French Island
by prudence on 23-Aug-2011
This is an intriguing corner of Victoria. Bigger in area than its bay-mate, Phillip Island, French Island is much less developed (no metalled roads, no public transport, one shop, a tiny school, a couple of places to eat, a handful of options for accommodation), and much less densely populated -- only 78 permanent residents, plus about 30 people who have weekend places there.
To get there from Melbourne, take the train (change at Frankston for Stony Point), and then "cruise" (boats always cruise these days) across to Tankerton Jetty with Inter Island Ferries.
Near the ferry are parked the cars of locals who are just going away briefly. A little further away are those whose owners will be back in a couple of weeks or so. Further away still, you have a disreputable bunch of never-budges whose humans look like they might be gone some time.
French Island does not really do "dramatic" scenery. But the saltmarsh, mangrove, wetland, and woodland are very appealing. There are swans and ducks, lots of very visible koalas, tiny greenhood orchids, and wide, blue views across the water to Phillip Island and the Really Big Island. It has rained at lot here recently, and the rich green of the fields sets off the pale yellow of the flowering wattle beautifully.
If you arrange to be racketed around in Lois's bus, you will end up at her little farm. This is like something out a story-book you read as a kid. A manic set of chooks, ducks, and geese follow you everywhere, as if you're Old McDonald; there are adorable bottle-fed lambs; there's a paddock full of horses and cows, who all come galloping up when visitors arrive; there's even a sociable ferret.
The building that houses the old chicory kiln again looks like something that could have been frequented by Enid Blyton's child heroes. Behind the kiln is arrayed a vast collection of French Island memorabilia, plus a set of tables and benches where you're served a Devonshire tea. You get lots of local jams to choose from, and can have a chicory drink, for old times' sake (and I have to say this tasted a whole lot better than I remember the "Camp Coffee with chicory essence" of my childhood). As you tuck into your scones, a bright, shiny rooster picks his way hopefully among the tables.
If you linger to catch the last boat back, you can watch the sun slowly sinking over the water in front of you, and listen to the chirrupings and peepings of the birds settling down for the night. Beautifully tranquil.
We should have bottled that tranquillity to sniff at on the way home, as the railway network had succeeded in conjuring for our edification another of the drug-crazed and raving travellers that we seem so often to happen upon on the suburban network. No harm done. But it was a cold little reminder of what it felt like to come out of the story-books, and confront the nasty adult world outside.
To get there from Melbourne, take the train (change at Frankston for Stony Point), and then "cruise" (boats always cruise these days) across to Tankerton Jetty with Inter Island Ferries.
Near the ferry are parked the cars of locals who are just going away briefly. A little further away are those whose owners will be back in a couple of weeks or so. Further away still, you have a disreputable bunch of never-budges whose humans look like they might be gone some time.
French Island does not really do "dramatic" scenery. But the saltmarsh, mangrove, wetland, and woodland are very appealing. There are swans and ducks, lots of very visible koalas, tiny greenhood orchids, and wide, blue views across the water to Phillip Island and the Really Big Island. It has rained at lot here recently, and the rich green of the fields sets off the pale yellow of the flowering wattle beautifully.
If you arrange to be racketed around in Lois's bus, you will end up at her little farm. This is like something out a story-book you read as a kid. A manic set of chooks, ducks, and geese follow you everywhere, as if you're Old McDonald; there are adorable bottle-fed lambs; there's a paddock full of horses and cows, who all come galloping up when visitors arrive; there's even a sociable ferret.
The building that houses the old chicory kiln again looks like something that could have been frequented by Enid Blyton's child heroes. Behind the kiln is arrayed a vast collection of French Island memorabilia, plus a set of tables and benches where you're served a Devonshire tea. You get lots of local jams to choose from, and can have a chicory drink, for old times' sake (and I have to say this tasted a whole lot better than I remember the "Camp Coffee with chicory essence" of my childhood). As you tuck into your scones, a bright, shiny rooster picks his way hopefully among the tables.
If you linger to catch the last boat back, you can watch the sun slowly sinking over the water in front of you, and listen to the chirrupings and peepings of the birds settling down for the night. Beautifully tranquil.
We should have bottled that tranquillity to sniff at on the way home, as the railway network had succeeded in conjuring for our edification another of the drug-crazed and raving travellers that we seem so often to happen upon on the suburban network. No harm done. But it was a cold little reminder of what it felt like to come out of the story-books, and confront the nasty adult world outside.