DON'T bother to hurry - drive straight from Melbourne, by the scenic route, and you'll reach the Twelve Apostles in just half a day.
I was amazed. Not that the distance was especially long (just short of 170 miles), but I had expected that the most famous coastal highway in Australia, the Great Ocean Road - which celebrates its 75th anniversary this month - would be nose-to-tail w
ith charabancs slowing us down to a furious growl. But the road was smooth, virtually empty, and the views were enticing.
So where were all the tourists? Perhaps we were heading along the wrong road? My wife checked the map. Our route was perfect: Geelong, Anglesea, Aireys Inlet, Apollo Bay. And, yes, the gentle southern ocean was still to our left. The road was clear and the sun was breaking through the clouds.
"Someone up there seems to like us," said my wife, tracing her finger across the map, while adding: "Keep heading for Blanket Bay." Yes, there really is a Blanket Bay - a stone's throw from Paradise (check the map if you're feeling cynical). Throwing stones, though, is off the agenda. But skimming pebbles across the tranquil purple waves, having parked your car at one of the many scenic laybys, might kill a few minutes while you scan the horizon for dolphins or whales.
A series of beaches, amber brushstokes between the headlands, gave the seascape to the west the look of a cloud-tumbled painting by Monet. Now and then, the gentle swish of a passing car, or the squeal of gulls, was the only sound as we nosed our Toyota out on to the highway.
And then the surprise. The distant gleam, almost a dazzle, as if the sun was dancing its light from a thousand diamonds as big as the Ritz. It was nothing less than reflected light from the polished roofs of myriad cars in the acres of car park that was the Twelve Apostles' back lot.
How did they get there without us spotting them en route? Had they travelled from Adelaide? Theirs was a mystery even more baffling than the fact that the Twelve Apostles appeared mysteriously to be seven.
Where were the others? "It's just arithmetic," chided my wife when I mentioned this. "You're missing the point."
And she was right. The seven Apostles, dramatic sea stacks, like ancient giants turned to stone, cast amazing shadows along the sand where they stood like gladiatorial lookouts guarding the cliffs.
We walked through the specially constructed underpass spanning the Great Ocean Road itself, and via a boardwalk, on to the viewing deck perched at the edge of a jutting spur of grassy clifftop. We've all seen the photographs in magazines, taken at sunset, from perfect angles, spelling romance, as the mystical rocks transmute the sun's rays into golden spikes and the ocean itself is a glassy prism.
Here, in reality, long before sundown, and caught in the mêlée of tourists vying to snatch prized pictures, I felt the same awe. This was one of those special moments when sensation eclipses hype.
There were hundreds of people here, marvelling silently. What we were staring at was geology, whittled by wind and southern rain, and abetted by time. Thousands of years of wind-blown force had propelled these waves against the soft rock. A force that continued, carving new arches through the limestone, forming fresh sea stacks, tumbling the old.
Above us, helicopters, like dragonflies, nosed their flight paths along the coast, a spectacular vantage point. A temptation beyond my resistance. For A90 (£40), I indulged in a flick-of-the-eye 15 minutes' worth of thrills above one of the planet's natural wonders, flying at 1,500ft. The indentations of the coast were like worn-out teeth for miles on end, licked by the froth of the incoming tide. No wonder they call this the Shipwreck Coast.
When we drove away, I still felt I was flying all the way past brooding Warrnambool, skirting a string of deserted, picture-postcard beaches, then straight to Port Fairy, our bed for the night. There was something odd about the town: the spectre of Belfast. A ghost from the past: the Belfast bakery, the Belfast Ice and Cold Storage Works, the oddly named Belfast Bobcat B&B. At Clonmara Guest House (more Irish echoes, and terrific food and comfort), Doug, our eagerly welcoming host, explained that Port Fairy had once been called Belfast. Some of the residents now kept the name as part of that 19th-century legacy.
At the Caledonian Inn, founded in 1844 and the oldest licensed inn in Victoria, a band called The Borderers were belting out The Proclaimers' greatest hits. The Caley's steaks seemed ridiculously cheap (a 20oz sirloin for £7.50), and the beer was served in vats. Here they'd invented the verb 'to hooch'.
If you don't fancy inhaling smoke in commercial quantities, you can opt instead for Wishart's on the Wharf, named after James Wishart, who came from Belfast (surprise, surprise) and who founded the town in 1810. The original whalers built pretty cottages, which now nestle under the pine trees near the fishing fleet in the sheltered bijou harbour. But the miracle of Port Fairy was its greenness amid the baked brown of surrounding drought-lands. A blip of grass, a desert oasis.
On our departure the following morning, Doug cajoled us to return for the Port Fairy Folk Festival. "The biggest and best folk music gig in Australia," he said.
But I had booze on my mind. We were off to Australia's 'red centre' - no, not to Ayers Rock in the heart of the outback, but to Coonawarra across the state border in South Australia, where cabernet sauvignon and shiraz run in the bloodstream. We reached Penola in less than three hours, staying the night at Georgie's Cottage, a luxurious, private, self-contained B&B just a few minutes' drive from world-class vineyards.
The cottage had everything you could crave: a glass of bubbly in the fridge; rich, dark chocolates; a feather-soft bed; and a fabulous breakfast, eaten outside beneath the orange trees on the patio.
We toured the wineries, old and new, trying the John Riddoch cabernet, almost black-red, produced by Wynns, the original vineyard on the block; a delicious four-year-old cabernet-shiraz at nearby Katnook; and an adventurous blend of cabernet sauvignon and sangiovese at the restaurant at Hollick Wines. That night, we dined at Chardonnay Lodge overlooking this red-ridged Garden of Eden. The amber sky dissolved into rose, like a great pinot noir.
The next day, we would visit the Naracoorte Caves world heritage fossil site, and tour Penola's heritage centre, hearing about the St Andrew's night shenanigans, the roistering Burns' night suppers and the Caledonian pipe band. Perhaps it's the music that makes the vines grow.
Fact file Australia
Qantas (08457 747767, www.qantas.co.uk) flies from Glasgow to Melbourne (via Heathrow) from £730 return. The Clonmara B&B (www.clonmara.com.au) costs from £60 per night for two. Georgie's Cottage (www.georgiescottage.com) costs from £75 per night for two. Contact www.greatoeanroadhelicopters.com for helicopter flights. For further information about holidays in Australia go to www.australia.com
