Friday, January 13, 2012

The dark shroud of progress

One after another, the buildings and street-scapes of Melbourne are demolished, gutted or significantly altered in the name of progress, a sterile justification almost universally synonymous with commercial imperative. Here's a short missive in response to 'Windsor gets final go-ahead' in The Age: 
 
The changing face of Melbourne; no building, iconic or otherwise, is safe or secure against the onslaught of "economic arguments". So called heritage values are no match for cold hard numbers representing developers' predictions of material gain or loss. As is so often the case, a government department named to give the impression that it manages issues in our interest [ie Heritage Victoria on behalf of the People of Victoria], in fact becomes little more than an agency that lends an air of process and respectability to the greed and self-interest of parties pursuing personal gain. 

 
And what of this term heritage? "Evidence of the past, such as historical sites, buildings, and the unspoilt natural environment, considered collectively as the inheritance of present-day society" [Dictionary.com]. One wonders what kind of cultural landscape we are building, or ravaging, for future generations of Victorians to inherit.


under development
120 additional rooms
and a 26-storey glass and steel tower;
will what survives really be The Windsor?

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Confessions of a longtime coffee addict . . .

Bean here . . . bean there . . . bean lots of places that serve the hot brown beverage good, bad and ugly. I’m a complex guy with simple tastes; I like it long, and I like it black. But it wasn’t always so.
   

In the year of the Tet Offensive, a gorgeous blond neighbour worked at Quist’s, the famous Melbourne coffee shop, and brewed me my first real cuppa; white and very sweet. Later, after MSO concerts at the Town Hall, when the sultry second viola didn’t reciprocate my attentions, I flagellated my palate with brutal espressos at Pellegrino’s. When we were whistling It’s Time and Gough got the job, a mate made replica cappuccinos on an old dry-cleaner’s boiler at his dad’s engineering shed. It took an hour to work up a head of steam, so we were grateful when it came, despite its austere metallic overtones. In the eighties, I developed a taste for the bitter-sweet of late-night correttos, a short black generously laced with Vecchia Romagna brandy, when I worked in Bologna and courted the signorinas into the wee early hours.
   

The most memorable coffee in recent years was a double-banger latte that a local coffee snob made in Port Fairy while testing one of his new bling machines out back in the shed. By far the foulest was in Tocumwall early one morning when I was driving from Carlton to The Reef. Desperate for a fix, I staggered into a likely looking cafe and asked for a cup of their best. “Just a moment, sir,” said the little old lady at the counter. “I’ll go and open a fresh jar of Moccona.” Worse than worst railway coffee, the infamous café olé that Société Nationale des Chemins de fer français [SNCF] inflicts on its passengers, I managed to slide it down the neck and keep it there. But it made for a long long drive.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Teens rule! All right?

Thank goodness for teenagers.

There’s a whole lot of derogatory crap written by those in a-dolt-hood about young people in the throes of negotiating puberty. Some voices in my friendship group are always ready with the mindless mantra of hypocritical judgement; “In my day you wouldn’t have got away with blah blah blah . . .”

Being an adolescent provokes the same kind of irrational flak as being an active environmentalist. Can’t you just hear that label Greenie slide scornfully out the side of a sneer? “Those *$%#ing Greenies won’t let you do this, or that, or the other!”

It’s all about maintaining the us and them dichotomy in the ghostly recesses of our cultural discourse. You know? Those millions of unspoken assumptions and pigeon holes that pass for knowledge but are rarely revealed or reviewed. The darkest regions are haunted by opinion journalists and talk-back hosts who strum the discords of bigotry.

Unfortunately, it’s about disempowering one mob to empower another.

Well, I’ve just had an experience with teenagers that has lifted my opinion of the whole human race, and was empowering and rewarding. It usually is.

Each year, students from a Melbourne secondary school come down to the Southwest on camp. They take particular interest in the environment, get involved in volunteer activities and contribute to our community.

Our Bird Group got dirty hands and sore muscles planting thousands of native plants in the saltmarsh and dunes. We went on long beach rambles picking up rubbish and investigating the flora and fauna. We cooked and ate together, and sheltered as a southwest change roared in through the trees like a boiling surf break.

There was enthusiasm and boredom, focus and distraction, candour and furtiveness, eager participation, the shaking of heads and the rolling of eyes. Whatever . . .

It was a great opportunity for us oldies to share some knowledge about the environment with those who will shape our future. In return, we learned about avant-garde teen culture, language and lots of fresh perspectives. And we were magically transported back to our own youth.

Perhaps the best times were in the breaks between activities, being accepted into a small group to chat and joke.

I hurt myself laughing at a group of young women being very girly, stranded and screaming on a picnic table as an emu circled with intent . . . to eat their sandwiches.

I felt like I still had it when I was able to compare notes about Prince of Persia with a very boysey boy and fellow gamer.

One student looked at me as though I was nuts when I told her that I missed some things about school days. “Like, what?” she demanded. “Like learning a musical instrument,” I answered; “being in the school play; the relief and chaos of art class; getting away from the family for a fortnight in the bush on annual camp; Geography; visiting the engine room of a cargo ship; hangin’ out with mates and the kind of people I would never spend time with again . . .”

As they packed up to leave after our final day together, one young fellow thanked us for caring about the environment and showing them the plants and the animals. That comment alone will underwrite my volunteer activities for many years.

In the end, it was just good fun.

animal or plant?
Bird Group
beach combing
and enjoying the wonders of a fan sponge

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The foul and most foreign fox

A report on the Urban Fox Control Workshop published in Basalt to Bay Landcare Network newsletter this August.
It’s sobering to consider that the destructive presence of the European red fox is a consequence of that Australian bugbear the cultural cringe. Hunting foxes was the preserve of aristocrats back in the old country, and it seems that foxes were released by the likes of pastoralist Thomas Chirnside in the 1870s to elevate Victoria socially in the eyes of its colonial masters. Now ranking second only to Homo sapiens as the most serious threat to Australian native animals, the fox is so widespread, clever and adaptable that control is a challenging proposition.
On the evening of 26 July, hungry for knowledge about Vulpes vulpes, twenty-eight of us gathered at the Foreshore Pavilion in Warrnambool for the Urban Fox Control Workshop. The highly credentialed presenter, Tim Bloomfield, did not disappoint.
Tim has worked in pest control for the last 35 years and is an acknowledged expert on foxes. Currently co-ordinating the Grow West project in the radically altered landscape of the Upper Werribee Catchment, Tim has contributed to many important vermin research and control programs. These include protecting Phillip Island’s little penguins from fox predation, a study into the urban fox in metropolitan Melbourne, and the Fox Eradication Program in Tasmania.
These experiences have helped Tim establish some guiding principles in controlling foxes. Here’s my take on his mantra.
The best time to see foxes is early morning or early evening, coinciding with the time their primary food source is active; rabbits. The best season to impact on foxes is September to December, when they are breeding.
Foxes are middle-order predators that kill quickly and efficiently before a higher-order predator comes along. The fox reacts instinctively to movement and will keep killing as long as its victims keep moving. Hence the carnage one fox can do in a chicken coop, leaving many dead birds uneaten. The only way to mitigate this mass killing is to stop interaction between the fox and its prey.
To impact effectively on foxes requires a population-wide approach. Only a co-ordinated campaign across an area bounded by natural barriers, like on islands or between rivers, has much chance of success. Territories overlap, so when a fox is killed, other foxes will move in quickly to claim the vacant territory, sometimes within hours. Even if a large area is temporarily cleared, foxes readily migrate and will come in from surrounding regions.
Trapping, shooting and bounties have limited efficacy. After initial successes, usually measured by kill rate, it becomes more difficult to find the remaining foxes. Foxes learn quickly and modify their behaviour to avoid detection and capture. The cost of continuing these measures becomes prohibitive and control ceases. Either enough individuals survive to regenerate the population or foxes move in from neighbouring zones. A coordinated long-term baiting program is the best way to control foxes, integrated with other measures like clearing weed infestations and fumigating dens.
Neither sightings nor body counts are good indicators of effective fox control. It is best to monitor species that the fox has been impacting on. For example, increases or decreases in the number of possums or penguins are reliable indicators of success or failure in controlling fox numbers.
Pet owners who feed their animals outside feed foxes. Some people leave food out specifically for foxes. A study at Webb Dock uncovered an ironic situation. Ports are high-risk entry points for rabies into Australia. Foxes are carriers and spreaders of the disease. Despite this, port security guards encouraged a resident population of foxes by feeding them regularly, sometimes for many years. Stopping people feeding and encouraging foxes is vital.
That’s all very well, but how do you know for certain a fox is patrolling your patch? In my case, I monitor beach-nesting birds that lose eggs and chicks with sickening regularity. They face many threats, so how can I tell if a fox is involved in their breeding failures? Here are some clues to look for.
A bird carcass with evidence of trauma around the head and neck is literally a dead give-away. Somewhere in the area there will be a den, comprising one or more holes bigger than a rabbit’s but smaller than a wombat’s. These are sometimes very difficult to find. Foxes use scats to mark territorial boundaries and places of significance, like potential food sources or buried caches. Their tracks are distinctive . . . once you know what you’re looking for. 

Features to look for:
  • fox tracks lead in straight lines
  • hairy under-paws leave soft outlines
  • back footprints over-score front
  • there is a gap between middle and outside pads on each paw.
If you want to know more about foxes and controlling them, here are some sources mentioned in the workshop:
They all ran wild: the animals and plants that plague Australia by Eric C. Rolls, Angus & Robertson Sydney 1984.
Improving Fox Management Strategies in Australia by Glen Saunders and Lynette McLeod, Bureau of Rural Sciences Sydney 2007; download from:
http://www.feral.org.au/improving-fox-management-strategies-in-australia
Foxes and their Impact by Tim Bloomield, Department of Primary Industries [Victoria] 2007; webpage at: http://new.dpi.vic.gov.au/agriculture/pests-diseases-and-weeds/pest-animals/foxes-and-their-impact

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

An icon under the Southern Cross

Every May Racing Carnival, a silver Skyliner rumbles into Warrnambool Aerodrome filled with punters from the Big Smoke. This remarkable aircraft’s story began reluctantly in California long ago.

Gooney Bird departing Warrnambool Aerodrome
a C-47 military transport built in 1945
serving with the RAAF until 1987
still working out of Essendon

In the beginning . . .
It all started with a $335.59 phone call between American Airlines president C. R. Smith and industrialist Donald Douglas in 1934. Smith wanted a sleek new transport based on the revolutionary all-metal DC-2, which had just won handicap honours in the MacRoberston Air Race between London and Melbourne.
As a teenager, Cyrus Smith started his career managing a western clothing store in Minerva Texas. Attracted to aviation, his no-nonsense approach to business and straight talking style propelled him to the leadership of American Airlines. His vision was to fly airborne sleepers on the route between New York and Los Angeles. Douglas, who founded his aircraft empire in a Los Angeles barber shop was conservative and cautious. Smith’s proposal worried him. The Great Depression was biting hard, American Airlines was cash strapped, and no one else was building airliners with beds. But Smith argued that only Douglas had the skills to construct a suitable aircraft and eventually wooed the recalcitrant engineer.
The Douglas Sleeper Transport flew on 17 December 1935, accommodating 14 passengers in luxury berths, with dressing rooms and a honeymoon cabin up front. Then, in a stroke of genius, Douglas ripped out the beds for a day version called the DC-3. The extra space allowed 28 seats and the first airliner to turn a profit from passenger services took off, making all its hangar mates obsolete overnight. In four years, air travel grew five-fold and the Douglases accounted for 90% of it.
Downunder, the first DC-3 arrived in 1937 for the Melbourne to Sydney run with Australian National Airways. The rugged planes were ideal for Australian conditions and soon became a common sight in our skies. For decades, aircraft designers failed to reproduce its versatility. Operators claimed the only replacement for a DC-3 was another DC-3. So it served tenaciously on Australian scheduled services for forty years.
The venerable Skyliners are now semi retired. Of the 182 once on the Australian civil register, about 15 remain airworthy. You can still experience the 30’s style and curious thrill of walking uphill to your seat. Order a Manhattan and settle back in plush comfort with old-fashioned leg-room. Glimpse the aviators at work through half drawn curtains. There is nothing like a flight in the world’s most successful airliner.
Five fabulous facts
1943 General MacArthur is allocated Australian DC-3 VH-CXE for personal transport. To avoid offending dignitaries, the crew paint a nude on the starboard side of the fuselage hidden from the boarding door on the port side, and call her Shiny Shiela. The General approves but a staff officer doesn't and has it removed. The crew's revenge is to use the call-sign sexy [CXE] over the radio.
1947 The last of 10,645 [total number hotly debated] C-47/DC-3s leaves Douglas’s Oklahoma City plant.
1957 A Frontier Airlines DC-3 hits a mountain and loses 12 feet of wing. The remaining 500,000 rivets and the two pilots hold it together for a safe landing. Repaired, it returns to service in less than a month.
1967 Douglas Aircraft Corporation is declared bankrupt and Donald Douglas retires after 55 years in the business. Cyrus Smith leaves American Airlines the following year.
2011 The logbook of the restored VH-ABR Kanana currently based at Tullamarine records operating hours that add up to almost eight years in the air. In 1938, it was the third DC-3 to arrive in Australia and flew the last scheduled flight of type for Ansett-ANA in 1972.

VH-ABR Kanana 'the quiet' resting on the apron
still airworthy after a long hard working life
surviving 4 emergency belly landings
"they don't make 'em like they used to"

Sunday, July 3, 2011

The way of the chicken


Four weeks ago I went cycling with a friend on a beautiful calm sunny winter morning. We headed for his mum's place and were treated to a sumptuous lunch. But all was not well. She is also a good friend and I detected tension at the table. The conversation soon revealed the cause; her three little bantams were being 'taken to the farm' that very afternoon - a euphemism for getting the chop. Jill was not at all happy about this, but what was a pensioner to do? The chooks were eight years old, hadn't laid for a year or more and were costing too much to keep.
change is imminent
Milly, Molly and Mandy in original coop 
After lunch, we menfolk gathered in the garden to clear away the vines that had overgrown the coop to prepare it for new residents. I couldn't take my eyes off Milly, Molly and Mandy or stop thinking about their imminent exit from this world. It seemed to me that the chooks were aware of impending change and were strutting and clucking in their run. They hadn't been let out to forage recently and were excited by the sunlight. And it looked like they'd been completely spoiled feed wise; the seeds in the feeder were like gourmet soup mix.
I suppose it was because I was the birdo in the group that it was decided that I should be the one to capture the girls [thanks a lot Tim!] and put them in a tiny grotty transport cage. Well, as soon as I lay hands on the first one, I just knew that I had to offer an alternative to the chop. These were smart alert birds and it was about time I was educated in The Way of the Chicken. They could spend their dotage in my garden eating bugs and fertilising the plants. I wasn't worried about eggs - I could get some young birds later for that.
adapting
MMM sisters on the scrounge
Milly, Molly and Mandy stayed in the laundry for the first couple of nights as I had nowhere else to put them. I quickly built a temporary coop called The Whitehouse and found a sheltered spot for them in my storm-swept garden. For the first weeks they were timid couch potatoes that ate very little, only venturing outside when forced. They would only stay out of the coop if I closed the hatch. After ten minutes, I'd find them hiding under a shrub so would let them back inside. I took them on walks around the garden to potential foraging places. A passing car or a raven call would see them panic and run headlong back to the coop. The resident magpies didn't help by swooping and sitting on the nearest post, watching the chooks intently. By the third week I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of my hospitality and pondered the possibility of chicken curry.
But then things changed. MMM began to spend an hour, then a whole morning foraging and exploring. Now, they've gone completely feral. This industrious threesome is out free ranging all day from dawn to dusk, eating weeds and turning over large areas of mulch. As I approach the coop soon after first light, they are eagerly clucking and stomping to be let out. When I crack the hatch, they pour out like paratroopers on a combat drop and disperse at the double to their favourite spots. The juvenile magpie joins them on occasion and the magpie parents tolerate much frenzied digging under their home tree. A spectacularly attractive long-toed wetland bird, the usually shy and furtive buff-banded rail, seems to have befriended the chooks and forages openly with them. The girls rarely return to the coop until dusk, when they gather regular as clockwork waiting for a hand-fed treat. After they've finished, they file inside one by one and hop onto their perch, fluff up and huddle together to roost for the night.
the first of many
fair dinkum free range eggs
Last Wednesday, one month to the day after their arrival, I found the first white egg nestled in the pea straw. My neighbour can't believe it and is calling me The Chook Whisperer; "Old chooks don't lay in winter," she told me. They must be happy. Jill tells me she wants them back now . . . with a wink and a nudge.
Apart from the delights of observing the behaviour of these birds, eating their fresh eggs and utilising the droppings, MMM have prompted me to return to a very satisfying core activity [not to mention biblical . . . OK I won't]; carpentry.
The Fortress nearing completion
original MMM design - two-part mobile coop and run
plans available soon from Rara Avis - contact johnh

[modelling by Daphne courtesy Plaster-o-Paris]
Biographical note: Milly, Molly and Mandy were named by an old local chook fancier and breeder. Milly Molly Mandy is the nickname of Millicent Margaret Amanda, the heroine in a series of novels by Joyce Lankester Brisley, popular with seven-year-old readers since 1928. The chooks were given to Jill eight years ago when the old-timer moved to Queensland and passed away. It turns out that they are pedigree show girls of a breed called Modern Game bantams, known for their hardiness, intelligence, endearing characters and attractive plumage. Their wild ancestors are members of the pheasant family and come from the jungles of Java. Like all Game birds, they were initially bred for cock fighting.

UPDATE: TUESDAY JULY 5, 2011

The Fortress citadel [coop]
goes operational
What do you think girls? Milly inspects the gangway; Molly goes straight in to view the furnishings; Mandy thinks it looks like a cubist vegetable and wonders where the old coop is.

Friday, May 27, 2011

The Russians are coming!

We can learn much from the heavy metal and concrete fortifications at Portland, Port Fairy and Warrnambool. The story behind their construction informs Australian identity and our perceived place in the world. As the song reminds us, History Repeats . . . 
Part 2

defences with a view;
Warrnambool battery commands
the anchorage and approaches to Lady Bay

Own worst enemy
Being in the British Empire had its benefits, but it also had its drawbacks. If her Britannic Majesty the Queen had an enemy, so by default did the Colony of Victoria. In this the colonists had no say.
At the same time, it wasn’t clear just how reliable the Royal Navy was in times of international danger. Naval resources were stretched across the whole globe and communications were slow. In the 1850s, it took about three months to get word to London.
The trouble was, whenever a military incident involving Britain flared up, British troops and naval vessels on station around Australia were withdrawn to participate at the hot spot, usually far away in the Northwestern Hemisphere. 
To make matters worse, requests for aid and assistance were often viewed with disdain at the Colonial Office back in London. The attitude was that the increasingly wealthy colonists had the motive and the means to look after themselves. As a result, relations with the mother country were periodically strained.
And there was a growing feeling within Victoria that it should be able to look after its own interests. In fact, some viewed military self-sufficiency as the very expression of independence. The Attorney-General George Higinbotham declared: ‘No one could deny that the abstract principles of self-government and self-defence should go together’.
Ironically, the British precipitated the most critical crisis themselves.
In 1882, the Royal Navy bombarded Alexandria in Egypt to suppress a revolt. This rattled complex alliances involving France, Germany, Austria and Russia. The British were unsupported and left alone to commit large forces to the ensuing campaign. Manpower was stripped from the colonies leaving them isolated and unprotected. Many saw a major European war in the offing.
The Age attacked the British accusing them of militarism and violence. Debate raged in the Legislative Council: ‘There are nearly 14 million soldiers available in Europe at the present moment. All Europe is arming’ and Russia has ‘two almost impregnable fortifications in the North Pacific’.
The Premier informed the Legislative Council that the news triggered ‘a run on the banks, a stoppage of business, and many other evils’.
But the crisis passed. 

 Second Industrial Revolution rivets and ironwork;
80 pdr rifled muzzle loader
Warrnambool Battery
Then in 1888, a novel was published with the non-too subtle title: The Battle of Mordialloc or How we lost Australia. In this, a combined force of Russian and Chinese troops landed in Western Port Bay, advanced inland then assaulted Melbourne.
Many had questioned the likelihood of this scenario all along. After all, the remote location of Victoria made landing any sizable force a very difficult proposition. The necessary logistics were mind-boggling. But sense and reason don’t seem to prevail when deep-seated insecurities are triggered.

During this period, a fearsome naval vessel was developed that added to the feelings of vulnerability and urgency; the armoured cruiser.
Infernal machines
The golden glow from the Colony of Victoria came at a time of new and wondrous technological advances. Scientists and engineers were enjoying their own golden age. The machinery of international trade and war was changing.
For centuries, gunpowder had propelled crude solid balls from smooth-bore muskets and cannon. Now barrels were rifled and projectiles streamlined. Hollow shells filled with explosives became standard ordanance.
In 1867, Alfred Nobel patented dynamite. Nobel had mining and quarrying in mind when he made nitro glycerine safe to handle. But arms manufacturers saw darker applications - propellants and explosives for more powerful guns. Dynamite transformed artillery into the first weapon of mass destruction.
Combined with advances in metallurgy and the science of ballistics, the range, accuracy and destructive power of artillery soon increased many fold. For the first time, big guns could lob shells as far as a general or admiral could see. The explosives in the shell wrought ever more destruction on the target. Now whole cities could be bombarded and flattened.
At the same time, steam began to replace sail as the motive power in ships. This meant an increase in speed and manoeuvrability. Now a warship could cover vast distances quickly, operate almost independent of the weather and confidently navigate confined waters like coasts and ports with ease.
Hulls were made of iron and steel, which permitted them to be larger and stronger. Armour was developed that made it very difficult to inflict serious damage on vital parts of the ship.
So a new class of warship was developed called the protected cruiser. These were immensely powerful ships that were impervious to conventional artillery and twice as fast as any sailing ship.
Now the hideous prospect of a hostile raider appearing without warning off the Victorian coast to sow violent mischief seemed a real and imminent threat.


rusty relic hidden atop the sand dunes;
80 pdr rifled muzzle loader
Port Fairy Battery
To make matters worse, Russian warships were active in Victorian waters. The frigate Svetlana visited in 1862, neglecting to fire a customary salute when she departed Port Melbourne. This was seized upon by the press and reported as proof of aggressive intentions. When another Russian warship visited the following year, it saluted but this time the shore battery didn’t respond. The Argus claimed this was because there wasn’t enough ammunition for the guns and; ‘for several hours the Bogatyr had the shipping in the anchorage at her mercy.’ The papers reported uproar in the Legislative Council.
In 1865 an American Civil War commerce raider the CSASS Shenandoah berthed at Williamstown during a war cruise. The Captain organised repairs and took 40 new recruits aboard. Although contravening naval convention, Victorian authorities argued they had no choice because they were at the mercy of the powerful guns of the Shenandoah. The raider left Port Phillip and played havoc among the Union fishing fleet. After the war, an international court awarded the United States a large sum in damages for this incident.
The Argus sounded the alarm and pointed a finger at the apparent vulnerability of Victoria: ‘The different colonial governments scarcely seem fully awake to the danger.’ Something had to be done.

all that remains of a later generation of artillery;
mounting ring for a 5 inch breech-loader

None shall pass
So Victoria invested in its own navy and built fixed defences. Eventually, Port Phillip became the most heavily fortified harbour in the British Empire south of the equator. But it didn’t happen overnight. Great expertise was required in this age of technological marvels.
Two British soldiers from the Royal Corps of Engineers travelled the world to the far-flung outposts of the Empire. Captain Peter Scratchley was a respected sapper and experienced soldier. Colonel William Jervois was a distinguished officer who later governed New Zealand. These two were military architects and fortress engineers. The distinctive brick facades of their designs can be seen from Plymouth to Auckland and from Malta to Cape Town.
Both recognised the strategic importance of Warrnambool, Port Fairy and Portland as active ports. They also noted that the southwest coast of Victoria offered some the best beaches to attempt a large-scale amphibious landing. Denying these ports to an invading enemy was vital.
In the 1860s, earthworks were begun so that large cannon could be emplaced in protected positions. The sites were on hills and cliffs that gave a panoramic view of harbours, beaches and seaward approaches. This is typical of coastal forts. As can be seen by visiting them today, their dark purpose commands beautiful vistas.
These early guns had smooth-bore barrels mounted on wooden carriages that fired heavy spherical balls. They were slow to load and difficult to handle, requiring the muscles and sweat of a big crew to haul on ropes, blocks and tackle. Some of the oldest guns were made of brass for the Napoleonic wars. As was often the case with coastal defences, aging equipment was all that was available.
But technological advances soon rendered these guns useless. Ships were faster and more heavily armoured. The old iron cannon balls simply bounced off. So the guns got bigger, more powerful and quicker to load and shoot. This in turn required stronger more complex coastal forts.
In 1887, work began on a new generation of brick and concrete structures with deep underground passages to make them bombproof. The new guns fired a shell from a rifled barrel that had greater range and accuracy, and could penetrate armour plate then explode inside the ship. The carriages were no longer wood, but iron and incorporated pneumatic cylinders to absorb the shock of firing, then after loading, quickly and accurately return the gun to the parapet for the next shot.
These are the forts to be found today with guns still emplaced over a hundred years after they were installed. The guns are rare, for few batteries of this vintage have survived intact. Most have been recycled and the installations upgraded with more modern weapons. The batteries along the southwest coast were left largely undeveloped as defence thinking changed and the perceived threats to this part of the coast diminished. The works were abandoned by 1910.

perhaps similar to the missing ordanance
at Warrnambool and Portland;
8 inch breech loader on
Elswick hydro-pneumatic disappearing carriage
Fort Queescliff
You would be forgiven for thinking these strange looking structures are mere follies and a waste of time and effort. After all, Victoria was never invaded or seriously threatened by hostile forces. But other forts along the Victorian coast have proved their worth in times of war. A battery at Point Nepean is credited with firing the first allied shot of WWI that lead to the capture of a German merchant ship. The same battery has a claim to the first shot of WWII.
And as any fortress strategist will tell you, forts are fixed defences that enable limited numbers of defenders to punch above their weight to deter more powerful attackers. Neither the Russians nor any other aggressor chanced their luck. In these terms, the forts of the southwest can be considered a success, even though they never fired a shot in anger. Well almost never . . .
An odd angry shot
Firing a big gun was still part black art and part science until the end of the 19th century. Smooth-bore cannon were aimed using open sights, usually nicks in the breech and muzzle of the gun. The barrel had to be pointed at a guesstimated spot some distance ahead of a moving target, because the projectile took time to arrive as the target shifted position. A wooden quadrant, plumb line and wooden wedge were used to set the elevation of the barrel. As artillery developed, aiming instruments were incorporated in the carriage to aid the gunners. Elevation and training were achieved using mechanical mechanisms. Test firing established the range of guns. Marker buoys were placed at known distances and elevations were recorded on charts and tables. All this complexity required highly trained gunners with great experience to achieve results that ballistic computers still struggle to achieve today. So a full time professional force was maintained in the Permanent Artillery Corps.
But boys will be boys and the responsibility of being a professional artilleryman was apparently too much on occasion. Mischief induced by boredom from long periods of inactivity characterised garrison duty in forts.
One wintery night in the late 1800s, a gunner misbehaved in the old Killarney pub and was thrown out. The gunner took great exception to this treatment and swore vengeance. He managed to reach Port Fairy where he staggered up to the battery, primed one of the guns, swung it around to face Killarney, and loosed off a shot that woke the whole town. The shell fell harmlessly in a paddock where it made a big hole. The gunner incurred the ire of authorities but the respect of comrades. Apparently the round was dead on line with the pub . . . or so the story goes.
Perhaps fortunately, the maximum range of the gun was 5,000 yards. The pub was and still is 10,000 yards from the Port Fairy Battery.