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The gardens are all hours

February 9 2003
By John Elder

At 3.50am, there's nothing going on but a fine rain falling, in tiny pinpricks that dissolve on the skin. It's actually quite warm, even a little funky with no breeze, and with plenty of cloud smothering the city and holding in the heat that has baked the roads and footpaths over the past dog days.

At 3.58am, still no wind blowing, save for the fluttering whip of a bat passing through the crown of a tree and not so high over the spiked fence of the Royal Botanic Gardens, returning from its nightly grazing elsewhere and heading home to sleep. Then all you hear is a curious rumbling that you figure to be distant traffic, but after a time you realise is the sound of millions of tiny pinpricks gathering as droplets in the leaves of the trees.

At 4.02am, three more bats pass over the road, a vacant taxi cruises by like a ghost ship, and then you spot a stooped figure coming up through the trees. Not Weary Dunlop's statue come to life, but an "old bloke" in synthetic track pants, matching long-sleeved top and a new set of runners.

His name is Colin, in his early sixties, semi-retired to one of the nicer apartment blocks on the southern side of St Kilda Road, and for about a year now a pre-dawn traveller of the sandy footpath that runs around the gardens' perimeter.

Colin sort of runs around the gardens too, but at a walking pace. "I'm not the fastest," he says. "But I'm often the first to get up here."

Why so early, Colin? "I've been jogging for 30 years, generally heading out at six (am). These days I'm wide awake at three so I get up, have a bit of juice, have a shave then head over here for an hour or so. It's a great time of day to be here, though. Isn't it?"

You tell Colin about the curious rumbling made by the fine rain in the trees. He cocks his ear, nods his head, takes in the sound. Suddenly, from a nearby tree, a bird makes a brief bubbling call, a musical trickling clear and intimate and rather lonely.

"I like being here as the birds get started. In about half an hour you'll hear them everywhere - gets a bit overwhelming. I've counted nine different bird calls going on at the same time. I'm not an expert, but they sound different in the evenings, not as happy as they do in the mornings."

At 4.06am Colin looks at his watch and then makes a face of strained forbearance when asked how many other people share his enthusiasm for the gardens at this hour.

"Depends on the weather. I mean, generally speaking, you might see three or six people out by half-past four. Although on the hotter days it gets a little more crowded. There might be a dozen people or more getting their jog in well before the sun comes up, that's just a guess, really, because I like to think I have the place to myself. You're probably better off asking someone else."

With that, Colin lopes off, like an action hero filmed in slow motion. And for a little while there isn't anyone else to ask. The bats are coming in thicker numbers now; the birdsong, likewise.

At 4.16am, a man and woman, about Colin's age, come striding along the path, arms swinging. "Just taking our constitutional," the man calls out, cheerily or nervously, it's hard to say which.

All you'll ever know is that he has a very loud voice, and that he's shorter than his wife. For they stride on, wondering aloud what the fellow with the notebook is really up to. Given the hour and all.



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