Bendigo

More roads, more signs, more conversation than you would believe. On Friday the car takes you to Bendigo, one effortless freeway of turnoffs pointing to bluestone townships and sandstone towns, memories long since. Landscapes join at mountain ridges, wave thickly toward horizons. More skies, more clouds, more treetops than you would believe. German opera declaims its takeover in rich expanses, trialling every life change for all that glitters. Songs saying more than they know, props that betoken the balance of existence, costumes breathing presence every second. More youth, more gold, more individuation than you would believe. Ovations, then scarved you walk down cobblestone streets home against cold night air, your voices arguing admiringly small moments on the big stage. More growth, more dreams, more beauty than you would believe. Come Saturday you breakfast in typical style then tour the stalwart bookshops. More classics, more bargains, more unbelievables than you would believe. The town has the whole weekend. Galleries with more Australiana than you can poke a stick at, nostalgic interviews with once and future Siegfrieds, or you can descend the central mine to unpack a steamer trunk of idylls. More bliss, more tears, more unrestraint than you would believe. Home again in your trusty car through darkness behung with odd lampposts of terra firma. To unheard-of talk about purity of storyline versus the obstructions of concept, conducted over late night repasts and your glass of best terra rossa. Betimes to sleep, bedtimes and wakefulness, and what then but. More light, more leaves, more bellringing than you would believe. Sunday in the world takes you and yours into ranging streets and postprandial unto corridors of Wagnerians, tense huddles of Wagnerites, and is there a difference as they file through the doors to an afternoon of Twilight, with promises of exiting in the dark. More longing, more lies, more betrayal than you would believe. Until wisdom might best be named the cold light of day, as you join the others still all kept in the dark. The orchestra never rests, flowing beneath your gaze like the proverbial stream, the mythic reef of gold, the ever-present conscious mind repetitious awake then asleep then awake again. Singers step forward as directed, their words a breath away from heaven or hell. More lunge, more looks, more comeuppances than you would believe. And six seven hours is over as you leave the onstage fires behind and scarved, coated talk the way home past conservatory and poppet head, of fairy tales and do they have psychology, of how opera graces you with unthinkable avenues. More lights-out, more leaving, more TuesdayWednesdayThursday than you would believe. While Monday for now is that day of settling for less, packing-up the print bargains, marking the turnoff to Malmsbury, your car making its way onto the ring road. More streets, more names, more becoming than you would believe.

Image: The entrance gates of the Ulumbarra Theatre (formerly Sandhurst Gaol) in Bendigo, venue for Melbourne Opera’s staging of Wagner’s Ring Cycle this autumn. Reading ‘A Hawk among Sparrows’, a biography of Austin Farrer, I was taken by a sentence in one his letters (1932) on page 91: “…[Hugh Lister] turning up suddenly in a car with his mother, and motored me gently round Otmoor and up to Brill, more light, more leaves, more buttercups than you would believe.”