I grew up between London and Bombay – two cities where the sky is more of a rumour than a reality. In London, the clouds hog the limelight. In Bombay, the buildings do. You learn to live under a low ceiling… literally.
So imagine me, a fully grown adult, arriving in Ballarat for the first time and being stunned – not by some landmark, not by a bustling street, but by the sky. Just… endless, unapologetic sky. A sky so big it felt like it had elbowed everything else out of the way. A sky that made me feel tiny, free, alive, and somehow wealthy.
Honestly, I’ve decided your true wealth is measured not by what’s in your bank account but by how much sky you get to stand under. And Ballarat? Ballarat is loaded.
I went there because of a boy – now my husband, Don – Ballarat born and bred, who casually introduced me to what he obviously assumed was a normal little town. Meanwhile, I was having a full spiritual awakening.
Here’s how it happened:
We’re driving in, and I’m thinking, Well this is quaint. Then the winter flowers start lining the streets like they’re auditioning for some kind of cosy fairytale. Before I know it, I’m feeling like I’ve walked into an Enid Blyton paperback (the wholesome version, not the slightly questionable ones).
And then it hit me:
I wasn’t just visiting.
I belonged.
Ballarat felt like home in the weirdest, warmest way. Not my “new” home – my original one. The one with cold air, grey skies, and the kind of comforting dreariness that instantly transported me back to my London childhood. But this time, with slow, quiet weekends that make you remember how to breathe.
It’s funny – so many people talk about Ballarat like it’s the runt of the Victorian litter. The moody cousin. The town you only pass through on the way to somewhere shinier. People love to call it cold, boring, bleak… basically the Eeyore of Victoria. But to me? It’s magic. Underrated, underestimated, quietly spectacular magic.
And then there are the lakes.
Everyone knows Lake Wendouree. She is stunning. She’s also manicured, polished, and flanked by wealth. She’s the kind of lake that went to private school, plays piano, and probably has a trust fund.
But Lake Burrumbeet?
Oh, she’s wild. She’s gritty. She’s magnificent in a messy bun with no makeup. On a cold, stormy day, she comes alive like she’s starring in her own dramatic period film. The sky rolls in like theatre curtains. The wind gets ideas. The water doesn’t even pretend to behave. It is perfection.
There was a day Don took me there, and for at least 20 kilometres, it was just us, the dogs, and nature, completely unbothered by civilisation. No people. No noise. No expectations. Just raw, Australian beauty at full volume. That’s when I decided that every good thing is close to nature – and Ballarat is very, very close.
We go often now. It’s only an hour from home, but every time we roll in, it feels like the city gives me a giant bear hug. A cold bear hug, but still – love is love.
And that’s why, in a few months, I’ll be running my first ever marathon there – the Ballarat Marathon. Because what better place to run 42.2 km than in the town that gave me sky, belonging, and a second home?
Ballarat may not market itself as magical. But it has been for me. And I will forever be grateful to my husband for being from Ballarat – and for inviting me into this enchanted little underdog of a city that somehow became one of the great loves of my life.
Boundless and Unfiltered 