I’ve skipped a bit. A deficit of time rivalled by that of inspiration. But I seem to have discovered a free half hour without internet on a veranda in western Victoria. Sat within a world which spurs me to wax lyrical. In offline mode.

The veranda is on the outskirts of Halls Gap in The Grampians. While I was napping, Dad has disappeared to stalk emus or swear at Common Browns I presume. He’s been in Australia for nearly six weeks and to chronicle everything will be a feat never accomplished. But this chunk feels manageable and interesting and special. And, like many of our stops to get here, bite-sized.

The Grampians – Gariwerd – proves antidote to Melbourne which itself is antidote to Canberra. Initially I loved the in-your-face life and buzz and noise and food and even the humidity with a freakish shower. But then it all got too much, tipping over the edge at a Big Bash cricket mess at the MCG, where feral kids run hyper on additives and everyone seems to be engaged in some kind of White Lightning inspired disco.

Plus the weather turned cool and grey, the coffee was, meh, just coffee Melbourne get over it, and I felt ready again for the volume to be dialled down. Which it is right now, other than for the singing of birds and a grown man swearing at butterflies in the distance.

Gariwerd is absolutely my cup of tea, and I like cups of tea. There are multiple lookouts for a start, walks in nature, plunging cascades and – yes get excited people – rock formations. Often these are all combined in the same place, in just the most perfect arrangement. Laid out as they always have been, and always will be.

Here, nature charts its course and writes its own story. And like the Mackenzie River deep in the heart of the bush, it’s a story of twists and turns, serenity and drama. Then, at some point, it all comes crashing down. The Mackenzie Falls.

As stories go I feel like Dad could have an exhibition of the most beautiful waterfalls of Australia from this trip. And in a poky alcove on the side I would be allocated a small section for grainy photos called behind the scenes of the beautiful waterfalls of Australia exhibition. These would largely feature a man with white hair and a red hoodie hunched beside a borrowed tripod in front of a water feature. Included will be one or two of my own attempts, just for comparative purposes. Craft and patience versus laziness and luck.

Since I had taken a few happy snaps and went off exploring downriver, I missed the slightly awkward moment where a young chap got down on one knee to propose to his partner, Dad off to the side. He was probably waiting for a guy with a camera and tripod to leave, but could delay no more. Fair play, it’s a good spot to ask a girl to marry you but if they had been on the ball they could have booked a wedding photographer at the same time.

As the lovers moved on to chart their own story, our honeymoon took on spectacle with grandstand views. From Reid’s Lookout and The Balconies, it is impossible not to marvel at the scale and essence of Gariwerd. A sea of wilderness lapping at encircling zigzag ranges, the sun sinking lower to spark the landscape aglow. You don’t really expect this approaching a few hills from the plains around Ararat.

It is vast, and breathtakingly epic. Yet there are so many intimate spaces and contemplative spots. The Grand Canyon proves grand, but in a different way. Nature’s brickwork is masterfully constructed with a water feature and exotic plantings. The narrowing walls cocoon and seem to concentrate calm and peace and a certain spirituality. It doesn’t take much to feel connected to the eons of time and the billions of stories past. To feel the land is part of you and you part of it. To follow footsteps special and sacred.

Modern day footsteps appear to largely belong to lithe German backpackers packing it all in. Or families of ten alighting from a Kia Carnival, emerging ever more incredulously like props from Mary Poppin’s bag. The steps they take, we take, are many and often upward. The Pinnacle is a pinnacle of sorts for all sorts. A craggy protrusion overlooking Halls Gap, the final few hundred metres taking longer than expected, navigating boulders and crevices and fellow walkers. Many, including Dad and I, stop for lunch. Others inch out to perilous outcrops for unforgettable photos. All leaving crumbs for future pasts.

Crumbs which scatter and seep into the earth, ground in by the footsteps that follow. Washing out in heavy rains, joining many other leftover tales on their way to a creek. Meandering around shrubs and wallabies, cutting a swathe in the rock, gathering and spilling over a cliff face. A sliver of water splitting an ancient amphitheatre, a silver band reuniting with life in the forest. There, a red hoodie huddles over a camera and composes. The final serene score of a most exquisite symphony.