In Pursuit of Oz: Along the Great Ocean Road

(Further to The Spirits of Melbourne)

In the months spent planning and replanning our Australian adventure, there was a period when I was determined to explore beyond the cities under my own steam. The determination was serious enough for me to obtain an International Driving Permit.

Securing the permit itself was easy. The challenge arose when I discovered that the address on the IDP ought to match the one in my passport. For someone whose banking career had involved being periodically flung across the Indian map, this was no small undertaking. The addresses adorning my various identity documents displayed admirable geographical diversity and could easily have qualified for a government exhibition on the theme of Unity in Diversity.

After a mixture of pleading, paperwork, and one bold stroke of luck, the two addresses were finally persuaded to agree with one another.

As the departure date approached, however, the tour itself began shrinking. Days disappeared. Distances were compressed. Melbourne suffered more than most from these surgical revisions. Once a full day had been allocated to the unmissable Great Ocean Road, the committee concluded that joining an organized tour would be the wiser course. Nearly six hundred kilometres were to be covered, much of it through winding coastal roads and rolling country.

The official reasoning was impeccable. The person driving would be concentrating on the road and miss much of the scenery. The matter was therefore settled.

The “Deluxe Minibus” collected us from our temporary abode on Collins Street in Melbourne. The driver-cum-guide was an amiable young Australian of Chinese descent who introduced himself as Daniel.

We were the first passengers aboard. There were two seats beside the driver. R promptly dispatched the two most excitable members of the expedition to the frontline, while she and V occupied the first passenger row behind us. They would serve as the calm observers, and, if necessary, the diplomatic corps.

While collecting a few more tourists around the city, Daniel pulled over on the left side of an intersection. The road he intended to take required a right turn.

He glanced at me and smiled. “Do you know why I’ve parked on the left, and left the right lane clear when I need to turn right?”

I had no clue.

“Because of the trams. Melbourne rule.”

This nugget of local intelligence struck an immediate chord. Sensing an eager audience, Daniel proceeded to share further secrets of Australian motoring, each accompanied by detailed accounts of the astronomical penalties awaiting those who failed to observe them. By the time he finished, I had begun to suspect that Australian traffic authorities regarded fines not merely as a deterrent but as a significant branch of national industry.

We left the city and joined the Princes Freeway heading west. The road markings immediately caught my attention. Every lane, turn, merge, and exit appeared to have been planned with almost architectural precision. Overhead electronic signs displayed speed limits inside glowing red circles suspended above each lane. Beyond the suburbs, the signs mostly read 80, occasionally dipping lower before rising again.

Daniel declared that Australian speed limits were unnecessarily conservative.

T asked whether we might see kangaroos.

“Oh, you’ll see roos,” said Daniel. “Dead or alive.”

She informed him that she would greatly prefer her first kangaroo to be alive.

Daniel confessed that he had once hit a particularly large kangaroo while driving at night.

“What happens then?” she asked.

“You’re supposed to move it off the road.”

“And did you?”

He nodded gravely.

“It took a while.”

The silence that followed suggested that none of us wished to discuss the logistics further.

Beyond the suburbs, Melbourne gradually loosened its grip upon the landscape. The freeway stretched westward through country that seemed built on a generous scale. Scattered gum trees stood across the plains like old custodians of the land, their pale trunks glowing in the morning light. Between them lay broad expanses of pasture rolling gently towards horizons that never appeared to arrive. The road felt less like a route and more like a communion with space.

Kilometres slipped beneath the wheels while a magnificent sky staged an uninterrupted performance overhead. Great scalloped clouds drifted across vast stretches of blue, their edges illuminated by shafts of sunlight. Rain showers appeared without warning, only to vanish moments later. Silver skies became golden. Golden skies turned silver again.

Then, near Highton, a rainbow emerged.

It rose from the freeway and swept upward across half the sky with such startling brilliance that we momentarily forgot whether we were photographers or spectators. Cameras and phones hovered uncertainly in our hands while the rainbow burned above the landscape with impossible clarity. We both agreed that neither of us had ever seen one quite like it.

As it happened, nature was merely warming up.

Beyond Warncoort, passing showers drifted across the countryside with cheerful unpredictability. Again and again, vivid rainbows materialised above paddocks and grazing land, lingering for a few minutes before dissolving into sunlight. Each seemed as luminous as the last. It was as though Australia had decided to present us with our lifetime allocation of rainbows in a single morning.

Our first pit stop arrived near Colac Memorial Square.

While we stretched our legs, Daniel requested that T AirDrop her collection of rainbow photographs to his phone.

“I need evidence,” he explained. “Otherwise, nobody believes me when I advertise the tour.”

Bella Hope Coffee provided precisely the sort of restorative fuel demanded by travellers who had already experienced several meteorological seasons before morning tea.

Having driven through rain-washed countryside and a succession of improbable rainbows, we were eventually halted by a temporary traffic signal guarding a sharp bend in the road. Beside it stood a solitary road worker in a fluorescent vest and white hard hat. Surrounded by gum trees and damp forest air, he appeared perfectly content with his assignment.

The signal remained stubbornly red. The road worker examined what looked like a blade of grass in his hand, then devoted his attention to a fragment of bark above one boot. Several minutes passed.

Daniel remarked that the fellow was probably earning five times more per hour than he was for demonstrating boredom at such a professional level. By the time the light finally turned green, T had become convinced that the operator was deriving personal satisfaction from our predicament.

As we rolled into Port Campbell, Melbourne was three and a half hours behind us. The Great Ocean Road now lay ahead, but not in the usual manner. Rather than joining the westbound pilgrimage from the city, we would travel the route in reverse, beginning at its distant western reaches and tracing the coastline back towards Melbourne. The arrangement would keep us one step ahead of the crowds converging on the famous lookouts along the coast.

At last, we arrived at the first shrine of the day. We spilled out of the minibus at the parking lot and followed a path cut through dense, wind-sculpted shrubs. The small coastal tea-trees had a gnarled, swept-back shape. They were swaying merrily in unison with the wind and thin drifting rain.

At the end of the walkway, the landscape suddenly opened onto the London Arch. Separated from the mainland and encircled by the Southern Ocean, it stood in solitary defiance of a sea that seemed determined to erase it. Dark clouds drifted overhead while restless waves surged and boiled below, wrapping the base of the arch in flashes of white. The scene possessed a raw, elemental power that no photograph had managed to capture.

Magnificent yet strangely vulnerable, the arch appeared less a permanent monument than a temporary truce between land and sea, as though the latter were patiently negotiating the terms of its surrender, one wave at a time. Its former name, London Bridge, hinted at a different shape. Until a few decades ago, a second span connected it to the mainland, but its collapse served as a reminder that along this coast the ocean is not merely scenery but an architect working to very long deadlines. Standing above the cliffs, with the wind in our faces and the distant thunder of the surf rising from below, one could not help but feel very small indeed.

We lingered for as long as the weather would tolerate us, breathing in the salt-laden air, enduring the occasional wisps of rain, and taking photographs in every conceivable combination of groups, couples, and individuals. It was here that the electronic viewfinder of my otherwise faithful Nikon chose to stage a brief act of rebellion. The rear LCD remained perfectly functional, but the viewfinder refused to cooperate.

The malfunction became apparent when we handed the camera to a fellow traveller armed with a Fujifilm for a family group photograph. Like most photographers, he instinctively raised the Nikon to his eye, only to discover that it had unexpectedly abandoned that mode of operation. Those of us brought up on viewfinders tend to compose first and consult screens later.

In return, he entrusted me with his Fujifilm and requested a portrait against the backdrop of the coastline. By now the rain had grown more determined and I was keen to complete the operation swiftly. Unfortunately, the controls of this alien species proved far more mysterious than I had anticipated. Buttons appeared where no buttons ought to be, and dials seemed to perform functions known only to their designers.

I eventually succeeded in taking a few photographs. Whether I succeeded in taking good photographs remains a matter of considerable doubt. Judging by the look on his face when he reviewed them, the verdict had already been delivered, and it was not in my favour.

We arrived at our next halt, Twelve Apostles, which was at a short distance from the Arch. The Apostles, though considerably fewer in number than their name suggests, presented a spectacle no less arresting. Beyond the wind-swept coastal scrub, pale limestone stacks rose from the Southern Ocean beneath a sky where rainclouds and patches of blue contested possession of the day. A strong wind swept in from the ocean, carrying the scent of salt and the distant roar of surf. Long lines of swell advanced from the horizon and broke into white turbulence around the stacks, the sea tracing and retracing the contours of the rock as it has done for millennia.

T had her own encounter with the elements on the walk back from the lookout. Armed with a 7-Eleven umbrella, she soon discovered that the local winds regarded umbrellas as little more than suggestions. After a brief but unequal struggle, the contraption inverted itself with remarkable efficiency, possibly as a precaution against its owner being carried off like a reluctant paratrooper.

Not far from the lookout, Daniel deposited us at 12 Apostles Helicopters, just behind the Visitor Centre near Princetown, and recommended a scenic flight over the Shipwreck Coast.

The suggestion immediately triggered a family summit.

The price was high enough for us to suspect a tourist trap, yet tempting enough to make walking away difficult. The expedition divided itself into two familiar factions: those who wished to see the coastline from the air, and those who preferred to keep both feet—and the family budget—firmly on the ground.

Eventually, the restless prevailed. Having watched our discussions with great interest, the rest of the minibus promptly booked their own flights.

Accommodating the passengers called for placing the family in two separate sorties. With headsets fitted and life vests strapped on, we crossed the helipad and squeezed into the smaller of the two helicopters. Painted bright red and accommodating just four people, pilot included, it looked less like an aircraft and more like a determined dragonfly.

Its rotors blurred into motion. The cabin trembled. Then the ground quietly detached itself from us.

A sharp bank towards the Southern Ocean followed, and the helicopter surged seaward. The view expanded with astonishing speed. Below us, the ocean glowed in shades of turquoise and deep blue-green. Long ranks of waves marched in from the horizon before exploding into white surf against the cliffs. Rain showers drifted across the coast while shafts of sunlight wandered over the landscape, illuminating one headland and then another.

From the ground, the Twelve Apostles appeared as individual landmarks. From the air, they became part of a much larger story. Limestone stacks, arches, caves, and sheer cliffs stretched along the coastline in an almost unbroken procession. The Shipwreck Coast seemed less a collection of attractions than a vast geological manuscript still being written by the sea.

The pilot’s commentary arrived through our headsets, but I confess that much of it was lost to the spectacle unfolding outside. Every turn revealed another improbable arrangement of ocean, cliff, and sky. Forty kilometres passed in what felt like minutes.

By early afternoon, admiration of scenery was beginning to lose ground to more practical concerns. Several hours of rain, wind, cliffs, helicopters, and geological contemplation had left the expedition increasingly receptive to the idea of lunch.

Daniel steered the minibus towards the Great Ocean Road Wildlife Park at Lower Gellibrand. The plan appeared straightforward enough: eat lunch, stretch our legs, and perhaps make the acquaintance of a few iconic Australian residents. The latter possibility immediately threatened the former. Kangaroos, wallabies, koalas, wombats, and other creatures were all within easy walking distance, and we were on the verge of postponing food in favour of our first encounter with Australia’s most celebrated citizens.

At this critical moment, Daniel intervened.

Leaning towards us with the air of a man sharing classified information, he advised that we order lunch before a large coachload of tourists arrived and laid siege to the café. Once that happened, he warned, both tables and food would become matters requiring patience and diplomacy.

Wisdom prevailed. We secured a table in a cosy corner of Clean Cravings and turned our attention to the menu. The mood improved immediately. After days of travelling, R was delighted to discover a selection of vegetarian dishes substantial enough to require actual decision-making rather than negotiation. The staff guided us through the options with cheerful efficiency, and before long the table was occupied by sandwiches, salad bowls, hot cacao, and coffee.

Whether it was the sea air, the accumulated excitement of the day, or simply the fact that hunger remains one of the finest seasonings known to humanity, the meal exceeded every expectation. The sandwiches were crisp, generous, and deeply satisfying. The coffee restored order to the universe. Conversation slowed, then briefly ceased altogether. For a few contented minutes, the expedition devoted itself to the serious business of eating while the wildlife waited patiently outside for its turn.

And we finally met our first kangaroo. Then the second. Then the third. Before long, the census collapsed completely. Most were young, amiable creatures, perfectly at ease with the steady stream of visitors arriving with pockets full of approved snacks and good intentions. They hopped about in their distinctive two-plus-tail-legged fashion, displaying none of the caution one might expect from wild animals and every sign of having successfully trained humans to serve as mobile feeding stations.

We met the celebrated koala too. Perched high among the branches, it regarded us with the air of a creature whose appointment with indifference had just been interrupted. When not contemplating the futility of existence, it devoted itself to scratching its head with admirable concentration.

There was also a white kangaroo, perhaps an albino, who seemed to keep largely to himself. R took a particular interest in the fellow and spent several minutes feeding him. The emus, peacocks, and other residents received due attention, but the surprise package of the afternoon turned out to be the llamas. They appeared genuinely interested in meeting us, which raised an obvious question: why do kangaroos and koalas receive all the publicity while these personable creatures remain largely absent from Australian postcards?

In the distance, we spotted a mob of free-ranging kangaroos. Unlike their counterparts near the visitors, they displayed a refreshing independence and showed no interest whatsoever in the proceedings behind them.

After about an hour, it was time to bid farewell to our non-human acquaintances. Daniel, having used the interval to acquire a strategic nap, emerged refreshed and full of purpose.

“Now,” he announced, “get ready for the spectacular drive along the sea.”

For once, he was not overselling the experience.

The road wound south through the rain-washed folds of the Otways beneath a sky that could not quite decide whether it wished to be silver or gold. Patches of sunlight drifted across the hills, only to be replaced moments later by passing showers. Then, shortly after Apollo Bay, the landscape changed.

The ocean arrived.

For much of the day we had travelled through forests, farmland, and rolling countryside. Now the Southern Ocean drew alongside the road and refused to leave. To our left stretched a vast expanse of blue-green water, darkening towards the horizon where sea and sky merged into a hazy boundary. Long swells advanced in endless procession from distant latitudes, rising gradually before collapsing against the beaches in bursts of white.

The road twisted and climbed above rocky headlands before descending again towards secluded coves. Around each bend waited another view. Sometimes the sea lay far below, restless and immense. At others it seemed close enough to touch.

It was one of those rare drives where the destination ceased to matter. The road, the ocean, the shifting light, and the weather combined into a spectacle that demanded attention at every turn. Before long, the coastline had rendered conversation largely unnecessary.

A little after four, we rolled into another improbably picturesque coastal town: Lorne. Unlike Apollo Bay, where we had merely passed through, we stopped here and wandered down to the beach. For a while, we occupied a row of benches overlooking the water, watching sulphur-crested cockatoos strut about with the confidence of local celebrities. Before long, we found ourselves following them along the foreshore, attempting to persuade our cameras to capture something of their personality.

By five o’clock, we reached the Memorial Arch and lingered there for a while. Having spent the day travelling its length, it felt fitting to pause beneath the monument and reflect upon the Great Ocean Road itself.

Standing there, it seemed impossible to regard it merely as a route through magnificent scenery. The cliffs, stacks, arches, and beaches around us were shaped by nature over millions of years through the relentless work of wind, rain, and the Southern Ocean. The road, by contrast, was shaped by human hands over a handful of arduous years.

All day the ocean had been displaying its immense power. We had seen cliffs undermined, arches broken, and limestone formations slowly reduced to sand. Yet beneath the Memorial Arch, another thought suggested itself. The men who built this road had themselves returned from witnessing a different kind of destruction: the devastation of war. Having seen what human beings could do to tear the world apart, they chose instead to build something.

The Great Ocean Road is therefore more than a scenic highway and more than a war memorial. On one side stands the ocean, endlessly reshaping the coastline; behind it lies the memory of a war that reshaped countless lives. Between the two runs this remarkable road, carved from rock and hardship by returned soldiers determined to leave behind a monument of creation rather than destruction. The cliffs may one day fall, and the sea will continue its patient work. Yet the Great Ocean Road endures as a reminder that while destruction may be the more dramatic force, creation is often the more enduring one.

Ahead lay Melbourne once more, and beyond it, Queensland.

(Continued in All Quiet on the Gold Coast)