floreat pica

In recent seasons, us Picans have flown south for winter, what with cheaper airfares and less free time either side of weekends, now that we do this whole employment thing. So as the heavily laden Festiva pulls out onto the main south link roads I offer thanks to the NSW and Vic school holidays scheduling people . We’re heading off on a footy trip cunningly disguised as a 10 day rural Victorian sojourn. We’ll catch the North game on the 19th, head back out to the goldfields region for a few days, then back into the big smoke for the Anzac day clash.

This is our first southern inland road trip in a while, and it’s funny how the familar landscapes and subconscious distance markers come back so quickly. The Pheasants Nest servo. The Suttons Forest servo.The descent down the range into Yass and the rhythmical beat of the rest stops past the Barton Hwy turnoff. Brekky at one of these beats, amongst the everpresent morning Hume fog and, in between mouthfuls of weetbix, I struggle to get the ipod FM transmitter dealie to workaround the noise from far too many easy listening stations. Finally, Steve Malkmus and Panda Bear win through, and the latest Australian Idol dud is vanquished, at least for the next 100 kms or so.

Planning to stop at Albury, we find it a little more difficult than it used to be. It’s been bypassed. So there’s no longer the zig and zag and a zig into town to find food. And a last zag to find yer way out. Scoot along the stretch of dual carriageway just short of Wodonga where the old Morris Minor ran dry back in Easter ‘97. Damn you Chiltern, and your non-Sunday operating petrol stations!

We pull into Bright, where we spend the next few days walking along the Ovens and climbing up various haze covered vantage points. Find out later that it’s burnoff week across Vic. Not happy to settle for only seeing the top 20 metres of Mt Bogong, I play a very brief game of “spot the realistic Demons fan already securing their chalet”.

After getting our fill of autumn shades, we head out via Beechworth and its famous bakery, where we fight off busloads of greyhairs for the last custard tart. Wolfing down the spoils, the afternoon sun starts to descend on the fantasy footy trade open period, and as I mull over the possibility of trading Leuenberger up for Dean Cox, we luck upon the Wangaratta Information Centre. Or more accurately, its internet node. “Wangers” comes up doubly trumps, when on the way back to the car I nab a fantastic country check shirt from the local Salvos.

Tips and teams settled, we catch a bit of serenity (and a tonne of dust) at Bonnie Doon, where there’s now no evidence of a lake ever existing, and as such, no two stroke tinnie cranking up in the distance. Still plenty of powerlines though. Reminded how fantastic the drive amongst the tall timbers around Healesville is, particularly with the smoke from the burnoffs wafting through the canopy on sunset. Then south to Yarragon, via as many roads starting with C as possible, for a Friday night meal with Mrs Pica’s 94 y/o grand-dad. He’s a former dairy farmer, has no time for the footy, it’s a waste of good energy that would be better used on the land. We yarn over some vegetable stew and hot bread, and in the comfortable silences in between mouthfuls, I wonder what he makes of these Sherrin-centric journeys us northern Picans force upon ourselves each year.

This entry was posted on Monday, April 21st, 2008 at 4:50 pm and is filed under Round Five. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.