Freedom is everywhere

Melbourne is such an outstanding place to live for so many reasons. Coffee is the unequivocal, first and foremost reason. I am not sure why people in other states don’t know how to make it, but they just don’t. It’s like all of the baristas that were any good at distilling and frothing a decent brew have somehow found their way here.

Food, and I refer to both the standard and the variety, comes in a close second. You can find almost any type, fresh and fast, on any budget, at any time. Cook it yourself or have someone much more qualified do it for you. The choice is yours, quite literally. From spicy dumplings, to a juicy steak, hearty Italian cuisine, burritos and churros. All awaiting our visit to the inviting ambience of one of thousands of eateries, all over town.

And the list goes on; from the shopping, to parks and gardens, the galleries, the markets, and the book nooks, it’s an artisan’s vision. But one of the true highlights also has to be how, in less than just two hours, you can be outside of the city, enjoying the enchanting and peaceful paradise that is regional Victoria.

Over the weekend, we made a getaway. We packed the car with a change of clothes and a few bath items, grabbed a magazine, a book, turned off the power at all the sockets, shut the blinds and hit the open road.

In Winter, as you escape the hustle and bustle at the core of Melbourne, and crossover its outer fringes, you can feel the air around you crystalise. All of a sudden, there is space to breathe again. The clarity is stark and visceral.

The road stretches out ahead, as if to show you the way, and the land rises in mounds for a time and then falls flat and lies low, a dewy blanket spread out from the edge of the road to the edge of the earth.

A smattering of homesteads and holiday villas dot the rise at Daylesford, ranging from quaint to colourful, with the ghostly and profound Convent building at its peak, and the main street like a valley of gift shops and day spas. There is an uncompromising chill and a thin ice that coats the morning and melts away as the day delivers a divine and pure sun. Melbourne’s passion for all things edible extends well passed its bounds into its sister townships, where someone who lives down the road grows the produce and you pay good tourist dollars for a plate (or glass) of local pride.

The green is vibrant and the trees out-populate the people, random and rampant. There is a lake of still mud glass. White and spotted ducks are chased by dogs that relish in time spent off their leads. We stay with an old friend, and the welcome mat lays out long after we have shared and laughed over homemade pizza and eggs, sunny-side up. On Sunday afternoon, we take the scenic route, stopping to buy a sourdough Vienna from a baker down an alley in Trentham. Traffic hums and the road home seems somehow narrower.

As we drive back over the Bolte bridge, I catch a sweeping view of our mecca. It glows a hearth as the sun sets, light dancing off the glass windows of sky scrapers.

The weekend is an affair to remember. But my city beckons me home with a love that is as push and pull as a high school romance. Commitment coincides with wonder. The wind rushes in the front window and out the back. Freedom is really everywhere.