by Stuart Kells
Wednesday, 15 July 1925
There are seven or eight cattle races between Morgan and Blanchetown. What these are is rather hard to explain.
Thursday, 16 July 1925
I commenced writing yesterday just as the gong announcing lunch sounded and I could not find time during the remainder of the day to continue. However, what is a cattle race? It is a structure, usually beside a gate, that allows cars to pass but prevents cattle, horses and sheep from doing likewise.
Either a gate was made in a fence and the track converged that way or else a fence was erected and, when it came to a track, a gate was made. Then came motor traffic, and the drivers cursed gates. It certainly is amazing, when travelling alone, to have to open and close many gates. But they didn’t stop at cursing; they left the gates open and the cattle and stock strayed necessitating much unnecessary work to the farmers and station owners. It was impossible for them to close the track and as something had to be done they erected races. Some races are level, but the ground under the bars must then be excavated. The object is that cattle, sheep etc., will not cross them because their feet slip down between the bars, and once they have tried they never try again.
Some of the bars are of wood, some of metal. The race nearest to the railway is constructed of railway lines, and the bars of the last race before Blanchetown is reached are the metal rollers. These rollers revolve when a car is crossing and, in revolving, make a noise like a Ford starting. All races are made just wide enough to permit a car to pass through and when one has luggage strapped on the running boards it is a matter of inches. Also, if one tries to go too fast over a sloping race a very nasty jerk is experienced, especially by those in the back seat. One day Bob was going down in his little Fiat. He had Sister Rogers in front, and ‘Wee Mac’ (McGregor) and the Secretary of Coles and Woodhan’s packing shed in the back. ‘Wee Mac’ stands about six foot three inches and weighs anything over sixteen stone. Bob took one race too fast and ‘Wee Mac’ was flung out of his seat. Just missing the bow of the hood, he pushed the canvas of the hood right up and coming down he caught his jaw on the bow of the hood and, for a second, hung there. Then he slipped back, scraping all the skin off the bottom of his jaw. He sat still, rubbing his jaw and dabbing it with a handkerchief. When he had recovered he said to Bob, ‘For God’s sake Bob, get a move on. My jaw’s getting that still, that if you don’t hurry up and get to the place where we have dinner, I shan’t be able to eat’.
But I am taking too long over this. I should be out in the orchard pruning, so back to the track. Blanchetown is just 100 miles from Renmark, and here I usually stopped for dinner. If I stayed here for dinner and I had any passengers, I used to get a free dinner. Anywhere else I stopped it used to cost me 2/6. So no wonder I always tried to stop here. At Blanchetown one can cross the river on the weir – only foot passengers and, even then, one is not allowed to do this. Still it can be done and I have done it. Blanchetown consists of one hotel, one post office, one school and about four houses. A few hundred yards from Blanchetown is a little creek where ‘Evening Shadows’, a painting in the Adelaide Art Gallery, was painted. Very stony country about here. I wonder anybody can make a living at anything on this class of soil.
Blanchetown to Sedan is another stretch of thirty miles. This is a nasty stretch to be stuck upon as there are only two or three houses to be seen the whole way and there are, near the towns at either end, I suppose for twenty-five miles, no human habitation. Twenty miles from Blanchetown you turn sharp to the right on to a good metal road. This road hardly bends for ten miles and the scenery on either side of the track does not vary in the slightest: young mallee. The road, however, is not level but is undulating the whole way.
Sedan is a very old town. In the early days this was almost a German settlement and, even now, well over half the population are Germans or descended from German parents. One has only to look at the list of persons on the Sedan telephone exchange. At this town there are six turnings and I have travelled most of them. One from Blanchetown, which is also the Swan Reach road; one to a few farms; one to Cambrai (before the War Whine Villa) and Cooks Hill; one to Keyneton; another track over the hills which joins the Keyneton track; and one which leads to Bower on the Morgan–Eudunda track. There is a church here, all complete with tower. On the tower is a clock and on the face of the clock is painted the time. I suppose this is cheaper than a real clock with hands that move.
A few miles out from Sedan one encounters Sedan Hill which, from the very bottom to the tip top, must be over three miles. But the real climbing is done in the last mile or mile and a half. This is the one and only real hill of the journey. There are several other hills but they fade into insignificance compared with Sedan Hill. I have been up this hill with five passengers and a lot of luggage, on top gear – this is a wonderful performance for any car. From the top of the hill, looking at the country you have just come from, it is a wonderful view. It looks as level as a billiard table in every direction. In the distance, towards the right, can be seen the river. Sedan can be easily spotted and the straight track with young mallee on either side of it. On the right of the track, going up the hill, is a stone wall which must have been erected some few years ago when labour was not quite so expensive as it is today. Like most hills, no sooner do you get to the top than you descend again and, so, up and down, up and down, until you reach Keyneton. Here, turn sharp to the left over a small creek and you find yourself in an avenue of gums. Towns are not so far apart now. Eden Valley, Springton and Mount Pleasant follow one another in quick succession.
A fair number of vineyards are situated about here; I think it is in Eden Valley that Penfolds have a winery. Mount Pleasant is quite a large-sized town. After leaving here you cross the railway line and a few miles further on reach Birdwood, which before the war was named Blumberg. Between Birdwood and Gumeracha, and on the right of the track on a sharp turn to the left, stands a low white building. A little cripple girl used to lie on a bed here, so placed that she could see all the cars and other traffic pass. First of all, I used to wave to her. Then one day, when passing through Keyneton, I saw some wild flowers growing on the side of the track so I picked a few and gave them to her as I passed. After this, I nearly always gave her something each trip – papers, some of the Punches that Auntie Annie sent me found their way to the hands of this little cripple girl. Sometimes a few chocolates or sweets, sometimes flowers and, once, a large bunch of ‘Red Prince’ grapes.
She was a very cheerful girl and was always smiling. I am very pleased to state that she is fast improving and the last time I saw her she had been taken out by her father in a wheelchair. She can also just hobble about and in a few months the doctor thinks she may be able to walk quite well.
There is a fairly steep pinch at Gumeracha, but nothing compared with Sedan Hill. Hope Valley Reservoir is not far from Gumeracha. A short distance from the town is the Gorge Road turn off; the other track, which winds away to the right, leads to Millbrook Reservoir, Teatree Gully etc. The Gorge Road descends and turns sharply to the right. The scenery witnessed while passing through the Gorge is very wonderful. Also, being new, the surface of the road is more than good. Sometimes you are travelling on a road cut in the face of a cliff, one side a drop right down to the river and on the other side solid rock right up to the sky. A few miles further and you are right down on the banks of the river. Here you cross a substantial concrete bridge while, a little way along, you see a frail but pretty bridge spanning the river. A little further on a water main crosses the river and disappears in the solid rock. Presently you come to Cudlee Creek where there is one of the largest cool storages in South Australia. Some very fine specimens of u-bends are encountered on this road; you turn and turn and turn and are confident you cannot be more than a few feet from where you started to turn. The Gorge is nearly fourteen miles long. Some passengers I have driven through it said it was superior to the Blue Mountains, but I think the land of blue valleys comes first. Some nasty
accidents have occurred in these few miles. At one place can be seen the remains of a fine car that, in the hands of an incompetent driver, went over the side. Once out of the Gorge you are practically in Adelaide. Athelstone is a small place, just out of the Gorge. Then comes the suburbs of Adelaide commencing with Payneham. Soon comes North Terrace and you are in the heart of the city.
Of course, I had to go wherever my passengers were bound – The Station, Grosvenor, Gresham, Coffee Palace, Black Bull, Red Lion. But, usually, I had passengers for the suburbs – Norwood, Paradise, Magill, Richmond, North Adelaide, Walkerville, Mills-wood and all over the place. Sometimes I went out as far as Henley Beach, Glenelg and Brighton.
I am sorry I have not been able to make my descriptions longer or more interesting, but it is an awkward thing to do when I have had to do it at any odd moments I had to spare. It is a job one wants to settle down to. But perhaps one day when I have a lot of spare time I may re-write it and, again, I may not. After all, this writing is a pleasure to me and I am not going to bind myself with any promises, especially self-made ones that might tend to make it otherwise. If I said I was going to rewrite it, it would always be on my mind. As it is, if I do do such a thing, so well and good, and if I don’t, well, it won’t cause me to lose much sleep and I don’t think it is of sufficient importance to cause you to lose any!
I have been here a month today and I am no nearer a job now than I was when I arrived. I seriously considered, in fact am still considering, taking on teaching as a profession. If I could be appointed master of a small outback school at any decent salary, and live on a station, I should have plenty of spare time for learning something about sheep and I might also try to save a few pounds. You see, sheep is what I am after, but to secure a position as ‘jackaroo’ at a decent station is very hard. At the best stations, jackaroos have to pay to learn. I am afraid this would not suit me. At the present time my total finances amount to £5.10.0. Nothing very extraordinary, is it? But ‘there’s a good time coming in the sweet by and bye’.
Since I have been in Australia I have had some very happy times. Not much of a time at the first place I struck but at Renmark I had some fine times, especially towards the end of my stay. In Adelaide I enjoyed myself immensely and I am doing the same up here. Here, although I am on holiday, I do quite a lot of odd jobs. I have pruned all the vines and have made a start on the orchard. That, however, will take a long time; there are well over 100 trees in it including apple, pear, peach, cherry, apricot, plum, lemon, olive, loquat and almond trees. I put in four days lamb marking. On Monday, wind and weather permitting, Mr Rowlands, Doug (his son), Jack (a friend of Doug who is staying here) and myself are going off a couple of hundred miles to do some ‘classing’. This, I hope, will be interesting and instructive.
Talking about trying to be a schoolmaster, the place, or rather school, I am trying to get is at Torrington. Not much like the place in Devon, I’m afraid, but if I go to Torrington I shall be able to live with some friends of Mr Rowlands who have a station there. But if I can’t live on a station, I don’t want to be a schoolmaster. Now, I really must go and do some pruning.
Sunday, 19 July 1925. 11.25am
I place this book in front of me and take my trusty Waterman in my hand to write something, but what I have not yet thought about. How about the weather? Isn’t that a good subject to write about? Today the weather is perfect: sunny, but not too hot, just the slightest breeze, but not windy, just a few clouds drifting over the sky but not enough to prevent the warmth of the sun reaching the earth. We have had a lot of rain lately and everything out of doors is looking fresh. Although it is hardly spring yet, it is a spring day. A few days like that and the tall almond tree, which I can just see from where I sit writing, at the top of the orchard will be sending forth its welcome message that spring is here. The almond is the first tree to bloom and that is one of the reasons why everybody likes almond trees. The other reason is because they bear almonds.
The scenery here is fine, hills everywhere, some covered with real green grass. A few trees dotted about, just to improve the view, and they also serve the purpose of providing shade for the sheep in the warm weather. Some of the tops of the hills are covered with trees forming a pretty crest. Valleys and hills in whichever direction you look while, in the distance, towards the glorious west, lie snow-capped mountains, the Canobolas. While I am writing the magpies just up by the orchard fill the air with their liquid notes. I am not trying to be poetical or funny but, seriously, if ever there was a bird whose notes could be termed ‘liquid’ it is the Australian magpie. One could easily imagine the notes dropping from Heaven, each separate note being sonorous in itself, yet each note harmonizing with the next before it dies away in the valleys. I wonder if I dare call it the Nightingale of Australia.
Saturday, 1 August 1925
A few minutes ago I received a letter from home congratulating me on obtaining my third and lucky position, or job, in Australia and wishing me every success etc., etc. I only wish there was some truth in it. I am beginning to lose count of the number of weeks I have been here and, to date, no job. I really shall soon have to start work again, for funds are not too high. If all the monies owing to me were paid me I should be better off than I am. Actually, at the present time I am in debt. But let me not talk about this subject, it is bad enough to think and ponder over it without writing about it.
I think I will mention the names of some of the places I visited during my recent trip upcountry. Mr T.H. Rowlands, Mr Doug Rowlands, Jack Hill, Mrs Barbrecar, her son Leslie and myself left ‘Millamolong’ at 12.15pm on Monday, 20th July. We proceeded as far as Cowra (via Woodstock) where Mr Rowlands had to attend a meeting. The rest of us inspected the town and had afternoon tea. At 5pm we were off again. At Canowindra we had dinner and then on to Eugowra where we left Mrs Barbrecar and son.
It was raining and the road was very bad, but as we were in the Lancia we were quite comfortable. At Canowindra, after dinner, Mr Rowland bought us a cigar each. As we proceeded on our way, I, sitting at the back, the side curtains up and puffing away at a fat cigar, felt like a made man. We passed through Cudal and stopped at Molong. Unluckily, the Freemason Hotel was full, but we managed to secure a ‘shake down’ – six of us sleeping in the dining room. Rather a curious incident occurred here. As I am in Australia I have no compunction about mentioning it, but were I in England perhaps I would leave it out.
One of the six occupants of the room was very slow undressing. He kept on opening his bag and then closing it again. It looked as if he wanted to be the last in bed – perhaps he hoped someone would turn out the light before he was in bed. If this was his intention, he succeeded. Then the truth came out: he had no pyjamas. He slipped into bed as if relieved it was all over and then discovered that, being the last, he had to turn out the light and he had to trip right down the length of the room with not too many clothes on. Mr Rowlands put his head under the clothes and the very bed shook.
Up before 6am the next morning, a cup of tea and biscuits at the railway restaurant and then on to Wellington (forty-two miles) for breakfast – a real good meal it was, too. Through Dubbo and Cobborah to Dunedoo, where we had dinner. Then Mendooran and Rocky Glen to ‘Hillgrove’, the station we were bound for. This is Mr Bob Clifton’s property and here we classed his sheep. On Wednesday night we went over to his brother’s house. Here, when being introduced to Mrs Clifton (the mother of Bob Clifton), another amusing incident occurred. Jack Hill and I were introduced together and Mrs Clifton asked, ‘Which is the Englishman?’. This, let me assure you, is very amusing. Needless to say, Jack is an Australian. On Thursday morning we went on to another station, the property of Arnold Brown. We classed his sheep for him and, in doing so, filled up our hands with thorns. I still have a few left. Dinner here and then on to Coonabarabran, back to Mendooran and via Dubbo to Wellington. We secured rooms at the hotel, but could obtain nothing to eat. So we entered the nearest restaurant where we all had a ‘slap u
p’ feed. I had two large plates of ham, four eggs, a plate of toast and a few cups of tea, finishing up with a large apple. After a walk, I retired and was soon in the land of nod.
Breakfast at Wellington and on to Molong and ‘Gamboola’, a station owned by Mr Murray, a friend of Mr Rowlands. He has a fine house here, one of the best I have seen. Lady Ramsay was staying with him, so we literally had a cup of tea with Lady Ramsay and then proceeded to Orange where we had a bonser dinner at the Royal. We stopped at Blayney a few minutes, the coldest spot on the earth – cold winds, cold breezes, cold everything – and then via Carcoar and Mandurama to ‘Millamolong’, where we arrived at about 3pm on Friday afternoon. We had travelled nearly 800 miles and had all had a glorious time.
I mentioned the names of the places partly for my own sake in years to come and partly for your sake, in case you are interested enough to look up a good atlas to see whereabouts the places are.
On Saturday afternoon I drove the Fiat to Canowindra where Mr Rowlands had to attend some meeting. Miss Rowlands came as well. I treated her to afternoon tea with (alas, almost literally) my last ‘bob’. We then proceeded to ‘Werribee’, a station just outside Woodstock owned by Mr Fred Rowlands, one of Mr T.H. Rowland’s brothers. He also has a fine house, tennis court, two cars. We had dinner there and then back to ‘Millamolong’. With us came Miss Esme Rowlands, Mr Fred’s only daughter. If this were, in every sense of the word, ‘my private diary’ I would state what I thought of Esme. As, however, this may be read by others besides myself, I had better not say too much. It might come back to ‘Werribee’ and then I should be done. However, there is no harm done by stating that she is very good-looking, likes the ‘great out of doors’, is a champion tennis player and is extremely fascinating. I had better not say any more or I might easily say too much. On Monday Mr Rowlands left for Sydney. He is expected back tomorrow. We kept rather late hours while Esme was staying here. It was usually between 1am and 2am before we went to bed.