Frenchy takes on York

Does visiting somewhere as a child really count? I wrack my brain for any conscious memories of my 2011 day trip to WA’s oldest inland town of York. Surely, I took more away than a bag of sweets and a sunburn?

As I ruminate upon such things, I drive the Great Southern Highway and lose count of how many blooming wildflowers catch my eye with their scattered hues.

I have a typewriter sitting in the front passenger seat, a guitar taking up the entire back seat and my full-to-the-brim overnight bag cosy in the footwell beside me. It’s a relief to say I won’t be copping any “backseat driver” slack from my placid companions. The joys of travelling solo.

Due to my embarrassingly poor memory, I’m not quite sure what to expect of York and my weekend ahead. So to all intents and purposes, I’m a newbie.

I spontaneously booked this overnight staycation a few days ago when I discovered it was the final weekend of the annual York Festival, which is also the perfect time for canola-field spotting.

My travel journal has a long to-do list: although spontaneity was the intention (but can one intend to be spontaneous?), my type-A tendencies have easily resurfaced.

The enjoyable drive from Perth to York is between one and two hours, depending what roads you take, where you start, and how often you stop for photo ops.

Upon departing the metropolitan area and heading further inland, I immediately feel more tranquil, driving in my little blue Suzuki Swift to the soundtrack of Jackie Wilson’s 1967 album, Higher and Higher, past the Wheatbelt’s lush farming fields and native flora.

I often yearn for the open landscapes and rolling hills reminiscent of my English home county of Derbyshire, and inland Western Australia was the last place I’d think of to satisfy that fix. Yet here I am, and I’m smiling ear to ear.

And now that I’ve seen the region’s breathtaking fertile Avon Valley situated on Ballardong Noongar land, I can understand why explorers noted its resemblance to Yorkshire in England.

I arrive at 11am, which is later than I had hoped. But my pitstop at a local cafe was well worth the delay. A croissant is almost always worth a delay. There’s also no rush when you’re on your own schedule . . . another joy of travelling solo.

My accommodation for the night is at Settler’s House situated in the heart of town, just back from Avon Terrace. I am grateful the reception staff have fulfilled my early check-in request so I can shed my belongings and get stuck into small town shenanigans.

The room is basic, but it didn’t cost much. I’m more than satisfied and appreciate the view of St Patrick’s Church over the carpark.

When I step out onto Avon Terrace, the Courthouse Complex and the York Motor Museum immediately opposite me, I instantly sense the hustle and bustle as folk weave a web of motion along the path: a labyrinth of leisurely footsteps and murmured conversations.

I meet up with some friends who are also in town, and we make a beeline to the most anticipated destination on my hit list, the first place any travelling bibliophile scopes out . . . the local bookstore.

Barclay Books is situated in an immaculately restored heritage building constructed in 1897 as Council Chambers. It later became the headquarters for the York Volunteer Fire Brigade — a slice of history that remains present on the building’s exterior facade.

I stroll past a York Festival bunting-lined fence covered in a blanket of violet wisteria, inhaling the sweet honeysuckle scent as I step through the door.

The interior’s lofty ceilings naturally draw my gaze upwards as I imagine the comings and goings in various rooms, from vigorous municipal meetings to hurried fire-induced scrambling.

I find heritage buildings fascinating for their characterful antiquity and invisible stories. They are much more interesting than a sad-looking modern concrete box of nothingness (in my opinion).

Owners Clayton and Barbara have skillfully struck the perfect balance between new and second-hand books. The collection is incredibly diverse. One minute I’m holding a 20th century copy of The Age of Democratic Revolution by Robert Roswell Palmer, the next it’s Sally Rooney’s hugely anticipated new release, Intermezzo.

I rush to the classics section, hoping to score a Daphne du Maurier novel to sink my literary teeth into. On this front I am unsuccessful, but I do discover a second-hand gem entitled The Old Inns of England (1967).

As someone who has an affinity with bygone eras, something tells me I’ll relish in York’s characterful charm this weekend like a pot of tea brewing — its potency only getting stronger.

On the way to Old Flour Mill for a bite to eat, we take a detour and swing past Faversham House — one of Australia’s oldest privately owned colonial mansions. Its grandeur is breathtaking.

The manor was built by the pioneering Monger family in 1840, standing elegantly on 2 hectares of parkland gardens since the earliest days of white settlement in Western Australia.

Faversham House was named for the English birthplace of John Henry Monger Snr, who arrived in the colony in 1827, aged 28. Construction on the stately house was carried out in stages, beginning with living quarters as a semi-bunker due to safety concerns. It became a convalescent home for returned World War II servicemen and refugees before the Methodist Department of Christian Education purchased it in 1961 for the princely sum of 500 pounds.

In 1994, it was procured by private owners who turned Faversham into a luxury adults-only guesthouse — which it remains today.

The estate is listed with the National Trust and registered on the National Estate of the Australian Heritage Commission, ensuring the lasting preservation of WA’s most recognised historic guest manor.

My captivating historical tour of York continues when we reach the Old York Mill, built in 1892 and stationed at one of the main entry points to the township.

At first glance, the mill strikes me as a venerable establishment, but even more so when I learn of its past and how it functions today.

The roller flour mill was a key resource for the burgeoning wheat and grain export industry, vital in supporting the township’s development. Production ceased in 1967 after five decades, and today it operates as a unique space with a cafe set under 100-year-old trees, and retail offering of antiques, giftware and books. It’s an old soul with a contemporary purpose, to which I can oddly relate.

As I roam through the vast rooms brimming with antiques, I can see how easily one could lose track of time. Among the store’s riches, I catch sight of a pair of beautifully framed vintage floral prints, and a series of art magazines from 1965. However, with the next stop on my itinerary fast approaching, I resist the temptation to submit to the store’s enchanting spell.

We jump in the car and drive over the Avon River to Holy Trinity Church — one of the oldest Anglican churches in Western Australia — for a York Festival recital by the Silver Sands Guitar Quartet featuring four acclaimed classical guitar virtuosi - Jonathan Paget, Ingrid Riollot, Ethan Dorrian and Craig Lake.

I may not have as developed an ear as my accomplished music critic company sitting beside me on the pew, but I listen intently, and quickly become engrossed in the by turns exhilarating and meditative layers of sound.

Each note reverberates through the church, filling the space with a delicate interplay of melody, harmony and rhythm as the quartet perform a variety of music including that of acclaimed Australian composer Graeme Koehne. The Passing of a Black Star by Marian Budos is a personal favourite.

Holy Trinity Church is a must-visit for anyone in or passing through York, even when no performance or event is scheduled. The church itself is impressive, with exquisite stained-glass windows made in 1986 by artist Robert Juniper. The North Wall holds a piece of stone from the 14th century Choir of York Minster, which I visited in 2018. Echoes of home like a familiar melody from a distant land.

A short drive back into town saw me part with my companions and browse the Town Hall, home of the York Visitor Centre. Its opulent 1911 design commands the street and features a lovingly restored facade with ornate columns reminiscent of its Edwardian beginnings.

Inside the visitor’s centre area on the ground floor, there’s a leaflet on just about everything one could wish to do or see in the Wheatbelt region.

I fill my tote bag with a selection before wandering through to the main hall boasting polished jarrah floors and intricate ceiling details. I am drawn over to a weathered typewriter and read its cautionary note: “PLEASE BE GENTLE With this very OLD typewriter”.

Moments later, as I depart, I hear the startling sound of a young girl bashing the frail keys. Reminded of the sweet innocence of childhood, I chuckle to myself and walk out.

With only a few trading hours left in the day, I take myself on a walking tour of the main town strip and smell fragrant blooms bordering Lavender House tea rooms, browse abundant fabric offerings at Patchwork on Avon and get lost in the old mortuary which is now an eclectic antique store aptly named “The Grave Situation”.

Pantechnica Gallery piques my interest from afar, but my curiosity deepens as I explore its artworks up close. The gallery’s current exhibition, entitled Equinox, celebrates the changing of seasons and Rebecca Marwick’s alluring “Dreaming in Fields of Gold” mixed media piece is the exact depiction of the golden canola fields I hope to witness tomorrow.

With weary legs and ample thirst, I find refuge in The Imperial Homestead pub courtyard, sipping on an ice-cold apple cider and listening to jazz band The Stromatolite’s York Festival performance.

Musicians Simon Charles, Jeffery Harrold and Djuna Lee harmonise in sublime fashion. I can’t help but notice how everyone around me is completely immersed in the soulful melodies — particularly a man sitting directly in front, swaying to the beat in his dapper khaki blazer.

One hour felt like one minute and as soon as that “minute” was over, it dawned upon me just how drastically the temperature had dropped.

Keen to dodge avoidable sickness, I nip back to Settler’s House, chuck on a few more layers and return toasty as a campfire in winter. Speaking of which, I somehow landed a prime table spot next to a roaring one in the courtyard. This will be me for the night, I think to myself. Dinner, fire, book, journal, another musical performance . . . bliss.

A quiet melancholy fills the air as I watch the sun set behind a eucalyptus tree in the distance, glorious golden speckles ceasing to exist — nature’s reminder of the beauty in fleeting moments like this.

I seek extra warmth standing near the firepit and make conversation with a lovely older couple, Gail and Neville (and their sweet little dog Tilly). Nightfall approaches as our exchange continues, and before I know it I’ve moved onto their table, we’re having dinner together and I’m learning of their fascinating caravan travels throughout Australia.

I always knew York was small in size, but now I feel the closeness of its spirit.

I see it in the warm smiles on faces gathered around the fire. I hear it in friendly conversations between strangers. I sense it in the warmth of a community that knows each other by name.

The charm of this township, I’ve come to realise, lies not only in its aesthetic beauty and complex history, but in the connections that bind it together.

Neville tells me, “The bush has pleasures city folk don’t know” and this weekend, I am a city dweller discovering them for the first time. It’s truly magical.

As soon as The Dan Garner Trio wrap up their entertaining York Festival set at The Imperial, I walk back to Settler’s and turn in early — a decision I come to thank myself for the next morning when my alarm jolts me awake.

I let the frost on my windscreen melt before driving to the top of Wongborel/Mount Brown, which sits 342m above sea level and boasts a 360-degree panoramic view of York and its surrounds. When I pull into the empty car park, I realise I’m on my lonesome for this magnificent occasion.

Slowly but surely, the pitch-black night sky dotted with stars illuminates into a tangerine gradient as the sun rises over the Avon Valley, bathing Ballardong Noongar country in a soft, ethereal glow.

Undulating lands are covered in a blanket of haze, the air is crisp (it’s 3C), and I look out across the horizon to spot a flurry of hot air balloons rise over Walwalling/Mount Bakewell. The view is nothing short of spectacular. It’s indescribable. I realise the depth of this statement when I place Paige Turner (the typewriter) in front of me and a desolate page stares back.

As I take in the landscape’s remarkable natural beauty, I reflect on the deeply spiritual meaning of the land on which I stand, and its ancient dreamtime story the Ballardong Noongar people have been telling for thousands of years.

A tale of forbidden love, Wundig wer Wilura follows the story of two star-crossed lovers, Wundig — a young man — and Wilura — a young woman — who break tradition and have their souls banished to Wongborel (Mount Brown) and Walwalling (Mount Bakewell).

The Noongar story was adapted into a West Australian Opera performance at His Majesty’s Theatre earlier this year for Perth Festival. I was lucky enough to witness the enlightening spectacle and, standing here now, echoes of that powerful performance remain present in my mind.

The sun has risen, and so have the bags under my eyes. I head to Botanicalia on Avon Terrace for a caffeine hit in the form of a caramel cappuccino, but can’t help but stop at Avon Park on the way to bask in early morning birdsong and walk the famed suspension bridge.

I return to my temporary abode and squeeze in some guitar practice before freshening up and mapping out the rest of my day. It’s clear I won’t manage to tick everything off my list, but I don’t mind. It’s another excuse to come back.

Though to be sure I have successfully scratched my bookish itch, I return to Barclay’s for just one more look to take in its beauty and browse the shelves. It’s amazing how you can convince yourself you need to add just one more book on their ‘to-be-read’ pile. This time, it happens to be Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck, And Other Thoughts On Being a Woman”.

It wouldn’t be fair to travel all this way and not visit the one place that was etched into my impressionable young, lolly-obsessed mind . . . Penny Farthing Sweets.

I step through the doors and am instantly struck by wonder. The appeal that captivated me as a child more than a decade ago still lingers, as vivid and enchanting as ever. Strawberry creams, fizzy peaches, jersey caramels, coffee creams . . . my gaze dances across the room. In moments like these, it feels as if the magic of childhood isn’t lost forever but simply tucked away, waiting patiently to be rediscovered.

The gleeful atmosphere I feel in Penny Farthing Sweets shifts when I step across the street into the Courthouse Complex and Gaol and learn about York’s convict past and policing in the mid 1800s.

The juxtaposition between the high ceilings and ornate wooden decor of the courtroom and the harsh bounds of prison cells mere metres away, is enough to give anyone mental whiplash.

In the courtroom lay a laminated list of crimes that would have someone sentenced a convict and sent to York from England. The usual things you’d expect: grand larceny, petty larceny, assault; as well as others far more surprising: impersonating an Egyptian, setting fire to underwood and fishing in a pond or river.

I found it challenging to process the act of locking a fisherman up, or anyone for that matter, in a bare cell with no bedding, tables or domestic implements provided, for months on end. Although the building was intended as a short-term lock-up, it wasn’t always the case as evidence reveals some prisoners were incarcerated for lengthier times.

I read a silver plaque in silence: “The ‘native cell’ held Noongar offenders awaiting exile to Rottnest Island. Its plank-lined walls and stone cold floor stopped their attempts to dig their way to freedom. Iron collars were sometimes used to chain prisoners to the metal bar.”

Indescribable atrocities were committed here, and not the same kind of indescribable I felt at sunrise this morning. It was a gut-wrenching sense of being lost for words, reminding me of the feeling that drowned my thoughts when visiting New York’s Ground Zero.

It’s a stark reminder of how travel plays such an important role in shaping and broadening one’s perspective. To understand the complex tapestry of a society, we must immerse and educate ourselves in the histories of those who came before us, and foster empathy for the diverse experiences of others. Today, part of the property displays a collection of First Nations art and artisan products.

At my final destination, the Residency Museum, I encounter the piece de resistance of my educational morning, located on the last remaining section of the convict depot that operated from 1851 to 1874.

If the walls could talk, I’m not sure I could bear to listen.

The learnings of my tour warrant a story of their own, so for now, I shall leave you with this quote I read on a plaque outside of the museum and hospital precinct — the first to leave me utterly aghast.

“In December 1925, the building was opened as a maternity hospital and named Edith Cowan Memorial Hospital after Dame Edith Cowan who was present at the event. The Residency continued in use as a maternity hospital until December 1941 when a new maternity block was constructed nearby. Ballardong women presenting to the maternity ward were not admitted inside but had to give birth on the verandah. This was still the norm when the ward closed in 1963 with the opening of the new York Hospital in Trews Road.”

Plan A was to visit the canola fields before heading home but it seemed I had missed the boat — the small window of time where the crop stands in full bloom. The vast farming fields’ golden glow were no longer. But surprisingly, I didn’t mind.

I may not have witnessed the Wheatbelt town’s signature scenery, but I felt the warmth of its spirit and I drive home knowing I shall return, not just for the books or the sweet shop, but for the lessons that linger — reminding me of the depth that travel, even a short drive away, can bring.