Can My Pony Come Too?

by Rosemary Esmonde Peterswald

  After a month of living here we put in a chicken run up the back and then Rob decided that what we really needed to add a bit of class and colour were a couple of peacocks. He and Georgie ventured forth, returning with Andrew and Susan, so called after Andrew Peacock, the past Minister of Defence and his gregarious wife Susan.

  It wasn’t long before both peacocks got their wings, so to speak, and ventured out and about to socialise: Andrew was the epitome of a well-behaved peacock but Susan was a different kettle of fish. One day at work I received a distressed phone call from an elderly neighbour. ‘Do you happen to own the monstrous bird in my kitchen?’ she shrieked with terror. ‘The damn thing is screaming and trumpeting ferociously? It sounds like a braying donkey and I can’t get in the door.’

  After rescuing the unfortunate lady from the claws of death, we eventually succumbed to pressure, returning both peacocks to the large farm they’d come from. There they were more at home with lakes and fields to roam around.

  Next to the house was a small shop (originally the tuckshop for the Albuera Street School). Although we’d sold Windermere we were still producing apple juice, now down at Castle Forbes Bay about forty minutes south of Hobart. Rob was distributing it around Hobart in an Apple Maid van, but in addition, Charlotte and Georgie decided to sell the juice from the shop to make some extra pocket money. Charlotte also took a stall amongst the ancient sandstone buildings at Salamanca Market during the time she attended Drysdale Hospitality School, after graduating from Fahan. Together with jobs she had at the Theatre Royal Pub, the renowned Dear Friends Restaurant, run by the well-known restauranteur, Geoff Copping, and Kopwoods Tavern (Knoppys) owned for many years by my friend, Peggy James, she made enough money in a year to finance a trip overseas, after which she took up a prized position with the Regent Hotel in Sydney, where she managed the Lobby restaurant.

  In the meantime, Georgie continued at Fahan, becoming amongst other things the cox for the men’s University Rowing Team, which she loved. After Fahan she took herself overseas for a few months, like Charlotte, visiting her grandparents in Ireland and Viv in Wales. She even had New Year’s Eve in Edinburgh with a friend from school. When she came home she went to the University of Tasmania, graduating in Arts Economics. Whilst there, she too worked at many jobs, including the Theatre Royal and Dear Friends. After a brief spell with Trust Bank, she went to Hong Kong where she met up with Charlotte who’d been in England on a working holiday, looking after an elderly couple, followed by a stint in Harrods. Together they did a trip around China, terrifying the life out of Rob and me as they were totally on their own – two young blondes amidst a sea of dark haired Chinese. They walked the Great Wall of China and sailed along the coast back to Hong Kong by steamer from Shanghai. After that they worked in Japan teaching English to the Japanese. Looking back, and only now hearing some of the tricky situations they found themselves in whilst in China, I feel they were pretty adventuresome.

  We continued to sail on the Charlotte Rose, the highlight being the Bi Centennial Tall Ships Regatta, which brought the whole of Hobart to a stand-still as tall ships from all around the globe collected on the docks in Salamanca.

  We followed the boats down the Derwent, including the Irish entrant the Asgard.

  What a wonderful spectacle it was with huge bowsprits heaving and lifting, sails flapping to and fro in the stiff breeze, and the happy sound of accents from all around the world calling across the wind to each other. After rounding Tasman Island we were left behind in their wake, pulling into Fortescue Bay, where we anchored behind the old shipwreck, as we’ve done so many times before and since. Here in the bracken waters Marcus Clark sometimes catches a few crayfish or abalone, which he brings home for us all to devour.

  Later in the year my parents had a bad car accident in Ireland. After a few hasty arrangements, I took off to be with them. Fortunately by the time I got there my father had recovered enough to collect me from the train station at Bray, but my mother was still somewhat shaken up and bruised. For two weeks I stayed with them, going up to Dublin a couple of times to help my father with research at Trinity University. (He was writing his memoir and compiling the family trees for both the Esmonde and Peterswald families.) At Trinity he showed me the wonderful Book of Kells and we sat in the ancient library, which was brimming with history within leather-bound books, and wandered the magnificent hallways resounding with the clatter and chatter of smart young students rugged up in their Trinity scarves and warm Aran pullovers.

  When I wanted to shop in Grafton Street, my father sat patiently in a small church waiting for me. Later we ambled through St Stephen’s Green, one of his arms tucked through mine, the other firmly gripping his walking stick, where we fed the ducks swimming amongst the water lilies on the pond and watched the squirrels forage for nuts – just as I’ve done so many times with my mother after lunch or afternoon tea at the Shelbourne Hotel.

  Another time he took me to the Art Gallery and Museum, all the while telling me in his melodious voice about Irish history and what part the Esmondes played in it all. He even showed me the spot where the British hanged my ancestor, John Esmonde, in 1798. After a cup of coffee at Bewleys we caught the train back to Rathdrum where he bought my mother a bunch of yellow daffodils as a peace offering after the slight altercation they’d had before we left that morning.

  ‘You should let Teeny go on her own to Dublin,’ my mother had told my father sternly. ‘You’ll slow her down.’

  ‘I won’t slow her down one bit,’ my father answered stubbornly, hauling his walking stick out of the brass holder near the front door and plonking his Donegal tweed hat on his head. And with only the slightest hint of a goodbye he crankily shuffled from the door to the car where we drove to the train station at Rathdrum to catch the DART to Dublin.

  I was glad he’d put his foot down so to speak, for I wouldn’t have missed that day with him for quids. Fortunately when we got home the daffodils worked a treat and my mother was in fine form, serving us a piping hot Irish stew from the pot on the old fuel stove.

  Again we went to Ballynastragh for Sunday lunch, and had regular meals at the Wicklow Heather or Lynhams Pub straddling the Avonmore River in the nearby village of Laragh, or at The Meeting of the Waters near the small town of Avoca – where they made the popular television series Ballykiss Angel. When I was happy they were okay, they drove me through the narrow winding country roads (where we were held up for ages behind an army convoy, as there’d recently been an IRA scare) to the train station at Carlow where I once again sadly said goodbye. Each time I left them in Ireland my father seemed to be getting frailer. What I didn’t realise then was that this would be the last time I’d see him before he was admitted to hospital with terminal cancer and I would rush to his bedside. From the train window I watched them standing there, my mother dabbing the tears in her eyes, my father lifting his tweed hat in a salute and with his other arm around my mother’s shoulders. I too wiped my eyes, before the train let out a bellowing whistle and pulled out of the station. Now they were just two tiny dots in the far-off distance.

  Soon I was whizzing through meadows of wild flowers and green fields full of contented bleary eyed cows and black and white sheep, to meet Viv in Cork where she was looking after a friend’s five children in a rambling two-hundred-year-old house on the banks of the River Lee. It had been nine years since I’d seen her and as ever she looked divine, as slim as a pencil and her hair a bit longer. We had a fun time together, picnicking at Kinsale, driving around the countryside and visiting our eccentric and lovable Aunt Eileen (the one who placed her dress in a silk stocking) on her family estate, Ballyellis, not far out of Cork. Sadly my Uncle Witham had died a few years before and Eileen was now living there with her two sisters. We even took all of the five children we were looking after to kiss the Blarney Stone. And, as an Aussie guide held our legs, we did what nearly every tourist visiting Ireland wishes to do: leaned over backwards and kissed the stone that is supposed to
bring you good luck. The only problem being that we were laughing so much the poor bloke could hardly hold on to us.

  After the children were safely tucked into bed, we’d spend hours sitting around the huge pine table in the kitchen with a fire roaring in the stone hearth, dreaming of the possibility of buying a farm in Ireland. We even looked at a few, once being chased off the grounds by an angry tenant with a gun pointed in our direction, who didn’t want the farm sold up from under him.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he shouted across the front lawn. ‘You two be getting off this place now before I take the gun to you.’

  In the end we decided, not only was it a risky business looking at farms in Ireland, it was highly impractical to own one, with all of us in Australia and Viv and Tim already having a farm in Wales. Yet it didn’t stop us dreaming.

  From Shannon Airport we flew to London. I’d never been before and adored it all, from the gleaming London cabs, the window boxes brimming with spring bulbs, to the Tower of London and shopping in Harrods. The only disappointment was when Viv hurried me to bed the first night we were staying at an inner city hotel before I’d hardly finished my dinner, warning me in no uncertain terms that we were being given the once over by a group of Arab gentlemen at the next table. Personally I’ve nothing against gentlemen from Arabia giving me the eye, but Viv assured me they didn’t have good intentions, so reluctantly I meekly followed her upstairs to our room.

  When I arrived back in Hobart we decided to do away with the apple juice business altogether and Rob started working with a firm selling commercial real estate, which he enjoyed and was very good at, holding us in good stead for when we opened our own business a few years later.

  Chapter 33

  Heading North on Reveille

  At this stage we were keeping Charlotte Rose at the marina in the picturesque seaside village of Kettering about half an hour’s drive south of Hobart.

  One day Rob came home from working on her. ‘I think I’ve found us a new boat,’ he exclaimed, giving me a kiss and a hug to ensure I was going to be as enamoured as he. ‘One we can sail the coast of Australia safely in.’

  Although Charlotte Rose was a comfortable cruiser, we felt that if we were going to go sailing further afield we’d feel far happier in something a bit more suited to ocean sailing. For although we’d made her special, it was difficult to ensure the aft cabin was totally waterproof, as it opened into the cockpit and no matter how much we tried we couldn’t keep a rough sea out. Also, she was still lacking a proper shower and the head formed part of the foreword cabin. Hence Reveille came into our lives and sadly Charlotte Rose went to a new owner.

  Reveille, known as the Elsie J when we bought her, was a Roberts Mauritius 43 built by a Scottish Engineer out of fibreglass. She was more than comfortable, with three separate cabins. After a bit of titivating she became warm and cosy below and gleaming on topsides. To begin with we undertook a number of trips around Tasmania to familiarise ourselves, but finally the wanderlust got to us both and we decided to take absence of leave from our jobs and sail north to Queensland.

  Georgie in particular spent many hours working on Reveille, painting the hull on her own in freezing conditions, as she too had decided to come sailing north. Georgie had not long before met Simon Merchant to whom she’s now married. At that time Simon was only nineteen (and studying in the first intake of Real Estate Scholarship holders in Tasmania) and Georgie seventeen. Coincidently Simon is the son of Geoff Merchant, who used to manage Chilton Thompson, our agent for selling apples at Windermere. We’d met him a number of times and thought he was a great guy. Now here was Georgie stepping out with his son. Simon had also decided to come on the trip north so it was all go, getting Reveille ship shape. Luckily for Rob, Simon, a delightful handsome young fellow, was an avid rugby enthusiast, and still is, having represented Tassie in his age group.

  On November 30th, 1989, we set sail after a champagne farewell at the Cruising Yacht Club, where we’d bought Reveille up for final preparations. We were a crew of six: Rob and I, Georgie and Simon, Honey Hogan (who later married Jim Bacon, the Premier of Tasmania, who sadly died), and Dan, an experienced Sydney to Hobart yacht racer and friend of ours. Although I was excited to be heading off, I was also nervous about crossing the notorious Bass Strait for the first time.

  Our first stop was at Connellys Marsh before we headed across Norfolk Bay, where we threw our money in the bucket on a pole going through the Dunalley Canal as we’d done so many times before. From there we stopped at Maria Island and then Wineglass Bay, where we swam in the clear blue water off the magical stretch of white sand that’s so famous around the world (the Queen stopped here for a barbeque whilst on the Britannia), and ate magnificent crayfish supplied to us by friendly local fisherman. Our initial night in Bass Strait was so calm we fired up the barbeque and sat back with a few wines to enjoy dinner.

  In the early hours of the morning it all changed. Suddenly we found ourselves in a forty-knot northerly gale. And as luck would have it the self-steering decided to give up the ghost at the same time. Then the engine overheated and stopped. Eventually we took shelter under Mallacoota on the Victorian coast, but not before I was knocked out by a flying breadboard in the galley while preparing a meal. The next morning a southerly came in and we managed to sail on to the busy fishing village of Eden where we decamped to the local hotel for showers and a much-needed drink. Honey left us here as she’d been dreadfully seasick on the way over and couldn’t stomach the thought of soldiering on to Sydney.

  ‘I know exactly how many damn flowers there are on those cushions,’ she told me exhaustedly in the middle of Bass Strait, as I tried to coax her to eat something when she was lying prostrate in the cabin with a bowl beside her.

  When we got to Eden she suddenly came to life. I’ve never seen anyone leap onto solid ground with such enthusiasm. She promised to meet us in Sydney where she assured us she’d cook a curry and have it waiting for us. Needless to say she wasn’t there when we arrived (I suspect it was early on in the romance and Jim was waiting back in Hobart), but she never forgot. When Jim, as Premier, launched our Tasmanian photographic book From the Sea in 2002, Honey arrived with a packet of curry powder.

  For the next three and a half weeks we sailed north, with Dan disembarking in Sydney where a couple of friends, Susie and Pete Knight from Canberra, joined us for the trip north to Coffs Harbour. But it was just Rob, Georgie, Simon and I who literally surfed over the treacherous bar at Southport on the Gold Coast (it was closed half an hour later due to the huge seas), before tying up at the Marina Mirage in an almighty electrical storm. Eugene and Charlotte were there to meet us as we were spending Christmas with Eugene and his family.

  After a week or so, Simon flew back to Hobart and Eugene and Nicky, an exchange student staying with them from Austria, joined us on the trip north to Mooloolaba where we were leaving the boat for the next year.

  ‘It’s like riding in a rodeo,’ Nicky exclaimed in delight, as we rode one monstrous wave after the next. Poor Eugene was turning a pale shade of green.

  All in all it had been a challenging trip. In hindsight we should have gone at a different time of year when northerlies didn’t predominately prevail, but this was the only time I could get off work and I was also keen to spend Christmas with Eugene. Yet I must admit there were times, when we were bashing into a head wind, with Rob in the engine room trying to coax the motor into life, that I’d wished I hadn’t been quite so persuasive.

  Reveille’s temperamental engine was a constant battle the whole time we owned her. Rob spent many an hour fixing one problem after another, taking the shine off the trip for him somewhat. Even when it was purring along we always had to keep an ear out, listening for that bump that told us it was about to give up the ghost, particularly in tricky situations like going over the bar at Southport when Georgie was heard to pray, which wasn’t one of her stronger points, ‘Hail Mary full of grace…please…please keep the engine going
. Just for another half hour.’

  Chapter 34

  From Humble Beginnings… Starting Peterswalds

  When we were once again in Hobart we both went back to work, but I must admit, much as we tried, our hearts weren’t really in it. Friends went up to Mooloolaba to stay on Reveille, using her as a base, and Georgie and Simon also had a holiday on board. So too Rob and I. Once when Rob went up to check all was okay he discovered the whole of the cabin floor crawling in cockroaches. We never really did get rid of them. They gave me the creeps, particularly when one crawled into my ear at night.

  ‘The only way to get rid of ’em is to sink the bloody boat and haul it up again,’ an old salt told us. ‘That’ll drown the buggers.’

  We weren’t game to prove his theory, although at times we were tempted.

  After discovering a heavily wooded block of land on the bends at Mount Nelson, with wide views to the Derwent River and Eastern Shore, we decided to sell Albuera Street and build a pole house.

  ‘They didn’t buy a block of land,’ Georgie told the newspaper reporter when they were doing an article on our new house. ‘They bought a block of air.’

  She wasn’t far wrong, for the block fell away steeply down the mountain at the front and the only house that could be built on it was a pole house. Firstly Rob took time off work and helped the builder erect the house. Then he painted it from top to bottom himself, no mean feat, as most of the time he was on a perilous ladder trying to reach almost unreachable parts. Built on three levels, Poppy had a separate flat underneath and the girls had two bedrooms and a small bathroom upstairs. Our bedroom, kitchen and living area were on the middle floor.