In 1859 travelling became easy at Djerriwarrh Crk.

It is the 189th day of the year, a slip over mid calendar, and already I feel the year is excessively old and crabby. Perhaps it is the winter menace drawing its chill sabre? It may be that the day threatened to be mostly bereft of the Sun, hidden by the low curtains of grey that proposed rain and delivered snivelling drizzle.

On such days the temptation is stay anchored inside, listening to some Racmaninov or better still David Bowie blasting away from my near ancient CD Player. I like Bowie LOUD! No, make that DEFEANINGLY LOUD!! Especially him belting out 'Heroes' or 'Lets Dance' at the highest decibel screams possible, only constrained by the laws of Physics, much to the distemper of my often bewildered neighbours. Though, if you let lose that moody Russian genius, Sergei R and in particular his Piano Concerto No.2, it can in passages, shake the solid brick foundations of my house helping to add to its slow dissemble. Hearing the late Geoffrey Tozer (1954-2009) coax the ivories in rapture of the trebles and clefs, sharps, flats and minors of the composer's inspiration are divinity. Hearing this sound treatise affirms a view I once read that whilst mathematics may be a universal language, (and a completely baffling one at that I might add), music is the Universe's conscious heart. Upon this deep and meaningless thought, I recall some lines from 'Introspection' by the Australian Poet, Chris Wallace-Crabbe (b.1934):

Have you ever seen a mind
thinking?
It's like an old Cow
trying to get through the Pub door
carrying a guitar in its mouth...

Maybe there is a yim of validity here? On such a day heavy with the murder of cold, it can seem logical enough to be in the doldrums. After all it is July in Australia and such a month is clearly at odds with the image of the ochre land - sun drenched days, brilliant primary colours, vastness and exotic creatures. So I resolved, after I recovered from the shock of waking to a temperature gauge that read 2C, to cease this 'paralysis by analysis' nonsense and go for a plod in defiance of the subjugation of an indoor July day.

My journey saw me hop on a country train service and head for the township of Bacchus Marsh, located 53 kilometres/33 miles west of Melbourne and just over half an hour's journey time from my home. This town is one of my favourites and has been since my childhood when I would go fishing for Yabbies (freshwater crayfish of sorts) with my Old Man. To catch a Yabby all you need is a short tree branch attached to a piece of string. The string in turn is tied to a thumb sized piece of meat or chicken. You would then dangle your woody line with its bait into a still, murky part of a Creek that is well shaded and quiet. The Yabbies would be found there, crawling along the bottom, acting as Creek cleaners in the dim by picking up any dead bits of unfortunate bugs, small animals etc. that had, after a suitable period of decay, settled on the rivulet's floor. However, Yabbies find fresh meat or chicken irresistible too and amazingly, a piece of bread smeared with vegemite for reasons that confound me to this day. The trick is to be patient; my Old Man was a genius at this skill. Once you felt the Yabby clutch at the morsel with its elongated claw you would wait a second or two as it brawled to free its prize. Then, with a sharp jerk of your wrist, haul the line neat from the water and onto the bank. Sometimes the Yabby would let go and plop back into the water, no doubt unimpressed at being briefly galthumped into a new dimension. Other times it would fall, still clutching its lottery, onto the ground nearby. You had to be careful handling Yabbies, as with such crayfish, their right hook or their southpaw claws can be furious if it landed on your flesh (as I still have the scar from my childhood as proof). Once you had your quarry you would place it in a tub of water and as compensation you would drop the piece of meat or chicken back into the tub as a sort 'last meal'. I will not elaborate as to how you cook them (I do not want to distress delicate kiddies or scaredy-cat adults) except to say, it is much like any crayfish you cook, you boil them! Their taste is delicious, a sort of sweet tasting, sinewy meat. Particularly good with Billy-damper and a cold glass of Beer: three for each Yabby, I reckon is a good rule of thumb.

Bacchus Marsh itself, sits on Kurung land in a valley between two rivers, the Lerderderg and Werribee which over thousands years has deposited rich fertile soils. The area was notable as a place where the Indigenous custodians would hold regular corroborees and spiritual ceremonies celebrating the dreamtime stories and legends. Within a dozen or so years of the arrival of Europeans most of the Indigenous population had shamefully perished by buckshot or disease or been driven away by rapacious land use. Those first Europeans had in fact arrived in 1836 with a steady influx after that, especially a Captain William Bacchus and his son, the imaginatively named; William jnr. who squatted on huge land holdings with their Sheep. A town was soon established and named after Captain Bacchus with the Shire of Bacchus Marsh proclaimed in 1871. The railway line (that eventually continued onto Ballarat) came through in 1887. Gradually, a number of market gardens took hold that exploited the rich alluvial soils deposited by those two main Rivers (the Lerderderg & Werribee) that flanked the town. These endeavours continue to this day along with a host of agricultural and light industrial activity. You will see a number of enthusiastic Fruit Seller stalls on the eastern access road from Melbourne which is called, 'The Avenue of Honour'. This grand boulevard runs for a few kilometres leading into the town and is garlanded by a couple of hundred near 100 year old Dutch Elm trees planted in 1918 to honour those who had served in the First World War (1914-1918). On the trunk of each tree is the name, rank, age and unit of a soldier who served. Many of those names shown were killed in action and their ages distressingly young. It is a beautiful testament to that fatal war and the Elms provide a magnificent shade on a hot summer's day

As I alighted from the too comfy and warm train at Bacchus Marsh railway station, I was mugged by the cold air, low clouds and teased by a light drizzle. "Bloody winter!" I harrumphed, as I pulled up the collar of my coat and started tapping out my plod steps as I gallivanted to the bridge across Djerriwarrh Creek, some 8 kilometres/5 miles distant to the east of the town at a place called Anthony's cutting. This cutting is a huge man-made Earth slice that brings the main highway from Melbourne down into the valley. It is also a notoriously dangerous and winding road. It is being replaced nearby with a massive and hugely expensive multi-lane fly-over type bridge: one of the largest civil works in the State at present. I have done the walk to the bridge a few times before and for the first part it is a easy left foot/right foot alongside The Avenue of Honour. This used to be a part of the main road into Bacchus Marsh but is much quieter traffic wise since a Freeway bypassing the town (though with exits into the town) to the north was lain down. As always, I was deeply moved by the inscriptions on the Elm trees and I would often stop and pause to read the terse name plate. Reaching the cutting, umbrella deployed with rain pelting down, I tramped up the steep cutting, cussing as usual at the traffic! I really should not be there either - it is very, very dangerous on foot with those screaming maniacs in cars breaking land speed records. Once I had climbed the cutting and was out of the valley it becomes a lot easier and safer. Soon enough I reached the site of the bridge, head dry from the deft deployment of the umbrella which attracted some toots and hoots from the passing traffic. Well it does look odd I guess (in a previous life it was a beach umbrella with all the colours of the rainbow). It kept me dry and downwind it helps propel me along at plod pace plus and a half. That is in between tripping over as I try to control its spinnaker like effect. Also doubles as a walking stick.

Djerriwarrh Creek Bridge is built of sandstone and erected in 1858-59 for the then Board of Land & Works to assist travellers heading into and from Bacchus Marsh. It has a single decoratively inscribed arch with substantial piers and plinths at each end in rusticated masonry. The Bridge remained in use until the 1960s (undergoing major maintenance and restoration works in 1963) until a new Highway was built through the cutting nearby and currently used by traffic monsters.

At the site of the bridge there are a few rudimentary picnic tables, open fire places and benches wanting of a bit 'tlc' and a lick of mission brown paint, well any paint for the matter. There are no facilities, so any ablutions required are 'au-natural' and very public. You can access the bridge (and still drive or walk across) by coming off the highway if in a car. Though you run a gauntlet of fast travelling drivers who are intent on whacking you in the clacker, who to a vehicle, completely disregard the 80 km/h or 45 mp/h speed limit. The Creek beneath the Bridge is mostly dry, which enables access to admire its fine under-bridge workmanship. There are also a few short walks, quite rugged and very steep, that would challenge even the fittest of plodders. For me, the Bridge is a historical treasure and a reminder of previous labours.

Suffice to say after a few hours exploring, the nearby traffic noise defeated me and I engaged in a slow retreat back down the cutting and into Bacchus Marsh. I swear never to do the walk again, such is the traffic danger. But I suppose I'll come back again soon enough. Maybe next time on a skateboard. Going up the cutting will create issues. But coming back I will be able (if I can stay upright) hoon along. Imagine passing a car on a skateboard doing 80! I'd just smile and try to hang onto my umbrella.