Hamelin Harbour was another surprise. Next morning I proceeded on an excursion to that place, the train taking a quantity of wood-blocks for Melbourne streets. A mile and a half on our journey we arrived at the top of Hamelin Hill. A perfect panorama lay around us; the forest was at our back, while in front lay the Southern Ocean in all its grandeur, with little bays and headlands falling into its depths. The pier at Hamelin Bay, which is seen in the distance, a mile and a half off, is 1800 feet long. As we approached the bay, the homes of the people employed there and a charming little lake at the bottom of the valley, with Mr. Davies yacht and several pretty boats lying at rest on its placid bosom, added fresh charm to the scene. Arrived at Hamelin Bay, I took a walk down the long jetty, and the salt seabreeze from both Indian and Southern Oceans fanned my cheeks with a breath so fresh and bracing that I almost felt as if I had wings to my feet. Two large vessels were being loaded; the men seemed to be vying with each other in the effort to do the most work. Two very large and rather dangerous-looking rocks are not far off the jetty. I think one is called Mushroom Rock, and certainly it looks more like a huge mushroom than anything else but a rock. The other is Peak Rock. At one of the cottages the wife of one of the men was most hospitable, and made me a nice cup of tea and some toast, which I enjoyed after my early morning’s start.
On my return to Karridale, having some time to spare, I drove out about a mile to see the Sand Patch, which is a most peculiar place. It is a tremendous sandhill 100 feet high, a few miles from the sea, and has slowly moved inland a few inches every year. Tops of trees may be seen over the summit, looking like bushes. It is 2 miles wide, and can be seen a long way off at sea. Many sea-captains take their bearings from it. An attempt has been made to arrest its march by planting 70,000 grass roots in the direction it takes, so as to stop its advance, but whether the attempt will succeed will only be proved by time.
CHAPTER XII
Deepdene Caves—Margaret Caves—A Welcome Lunch—Cape Leeuwin.
The Deepdene Caves were my next place of call, Mr. Bruce kindly driving a party of us to them, and explaining everything to us in a most agreeable fashion. I enjoyed the drive so much that I was almost sorry to arrive. The approach to the caves is through a deep dell, where there is a brook, called Turner’s Brook. A very quaint old house stood on a slope, and the high cliffs in the distance looked picturesque. But I could see no sign of a cave, and when we came to a stop I was still looking for one. However, Mr. Bruce soon stopped the trap, and we got out and were guided by him through some dense bush up the hill until we came to a yawning gulf, like a gigantic chasm. I own to feeling a desire to turn back, without seeing the caves at all, so forbidding did the approach look, but pride came to the rescue. It would never do to say I was afraid, so assuming a valour, though I had it not, I followed my guides, who had now lit candles and also armed themselves with bundles of blackboy rushes. We entered the cavern, and I found the chasm not so terrible as I had anticipated. The first large gallery once had a number of fine stalactites, but some vandals have torn them away. The path now became very steep, and I had to cling to jutting stalactites. It was very dark, the candles had gone out, and the vapours we breathed were not exactly refreshing; but I had to go on—on—on. I was not sorry when my friends set light to the friendly blackboys and lightened the darkness. We were now in a splendid hall, roofed with icicles. There was an almost perfect opera-box, with lace curtains, carved arm-rest, pillars, and everything complete. The ground sounded rather hollow; I did not feel comfortable, so we moved on to another vast cavern, called the King’s Council Chamber. It was a grand sight. The light, of course, was imperfect, as the cave is of enormous size, fully 100 feet high. The stalactites hang from the domed roof like huge crystal lights, and shadows play about the walls, which look as if festooned with lovely lace. Great seats seem to fill the cavern in the middle. One could almost imagine a king and queen holding court there, with all their attendants, and being suddenly turned to marble. It was all very grand, but I felt glad when I was out in God’s sunshine again, with the blue sky over my head and the blue sea at my feet. Darkness and gloom, however grand, do not forcibly appeal to me.
Various other beautiful caves have been discovered comparatively recently, and named the Margaret Caves, in compliment to Lady Forrest.
No beaver ever made a more artful concealment of the entrance to his nest than the lip of the Wallcliffe Cave. Part some peppermints, push aside the flowing fronds of ferns and bend low, almost on all-fours, creep slowly for 30 feet, eyes bent to ground, and then, what a transformation scene! The fairy grotto of a pantomime, the lustrous lair of the King of Jewels in the Arabian Nights—these are the only similes that give even a prosaic idea of it. A circular chamber, richly bedecked by gleaming white stalactites, with mammoth bunches of grapes, fleecy wefts apparently as soft as lambs-wool, but solid as marble, and—upspringing from the floor of the chamber, as if greedy to clutch the fruit, yet frozen in making the grasp—a monstrous hand several feet long—these are just hints of what we see.
