WE’VE driven just over three hours west on a pilgrimage to a tiny town at the southern foot of the Grampians that has become a mecca for foodies.
The GPS beeps and a computerised voice says: “You have reached your destination.” I look around. We’re in a field. A couple of sheep stare at us smugly, their mouths chewing the grass in lazy circles.
“This doesn’t look like the Royal Mail,” Mum says. “We’re lost,” my sister pipes up from the back seat, her head still in a book.
I can see the bulk of Mount Sturgeon rising above the trees, and the air smells fresh, free of the taint of exhaust fumes. “We’re not lost,” I say. “We’re in Dunkeld. The rest is just detail.”
I reverse out of the field and sure enough, five minutes later, we’re standing in front of the Royal Mail, a schmick hotel and restaurant – all sandstone blocks and polished wood surfaces. It dates from 1855 but has been beautifully renovated and offers award-winning accommodation. The now-famed restaurant is the only one in regional Victoria to be awarded three hats by The Age Good Food Guide, which also named the Mail’s savvy executive chef, Dan Hunter, its 2012 Chef of the Year.
In hindsight I don’t know how we got lost. Dunkeld (population 686) has only one major intersection, and the Mail is on the main road. But I had followed my GPS slavishly.
A helpful staff member at the Mail shows us to the cabin that will be our accommodation for the next two days. We’re staying at the historic Mount Sturgeon Cottages, which are part of the main complex, but tucked away down a gravel road in the middle of a lush paddock that runs right up to the mountain itself. I can see kangaroos grazing near the tree-line.
It’s rustic, bare-bones accommodation. I spend a good 40 minutes trying to get a fire going, reflecting bitterly that Bear Grylls does this all the time with nothing more than two wet leaves and a rock. After burning a whole copy of the Herald Sun, the logs finally catch and the cabin starts to warm up.
That night we dine in style in the Mail’s famous dining room. I’m usually distrustful of any menu where foam is a feature or where the chef appears to have used tweezers to construct the meal, but Hunter doesn’t disappoint. The food is excellent.
Our waiter tells us all the produce is locally grown. The Mail even has its own beehive. I think of those sheep in the paddock and order the salmon instead.
The next day we explore the town and enjoy a game of golf at the Grampians Golf Club down the road. It’s a pretty little 18 holes with ramshackle fairways growing organically out of the scrub. Searching for my ball in the trees gives me ample time to appreciate the native wildlife that all call the course home – grass parrots, currawongs, wallabies and even emus.
As the sun goes down we take a walk around the lake, stopping by the small pier to watch the red-gold light hit the rocky cliffs of Mount Sturgeon. Vistas like this, along with the food, are what draw people to Dunkeld.
Our final morning arrives in mist and a frost that eats its way through the doona. Usually I wouldn’t dream of going out in such weather, but there’s something I have to do.
An hour later I’m standing on top of Mount Sturgeon. The climb was tough, but not impossible (I noticed some mountain goats springing over the rocks, mocking me with their athleticism). The morning mist has cleared and, looking south, I reckon I can see all the way to the coast. Dunkeld looks tiny from up here, isolated and timeless. I sit down and listen to the silence.
