On the banks of the Merri Creek in East Brunswick, Melbourne, is the prettiest, sweetest-smelling city dump you will ever find. What was once four-and-a-half hectares of landfill has been converted, metre by metre, into an oasis of green, sustainable paradise.

It’s called the Centre for Education and Research in Environmental Strategies, or CERES, which is a handy acronym since Ceres was the ancient Roman goddess of agriculture. (How long do you think it took them to make that one work?)

I took my ever-so-green parents to CERES while they were visiting last week, for a stop-off at the organic market, a wander through the nursery and shop, a peek at the farm, and a leisurely lunch at the outdoor cafe while listening to live music.

Behind us, children slid joyfully down a dirt slope on their backsides, landing almost under our cafe table with squeals of laughter (and a few anxious “Mummy I’m stuck!” pleas from the smaller children, half-way down the hill).

Other littles watched the free-range chickens with delight, and bus-loads of school-children could be seen at one workshop or another as we explored the grounds after lunch. Glancing around the market and cafe, I don’t think I’d ever seen so many string bags and braids in one place (and I used to live in Glebe, people).

Later Mum and I (and a sleeping Madeleine) strolled over to an old red train-carriage that had since been converted into an intriguing gallery space.

There was an exhibition inside the train carriage called Forest by artist Stefanie Robinson. The name is kind of (and I imagine intentionally) ironic, since the exhibition comprised mostly paper. Long, narrow strips of paper falling from the ceiling almost to the floor, through which you had to wander to see. From a vine twisting along the ceiling, woven nests of blue and brown also hung among the paper forest, and such was the installation and the space that you never could step back and get a view of the whole thing. Like a real forest, you could only really see it and appreciate it from inside.

Reading about this exhibition later, I learned that Stefanie had made the hanging nests from objects found in the landscape after natural disasters, such as Japan after the Tsunami, and country Victoria after the bushfires.

I went in alone and it was beautifully quiet, just the rustling of the paper and the sound of my footsteps, which I instinctively tried to soften. I don’t know why.

Also like a real forest, this exhibition was intended to evolve and grow over time. I wish it had lasted longer because I’d have loved you to be able to see it, too. I contacted Stefanie later that afternoon to ask if I could include some photos I took from inside her dreamlike forest on my blog, and she kindly said yes.

On any given weekend throughout the summer months in Melbourne, you will meet this guy on the corner of Brunswick and Rose Streets. He spends his days ushering passers-by into the Rose Street Artists’ Markets, a former junkyard just around the corner.

Not wishing say no to a be-leathered, be-studded, double-hatted ‘Tin Man’ in a kilt, we dutifully took a turn into this haven of all things designed, crafted and handmade.

This market has been around for close to a decade, and the Tin Man is such a dedicated supporter he has become a bit of a Fitzroy icon himself. After I asked if I could take his photograph, we stood and talked for a good 10 minutes while he crooked a little finger at Madeleine in her stroller, and she grinned her gummy grin back up at him.

The markets themselves are a combined indoor-outdoor space, dedicated to artists and designers who want to hone and sell their wares and ideas. I love seeing the fabulous things the stallholders create. Trippy fish sculptures suspended in resin, in tuna and sardine cans? Why not? Jewellery made out of vintage postage stamps? Why, thank you. Tiny planters made out of neon dinosaurs? Don’t mind if I do!

There’s also a rather cute little cafe, which I’m yet to test out but I’ll be sure to let you know about it when I do.

Exploring Nicholson Village while it is still cold, holding hands and holding coffee, squinting into the parallel sun. Toy stores with hand-made and hand-painted wooden bicycles, puzzles, little upholstered toddler armchairs made by an old man in his shed on the coast. A bookstore just for children: pop-up books, cut-out books, glorious collections of classics.

Then it is our dear friends from Sydney, Aaron and Jutta, well-met in Carlton Gardens. To me, “You’re so big it’s hard to hug you now!” And to Mr B, “You look positively svelte by comparison.” The instant chatter of good friends with months of sharing to pack into mere hours. Aaron and I lag behind. I am footsore with pregnancy, and he limps after having just finished the Oxfam Trailwalk at 6am. I am astounded he is upright.

Outside the the historic Carlton Exhibition buildings, the lineup for the Taco Truck snakes around corners, but we head straight inside to browse the Finders Keepers markets and marvel in all the crafty talent. We buy some hand-painted gift-cards, a three-tiered cake-stand made from old records, and little grey winter pantaloons for the baby, spotted in ladybird red.

Back into the sunshine, which is high and hot and glorious now despite the calendar insisting it is mid autumn, we enter the happy, eclectic bustle of Brunswick Street. Italian paperies, an old-fashioned puppet workshop, vintage clothing, milliners, outlets for emerging artists, and pubs, cafes and restaurants that spill out into the sun-drenched street.

We take the back streets to Min Lokal for a late lunch of grilled haloumi on radish and chat potatoes, Moroccan spiced baked beans with labna and dukkah, and crispy pork-belly over caramelised apple salad.

Then we hug and kiss again. “I can hardly reach you,” they insist as I awkwardly try to bend forward, past my own belly and into their arms. We part ways but I am not as sad as usual because I will see them again next week when I head up to Sydney for a brief visit of my own. Mr B and I walk hand in hand back up Brunswick Street, looking in all the shop windows. A drunk man sitting on a park bench enjoying a brown-bottle beverage from a time-honoured paper bag yells at me: “You’re pregnant!” then dissolves into gales of laughter.

Home as the sun begins to set, it surprises me how early it sleeps these days. Mr B heads into the bedroom for a little rest and the dog follows, eager steal a nap on the bed since I always tell him no. I rest my aching feet on the couch and read a couple more chapters of The Harp in the South before starting on the roast butternut squash soup that will be our dinner.

How was your Saturday?
All photos are from Finders Keepers today. I must remember to take my camera out more often, but I was too busy having a good time.

This morning we decided it was well and truly time to stock the ‘fridge with fresh fruit and vegetables, after a fortnight of eating junk and takeout during the packing, moving out and moving in.

First stop was the Queen Victoria Market, early before the crowds and heat could gain a stronghold. Next, we headed across to the Farmers’ Markets in the idyllic setting of the Collingwood Children’s Farm. It was glorious.
(Yet again, I forgot to bring my fabulous new camera. Thank goodness for Instagram, but I really do need to get into a proper camera-carrying habit since Mr B was so generous at Christmas.)