Since moving to the Wimmera – well, before then, actually – the Serviceton Railway Station has been on my list of places to visit. All I knew about it was that it’s a huge station in the “middle of nowhere”, i.e. on the very far western edge of the Wimmera, beside the South Australian border. (The Wimmera has a bit of a saying that it’s really “in the middle of everywhere, which goes to show the lack of cynicism the communities here exhibit.) I also knew something vague about it being the station where the guages changed between the states.
Serviceton is the setting of a few dozen run-down houses, several barking dogs, and the monolithic station. As you approach from the Elizabeth Street entry, it looms impressively over the flattened landscape, like an icon of the age of steam. It also looks pretty lonely – though perhaps that feeling is added to by the dilapidation of the town.
Heading up the steps and out onto the platform, you almost expect a tumbleweed to drift by. Yet, the tracks are still neatly maintained.
Entering the building, voices echoed from bodies unseen, and feeling like an intruder, I slipped back out into the air. My Good Man obliged me by standing still for a few photos, something I don’t usually encourage as I tend to prefer taking people-less photos.