Beyond the Sunrise: Discovering Hanging Rock and Mount Macedon in Autumn
Sunrise was reason enough to set the alarm.
Hanging Rock simply gave us somewhere to point the car.
On an unusually warm Saturday morning in April, we left home before dawn with a simple plan: arrive at Hanging Rock in time to catch the first light, then spend the rest of the morning following the colours of autumn through Mount Macedon.
It was not a difficult journey. Less than an hour from Melbourne, the Macedon Ranges have always felt close enough to escape to, yet far enough away to create the feeling of leaving the city behind. There was something appealing about beginning the day before the world had fully woken—a quiet road, an empty car, and the possibility that somewhere ahead, something beautiful was waiting.
Hanging Rock has long occupied a special place in Australia's imagination. Long before I visited, I knew it through Joan Lindsay's Picnic at Hanging Rock, the mysterious story of a group of schoolgirls who disappeared during a picnic in 1900. The later film adaptation by Peter Weir only added to its reputation, leaving behind an atmosphere of mystery that still surrounds the place today.
Whether you know the story or not, there is something about the landscape that naturally invites curiosity. The unusual rock formations rising above the surrounding plains feel ancient and slightly out of place, as if they belong to another world.
We arrived at the entrance of Hanging Rock Park around 6:30 in the morning.
Only to find the gates closed.
The park would not open until 9.
For a moment, it felt like the morning had already changed. I had imagined walking among the formations as the sun rose, exploring the pathways while the light slowly revealed the shape and texture of the rock. That part of the plan was no longer possible.
Rather than wait, we decided to explore the roads around the park and see whether we could find another way to experience the sunrise.
The first challenge was simply finding a view. From the entrance, Hanging Rock was nowhere to be seen. We drove slowly along the surrounding roads, searching between trees and open paddocks, until eventually the silhouette appeared in the distance.
It was not the perfect viewpoint I had imagined.
The area was fenced off, but two small wooden posts stood beside a gate. They were just high enough for me to climb onto, giving me a clearer view over the fence.
Sometimes, not perfect is enough.
While we waited for the sun to rise, three kangaroos appeared nearby. They moved quietly through the morning landscape, stopping briefly as if curious about the strange visitors sitting in their car. The moment we opened the door, they disappeared into the distance.
A small encounter, easily missed if we had arrived later.
The sunrise itself did not unfold exactly as I had pictured.
Looking through the camera, Hanging Rock appeared almost ordinary at first. The early light had not yet reached the formations, leaving the rock as a dark silhouette. The details I had imagined were hidden in shadow, and the dramatic shape I had come to photograph seemed reduced to little more than a hill covered in trees.
But then I turned around.
Behind us was a wide open field covered in morning mist.
The scene had completely changed.
The mist drifted slowly across the grass, softening the landscape while the first hints of colour began appearing in the sky. We found ourselves moving back and forth—one moment facing Hanging Rock, the next chasing the changing light behind us.
The morning became less about finding one perfect photograph and more about following whatever caught our attention.
I climbed back onto the wooden posts, camera in hand, searching for a better angle. Then we noticed a small opening in the gate—just wide enough for a camera lens to pass through.
Finally, Hanging Rock began to reveal itself.
The light slowly transformed it. What had first appeared as a flat, dark shape gradually gained depth and character as the sun climbed higher. The contours became clearer, the colours warmer, and the rock began to look like the place I had imagined.
Then, almost as if the morning had planned one final surprise, the kangaroos returned.
This time they grazed quietly at the edge of the rock's shadow.
Their silhouettes against the rising light completed the scene.
I stayed there for a while, watching the landscape change minute by minute. First came the darkness before sunrise, then the soft colours of morning, followed by the golden light that revealed the full character of the place.
Behind us, the mist slowly disappeared, replaced by a clear autumn morning.
It was not the sunrise hike we had planned.
It was something different.
And perhaps that was better.
With Hanging Rock Park still closed, we changed our plans and decided to visit Mount Macedon first, returning another time for the walk among the formations.
Only twenty minutes away, the village of Macedon sits quietly beneath the southern slopes of Mount Macedon. During autumn, the area transforms into one of Victoria's most beautiful seasonal landscapes.
Our destination was Honour Avenue.
We had learned our lesson from the previous year. On our Anzac Day visit, we had underestimated how popular Macedon becomes during autumn. The drive into town had been slow, parking had been difficult, and the famous avenue was filled with visitors searching for the same photograph.
This time, we arrived early.
The difference was immediate.
The streets were quiet. Only a handful of people wandered beneath the trees, allowing the avenue to feel less like a tourist attraction and more like a peaceful morning walk.
Towering Pin Oak trees lined both sides of the road, their leaves glowing in shades of gold, amber, and deep red. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, creating patches of light and shadow across the road.
Only then did I stop to appreciate that Honour Avenue was more than a beautiful autumn location.
Each tree was planted as a memorial to a local man or woman who served during World War I. Knowing this gave the place another layer of meaning. The colours of autumn were beautiful, but beneath them was also a story of remembrance.
We walked slowly beneath the trees, with no particular hurry.
The previous year we had arrived too late, when much of the colour had already disappeared. This time, we had arrived at exactly the right moment. The trees were still holding onto their leaves, while those that had fallen created a carpet of crimson beneath our feet.
Every now and then, a leaf drifted gently from above.
The scene was exactly what I had hoped to find.
Not because it was perfect, but because we had finally arrived at the right time.
From Honour Avenue, we continued towards the Memorial Cross at the summit of Mount Macedon.
Standing 21 metres tall, the Cross is one of Victoria's most significant war memorials, second only in importance to Melbourne's Shrine of Remembrance. It overlooks the surrounding landscape as a reminder of those who served and sacrificed.
Before reaching the monument, we passed through the surrounding parkland.
At that early hour, it was almost empty. The only sounds were the rustling leaves and occasional footsteps from other visitors. Yet we knew the quiet would not last.
By later morning, this place would transform into a familiar Australian weekend scene—families spreading picnic rugs across the grass, children running between the trees, barbecues warming up, and conversations carrying through the park.
For now, though, it belonged to the morning.
Further along the trail was a spot I had seen many times in photographs.
Last year, we had missed it. The autumn colours had already faded, leaving behind bare branches and brown leaves.
This year was different.
The trees were still covered in rich red foliage. Fallen leaves created a carpet of crimson beneath our feet, and the soft morning light filtered through the canopy.
Finally, I captured the images I had admired from afar.
The moment was worth waiting for.
While stopping for breakfast later that morning, I happened to glance at my phone and noticed a garden page I had been browsing the night before was still open.
Tickets were available.
Without much discussion, we booked.
Sometimes the best parts of a day are the ones added at the last minute.
The garden opened at 10, with a shuttle bus operating from Honour Avenue. We returned early to find parking before the crowds arrived. By then, the peaceful streets of the morning had already started becoming busier.
We caught the shuttle and arrived at Camelot Garden just as it opened for the day.
Interestingly, this was its very first public opening.
We were among the first visitors to walk through the gates.
At the entrance, we were given a map and encouraged to follow the suggested route. Naturally, despite our best intentions, we managed to wander away from it several times. Somehow, getting slightly lost made the experience even more enjoyable.
The first thing that caught my attention was the lake.
Its surface was completely still, reflecting the surrounding trees like a mirror. It created a sense of calm that immediately set the tone for the rest of the garden.
Beyond the water were towering gum trees, giant sequoias, and carefully planted collections of rare and exotic plants. The garden balanced the feeling of an established landscape with the excitement of discovering something new around every corner.
At the rear of the property stood a grand white mansion overlooking the gardens.
It felt almost like stepping into another era.
For dedicated gardeners and plant enthusiasts, Camelot would undoubtedly be a treasure. For us, it was simply a beautiful place to wander slowly, enjoy the autumn colours, and appreciate the quiet details.
By midday, the weather had warmed.
Our original plan had been to return to Hanging Rock and complete the walk once the park opened, but after the morning's adventures, we decided to leave that for another day when the weather was cooler.
On the way home, we passed a nursery we had noticed earlier but could not recall where we saw it.
This time, we knew exactly where it was.
And we had to stop.
It turned out to be exactly the kind of place I always hope to discover—a nursery specialising in unusual and exotic plants. I have always enjoyed finding unexpected treasures in places like this, whether at weekend markets or small local nurseries.
Several plants caught my attention, but I eventually settled on three.
Among them was an ornamental ginger plant I had been searching for for a long time.
Another unexpected discovery was a small corner displaying artworks by a local artist. A quiet little surprise hidden inside an already unexpected stop.
By the time we finally headed home, the back seat carried a few new plants and the camera held hundreds of photographs.
We had left home expecting a sunrise at Hanging Rock.
Instead, the day unfolded through a series of small discoveries—a locked gate that changed our plans, kangaroos appearing in the morning light, autumn colours at exactly the right moment, an unexpected garden visit, and a nursery we almost drove past.
None of those moments were part of the original plan.
Yet they became the memories that stayed.
Perhaps that is what makes a journey memorable.
Not always the places we set out to find, but the unexpected moments waiting along the way.