yea-mansfield

Had Juan Antonio Samaranch ridden the Goulburn Valley High Country Rail Trail he’d certainly declare it the best rail trail ever. And he’d be right. I’m with Juan Antonio one hundred per cent, even though neither he nor I have ridden every rail trail in this state. But of those I’ve ridden the GVHCRT is the best with a capital B.

Wendy hasn’t ridden a rail trail before so she has to agree. Rock agrees. The agreeable Rowan would surely agree. Nick too. We’re all on Juan Antonio’s side.

We postpone breakfast in order to eat at the only likely-looking eatery in town, Marmalades, in the heritage-listed old Purcell grocery building, wooden counters, grooved stairs to the basement, shadowy figures down there in the dark if the door blows shut. The chef stuffs up the orders and the bill, but no one’s complaining: the food is first-class.

So is the trail from Yea to Molesworth. It heads south-east out of town, crossing the Goulburn’s flood plain on a sweeping causeway and several bridges, sedges left and right, then climbs steadily through lush pasture to the 201-metre long Cheviot Tunnel. Three workers perished in building its horseshoe arc.

Approaching cyclists can see clean through it from half a kilometre away, like looking through a reverse telescope. Yet in the middle it’s dark enough that the walls on either side disappear and only a fixed stare at the far opening sustains the ability to stay on the straight and narrow.

Our descent to Molesworth is not as dangerous as it was for locomotives a century ago, a sign telling us some came to grief at Suicide Corner near Sheepwash Lagoon.

The trail is less magnificent after Molesworth but still offers plenty of variety and a long tough drag up to the Merton Gap, at 400m the high point of the ride. No gastronomic high point is to be had, the greasy spoons in Merton and Bonnie Doon are wasted diversions.

The magpies from Bonnie Doon to Maindample swoop in pairs and prefer me with my special magpie-attracting helmet, aggressive eyes stuck to the rear and several tie-on antennae warranting close inspection. Visual cues failing miserably, I resort to yodelling, screaming and loud expletives to deter them. I recommend this method.

What it ride! Grand company, as perfect a day—clear blue skies, no wind, 25 degrees—as one could wish for, and Juan Antonio’s first-choice trail to follow through scenery fit for Rowan’s wank-bank.

Rock on.