Using the tabs above (Extracts A and B), read the two extracts on the theme of travel. Then answer the questions opposite.
Extract A: from Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay
They were off; the College already out of sight except for the tower through the trees as they bowled along the level Melbourne-Bendigo road, vibrating with particles of fine red dust. ‘Get up Sailor, you lazy brute … Prince, Belmonte, get back in your collars …’ For the first mile or two, the scenery was familiar through the girls’ daily perambulation in crocodile formation. The passengers knew only too well, without bothering to look out, how the scraggy stringy bark forest lined the road on either side, now and then opening out onto a lighter patch of cleared land. The Comptons’ whitewashed cottage whose sprawling quince trees supplied the College with jellies and jams, the clump of wayside willows at which the governess in charge would invariably call a halt and head for home. It was the same in Longman’s Highroads of History, where the class were forever turning back for recapitulation at the death of King George the Fourth before starting off again with Edward the Third next term … Now the willows in rich summer green were gaily passed and a sense of adventure ahead took over as heads began to peer through the buttoned tarpaulin flaps of the horse-drawn coach.
At Mrs Appleyard’s college SILENCE WAS GOLDEN, written up in the corridors and often imposed. There was a delicious freedom about the swift steady motion of the coach and even in the warm dusty air blowing up in their faces that set the passengers chirping and chattering like budgerigars.
The road to Hanging Rock turns sharply away to the right a little way out of the township of Woodend. Here Mr Hussey pulled up outside the leading hotel to rest and water his horses before starting on the last lap of the drive. Already the heat inside the vehicle was oppressive and there was a wholesale peeling off of the obligatory gloves. ‘Can’t we take our hats off too, Mam’selle?’ asked Irma whose ink-black curls were flowing out in a warm tide under the brim of her stiff school sailor. Mademoiselle smiled and looked across at Miss McCraw, sitting opposite, awake and vertical, but with two closed eyes, two puce kid hands locked together on her lap. ‘Certainly not. Because we are on an excursion, there is no necessity to look like a wagon load of street urchins.’
The rhythmic beat of the horses’ hooves combined with the close air of the coach was making them all sleepy. As it was still only eleven o’clock, with plenty of time in which to reach the picnic grounds for lunch, the governesses conferred and Mr Hussey was requested to let down the steps of the coach at a suitable spot off the road. In the shade of an old white gum the zinc-lined wicker basket that kept the milk and lemonade deliciously cool was taken out and unpacked, hats were removed without further comment and biscuits handed round.
Using the tabs above (Extracts A and B), read the two extracts on the theme of travel. Then answer the questions opposite.
Extract B: from The Family Law by Benjamin Law
My family isn’t the outdoors type. Despite being raised on the coast, Mum detested visits to the beach (all the sand it brought into the house), while Dad disapproved of wearing thongs (‘It splits the toes’). We never camped. All those things involved in camping – pitching a tent; cooking on open fires; the insects; sleeping on rocks – they never appealed to us.
We preferred theme parks. For parents raising five children, theme parks made so much sense. They were clean and safe. There were clearly designated activities, and auditory and visual stimuli that transcended racial, language and age barriers. Also, you could buy heaps of useless souvenirs.
It was a family tradition that once a year, our family of seven (eight, including my grandmother) would cram ourselves into a 1990 grey five-seat automatic Honda. Faces smashed against glass; no leg room; the two smallest children illegally wedged between various legs – we travelled like this for a good three hours before we reached the Gold Coast. We’d nod off at such extreme angles that our spines contorted. When we woke up, our shirts would be covered in drool we weren’t even sure was ours. By the time we got to the theme park, our limbs were numb, our nerve endings destroyed.
On the day of the trip, we’d wake before sunrise in order to get there by opening time. Despite the three hours of pain we’d endured, we’d feel an overwhelming sense of wonder as the Thunderbolt, Dreamworld’s rollercoaster, painted with flames, emerged from the trees that bordered the Pacific Highway. It would appear so suddenly, like a strange apparition or a mirage. We would crane our necks back, trying to take in the sheer majesty of it.