Hanging at the Rock

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   Gheorghe Zamfir – Picnic At Hanging Rock .mp3  
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It was the start of my week away and I was feeling good, intrepid even. I was out on the open road, with limited plans and an open heart. As I was driving down (or was it up?) a highway in rural Victoria I saw a sign that said “Hanging Rock” and I kind of lost my shit.

“Hanging Rock! HANGING ROCK!! OH MY FUCKING GOD!!! WHEEEEEE!!!!!!” I squawked at myself as I made a hasty detour. 

You see, like many Australians of a certain generation I studied the film "Picnic at Hanging Rock" for high school English. Actually, I’m fairly certain I studied it a couple of times. One of my friends even managed to study the film and/or book every year of our five years in high school. And seeing as our friendship group was particularly witty, a few of us spent many a moment in high school collapsing on a hills or flights of stairs crying out “Miranda? Miranda!!”.

We thought this was hilarious. Retrospectively, perhaps it wasn't.

But the second I saw that road sign I channelled my inner teen and set about the parklands with a giant grin and a camera. I was devastated that my best friend from school wasn’t there to share it with me. I tried calling her, but there was no mobile reception. Seriously. It's hardly surprising that Miranda got lost.

So there I was. Sticking out like a sore thumb with my boots, stockings and trench coat – winding my way up to ‘The Summit’. It wasn’t very crowded, but as usual I felt extremely ill-equipped as I passed people with their jeans, sensible coats, runners/hiking boots, backpacks and water bottles. But I wouldn't be me if I wasn't turning up to places in completely the wrong outfit.

(inappropriately attired)

Surprisingly, I rather enjoyed the experience. I felt a bit like Elizabeth Bennett when she was exploring the lakes district in inappropriate clothing, stopping every so often to exclaim “beautiful!” while her hair looked windswept and cheeks rosy. Except that unlike Elizabeth Bennett, I was unchaperoned and had a Hyundai Getz at my disposal.

(windswept and rosy cheeked – or as Mr. Darcy would say ‘brightened by the exercise’)

And I have to say it was beautiful. Which was a nice surprise seeing as I was only really there for laughs. And yes. As I climbed to the top I did have an overwhelming urge to remove my stockings and boots in an affront to Victorian modesty. But I didn’t! I only removed my trench coat.

Although I have to confess, and please, don’t be too disappointed with me – but I did wish I had a ‘special someone’ with me on this trek. I mean, how awesome would it have been to get a photograph of myself flung across these stairs, arms stretched out gasping “Miranda? Miranda!”?

DSC00912(the answer – so awesome)

Turns out there are some things that you need a partner in crime for. Or at least someone to look at you quizzically while you fling yourself to the ground and force them to take photographs of you. But alas, on this occasion it was not meant to be. We shall just have to be content with the sweet sounds of the pan flute, and imagine the awesomeness that could've been.


2 thoughts on “Hanging at the Rock

  1. Jealous ++++++. Did you find Miranda or at least the dumpy one? Remember that body building book we found in high school that had picture of what looked like men but were ladies in bikinis on hanging rock. Roberta I believe her (his?) name was…

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