Liz Low recalls the days when children roamed free and took risks. By Liz Low
I loved climbing. I think it was about seeing if I could do it, feeling strong and coordinated and then having the reward of being up high and looking around, all by myself.
THERE was a beautiful pine tree down in the park near where we lived in Eaglehawk. Although the lower branches had been lopped off, there was a long one which drooped down over the embankment of the lake. We could jump and bounce on it, like a horse or a seesaw. It was also possible to climb up it to the trunk.
After that, it was just a matter of climbing up, twisting and stepping and pulling my way up through the branches to the very top. Here, the branches opened and spread to make a sort of sitting platform. Once up there, I could change focus from the trunk and branches to look out over Eaglehawk through the sparse pine needles. The lake lay below me. The Whipstick forest spread for miles in a grey-green canopy of small box trees to my right past the last street. The marshy overflow area reached out to the pine plantation behind me, and I could see some houses straggling along the streets: Napier, Victoria, Church. Looking down gave a bit of a whoosh to the stomach. The other kids looked very small from up there. The climb down was harder and more frightening, especially the gap where I had to hang from one branch while my feet felt for the next one below me. Coming down felt as good an achievement as the climb up, and I was really proud of that climb.
I loved climbing. I think it was about seeing if I could do it, feeling strong and coordinated and then having the reward of being up high and looking around, all by myself.
THERE was a beautiful pine tree down in the park near where we lived in Eaglehawk. Although the lower branches had been lopped off, there was a long one which drooped down over the embankment of the lake. We could jump and bounce on it, like a horse or a seesaw. It was also possible to climb up it to the trunk.
After that, it was just a matter of climbing up, twisting and stepping and pulling my way up through the branches to the very top. Here, the branches opened and spread to make a sort of sitting platform. Once up there, I could change focus from the trunk and branches to look out over Eaglehawk through the sparse pine needles. The lake lay below me. The Whipstick forest spread for miles in a grey-green canopy of small box trees to my right past the last street. The marshy overflow area reached out to the pine plantation behind me, and I could see some houses straggling along the streets: Napier, Victoria, Church. Looking down gave a bit of a whoosh to the stomach. The other kids looked very small from up there. The climb down was harder and more frightening, especially the gap where I had to hang from one branch while my feet felt for the next one below me. Coming down felt as good an achievement as the climb up, and I was really proud of that climb.
I liked being high up but was also intrigued by a tunnel. Bendigo had 'The Creek', which was a big open sandstone channel, about ten feet deep, that held the trickle of the Bendigo Creek. I knew it ran between the park and the conservatory, Post Office and law courts. It was exciting to think that the channel probably ran for about a hundred and fifty yards, three Olympic pool lengths, almost directly under the Fountain where we waited for the tram each day after school. Trams from four directions - Kangaroo Flat to Lake Weeroona, and Eaglehawk to Quarry Hill - crossed at the Fountain. So did the highways from Melbourne, Mildura, Shepparton and Echuca. This big, rambling intersection at the centre of Bendigo had a secret tunnel running beneath it.
I made a plan to walk through it. I'd do the walk one day on my way home from school , and decided that I'd have to enter the creek a couple of blocks back, before it was hidden and blocked by the buildings backing on to it. My sister and I usually walked from school to the Fountain, and on that day, I told her to go on and wait for me at the Fountain tram stop. I took the surreptitiously packed torch out of my satchel, which I then persuaded her to carry for me, and headed towards the creek. At a road bridge across the creek channel, I waited till I saw no one, slid over the stone edge and dropped on to the creek bed. I hurried off along the gently sloping stone pavement. The trickle of water ran along the pavement's central groove to my right. Now, the office and hotel buildings encroached on the creek, making a shadowy canyon. Drains carrying smelly water issued from the side walls. I hadn't expected these but it was easy enough to jump over them. There were some overlooking windows, and I hoped no one saw this girl in her Girton uniform, still wearing her beret and blazer, down in what was now clearly a drain. My eleven-yearold bravado left me, and I felt small and alone.
Now, about ten yards ahead of me, loomed the entrance to the tunnel. It was maybe about five or six yards wide and comfortingly high. I tested the torch and stepped forward under the roof. The half-light didn't last for long, and soon the tunnel felt completely different. The blackness was thick and nearly engulfed a tiny square of light far in the distance. It stopped me. I was frightened but still excited by the idea of walking under the road. I switched on my torch and was relieved by the small cone of yellow light. The darkness was heavy, and with the loss of daylight went the loss of background sound. I heard only my footsteps and, when I stopped walking, the faint trickle of the remnant creek on my right.
I learnt to be careful with where I shone the light and where my feet went. The water was black with shiny glints where the torchlight caught it. I moved on, occasionally stepping across a side drain. Soon the torchlight revealed a tributary drain that was bigger and deeper than those I had met before. It issued from a large brick arch, and I thought it probably came down from View Street. I scanned around with the torch to pick a taking off and landing point and did a short run up to jump across. I landed safely. It was a relief to get that over. I did not want the fright of slipping into dark smelly water and I did not want to re-appear with soggy shoes and socks, let alone a wet tunic.
The squares of light at each end seemed much the same size by now, so I would have been about halfway through and under the Fountain. I don't remember hearing the rumble of traffic. It was very quiet, very remote and quite frightening. I wondered if there were rats there, but rats didn't really bother me. I was more scared of coming across a lurking man but told myself that would be pretty unlikely, so far in. What I was worried about was slipping and falling. The walls were now dripping wet in places and that made the underfoot stones slimy. So I picked my way on towards the square of light, feeling anxious and flat.
The light grew bigger and bigger, the stones under my feet dried off, and it all began to feel easier. Finally, I switched off the torch and emerged self-consciously, as if l'd suddenly stepped through a dark curtain into the lights of centre stage, not knowing if there would be an audience. Luckily, there was no audience. The sandstone walls became warm and yellow again and the green of the big elms lining the creek stretched into the blue sky. I climbed up the iron ladder that I'd checked out beforehand, pushed through a gap in the ivy covered fence and stepped on to the wide asphalt park path as if l were just out for a stroll.
It was only a few yards to the park gates and there was the Fountain - and there was my sister, waiting with two school bags at her feet. It was good to be reunited with normality. Somehow, my beret had stayed on all the time and my shoes were clean and dry. Now it was time to go home feeling pretty pleased with myself.
I think that a lot of my physical risk taking was about getting an idea and then seeing if I could do it. I was able to judge what I could do safely. Perhaps there was a bit of luck on my side as well.
This is an extract from Eaglehawk Girl, a Free-Range Child, Liz Low’s memoir of a 1950s childhood, which was published by Brolga Publishing. Liz has a holiday house in Cape Paterson.
I made a plan to walk through it. I'd do the walk one day on my way home from school , and decided that I'd have to enter the creek a couple of blocks back, before it was hidden and blocked by the buildings backing on to it. My sister and I usually walked from school to the Fountain, and on that day, I told her to go on and wait for me at the Fountain tram stop. I took the surreptitiously packed torch out of my satchel, which I then persuaded her to carry for me, and headed towards the creek. At a road bridge across the creek channel, I waited till I saw no one, slid over the stone edge and dropped on to the creek bed. I hurried off along the gently sloping stone pavement. The trickle of water ran along the pavement's central groove to my right. Now, the office and hotel buildings encroached on the creek, making a shadowy canyon. Drains carrying smelly water issued from the side walls. I hadn't expected these but it was easy enough to jump over them. There were some overlooking windows, and I hoped no one saw this girl in her Girton uniform, still wearing her beret and blazer, down in what was now clearly a drain. My eleven-yearold bravado left me, and I felt small and alone.
Now, about ten yards ahead of me, loomed the entrance to the tunnel. It was maybe about five or six yards wide and comfortingly high. I tested the torch and stepped forward under the roof. The half-light didn't last for long, and soon the tunnel felt completely different. The blackness was thick and nearly engulfed a tiny square of light far in the distance. It stopped me. I was frightened but still excited by the idea of walking under the road. I switched on my torch and was relieved by the small cone of yellow light. The darkness was heavy, and with the loss of daylight went the loss of background sound. I heard only my footsteps and, when I stopped walking, the faint trickle of the remnant creek on my right.
I learnt to be careful with where I shone the light and where my feet went. The water was black with shiny glints where the torchlight caught it. I moved on, occasionally stepping across a side drain. Soon the torchlight revealed a tributary drain that was bigger and deeper than those I had met before. It issued from a large brick arch, and I thought it probably came down from View Street. I scanned around with the torch to pick a taking off and landing point and did a short run up to jump across. I landed safely. It was a relief to get that over. I did not want the fright of slipping into dark smelly water and I did not want to re-appear with soggy shoes and socks, let alone a wet tunic.
The squares of light at each end seemed much the same size by now, so I would have been about halfway through and under the Fountain. I don't remember hearing the rumble of traffic. It was very quiet, very remote and quite frightening. I wondered if there were rats there, but rats didn't really bother me. I was more scared of coming across a lurking man but told myself that would be pretty unlikely, so far in. What I was worried about was slipping and falling. The walls were now dripping wet in places and that made the underfoot stones slimy. So I picked my way on towards the square of light, feeling anxious and flat.
The light grew bigger and bigger, the stones under my feet dried off, and it all began to feel easier. Finally, I switched off the torch and emerged self-consciously, as if l'd suddenly stepped through a dark curtain into the lights of centre stage, not knowing if there would be an audience. Luckily, there was no audience. The sandstone walls became warm and yellow again and the green of the big elms lining the creek stretched into the blue sky. I climbed up the iron ladder that I'd checked out beforehand, pushed through a gap in the ivy covered fence and stepped on to the wide asphalt park path as if l were just out for a stroll.
It was only a few yards to the park gates and there was the Fountain - and there was my sister, waiting with two school bags at her feet. It was good to be reunited with normality. Somehow, my beret had stayed on all the time and my shoes were clean and dry. Now it was time to go home feeling pretty pleased with myself.
I think that a lot of my physical risk taking was about getting an idea and then seeing if I could do it. I was able to judge what I could do safely. Perhaps there was a bit of luck on my side as well.
This is an extract from Eaglehawk Girl, a Free-Range Child, Liz Low’s memoir of a 1950s childhood, which was published by Brolga Publishing. Liz has a holiday house in Cape Paterson.