South Australia Road Trip

It is way past departure time (0600 was the plan) but everyone needs to be not only upright and breathing but actually awake. So walk in circles, wait for Nick to have his Macca’s delivered then get in cars and drive a kilometre down the road to buy petrol. Then get geographically challenged in the suburbs of Sydney before actually hitting the highway and pointing the car at 1500km of highway. More from here later in the trip - where we are going there is no such thing as www or 3G or anything except Don 10 telephone cable. And there is a blessing in that I am sure. The main crew headed out this morning but two of us are delayed as final exams are sat. Then we are hitting the road and catching everyone tomorrow. Couple more photos below. Read more

A Friend Assaulted - and Bouncing Back

Remember Miss Betty? That remarkable woman in her seventies who runs a remote sheep station in South Australia. We met her in this blog a few weeks ago when I was in Quorn. Well, she has been at the centre of a siege which has been making the news here (to which I should have been paying more attention). Frank called through and alerted me to the fact that the elderly victim being referred to was none other than “Miss Betty, the magnificent, feisty and independent station owner who some say is in her seventies - though you would never guess it.  Fortunately she got the best of her attacker, escaped, called the police and the attacker, well, … you can read about it here. She is, as you would expect, being very matter of fact about it all. Can’t understand what all the police fuss is about concerning the mess left in her house.  She may not thank me for letting this slip but this is such a beautiful insight – she insisted that the police not remove her socks from the scene for forensic examination. It’s darn cold out here you know! You go a long way to find people of her calibre. When you do, hang onto them.

A Quorn Meal

Soft pink waist coats and mole grey jackets suggest something refined and gentle. The galah is anything but, especially when when it is jinking up the street with five its mates, showing off clever manoeuvres like teenage boys in their new cars. But they are the only signs and raucous sounds of life for a full eight minutes on this mild sunny day in the middle of the street.  We sit and make small talk and in the long pauses there is only silence. On the stroke of the ninth a plastic clatter of split curtains and a tray appears with our coffee and juice. And some cream dolloped on the caramel slice. Read more

In Fields of Quorn

Last weekend I watched my brother play with his son and thought “Thirty years apart is far too long”. There is pain in the realisation that it has been so long. Years never recovered. Years not shared. All valuable and constructive in their own way, and all filled with light and drama and satisfaction and accomplishment. But still echoing with the emptiness of that separation, even though its an echo that is only now reverberating. We caught glimpses of each other over the years, for the briefest of moments. A swing though Devon here, a quick trip to Canberra or Sydney there. Read more

Echoes of Empire

As much as I despise the culture of obsequious kowtowing to “the Empire” there are some icons that connect me to it in a more positive yet strange way.  Some are old history books. Biggles stories are another connection – they formed up some perspectives as a ten year old which seem  humourous now. Winston Churchill’s various memoirs. And the Lee Enfield .303. On reflection they are all inputs from my childhood. (The negative reaction came later in my studies of archives for my Masters but that is another story). Read more

Holy Gutter!

As we walk up to an old stone Quorn church built in 1880…

“Owyer goin Ron?”
“Really well for an old bloke.”
“Nah, you ain’t old, just slow moving. Meet my brother. He is here to help repair this guttering.”
“Oh yeah? Where are you from?”
“Sydney?”
“Sydney?! To repair the gutter.”
“All the way.”
“Well, I’ll be. Whatya reckon we need to do Franko?” Read more

Quorn. Quorn?

Pronounced “corn”. No, I did not know that either. A dot on the arid landscape in South Australia ( 32°20′46.93″S 138° 2′23.85″E). I walk around the streets wondering what keeps people here. Maybe the clue lies with Gary and his wife who sit in the late autumn sun and sing out a cheery “owyergoing mate?” as I walk up the street. “Not bad, not bad, owgergoing?” They grin and swing a bit on their porch swing and tell me its a grand day. There must be something in the water. The streets are as neat as a pin, yards are tidy and the local cop has little to distract him apart from rowdy boys getting home from the pub in the early hours of the morning. Everyone wants a chat. We don’t just buy petrol. We have a long chat with the guy on the other side of the bowser about dogs, maps, neighbours and kids. After being in Sydney for so long I find myself wanting to finish the transaction and “get on with it”.  For these people the transaction is not complete unless there is a long conversation involved. It takes a day before I realise I am champing at the bit and need to slow down. Therein lies the appeal of this place. I could easily come back here. Indeed I must.

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