chinaman Creek, we found it: Salvation Springs. Man, were we elated! We did not bother to boil the water as the spring was so crystalline clear. If you undertake this trek yourself, you can identify it via the cement pipe that directs water into Chinaman Swamp (visible in the second photo below). This spring is your last guaranteed water unless you want to 'wet your whistle and undercarriage' in the tidal river at Five Mile Beach. Load up. And how sweet it tastes!

Salvation Springs

A welcome sight - Salvation Springs

Upon our return to Tidal River, we broke the bank at the kiosk - we were ravished!