Travel

Chalet School Pilgramage

Erica MurdochLeave a comment

It was the day before my 50th birthday and I peered through a cyclone fence covered in ivy. Behind the fence was a dilapidated yet still very grand chalet. We were in Austria where I was on a quest to seek out locations for a mythical place

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‘Why are we here again? What’s this place got to do with your school?’ asked my 12-year-old .

‘Not my school. The school I wanted to go too. The Chalet School.’

She shrugged. ‘Can we rent Segways? Much more fun.’

How do I explain the appeal to my family who I’ve taken to this beautiful lakeside village which is allegedly the setting for a fictional boarding school? And why does it mean so much to me? 
Go back to the child in outer suburban Australia in the 1970s. I was an only child and a bookworm. I preferred books to people, though longed to be part of a gang, a clique, a community. But I didn’t know how. The teammate Australian subcultures of the era; the surfers, the skinheads and the popular girls— I did not fit in to any of it. But one day, in the school library, I picked up a book, The School at the Chalet by Elinor M Brent Dyer. The cover sucked me in and then I became engrossed in the story of an English woman who starts a school in the Austrian alps on the shore of Lake Tiernsee. She is virtually penniless but somehow, she rents a chalet, acquires local pupils and the adventures began. Two generations of schoolgirls getting lost in snowstorms, eating delicious learning three languages, and having ski lessons. All this at a wonderful school, with lovely friends, understanding staff and a location far removed from my orange brick high school in suburban Melbourne.

Image Erica Murdoch

I set out to borrow, beg or buy more books in the series. Living in Australia, the books were hard to get. I read them out of order confused at the change of locations from Austria to the Channel Islands, South Wales and finally, back to the alps – Switzerland. A cast of characters had jolly japes with swimming galas, Christmas pageants, and battles between the prefects and naughty middles. Ever present was the spirit of the school Joey Bettany (sister of the woman who started the school) a wild tomboy who turned into a beloved Head girl, an author and mother of 14 children. Secondary characters- such as a best friend popped up at intervals and then never seen again. The author drew on stories, traditions and life in the different regions. Through these books, I picked up basic phrases in French and German, fragments of Swiss History and a knowledge of the Passion Play all without leaving my house. I longed to be at such a school and wondered if I could wangle it. I read and reread until I could parrot off German phrases, understand German menus and was familiar with the main attractions of Innsbruck and the Austrian Tyrol.

As years passed the books sat on my shelf and I never picked them up. But I couldn’t throw them out – too big a part of my life for that. 

Due to the wonders of the internet I found Chalet School fan groups. I was thrilled to find out that although the Chalet School did not exist, the Austrian locations had been pinpointed by fan-detectives as Lake Achensee district. The author had spent a couple of holidays there, and based on her love for the area decided to set it as the location for her books. Achensee was the Tiernsee. Jenbach was Spartz. There were a few name changes, but essentially the same place.

 Back to our trip.We arrived in Pertisau the same way as the Chalet school girls did. A train to Innsbruck, connect to Jenbach and then a short drive up into the heart of the mountains. We whizzed past tiny villages with frescoed chalets, fields so green they dazzled and finally arrived at the shores of the deep blue lake.
Our hotel was an Austrian dream- the staff wearing leather lederhosen and dirndl skirts. Outside, near the parked Segways, were 2 llamas, named Barack and Michelle(Olama) Our daughters patted their soft noses.

Image Sabrina Wendl – unsplash

We walked around a town now a modern place full of glorious chalets and window boxes full of flowers and hikers in sensible hiking boots who greeted us with the Austrian salute, Gruss Gott. The village was beautiful but lacking something, perhaps a school?

One day we headed for Geislam and the Dripping Rock – site of many a Chalet school adventure usually involving a near death by drowning, the victim rescued and dosed with schnapps to stop her getting a cold. There were no near drownings on our walk, but my husband and children had a quick dip in the lake and came out with chattering teeth and demanded hot chocolate and whisky.
‘Coldest water ever,’ my daughter said. ‘Makes you feel good though.’

We took a cable car up to the Barenbad Alpe and ate our sandwiches. Following on from one of the scenes in the books, we picked wildflowers, sang songs from The Sound of Music and I tried out my bad German on passing hikers.

Image Eren Goldman – unsplash

On my actual birthday, the hotel receptionist gave me a voucher for a shale oil bath (shale oil is produced in the area). Late that afternoon after a long walk and large afternoon tea with heavenly cakes and mountains of whipped cream I luxuriated in the black shale oil bath water. My skin had never been so soft, though the after smell was not unlike engine oil. But a small price to pay when I could lie in the tub, look out on the mountains and thank the Chalet School for leading me to this strangest of experiences.

It came to our last day and we were having our usual stilted conversation with our charming breakfast waiter. Clearing the table, he asked, ‘Are you coming to see the cows today?’

We were puzzled. Cows had not been mentioned as a tourist attraction in Pertisau. Pertisau is a place where you go to walk up mountains, eat huge amounts of food, brave the icy waters of Lake Achensee and do the same again.

On questioning we learned that each September the cows that graze up on the high alms, are walked down to the valley in order to be housed for the long European winter. The festival is known as Almbetreib and is an annual festival across Austria. We were intrigued. Cattle in our country are worshipped at the BBQ! As my husband is on Indian origin he could appreciate a little of this cow idolatry. Additionally, I recalled that this custom was mentioned in the early Chalet School books.

We wanted to learn more and considered it a fitting end to our Austrian holiday. Our children were harder to convince. ‘What’s the big deal about a bunch of cows walking down from the hills?’asked Miss Twelve. Miss Fourteen plugs herself into her iPod and looks bored as we explained the concept as best as we can.

At midday, we joined throngs of locals walking through the town and past the pastures, to the head of the valley. We passed people setting up deckchairs in the blazing noonday sun awaiting the appearance of the cows. We ate our lunch sitting on tree stumps in the forest. our children still plugged in to their devices. We talked to an elderly British couple who told us the biggest milk producers of the cows will wear a special yellow garland, and the lead cow of the procession a red garland and wreath.
 
Suddenly a cry goes up which translated to ‘They are coming.’ Our children abandoned their iPods and ran off into the distance so they could see the first of the cows. Lines of cows accompanied by schnapps-sipping , lederhosen-clad, gorgeous blonde giants.As the cows passed into the centre of Pertisau more and more people joined them so it became a joint procession. Sounds of cowbells jangling and cows mooing drown out our conversation. Temporary bars had been set up with the landlords offering the cow’s guardian’s liberal swigs of schnapps and enormous steins of beer. Our children played spot the best garland and wrinkled their noses at the fresh cow droppings.

As we reached the centre of town there was a brief respite as the cows, their guardians and the townsfolk gathered at the meadow. There were speeches, there was a schnapps bar and dancing and it was only 1.30pm on a Friday afternoon. Sadly, we had to leave as we had been advised by the hotel that our car transfer to the local station would have to leave earlier due to the cattle. ‘If you leave later, you may get stuck behind the cows and they won’t care that you have to catch a plane.’

Image Klemens Kopfle – unsplash

It could have been a very Chalet School adventure. Missing a plane because we got caught up in a traffic jam caused by a group of slow walking cows. Elinor M Brent Dyer would have liked that.

family · grief · Mothers · Mothers Day

Mum

Erica Murdoch6 Comments

An excerpt from an unpublished memoir, The Year of Everything by Erica Murdoch.

That night, I sat by the riverbank with Em. She slapped at the mosquitoes buzzing around her ankles. A fish jumped in the middle of the river, and a mopoke hooted its mournful cry. Our hurricane lamp was a beacon for moths. Our warm champagne tasted silky smooth and sweet in the darkness as we toasted in 1985.

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My Mother’s Day
family · Mothers · Mothers Day

My Mother’s Day

Erica Murdoch4 Comments

When I still had a mother, I would make a big deal of Mother’s Day.

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Buying the books, I thought she’d like, taking her out for Devonshire tea at a twee cafe in the Dandenong Ranges, or to a film I thought she might like. Looking back, I realise, with the benefit of hindsight, motherhood and late developing empathy, that we did what I wanted. I don’t recall asking her. Maybe I did; I hope I did.

In my case, on Mother’s Day just gone, I gave a month’s notice that I wanted to go away for the weekend -as a family. I would choose where and all they had to do was come along. I took the deadly silence to be acquiescence. Encouraged, I began to research and of course, picked a destination 4 hours away and chose to camp.

We drive up the Calder Highway, with our scruffy dog in tow. She seems confused but happy. When was the last time we’d gone away as a family – six years perhaps? Time and young adulthood meant those family trips were just a memory.

Nothing has really changed except there’s the new dog, new music on the playlist and we’re heading up to Sea Lake. The country unfolds before us. It is all sheep and wheat, browned-off paddocks, and rusty old cars.  A certain terrible beauty in it all. We eat at country bakery after country bakery looking for the perfect meat pie and vanilla slice. In Wedderburn, we explore the second-hand shops – one has a collection of chamber pots for sale. With great excitement, I was informed that there was an Australian Crawl vinyl album (Sirocco). We stop at the silo in Nullawil – the one of the farmer and his favourite working dog. No one is around except us and a friendly kelpie who materialises from nowhere gets many pats and then disappears when we leave.

Image – Isha Mistry

The earth is flatter and the sky is bigger out here. The nothingness and the flatness and the shimmering horizons mesmerise my young urban adults.

We pitch the tents, bang up against the camp kitchen so we don’t have to wander far to boil the kettle. Two little tents amongst the RVs belonging to the grey nomads. There are old vans retrofitted not as fancy as their shiny cousins. Little curtains flap in the late afternoon breeze, and there’s a vase of flowers on a camp table.

We drive out to Lake Tyrrell, the salt lake on the edge of town. Our dog sniffs at the salt and looks like a white wolf as she runs across the crusty surface. My daughters walk far out into the lake, silhouetted against a pre-sunset sky. It looks like they are standing in front of a water colour canvas- the largest one I’ve ever seen, ever will see.

Image-Erica Murdoch

We head to the Sea Lake pub, one of those with a first-floor balcony and clean, simple rooms. The local community wouldn’t let the pub die. We see some of the grey nomads from the caravan park, some girls in finery before heading off to the local debutante ball, and football teams dissecting the afternoon match.  The kitchen is closed as the pub is in between chefs, but there’s a food truck from Mildura selling kebabs at $20 a pop, and they go down well. My husband and I walk back to the caravan park, leaving our daughters to hang out with the debutantes and the footy players. We hunker down and listen to a podcast and (as usual) I drift off to sleep.

I am woken by a daughter bashing at the tent and asking, “Mum, why is the sky a pink colour at this hour?’

‘Must be the apocalypse’, I respond and pull out my phone to check.

I read a couple of Facebook posts and then the pink sky makes sense. I am out of my sleeping bag, so fast I surprise myself.

‘Australis, Southern Lights,’ I screech.

Image – Erica Murdoch

We stand looking at the southern sky. Shades of shimmer, pink, and red, and undefinable The stars sweep and tilt above – the Milky Way in all its smudgy glory. We stand there till it starts to fade and we are tired of looking at it through our camera screens. 

In the middle of the night when the Australis has faded to a pink tint, an argument breaks out a few streets away and there’s back and forth between a group of men. It dies down and I fall asleep only to be pounded awake by our unsettled dog with tummy ache. For her, I walk around Sea Lake at 4am through the empty streets. Happy Mother’s Day to me I think as we pace up and down. Appropriate really that I’m up in the wee small hours with a (fur) child – it’s what mothers do.

This middle-of-the-night adventure was probably an omen that the day was not to go as planned. Instead of a leisurely drive down the Silo Art Trail and winding up at the Stick Shed in Murtoa- our car conks out on a back road and we sit on the verge waiting for the RACV bloke. He arrives, diagnoses the problem, and says a new part is required and it’ll take a couple of days. He loads us, the car and the dog onto his truck and we bounce over the back roads to Charlton. He arranges a loan car- a 25-year-old Holden Astra that will go like the clappers – despite its rough-as-guts appearance.

Image – Erica Murdoch

He waves us off, saying, ‘I’ll text ya when it’s fixed. Probably three days. Memorable Mother’s Day for you eh?’

It sure was.

The Year That Was
Travel

The Year That Was

Erica Murdoch3 Comments

I’m back – back from the nonblogging wilderness, back to reality, back from the trip of a lifetime to Canada and the USA. This was going to be a travel themed blog post( and it still is in part) but now will be more of a summary of 2023. Highlight upon highlight- I know, it’s annoying. My best of in travel, culture, reading, and anything else I can think of.

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The Picnic
Uncategorized

The Picnic

Erica Murdoch6 Comments

I was recently invited to read a short story at a writer’s event called Melbourne Sub. This event gave writers the opportunity to read their work in front of an audience. The Picnic is based on an event in my family in 1902. Emma and her ma, Hepzibah, were my grandmother and great-grandmother, respectively. They were pioneer women living on the Hay Plains in far west NSW. They were kind, resolute and stoic. I am proud of them both. This is their story.

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