Back on the Big Island - Week 2 - March 18

Back on the Big Island - Week 2 - March 18

The beginning of this, our last week was taken up with family visits: a picnic and a couple of visits to brothers and sister in Dungog. I took the opportunity to distribute my book, "Growing Up in Australia" to them. I had originally written this 60 page opus to describe to my two kids the very different circumstances that existed in the '40s and '50s in Australia, and then decided to give it as a gift to my siblings and some Oz friends. (If you are interested in reading this, contact me . . .).

We returned our rental car to Newcastle and then walked the foreshore of both the Newcastle Harbour and a couple of the beaches. The wharf area isn't a wharf area any more. Gone are the rail lines, the cranes and the freighters to be replaced by rather trendy condominiums and restaurants that could not be afforded by the stevedores that once worked the wharves. We made it to the very tip of the breakwater, past Nobby's, and returned along the beach, close enough to be up to our ankles in water with most waves, save the odd rogue one that soaked our bottoms. Not to worry - we dried out quickly.

Another journey into days of yore took us to a lavender farm in what once was a milking bails for a neighbour. It was strange to stand and look at very expensive products displayed on the same floor where I once shoveled . . . well, you know what cows are apt to do. The owner was not fascinated when I told her of this memory.

Then again I wanted to show Heather my old place of secondary learning and the level of the 1955 floodwaters that kept me out of that school for over six weeks. The school is no longer run by the Marist Brothers, and is called Saint Peters, with lay people teaching the high school. I was very annoyed at the treatment afforded me by the office staff. I think they were sure that we would run off with innocent children! Eventually we got in - two days later, but it was not a satisfactory visit, seeing none of the photos that a grand-niece told me were on display. Far better was the 50th anniversary of the flood at the art gallery, with photos of the awful devastation wreaked upon the town.

And so the time came to say good bye to my sister, Edie, and her husband, Maurie. We were sad to leave them, they were sad to see us board the XPT for an uneventful train ride to Sydney. We had little time (or so we thought) to book into the Coronation Hotel and find a spot for the Mardi Gras parade. It turned out we were terribly early, but had an excellent vantage point to see the show, the second largest gay and lesbian parade in the southern hemisphere, behind Rio. We thought it was less flamboyant than we had heard. This was later confirmed by perennial watchers - and participants.

On our first full day in Sydney we purchased a day pass and used the ferries and trains to the max. First was a trip by ferry to Paramatta, a 2-hour return trip, then a train and bus ride to Bondi Beach. What a wonderful time that was. The temperature was perfect, and the sea a myriad of colours. The beach itself was rather full of people enjoying one of their last summer Sundays. Our trip to the Olympic Park was marred by several youths - louts - who were eager to make life uncomfortable for all around. Rather than resist - my first instinct - we quietly left and found other seats. I wanted to round off the day with a night trip to Kings Cross, but we decided to give it a miss.

Tuesday saw us ride the monorail through the CBD and meet a cousin for the first time. John and I had corresponded regularly when I was putting together a book on our family history but until this week, had never met. We enjoyed talking about common experiences and hearing of his cycling across the Simpson Desert and his plan to "sail the Nullabore", again on a bicycle.

Afternoon tea with Sue, a former colleague from Werris Creek days was relaxing as we chatted about families, trips, retirement and life.

As it happened, there was a play worth our attention at the Sydney Opera House. Directed by John Bell (another Marist Brothers' graduate and a man of Shakespearean fame in Australia), Wars of the Roses was a bloody delight. With pink camouflage costumes of the modern era (except for King Harry) and bizarre modern day inserts: rapping before a battle; digital camera shots of special occasions, a case of VB Lager, and a real crack at Bush ("But first, watch this drive") and ending with Gloucester rapping "This is the winter of our discontent". What a way to spend the evening.

Outside, the stars were ablaze over the Harbour Bridge as we made our way back to park Street and our hotel. That was a fitting way to complete our trip to Australia. Now it is time to pack our bags and head for New Zealand.

We're on our way home.

Back on the Big Island - Week 1

The flight with Virgin Blue was again without incident, except that in our haste to leave the cabins, Heather forgot her Akubra hat. When we landed in Melbourne we phoned the managers, and sure enough, she has, at the time of writing this, just received her chapeau du sud.

We headed out of Melbourne, unfortunately missing an old friend from Werris Creek days, bypassing Bacchus Marsh (the pub wouldn't be open - Verne would still be sleeping) and headed towards Ballarat. This is the local of the Eureka Stockade, the closest that Australia came to a civil war. Had to do, simply, with unfair taxation.

The town itself is historic with wonderful old buildings from the time of the gold rush. It is almost unbelievable to see the number of these magnificent edifices. One of these is the railway station, where the interior is opulent. No trains are running at the present as the track is being upgraded, bringing Melbourne from 90 to 62 minutes away. Hello commuters. The homes along Webster Street belonged to the gentry, and the structures made that obvious.

We headed then to Castlemaine (the home of castlemaine XXXX before the brewery was moved to Brisbane) and found a cabin. With rosellas singing in the trees outside, it was quite peaceful. we drove around, saw the regional prison, extensive rose gardens and other points of interest. The difficulty in finding the IGA was because it was, by council decree, hidden amongst trees and shrubs. Quite a refreshing change from the mega stores. we deserved a treat, as it had been a long day. Off to the Cumberland Hotel where we had a pub meal: a roast beef dinner that used up most of the cow, while Heather contented herself with chicken wrapped in bacon.

We awoke next morning to magpies singing and running around the roof of the cabin and headed to Woop Woop. Now Woop Woop has a special significance amongst older Australians. "Where's Harry?" "Gone to Woop Woop." Translation: "How the bloody hell do I know." Or "Went mad in Woop Woop and the police shot him" another variation of the above but avoided when around the tongue police. For many, Woop Woop and the Black Stump are synonymous with the Outback, Gone Bush, On the Wallaby.

The Woop Woop to which we headed was on a few acres and was drenched in all of the old sayings of bygone days. I went crazy seeing and remembering some of these: "May you live so long there's no bastards left to bury you" or "May all your chooks (chickens) die and you can't sell the wire netting." After a conducted tour (they only took groups - no less than 20 toe-nails) we sat with the owners and had tea and scones, complete with fly-bog (jam) and clotted cow (cream). A delightful morning indeed.

We drove through the other wonderful town of Bendigo, but did not stop as we had spent time there last visit. We spent only a little time in the dairy and fruit town of Shepparton and drove on to Benalla to the museum where the bushranger Ned Kelly's cummerbund was on display. This was worn by Ned when he took on the police, armed in his suit of iron, but wounded in the leg and hence captured and hung in Melbourne. $10,000.00 was spent to preserve the cummerbund, but it still retains the blood stain from his wounds.

Glenrowan, the town where the Kelly's held the pub hostage and where the confrontation took place, has been overly commercialized. We were nevertheless able to trace the spots where each of the incidents in the battle took place.

We spent the night in Warrangatta with its welcome swimming pool adjacent to our cabin. A walk into town to buy fresh fish for pan frying and a wine to wash it down, and we were set for the evening.

From there Heather drove to Wodonga on the NSW/Victoria border and then east along the Murray Highway though some green and hilly country south of the Murray River. A brief stop in Corryong (Curry Yong) to take in the atmosphere of the Man from Snowy River town - and to have a pie. Then across the Murray into NSW and to the godforsaken town of Khancoban where we could not find anyone from whom to buy a pass for the Kosi. National Park. So on up the Snowy Mountain Highway to Thredbo. This was the third time on this road in as many trips, but I was certainly not bored with the twisty bits - most of the road - along the 85 km.

Thredbo is NOT my type of town - it is not a typically Australian town. A major ski resort in the winter, there is a certain arrogance that pervades here. Accommodation in the very opposite to ski season was ridiculously high with 2-night minimums. Parking infractions along the main street incurred a $300.00 - THREE HUNDRED dollar - fine.

We drove the short distance to Jindabyne where we found a cabin overlooking the lake for one quarter the rate in Thredbo. Another meal of fish, a couple of king parrots eating apples outside our window, a stunning sunset and a dusk stroll along the lakefront.

Twice before we had been thwarted in our attempt to get to the top of Mount Kosi. Today the weather was offering no excuses. Back to Thredbo (making sure we were in a proper parking lot) and up the chairlift to Eaglenest. From there we began our 13 km trek. We were able to outpace two groups of school kids (We still question why kids are on such an excursion, naturally filled with danger of serious accidents, within the first couple of weeks of a new school year. Who was benefiting from such a week away from the classroom???)

There were already a few folk at the top when we made it in a little more than two hours. We ate our early lunch, cracked a mini bottle of bubbly while Heather attempted to claim the mountain with her Canadian flag. As on my last time there, the ubiquitous cell phones were there. We can understand the "thrill" of talking to someone from the highest point in Australia, but must we listen to every bloody word shouted into their electronic leashes???

We were back at the bottom at 2:30 pm, headed east then north across the Monaro Plateau then down off the mountains, past several of the Snowy Mountain Scheme reservoirs (Blowering Dam was at 20% capacity) and into Tumut. Doug Deller and I had been taken by this town when we passed through it in 2002. It warranted another look and the look was pleasing. Kilometers of poplars line each of the approaches to the town and there is a feeling of tranquility, especially along the Tumut River. It was here that we found a cabin where we were serenaded (hah) by a host of black cockatoos in the evening and white cockatoos in the morning. The river allowed us to cool down before we had supper.

Those cockies had us up and on our way to Gundagai where we spent time at the two historic (and abandoned) bridges across the Murrumbidgee River and the old (and abandoned) railway station along the abandoned railway line. From there we treated ourselves to a Devonshire Tea in a rather opulent setting (at least for Gundagai). Peach and ginger jam with fresh scones. This rough life is a little too much.

There are two views of tourism in Gundagai: The townsfolk welcome the money that the tourists bring in but the graziers from the surrounding area complain that there are no parking spaces when they come into town The narrow vision of life is alive and well on the land.

Outside the town is the statue of the Dog on the Tuckerbox. This was inspired by a song about a bullock driver who was having a bloody bad day. Apart from all his woes with a broken axle, a sick beast and a shifted load, the "dog shat in his tuckerbox, five miles from Gundagai". Modern times have removed the "h" from shat.

Opposite this statue was a set of sculptures depicting 4 fictional characters from an old-time radio show, Dad and Dave. The sculptures of dad, Dave, Mum and Mabel were quite an attraction but the service station where they were placed had closed and the sculptures removed awaiting the results of a referendum to determine their fate. The graziers have a definite idea about what should be done with them.

On then to Cootamundra and a look at the caste ironwork at the station and a visit to the birthplace of Donald Badman, still the greatest cricketer ever to come out of Australia, if not the world. To Cowra and its rose gardens and the news that the present 38 degrees is not hot: it only gets hot when it hits 45!

By the time we arrived in Molong, a nondescript blot on the map, it was time to stop for the day. We should not have. The manager of the only caravan park actually tried to talk us out of staying in the only remaining cabin (there were sheep dog trials in town so most places were full). Foolishly we insisted, to find the cabin right beside the road - the highway - at the bottom of a hill and on the inside of a bend! We accepted the noise of the trucks - that was our decision, but the cabin was not at all clean and the garbage overflowing. The demeanor of the manager made it easy for us to believe that the cabin had not been cleaned for several days. These and other incidents made this night a real blot on our experiences in staying in cabins.

We were not reluctant to get the hell out of town the next day and headed to Yeoval to look up a family I knew when they managed the pub there in the '60's. I found myself talking to Bluey's niece who told me about them.

On then to Wellington and then to Gulgong, the birthplace of Henry Lawson. What a wonderful place this is! Almost untouched by progress it is still a viable country town, albeit with streets too narrow for traffic to meet and pass. They are not one-way, drivers practice courtesy and allow the car already on the block to pass by.

The Henry Lawson Museum was a place filled with memorabilia about the man and his legacy. I was amused to see the depictions of three of his works: The Loaded Dog, The Drover's Wife and the poem, Outback which I perform as a storyteller. The experience there was enhanced by the elderly volunteer who showed us "special" things from the back room and reminisced about her childhood, especially when her father struck it rich when his many bales of wool were sold at 240 pence per pound.

It was far too hot to remain in the town as we had hoped to. Instead we drove through Merriwa, stopped for yet another Devonshire Tea at Denman, and were in East Maitland in time to make our dinner. My sister Edie was recovering well from her operation and we felt good that we were able to be back to take over many of her household chores for the next week.