Pea-souper
In the fog, sounds we usually ignore suddenly matter
The last couple of days Geelong has been enveloped by a stubborn fog—damp, heavy, and cold. The only bonus was the stillness—as still as a Convent Garden mime-artist.
Back in the day, Victorian pea-soupers teamed with smoke from cheap, soft coals to produce a yellow smog resembling thick split-pea soup. A blessing for thieves seeking an easy escape, a curse for those forced to brave it. The pea-souper was born.
G-Town was at least navigable, albeit with caution, both in transit and on foot.
It had me thinking about the noises we hear daily.
We’ve talked about the trains, their unmistakable blasts: two long, one short, then another long. Cars, and the urban tractors: there’s a particular Ford Ranger model that distinguishes itself from the others with a rocket-like ummff as it accelerates away from a traffic-light stop. Aptly named the Rapture. Fire engines and ambulances are also a daily noise we hear, but subconsciously categorise as normal, important, and standard enough not to stand and stare. Do Police sirens still raise the heartbeat? Maybe. A missing part of transport noise around these parts is aeroplane racket.
The one that stopped me yesterday, though, was a ship’s foghorn.
The first time it didn’t register—I heard it but didn’t associate it with a vessel in Corio Bay, a sheltered semi-enclosed embayment of Port Phillip. Victoria’s second-largest port.
The second time it landed. Such a unique sound.
There’s something reassuring about foghorns remaining essential in an age of GPS and radar.
Have a listen the next time a pea-souper lands. You might be surprised.
Nick
