Lately we’re spending a lot of time taking Archie walkies — having recently achieved full leg-cocking status, he’s experiencing huge amounts of energy, so to buy a little quiet time, we’re wearing him out with twice-daily epic treks around town.

His favourite route follows the local fitness track, which includes a winding descent through the small valley through which Flood Creek flows. Every time we cross the little bridge over the creek, our canine prodigy has to stop and peer quizzically into the water, as if trying to figure out what’s in there.

This being Australia, there’s a theoretical chance he’s scenting a bunyip, lurking like the troll in that Billy Goats Gruff tale. Yes, I have another cryptid for you, which by rights should have been included in the Great Cryptid Series of September ’20. And I might add that as far as cryptids go, it’s up there with the best of the slavering, bloody-jawed, flesh-tearing bunch, so excuse me for the oversight.

There’s really no excuse for failing to tell you all about the venerable bunyip – there’s a shop in town named after this intriguing monster. Logically enough, it’s a florist and gardening supply shop. We love it because the proprietor is always up for a consultation on how to de-bug rose bushes or what’s ailing saggy tomato bushes. And the shop is dog-friendly, which means popping in while out on walkies is always an attractive option. We’ve bought numerous plants there to embark on their life-and-death struggle in the Corner Cottage gardens.

But we digress. Let us place the bunyip beneath our microscope. Like many a mythical (or is it?) beast in these parts, this bog-dwelling, misanthropic, preternaturally nasty-looking hybrid has its origins in Aboriginal culture. Bunyip is just one of its names: the creature may also answer to mulyawonk or yallambie, should you be able to call those to mind when confronted with one.

Accounts differ as to what a Bunyip might look like: the more you read, the less it seems to conform to any particular size, shape, number of limbs or whether it’s hairy or scaly. It could be that everyone who encounters one is either rapidly dispatched by its ravening jaws or they’re too busy running away to take notes. One thing is clear though: it is terrifying, lurking under the water to emerge in a savage surge to prey upon human beings – especially tender, juicy women and children. And its booming cry rings out from the local billabong at night, freezing the blood of those cringing abed.

Those in the know have been quick to point out that lots of cultures have similar tales: think of Scotland’s Nessie, allegedly based on the Celtic kelpie or water-horse which drowns the children it tempts to ride on its back. Native Americans had many, such as ‘Champ’, who lurks in Lake Champlain and is the transmogrified spirit of a spurned lover who murdered his heart’s desire and then drowned himself. And there’s Inkanyamba from South Africa, which inhabits the plunge pools of waterfalls and can control the weather.

There’s no real mystery as to why humans have long found reasons to believe in these lurking amphibious creatures. Think about it: you scan an expanse of water and you can’t see what’s under the concealing surface. There’s that feeling when you’re swimming in wild water – the vague anticipation that something’s going to reach up and grab your foot; something scaly brushing up against you or (shudder) wrapping around you. Remember the horripilations that took so long to abate after the movie Jaws? The whole thing was built on the dread what lies beneath. I can tell you that there was more than a little of that when I eschewed fording Bopping’s Crossing.

Of course, large expanses of deep water are dangerous – even today, many more children drown in suburban swimming pools or rural brooks than is strictly right. What better way of instilling a sense of respect for the danger than by telling everyone there’s a monster in there? In cultures where teaching the kiddies to swim isn’t an option, training them to keep the hell out of the water makes a great deal of sense.  

As with any cryptid, bunyips and Nessie and Champ are subject to earnest attempts to prove their existence, with all manner of theories abounding: they’re surviving aquatic dinosaurs, they’re freakishly overgrown eels, they’re as-yet-unrecorded deep-water species. There are those who will tell us we’re seeing deformed tree branches sticking above the surface, or the wakes of passing boats, thus rendering the deliciously mysterious rather prosaic. But paradoxically, the more the bearded boffins employ their sonar, satellite imaging and robot submersibles, the more the mystery grows.

Maybe that’s because we really want a little bit of bunyip in our lives. It’s not just that Victorian Romantic notion that “we murder to dissect” – I’m still convinced that mostly, knowing is superior to not knowing. It’s more that without a spot of mystery, life would be unrelievedly dull. That’s why Archie peers over the bridge — he’s ready to be surprised by something mind-blowing.

And on top of that, it feels good to snuggle down under the blankets when the world outside is dark, secure under a sound roof and four walls; the big wide world will always be beyond our control, but that just makes our little circle of hard-won comfort that little bit more precious.

With everything that’s going on out there, that’s good enough for me.