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Malmsbury

A small Australian town

By Thomas Feng

July 30^th, 2017

Dear july,

I know you're half-way out the door but I wanted to express how grateful I am to have had the most peaceful day because of you.

We were in Malmsbury: a town of 612, best known as a stopover town in a day between the Macedon Ranges and Daylesford and for a youth justice centre hidden in the town's south-east corner. There was no agenda that day. Nothing happening in town. I just wanted to be out of Melbourne desperately; I wanted to be in a place I could stand still and feel okay about it.

I exited the train after the 90 minute journey wondering where I was going, how I would get anywhere, what the hell I was doing. The next train wouldn't be for another five hours. I instinctively turned to my phone, but the minimal phone reception meant I had to figure it out for myself. I was to be independent today.

I turned around the corner passing a pair of abandoned mill-stone buildings built in the 1850's characteristic to Malmsbury before following the path alongside Birthday Villa winery to the main town strip. There was a serious Victorian charm to this place. The main strip was home to a newsagent/post-office, a pub with the only working ATM, a pizza restaurant, a famous bakery/gallery and three vintage stores. I wanted to know everything there was to this town by the end of my time here.

I forgot cash and ended up heading into the pub for the ATM where a bunch of locals looked at me strangely: apparently people wearing a striped tee and black overalls didn't ever visit these parts. I was personally more taken aback by the sexist jokes displayed on the "men's board".

When I asked the bakery whether their pasties were vegan, they said I could take out the crust and eat the filling. I decided to go with a loaf of wholemeal sourdough. The lady felt sorry for me and ended up giving me a lovely bowl of hearty minestrone soup for free. "Please take some. It'll go well with the bread."

It was the best fucking sourdough ever. I would return just for the sourdough.

Malmsbury

Malmsbury

Malmsbury

the garden and the tennis club

I had wanted to visit Small Holdings cafe, a place which does wine, pasta and sells vintage items impossible to find outside of country towns but they were closed until Spring. The other famous cafe in town: Motobean apparently had excellent coffee but also the theme of motorcycles and cars. I hate motorcycles a lot so I ended up skipping on the coffee. It was time to visit the Botanical Garden.

The middle of winter meant the poplars and willows had already wept themselves bare, but this was a haven where more ducks and geese roamed than visitors. Historical poems about the town were told alongside points of interests on small green posts. Grassy knolls danced with the garden pond trickling down to the river.

The dishevelled tennis club next door was a reminder about how time can be so harsh on places like this: one generation is rarely replaced by the next anymore.

Malmsbury

Malmsbury

The disused Malmsbury Tennis Club next to the Botanic Gardens.

the viaduct

I followed the pond and soon I faced the famous viaduct: the main attraction of the town.

Viaduct: a long bridge-like structure, typically a series of arches, carrying a road or railway across a valley or other low ground.

Standing between me and the viaduct was the shallow murky river and a swinging rope hanging from a tree over the water.

Made of stone and brick, the arch bridge was built in 1861 and stood unfazed through 156 years of hard toil. I thought about fragility and how humans obsess over creating things which will benefit beyond our own years. Perhaps it is fragility which drives us to be selfless.

Behind the viaduct was a field where I found the stillness I was looking for: trees waltzing to the wind, unperturbed grass of green and gold standing stubbornly, and gentle trickling rivulets all around me.

Malmsbury

Malmsbury

Malmsbury

graeme

I decided my next stop would be the cemetery on the other side of town overlooking a gargantuan reservoir. I still had over an hour and a half before the next train and I wanted to roam through the residential streets.

I stopped by a house named Graeme on my way there. How do people ever become named Graeme? How do houses ever become named Graeme? Especially with that spelling. Houses with names fascinate me.

An aggressively tiny and territorial cavoodle wanted to bite me so I had to keep moving.

Malmsbury

trespassing

I paused on top of the railway bridge and saw the singular track bounding on to infinity. A cleared path between long brushes of wheat allowed me access on the tracks, but as I entered a wild fox stopped me in my tracks and I calmly stepped away. Today would not be a day for photos on old railway tracks portrayed whimsically in the movies. I continued on my way.

I accidentally trespassed on a family's millstone property, thinking it was the most beautiful front cemetery keeper's house I had ever seen. I had followed their car as it drove into the house. They must have thought what a strange thing indeed to have a person wearing a striped t-shirt and overalls trespass onto my house at this time of day. No wonder the horses had been startled by my entrance. After explaining myself, they led me through the back gate back onto the path into the cemetery.

I didn't take any photos there. I traversed the grounds slowly, seeing how the light crept through the redwoods and gravestones which told the stories of generations of families who have lived in Malmsbury and their numerous contributions.

On the edge of the hill bloomed a bed of roses. Everyone was at peace here.

Malmsbury

Malmsbury

The station and the tracks glowed as I returned to the station. As the train arrived, my winter blues dissipated into lavender sky hues. Thank you July. I'll see you next year.

With all my love,

Thomas

xxx

Malmsbury

Footnotes

I have been reading a lot of Richard Brautigan.

FootNotes

I have been reading a lot of Richard Brautigan.

© 2026 Thomas Feng

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