The Last Free Day

Our last Saturday in Victor Harbor was sunny and warm.  We walked downtown past Adare House with its fancy turrets and gracious green grounds.

Behind the fairytale castle was an adventure camp complex, inhabited by a rotation of school camps.  From our front verandah we were privy to the sound of teenagers, with varying degrees of willingness, participating in organised sports and teamwork exercises. On the weekends they were replaced by weddings and fancy functions in the fairytale castle.

Adare house wasn't the only grand residence in Victor Harbor.  From the main street we looked up to Mount Breckan, grandly overlooking the town and the bay from its spot on the hill.

Mt Breckan was at one time one of the largest residences in Australia, with 38 rooms and a floor area of 1800 square metres.  It was built by Mr Alexander Hay who used it as a summer residence until his death in 1898.  The Hays were not a fortunate family: the house burned down 10 years later and was not rebuilt due to not having been adequately insured.  Mrs Hay and her daughter left for England on the SS Waratah, which promptly sank and took them down with it.  Mr W F Connell resurrected the house as the Mt Breckan Club, a high-end guest house (I presume a bit of rebuilding went on before that), and then the building served variously as a training and rehabilitation base for the Air Force, and a base for the Bible Society.  By 1994 it had lapsed into ruination again, only to be restored in 1996 to be used in part as a private residence with the balance being a function centre and fancy accommodation. The view from the main street was as close as we got, but it's on my too-look-at-more-closely list for the next time we stay in Victor Harbor.

Everything was happening on Saturday morning in Victor Harbor.  We had an enormous breakfast at the pub, checked  out the markets, and cast our eyes over a convoy of old cars that were taking a break in Victor Harbor before heading to Clayton's Bay for lunch.

I consider myself a connoisseur of old cars following my exposure to the National Motor Museum.  This one was my favourite of those on offer at Victor Harbor.

By the time we'd finished the cars the Clydesdales had arrived and the first load of tourists was climbing aboard the horse-drawn tram to Granite Island.

I didn't catch the tram.  My legs are in perfect working order (apart from the small matter of a malfunctioning toe, but that is on the mend) sufficient to propel me out to Granite Island under my own steam, should I choose to go there.  Which I didn't, preferring to catch the Cockle train down the coast to Port Elliot instead.

The train leaves Victor Harbor through the last set of manually operated railway gates in South Australia.  Which is every bit as exciting as it sounds.

From the train we watched surfers huddle in rafts out on the swell, waiting for their chance to catch  a wave.  Overhead the shark plane made routine passes up and down the coast, but the sharks must all have taken Saturday off: there were no sirens, the surfers took polite turns catching waves and retained all their limbs.

From the train.

 

Port Elliot was busy with tourists, including a very tired fellow who had been misdirected to the Youth Hostel and had inadvertently walked half way to Victor Harbor before he turned around and walked back again to ask directions of the lady at the railway station.  We listened to her set him straight, and the three of us heaved a collective sigh of relief when he turned right at the main street.  "All he has to do now is walk three blocks," said the Railway Station Lady.  "He can't miss it then."  And that was the last we saw of him, so I assume he made it safely to shelter and refreshment.

Our original plan for the Cockle Train ride (apart from riding the train beside the sea) was to farewell the Fleurieu by having Devonshire tea at the cafe beside the Post Office.  This was problematic because a) we were still digesting breakfast and had serious concerns about fitting anything else in and b) the cafe was closed (possibly permanently, which will be a grievous loss to Devonshire Tea aficionados  such as ourselves).  On the premise that gentle exercise aids digestion we walked up and down the main street of Port Elliot, popping into such shops as piqued our interest.

A shop full of all sorts of things, from trash to treasure and everything in between.

Including dolls with starey eyes.

We went back to the railway station to sit in the shade and wait for the train.  I made a friend.  He was the silent type, didn't say a word the whole time and hung on tight to his luggage.

Sunshine, waves, shark plane, surfers, etc etc. went by in reverse order on the way back to Victor Harbor.  The tourists oohed and aahed at the views and a new railway volunteer tried very hard (and failed) to look cool and not the slightest bit thrilled by having a job on the railway.  In no time at all we had landed back on the platform at Victor Harbor and, grateful for having had the forethought to bring our hats, plodded back up the hill to home.

Past the railway bridge, built in 1907 and one of the first reinforced concrete railway bridges built in Australia.  The sight of that exposed reinforcing brings our engineer almost to tears when he walks past, and causes him conniptions (and breath-holding) if he is in the train as it passes over the bridge.

 Dog was happy to see us, Kitty brought us a dead and partially disemboweled rodent as a gift, and thus passed our last free day in Victor  Harbor.  Alas, our next few days will be filled with work and the chores related to ending a house sit.

And walking the dog, of course.

And picking up disemboweled rodents, more's the pity.