Westworld Alberta

more durable status symbol – a couta boat. Built in the 1870s, these svelte boats are unique to the peninsula, and getting harder to fi nd. John informs us that there's a man in the neighbouring seaside town of Sorrento who still restores them, so, the following morning, we seek out the shipyard. Behind Sorrento's main tourist drag, in a bustling workshop full of screeching saws and thumping hammers, I encounter boat builder Tim Phillips, lightly battered in sawdust. "Early Victoria was a cultural melting pot of mariners from all over the world," explains Phillips. "A couta boat had the wide draft of American boats and simple rigging of European boats." The fi shermen's catch was barracuda, which went toward providing paddle-steamer day- trippers with an ample supply of the latest fast food craze, fi sh 'n' chips. Today, a century later, this deep-fried English staple is just as popular. At The Baths restaurant I order a plate and peruse grainy old photographs, which show a jetty once used for sea baths and a pod of couta boats tugging gently at their moorings. It's a scene of sublime tranquility. But just 8 km away, on the ocean side of the penin- sula, is a much wilder, yet no less enchanting, coastline. On the short drive to the "back beaches," the trees become increasingly gnarled and windblown. At Cheviot Beach, surfers hurl themselves into a maelstrom of waves. A stark contrast to the wading pool of Port Phillip Bay, this ocean-facing coast is the domain of only the strongest swimmers and bravest boarders – and certainly not recommended for heads of state. Yet in 1967, Australian prime minister Har- old Holt was swimming at this very beach. He plunged into the ferocious surf, intent on a vigorous swim and maybe some bodysurfi ng. He was summarily whisked away by a Soviet submarine, never to be seen again (or so goes one of the more colourful conspiracy theories surrounding the mystery). Clearly he drowned. Ironically, his only lasting memorial is a swim- ming pool in Glen Iris (another of Melbourne's suburbs) named in his honour. Back in the sheltered enclave of Sorrento, we walk a pier sequined with fish scales before perusing the main street shops. Ray's Meats advertises emu and kangaroo, but I'm dreaming about something a whole lot sweeter: a vanilla slice. Essentially wobbly custard sandwiched between pastry and slathered with frosting, this is a sweet slice of Australiana. At the local deli Just Fine Foods we struggle to finish one before dashing for the ferry that will take us between heads of land to the eastern tip of the Bellarine Peninsula. As the ferry departs Sorrento, we repair to the upper deck to gawk back at the grand homes of neighbouring Portsea. They cas- cade down the cliff, each one connected to a stately private jetty that would be the pride of many public marinas. Eventually the last glimmer of glamour fades from view and the low silhouette, towering lighthouses and strange ramparts of the town of Queenscliff appear ahead of us. For many Melburnians, the Bellarine Peninsula is the forgotten coast. Tourists once packed paddle-steamers to the gun- wales on their way to the "coffee-palaces" of Queenscliff, grand hotels built in response to the temperance movement that served coffee rather than alcohol. The advent of the automobile simultaneously killed the area's tourism and preserved its magnifi cent archi- tecture in a captivating time capsule. Many of the half-dozen original coffee palaces remain. The Vue Grand is now an opulent hotel and a handful of galleries and eateries 40 WESTWORLD >> NOVEMBER 2011

• Cover