A Lighthouse and the Little Cottage.

 

It is a treat to have a two-week break in the middle of the school year. Since teaching high school, this time of the season, the winter months, can be breathtaking, so I manage to travel somewhere in this beautiful state in search of new sights, unusual surroundings, intent on moving outside the familiar. I’ve discovered this activity does wonders for one’s general sanity, well being and somehow creates balance to a life that tends to tip too far in a particular direction. At least for a few days, moving out of the neighborhood is not the key to happiness, but can provide a rest from the banalities, routines, and vagaries of one’s day-to-day existence.

Arrived in Apollo Bay after sunset amid a rainstorm.

The Great Ocean Road is truly a sight to behold, only the beginning of a week of views to excite the senses and move the soul.

Our cottage is a lovely bed and breakfast. A two-story, re-furbished house…polished wooden floors, wooden staircase leading to a loft-like bedroom overlooking the rolling green hills reminiscent of Sussex in England. The countryside is vast, with cows grazing down towards the east and sheep appearing like tiny white dots to the south against shades of brown and black while shadows travel leisurely across the landscape. Yet, as I stand at the window, the outstanding quality about this environment is its silence. After the rain had stopped, however, the faint sound of the ocean’s surf gently echoed in the distance.

Entering the cottage for the first time, strangely, on the wall next to the fire-stove, hangs a large print of one of my favorite J.W. Waterhouse paintings: a little girl dressed in white leans over amongst ancient ruins to smell red and white roses in black vases. I call this “strange” because this was the first Waterhouse painting I ever purchased, giving it to my grandmother as she spent her last months in a small room in my mother’s house. She loved this painting, and it seemed to make her happy as it brightened the room. At first startled because I had not seen the image for years, later it became a kind of comfort, creating a warm feeling in the house.

We left the cottage around eleven the following day, driving for only 30 minutes or so to arrive at the light station.

As luck would have it, the morning was clear and crisp with the sound of the surf and the smell of salt in the air.

The Cape Otway Light Station had been built in 1848 by orders from the prime minister because several shipwrecks had occurred in the area.

On the grounds inland from the white tower stood the old Head Light Keepers Residence, constructed in 1857; not far away was the Assistant Light Keepers Residence, which was turned into a café for visitors like us. The assistant Residence also was used as a schoolhouse for the children, and one can actually feel the history as you move from room to room, almost hearing the joyous laughter of the students as they learned their lessons and played precariously next to the cliffs.

As an amateur artist, I had brought my sketchbook along, sitting in the café and gazing at the magnificent lighthouse, a beacon of hope for lost sailors. Sipping my coffee and drawing with care, a local man walked up behind me, not saying a word. His presence did not bother me as I continued to draw the lighthouse. Once finished, he said, “Most people take a few pictures and leave, grumbling about the admission. It’s good to see someone take the time to “look” at this wonderful place. It’s not a bad picture either, mate.”

I think it was the 19th-century art critic and writer, John Ruskin, who advised that to truly experience meaning and the beauty of the sights you come upon when traveling, one should sit still and write about them, draw the landscapes, the buildings, the objects of interest, and the experience will be that much more meaningful and memorable. Sketching the lighthouse did indeed create, personally, something akin to “being in the moment”…my appreciation for the place grew the longer I lingered and studied its details, nuances, and history.

Later that night, at home in the cottage, I stirred the fire, adding more wood, causing the flames to come back to life. Showered, clean, fed, warm and tired, I jumped into bed between washed crisp sheets to then fall into a deep sleep with nothing but the scent of the sea and sweet silence.