The Young and The Restless | Not the wurst weekend

One of my besties had her birthday the day before and chose the event to celebrate it.

When I visited Germany in my 20s, it was December; long after they’d packed up the trestles from the Munich beer halls and washed the steins from their confusingly named Oktoberfest, which spans more September days than October ones.

We might be borrowing the celebration, but at least we put it in the matching month.

Albeit, our events — which are popping up in a few places now: Bendigo, Melbourne, Yarra Valley — are more modest, spanning just a day.

The Beechworth one responsibly only ran from 11am to 5pm before a river of dirndl and lederhosen-clad women and men spilled out on to the street, their souvenir glassware packed in cloth bags for safekeeping dangling from their wrists.

Bridge Road Brewers had several communal areas set up for the jovial crowd, which sported a heavy volume of braids, feathered Bavarian hats and knee-high walk socks.

We sat inside, outside, under permanent cover, under temporary shade, buntings of Oktoberfest designs criss-crossing every space.

We ate bratwurst and sauerkraut (which, to be fair, was the common remaining untouched ‘delicacy’ on most revellers’ plates), listened to German music and did a little German jig in our festival attire.

While my souvenir glass was an underwhelming stemless wine glass, my friend, who is a beer drinker, had ordered the full-stein package.

It had a one-litre capacity. One litre!

There’s no beverage I could drink that volume of quick enough for it not to spoil or be hot by the time I got to the bottom.

But it made for great photos in her beer-wench get-up.

Once the gingham had come down and we were all ushered out the gates of the compound, we headed into the pub next door to shoot some pool and enjoy high-country venison pies and mash before carefully making our way along the open drain-lined streets, up and down hills to our accommodation in The Old Priory.

It was a beautiful old building, constructed in 1888 as a convent and school, which it was used for until 1978.

We slept on the top level, which was once the nuns’ ‘cells’, according to our welcome letters.

I’m not sure how I felt about being in a space potentially haunted by god-fearing ghosts after the evening’s ‘sinful’ shenanigans we’d just partaken in, but luckily none hassled us.

Which was far better than an unearthly nun hassling us.

I was in room 14, my friend in 11, but there was only one room between us because, being built in an era of extreme superstition, room 13 was intentionally left off the plan.

The grand building had beautiful high ceilings with tall stretching windows for views to the tree-filled grounds and hilly landscape beyond.

Original timber bannisters bordered the creaky staircases, while stunning leadlight framed the grand entrance.

Stone fences and structures featured in the garden, while some antiquated religious relics remained in place.

As well as individual holidaymakers, wedding and conference guests, the accommodation is used for school camp accommodation.

It’s just a stone’s throw from the main street (and the event we came to town for), but the rooms were far cheaper than at some of the nearby accommodations we’d looked at, which appeared to have event weekend price tags.

Maybe that was because it had shared bathroom amenities, or no lifts to the top floor, meaning you had to lug suitcases up several stair flights. Or maybe it was because it was haunted. And maybe the beer and wine we’d indulged in was to convent ghosts as garlic is to vampires.

Whatever the reason — and none of those things were a deal-breaker for me anyway — it wasn’t just accommodation.

It was also a tourist attraction within itself.

After breakfast, we did a quick drive around town, coming across the old preserved and picturesque Ovens District Hospital façade and the super interesting Powder Magazine, a building from 1860 used to store gunpowder.

The idea was to minimise the risk if an explosion happened, as the structure was designed to direct any blast safely upwards.

In all my visits to Beechworth, I’d never previously come across the site, which was restored in 1966, long before I was born.

The town is steeped in rich history. I discover more every time I pass through.

Next time, I’ll make sure whatever I’m visiting for is something the kids can come to, too.

Because, as fun as it was, a beer festival was not that.

Oom-pah-pah is the kind of fun definitely reserved only for adults.