Whispers of Walhalla: Hidden Stories from the Past and Haunted Echoes
I still remember wondering if I heard Jade correctly back in 2020 when she said, “We’re going to Walhalla.”
I thought to myself, Walhalla? Isn’t that from Norse mythology? The hall of the gods? I couldn’t picture Odin and the Valkyries settling down for a chat with kangaroos in regional Victoria. Jade, with the patience of a saint, gave me one of those looks (I could almost hear the mental eye-roll) and explained that Walhalla is in Gippsland. A once-thriving mining town, now nearly forgotten, rumoured to be haunted in parts.
So there we were, on the long drive east. My mind was split between the challenge of driving on the “other” side of the road — still very new to me back then — and wondering what an old mining town would even look like. Would I find anything worth photographing with my trusty old camera?
When we finally arrived, Walhalla felt like stepping into a storybook. A tiny town with just twenty permanent residents, where the cemetery probably outnumbers the living. The internet only reached it recently, and for years there wasn’t even mobile reception. It was the kind of place where time seemed to have stood still, wrapped in mist and memory.
Walhalla felt like stepping into another world — a hidden village, tucked away in the hills, where time seemed to pause. If someone asked me where Rivendell should be built, this would probably be my answer
We had booked a stay at the Windsor House, a beautiful old brick home with gardens that welcomed us instantly. The owners casually mentioned that guests sometimes saw ghosts. Exciting for me — less so for Jade. Walking through the house, I was struck by the details, the way history clung to the timber and bricks, yet how gracefully it had aged.
We spent our days wandering. Small cottages scattered on hillsides, the remains of once-busy gold rush buildings, stories of miners and families long gone. Some tales whispered of spirits, others simply of hardship. Every corner held echoes of another time.
One walk took us uphill through the bush, where we saw life pushing back against loss. Charred trees from a recent bushfire were sprouting green once again — resilience written in leaves. At the very top, we stumbled across what must be the most remote footy field in all of Victoria, surrounded by wilderness. It was surreal, a sporting oval carved into the silence of the forest.
There was something peaceful in the disconnection. No signal, no rush, no distractions. Just us, the history of the place, and our imaginations. My mind wandered constantly, who had lived here, who had struggled, and who might still linger unseen? Haunted or not, Walhalla carried its past quietly but powerfully.
This trip was a different kind of adventure. Not about grand landscapes or chasing photos, but about slowing down, listening, and feeling the weight of stories that still linger in the air. I left with a handful of photographs, but more importantly, with the memory of stepping into another time.
Walhalla may be small, but it leaves a lasting echo.
