Down Under (Chapter 9 - Adelaide to Melbourne, Australia)
Leaving Adelaide with eight pounds in the purse and a full tank of petrol, we found rolling, sheep-and-cattle country on either side of us as we whittled down the mileage to Melbourne. Our first stop was Murray Bridge.
Murray Bridge was a nice little town, set in the heart of the 'butter country', and a mixture of old and new wooden buildings, some over a century old with ornate lattice-work round the doors and along the eaves, while other bungalows with butterfly roofs and built-in carports were painted in bright attractive colours.
All the shops along the main street were canopied, offering shade from the sun and shelter from the rain, and giving the advantage of being able to shop in comfort for the whole length of the street. Nita and I felt that this protective addition could well be adopted in our own country (particularly for the latter reason). This little town, with its canopies and its fly-screens on nearly every door, is typically Australian, and so are its wide streets where cars are usually angle-parked on the gravel edges each side of the bitumen strip.
Most southern Australian towns are like Murray Bridge. The bungalow builders have had the foresight to erect pleasingly individual dwellings, most of them single-storey, taking advantage of all space available.
Water is precious, even in the fertile coastal belt, during the long hot summers, and every house in the smaller communities has a conspicuous corrugated rain-butt beside it. But Murray Bridge, when we arrived on a hot November morning, had had its fill of moisture, for it was just recovering from a severe flood which had caused havoc in the vicinity and vast financial loss. Indeed, although the worst of the disaster was over, we could see from the balcony of the small hotel where we spent the night, the forlorn sight of a mill chimney poking up from a veritable lake just a few hundred yards away. But they are a tough breed in the Murray Valley, and the hotel keeper said they had learned to live with floods and the fear of them. And when floods came-as they did every few years-the people just rolled up their sleeves and their trouser legs and pitched into the wreckage. As one old' cocky' (farmer) remarked, 'You gotta pay something for living in the finest valley in Australia.'
Certainly the Murray Valley, apart from its tendency to flood periodically, was a dairy farmer's dream: rich, rolling downs, lushly carpeted with fertile grass and blessed with a very high average of sunshine. It was little wonder that the farmers felt it worth while to battle against the floods.
On the day we passed through the valley, it was hard to visualize the countryside being lashed with torrential rain. From a clear sky the warm sun penetrated our clothing and made riding on the well-surfaced road extremely pleasant. For a while we almost forgot our poverty.
Traffic on the road was not unduly heavy, and what we did see passed at a fair pace, unobstructed by side turnings or other hazards. With Murray Bridge and Tailem Bend behind us, the little townships began to take on aboriginal-sounding names: Coonalpyn, Tintinara, Wirrega.
We passed through the 'Sixty-mile Desert', which is now not really a desert at all, for there are several land reclamation schemes in operation, sponsored by the Government, where selected candidates (usually ex-servicemen) are given a liberal plot of land to develop.
One such experimental community, Keith, was a new, thriving agricultural centre, where the dust and sand had been replaced with rich, life-giving soil. We talked to the local doctor in Keith, who told us that it was far more satisfying to practise among these modern pioneers than in the centre of Melbourne. Pioneers in a sense they are, but they battle in comfort, for this little town boasts every modern facility, with strong emphasis on sporting amenities, including a floodlit tennis court which would out-rival anything in a city.
The probing and diligent fingers of the settlers, with the aid of science, are reaching farther out in every direction from the hub of the experiment at Keith. Within a few years, the doctor said, they would have to start thinking about other townships as the farming spearheads grew away from the base. Looking at the new hotel finished in gay stucco, and the line of new cars parked along the main street, it seemed incredible that, where we now stood, barely ten years before there had been nothing but sand and scrub.
After the desert came Bordertown, and, as its name implied, the last of South Australia. A board at the roadside told us 'You are now entering the State of Victoria', and a little farther along came a series of fire-warning boards: 'This is your state; don't burn it!' and 'A match has a head but no heart; watch it!' These were the first pointers to the real danger of bush fires which menace every part of the continent at frequent intervals.
Our first stop in Victoria was at Horsham-the name-board a mile outside the town made us feel momentarily homesick. Horsham, probably so named by an early and nostalgic pioneer, was a fairly old township with a dash of modernity. High-eaved wooden buildings, wide, dusty streets and innumerable pubs make up the town centre. We filled up with petrol and oil, bought some frugal provisions and camped just outside the town. Nita calculated that we would just about reach Melbourne on our remaining cash.
It rained heavily during the night and, too tired to put up our tent, we awoke to find our sleeping-bags saturated along with the rest of our gear. That day was a miserable one. Nothing went right and the scooter played up by constantly whiskering its plug and generally misbehaving. The temperature had dropped alarmingly and in contrast to the previous day it was decidedly cold. Grey clouds scudded fitfully across a heavy sky and we chugged on in the teeth of a rising wind and icy squalls. The gum trees and the hills darkened, and I thought 'so much for sunny Australia'. A bad day, in which we had spoken to no one and which finished in Ballarat-the one-time gold-rush town-at six o'clock on a dreary Sunday evening.
'You look like a couple of well-travelled characters. You want a room for the night, do you?' We wiped the rain from our eyes and told this hotel-keeper to whom we had been recommended that we would try it if it wasn't too dear. The publican's leathery face cracked into a smile. 'Well, it won't be much but it's clean and wholesome. Park that contraption round the back and come on in for a beer. Nothing like good Ballarat bitter to keep out the cold.'
It being Sunday, officially all the pubs were closed, but here the back parlour was packed with jovial Sabbath drinkers. As we entered the cosy, fume-laden room there followed a carefully phrased series of door-bell rings, which the innkeeper's wife hastily answered, and another thirsty customer joined the throng. 'Bloody law's ridiculous,' said the host. 'A man's gotta have his beer anyway. Why the hell don't they let him sup it in comfort! It's a
good thing they decided to keep the pubs open after six o'clock,' he went on. 'It used to be murder trying to get a drink before. The" six 0' clock swill", we called it. Five-thirty and everyone finished work for the day, six o'clock and all the pubs closed. You can imagine the stampede during that vital half-hour, can't you? Well, so many blokes got killed in the rush, the Government decided it was time to put an end to the slaughter. Now we're almost, 'cepting for Sundays, civilized. Anyway, what'll you have?'
The publican introduced us to the rest of the gang. 'This here's -what's your names?-Mike and Nita. They've driven all the way on a scooter from the Old Country just to sample Ballarat bitter.'
We acknowledged the sporadic clapping and ribald remarks, retaliating by decrying the quality of the beer (which, incidentally, was ice cold and excellent), and in half an hour might almost have been resident. In the friendly and spontaneous atmosphere our fit of blues began to evaporate. The Australian beer was so good, it was difficult to refuse after the second glass, but I remembered the state of the exchequer and reluctantly declined.
We slept in a modest but homely room, listening to the cold wind howling round the inn and began to realize that Australia was certainly not all sunshine. We heard later that Ballarat was just about the coldest place in the whole country. Tucked into a warm bed, however, we didn't mind. We could ill afford the luxury of hotels, but there are times when the heart rules the head.
On our way the next morning, we took the full blast of an icy wind which cut at us for the best part of the sixty-odd miles into Melbourne.
Murray Bridge was a nice little town, set in the heart of the 'butter country', and a mixture of old and new wooden buildings, some over a century old with ornate lattice-work round the doors and along the eaves, while other bungalows with butterfly roofs and built-in carports were painted in bright attractive colours.
All the shops along the main street were canopied, offering shade from the sun and shelter from the rain, and giving the advantage of being able to shop in comfort for the whole length of the street. Nita and I felt that this protective addition could well be adopted in our own country (particularly for the latter reason). This little town, with its canopies and its fly-screens on nearly every door, is typically Australian, and so are its wide streets where cars are usually angle-parked on the gravel edges each side of the bitumen strip.
Most southern Australian towns are like Murray Bridge. The bungalow builders have had the foresight to erect pleasingly individual dwellings, most of them single-storey, taking advantage of all space available.
Water is precious, even in the fertile coastal belt, during the long hot summers, and every house in the smaller communities has a conspicuous corrugated rain-butt beside it. But Murray Bridge, when we arrived on a hot November morning, had had its fill of moisture, for it was just recovering from a severe flood which had caused havoc in the vicinity and vast financial loss. Indeed, although the worst of the disaster was over, we could see from the balcony of the small hotel where we spent the night, the forlorn sight of a mill chimney poking up from a veritable lake just a few hundred yards away. But they are a tough breed in the Murray Valley, and the hotel keeper said they had learned to live with floods and the fear of them. And when floods came-as they did every few years-the people just rolled up their sleeves and their trouser legs and pitched into the wreckage. As one old' cocky' (farmer) remarked, 'You gotta pay something for living in the finest valley in Australia.'
Certainly the Murray Valley, apart from its tendency to flood periodically, was a dairy farmer's dream: rich, rolling downs, lushly carpeted with fertile grass and blessed with a very high average of sunshine. It was little wonder that the farmers felt it worth while to battle against the floods.
On the day we passed through the valley, it was hard to visualize the countryside being lashed with torrential rain. From a clear sky the warm sun penetrated our clothing and made riding on the well-surfaced road extremely pleasant. For a while we almost forgot our poverty.
Traffic on the road was not unduly heavy, and what we did see passed at a fair pace, unobstructed by side turnings or other hazards. With Murray Bridge and Tailem Bend behind us, the little townships began to take on aboriginal-sounding names: Coonalpyn, Tintinara, Wirrega.
We passed through the 'Sixty-mile Desert', which is now not really a desert at all, for there are several land reclamation schemes in operation, sponsored by the Government, where selected candidates (usually ex-servicemen) are given a liberal plot of land to develop.
One such experimental community, Keith, was a new, thriving agricultural centre, where the dust and sand had been replaced with rich, life-giving soil. We talked to the local doctor in Keith, who told us that it was far more satisfying to practise among these modern pioneers than in the centre of Melbourne. Pioneers in a sense they are, but they battle in comfort, for this little town boasts every modern facility, with strong emphasis on sporting amenities, including a floodlit tennis court which would out-rival anything in a city.
The probing and diligent fingers of the settlers, with the aid of science, are reaching farther out in every direction from the hub of the experiment at Keith. Within a few years, the doctor said, they would have to start thinking about other townships as the farming spearheads grew away from the base. Looking at the new hotel finished in gay stucco, and the line of new cars parked along the main street, it seemed incredible that, where we now stood, barely ten years before there had been nothing but sand and scrub.
After the desert came Bordertown, and, as its name implied, the last of South Australia. A board at the roadside told us 'You are now entering the State of Victoria', and a little farther along came a series of fire-warning boards: 'This is your state; don't burn it!' and 'A match has a head but no heart; watch it!' These were the first pointers to the real danger of bush fires which menace every part of the continent at frequent intervals.
Our first stop in Victoria was at Horsham-the name-board a mile outside the town made us feel momentarily homesick. Horsham, probably so named by an early and nostalgic pioneer, was a fairly old township with a dash of modernity. High-eaved wooden buildings, wide, dusty streets and innumerable pubs make up the town centre. We filled up with petrol and oil, bought some frugal provisions and camped just outside the town. Nita calculated that we would just about reach Melbourne on our remaining cash.
It rained heavily during the night and, too tired to put up our tent, we awoke to find our sleeping-bags saturated along with the rest of our gear. That day was a miserable one. Nothing went right and the scooter played up by constantly whiskering its plug and generally misbehaving. The temperature had dropped alarmingly and in contrast to the previous day it was decidedly cold. Grey clouds scudded fitfully across a heavy sky and we chugged on in the teeth of a rising wind and icy squalls. The gum trees and the hills darkened, and I thought 'so much for sunny Australia'. A bad day, in which we had spoken to no one and which finished in Ballarat-the one-time gold-rush town-at six o'clock on a dreary Sunday evening.
'You look like a couple of well-travelled characters. You want a room for the night, do you?' We wiped the rain from our eyes and told this hotel-keeper to whom we had been recommended that we would try it if it wasn't too dear. The publican's leathery face cracked into a smile. 'Well, it won't be much but it's clean and wholesome. Park that contraption round the back and come on in for a beer. Nothing like good Ballarat bitter to keep out the cold.'
It being Sunday, officially all the pubs were closed, but here the back parlour was packed with jovial Sabbath drinkers. As we entered the cosy, fume-laden room there followed a carefully phrased series of door-bell rings, which the innkeeper's wife hastily answered, and another thirsty customer joined the throng. 'Bloody law's ridiculous,' said the host. 'A man's gotta have his beer anyway. Why the hell don't they let him sup it in comfort! It's a
good thing they decided to keep the pubs open after six o'clock,' he went on. 'It used to be murder trying to get a drink before. The" six 0' clock swill", we called it. Five-thirty and everyone finished work for the day, six o'clock and all the pubs closed. You can imagine the stampede during that vital half-hour, can't you? Well, so many blokes got killed in the rush, the Government decided it was time to put an end to the slaughter. Now we're almost, 'cepting for Sundays, civilized. Anyway, what'll you have?'
The publican introduced us to the rest of the gang. 'This here's -what's your names?-Mike and Nita. They've driven all the way on a scooter from the Old Country just to sample Ballarat bitter.'
We acknowledged the sporadic clapping and ribald remarks, retaliating by decrying the quality of the beer (which, incidentally, was ice cold and excellent), and in half an hour might almost have been resident. In the friendly and spontaneous atmosphere our fit of blues began to evaporate. The Australian beer was so good, it was difficult to refuse after the second glass, but I remembered the state of the exchequer and reluctantly declined.
We slept in a modest but homely room, listening to the cold wind howling round the inn and began to realize that Australia was certainly not all sunshine. We heard later that Ballarat was just about the coldest place in the whole country. Tucked into a warm bed, however, we didn't mind. We could ill afford the luxury of hotels, but there are times when the heart rules the head.
On our way the next morning, we took the full blast of an icy wind which cut at us for the best part of the sixty-odd miles into Melbourne.
posted by Michael Marriott (c/o P McIntosh) at
21:02
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