Magic - for Writer's Island

A few weeks go, I decided to wander down a rough, dusty track near my home. Many times I had driven past this small detour known as Eaton's Cutting and promised myself, one day, I would go down there to have a look. Where did it lead?

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My curiosity was heightened when I chanced upon a book about the early days of Mornington Peninsula, in Victoria. Apparently, this track used to be the "old" way down from Arthur's Seat (the only mountain on the Mornington Peninsula) to the seaside village of Dromana on Port Phillip Bay immediately below.

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Curiosity was heightened but never activated. Two years passed before I decided to have a look. If truth be known, I was on school holidays, utterly broke, with not enough money to gorge on petrol for "useless" ambles. Distance was limited by the strength/weakness of my bank account. (Another example of how money has power and money talks!)

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And so, on a warm afternoon, a trip to Eaton's Cutting was on the "poor man's entertainment agenda".

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The first stage of the track was a sharp climb past tightly overhanging eucalypts. But once the crest of this "hill" was reached, an amazing world opened.

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The first surprise was the track levelled out, with overgrown driveways leading to homes scattered on surrounding hillsides. The homes numbered about 4. Many had olde worlde vegie gardens which opened out into tiny vineyards, tumbling down the mountain.

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But the track continued to what seemed to be a little everglade, a clearing, surrounded by a wired fence and a tired old, locked gate with a sign stating this was a fire trail; only authorised vehicles could enter, but walkers could travel through with caution. As it was the peak of the fire season in Australia, caution won the day and we chose to stay in the clearing.

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Slowly we walked around it, feeling the hum of a late summer afternoon in bushland. And then the magic began!

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We found:

~an old rusty wheel from some cart locked in tufts of grass

~ a large house, on stilts, whispered through the trees. It was made of glass and stone. No curtains graced the windows. You could see brightly coloured bunk beds roughly made. Bare wooden floors. And not a soul there. Yet a rather crumpled sign along the fence declared this was a research centre and no admittance was allowed. Curiouser and curiouser.

~ and birds! Countless birds wheeled above us! Some seemed to dive close to our heads. Bright reds and blues and greens of rosellas flashed all round us. Snowy white cockatoos circled and circled - the official "squawk squad"! So many birds! We had the feeling not too many of the human variety travelled this way! A kind of lost silk road?

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It seemed time, old times and old lives, were locked in the secrets of the trees and the small patches of sky overhead. We could feel the life of yesterdays murmuring invisible around us. It was like we were closely connecting with the very pulses, the heartbeat of earth! Here was a sanctuary ~ to muse on where have we been and where are we going! A lovely way to give today a purpose, in the light of yesterday!

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Strangely, even as I tell this story, I can still feel the magic of that priceless moment! And more strangely still, I never did see that panoramic sea view I expected from such a height! I guess the closeness of trees, earth and quiet living was far more important!