No 19 Brinkworth and Georgetown

Members of Aboriginal, Torres Strait Islander and Maori communities are advised that this text may contain names and images of deceased people. Readers should also be aware that certain words, terms or descriptions may be culturally sensitive and may be considered inappropriate today, but may have reflected the author’s/creator’s attitude or that of the period in which they were written.

TOWNS, PEOPLE, AND THE THINGS WE OUGHT TO KNOW

Brinkworth, Georgetown And The Way There

Winter Bog Trap For Unwary Motorists

By OUR SPECIAL REPRESENTATIVE

No. XIX.

Motorists looking for excitement will find plenty if they decide to go to Brinkworth by way of Blyth, especially if they choose a day following a week's heavy rain. They will then encounter more thrills to the yard than they ever got out of an Edgar Wallace yellowback.

I am one of those quiet, inoffensive chaps who ask nothing more from Life than to be permitted to lead a peaceful and uneventful existence. Yet, it seems, that little is too much to demand from the Fates. They are always giving me a jolt where I least expect it. I suppose that's their job, and I shouldn't grumble. The particular piece of misfortune on my mind as I write is that eleven miles stretch of liquid uncertainty which serves as a road between Blyth and Brinkworth. I suppose that, in the summer, it is a simple enough proposition. But in the winter, after weeks of heavy rain, it's about the most treacherous sort of adventure on which you could embark. I am going to give my experience for the benefit of those who might be led astray, as I was, by a misleading signpost.

There are two ways of going to Brinkworth from Clare— the right way and the wrong way. Of course, I took the latter. You reach the parting of the ways at the top of Main street, just as you run out of Clare. The road forks there. The bitumen runs on to Bungaree. That is the proper road to take. But the road to the left bears a sign "Blyth," and underneath, in smaller lettering, "Brinkworth." On the assumption that the man who put the sign there knew more about the locality than I did, I abandoned my intention of following the bitumen, and took the road which the pointer indicated.

That was my undoing. I learned afterwards that it had been the undoing of many other motorists.

There is nothing much to find fault with on the first seven miles of that journey. With the sun shining after weeks of heavy skies and ceaseless rain, it was rather pleasant going. Rounding a curve in the hills behind Clare you suddenly glimpse the plains below, the sunlight throwing into relief an expanse of vivid green and deep chocolates, with Blyth showing up in the distance like a gaily painted ship in a vast sea of emerald. It was a very striking picture. Even now I think it was worth the misery which followed.

When you leave Blyth you leave the metalled road. The remainder of the distance to Brinkworth is over a track as innocent of metal as a sixpenny tie pin is of gold. If you can imagine running your car along the grooves of a deeply ploughed field, on which rain had fallen continuously for weeks, you will have a very fair idea of the condition of the track. There were eleven or twelve miles of this churned up red clay, and every yard of it was charged with disastrous possibilities.

If your car was not floundering dangerously in a sea of bog it was endeavoring to turn round and look you in the face to tell you what it thought about you. It was a case all the time of Dominus vobiscum.

I had visions of arriving in Brinkworth in tow of a team of strong bullocks. There were times when one had to get out of the car and study the ground carefully before venturing through the soft morass. To this day I do not know how I got through. But I did. What I want to know is why, in the name of all that's sensible, this summer track is signposted, while the main road is not. They told me at Brinkworth that the sign I have complained of commonly leads motorists astray. I think the R.A.A. ought to get after the offender with a bayonet.

Bungaree

View Larger MapI suppose Bungaree Station, on the Hutt River, about eight miles north of Clare, was one of the best-known "runs" in Australia. It had an interesting history. The story concerns the three pioneer brothers, George, Charles, and James Hawker, sons of a British admiral. James came to South Australia in 1838. George and Charles joined him in 1840. So much for the formal history.

Sheep-raising in those days was the royal road to fortune. But it was a road full of undulations, strewn with obstacles, and beset with dangers. There were not only the natural difficulties connected with pioneering, but there were various Governments who seem to have considered the pastoralist a fit and proper person to be thoroughly kicked. That, incidentally, seems a tradition which has been handed down to the present day. The pastoralists have poured hundreds of millions of pounds worth of wealth into the general pool we call prosperity, and because a small portion of it has legitimately stuck in their pockets a large section of the community regards them as rascals. But that is not my view. When the pastoralist is doing his job, I say, "Good luck to him." If he doesn't do his job— and a few of them don't —then I'm prepared to kick him as hard as any Botanic Park orator. But all that by-the-way.

The Hawkers settled near Nuriootpa. They had not been there long before they were told to get out, as the land was wanted for someone else. So they got out. They went land prospecting north of the city, and in the vicinity of the Hutt River they hit on a small well with a supply of freshwater. They had an idea of establishing a station there, but as the water in the river was brackish, and the supply in the well limited, they resumed their wanderings. But they did not wander far. On Christmas Day, 1841, they sank a hole which yielded plenty of good water at eight feet. They decided this was the place to "squat."

"What you callum this place?" asked James Hawker of the interested niggers. "Him bungaree (my country)," was the answer. "Well him mine now," retorted Jimmie.

So Bungaree was born. I am not telling you in cold blood that those were the very words used. But, as the police reports say, they were words to that effect.

At this period Bungaree was the furthest station north of Adelaide, so the Commissioner of Police stationed two troopers there. The Hawkers erected a slab hut as the original homestead. Captain Tolmer, who was hunting criminals in the vicinity, helped to mix the mortar, and George Hawker, an M.A. of Cambridge, did the plastering. I wonder what he looked like when he was doing it? The question is not idle curiosity. I did a job of that kind myself once!

Of the three brothers who founded Bungaree, George Hawker, from the point of view of this article, was the most important. He eventually became the sole owner of the property. In 1841, while still settled at Nuriootpa, he took part in the historic expedition to the Rufus country to recover some 5,000 sheep, which the blacks had stolen from a party of overlanders. The party failed to recover the sheep, and were themselves almost overwhelmed by a strong force of natives. On that occasion George Hawker nearly lost his life through his horse stumbling over a fallen tree. His comrades had to surround him to prevent him falling into the hands of the enemy.

Later he entered Parliament, and became Speaker. The fact that he was an out-and-out Conservative did not, prevent him from subscribing to the cost of erecting the Trades Hall in Grote street. He died in 1895, at his residence in Medindie (now I think the McBride Maternity Hospital). Had he lived a little longer he would have been knighted. As it was the honor was conferred on him posthumously. The northern town of Hawker is named after him. Bungaree has long since been cut up into small holdings, but the homestead is occupied by Mr. Dudley Angas, who still works some 5,000 acres of the property.

Brinkworth

Brinkworth has no history. It is a new town laid out by the Government for convenience. Actually it is only a railway junction. Its story is still in the making. It consists of one main street about half a mile long, set in the centre of a vast wheat plain. Practically the whole of the surrounding country for miles is a great granary. I am certain it will be a big place some day. It takes its name from Mr. George Brinkworth, who owned the section on which it is built. Its principal industry is wheat. In the railway yards are great sheds to house the grain. At harvest time Brinkworth is a busy centre. You sit on the hotel verandah and your eyes travel for miles over fields of waving green, it is certainly a wealthy district.

During the boom period the farmers made a lot of money. In a great many cases, I was told, they lost it, too. Land speculation brought many to their knees. I was given some strange stories of wealthy men crashing for extraordinary amounts. I am not going to repeat them. The farmers were not the only people who went mad in the hectic days which were the aftermath of the war. We were all in it. every one of us, right up to our necks. It was a big, national drunk. Now we have reached the stage when we hold our aching heads in our shaking hands and wonder what it was all about. None of us is in a position to "chuck" stones.

Georgetown

Georgetown is one of those northern towns which has left its youth behind it. It was a fair-sized place before its rival, Gladstone, got out of its swaddling clothes. But Georgetown made a mistake — and paid for it. It threw up its conservative hands in horror, and pulled an ugly face, when it was suggested that the northern railway should go to Georgetown. Gladstone, on the other hand, hollered for the railway like a baby crying for its milk. So the line cut round Georgetown, and deposited itself at Gladstone, seven miles further north. By the time Georgetown woke up to the injury it had done itself Gladstone was a thriving, healthy child. Georgetown has been kicking itself ever since. "There would have been no Gladstone," Mr. Buckenana said, "if Georgetown hadn't fought the railway."

Georgetown is an interesting place, 120 miles north of the metropolis, on the main north road. It is the centre of the Georgetown District Council of which Mr. J. A. Lyons, M.P., is chairman, and Mr. W. Odgers is district clerk. The Council came into existence on March 1, 1876, under a proclamation issued by Governor Musgrave. Its original councillors were J. D. Willshire, George Inglis (who later became chairman of the State Bank), T. H. Hynes, James Murphy, and W. J. Brinkworth.

The owner of the original section in which the town of today stands was that famous Australian sportsman, Charles Brown Fisher. The streets bear the names of members of the Fisher family Fisher (main) street, Hurtle street, James street, Charles street, and William street.

Right at the entrance of the town, stretching away to the hills behind, lies the noted Gulnare Plain— it is really a valley — one of the finest expanses of wheat country in the State. Everywhere I went between Gawler and Gladstone I was assured that I was seeing the finest wheat land in South Australia. And that was generally true. This vast expanse of country contains some of the pick of agricultural territory. Today it is a picture. Experienced men to whom I talked assured me it had never looked more promising. "Of course," they added, with the pessimism ingrained in those who get their living from the soil, "there is still plenty of time for a hasty set back."

One peculiarity of these parts is the number of original families who are still farming the properties they acquired years ago. The Inglis family is still operating, and so are the Smallacombes. Other noted men are M. J. McAuley and G. E. Hill. The latter is famed for his draught stock. We will make a closer acquaintance with Mr. Hill later.

Early Georgetown

When a man has lived 52 years In the one spot he should know something about it. When I heard that that was the record of Mr. E. Buckenara, I lost no time in making his acquaintance. You see, Mr. Buckenara knew Georgetown in the days when there was no Gladstone, and Georgetown was a prosperous settlement boasting four stores. About that time Georgetown — which, by-the-way takes its name from Sir George Strickland Kingston— was the centre of a number of flourishing industries.

Where are they today? I have been asking myself that for months— not only in regard to Georgetown, but in regard to many other centres I have visited. One blacksmith in George town is said to have made £70,000 from his works. When industries like that vanish over the course of years, and no others take their place, one begins to wonder what sort of industrial poison is working in our midst.

Sly Grog Shop

When you begin to dig under the surface of things you are liable to come up against some strange facts. The saddler's shop, which Mr. Buckenara occupies today, was years ago the local branch of the Bank of South Australia. The basement, still in existence, had the reputation of being a sly grog shop. Many a wild orgy was staged there in times gone by.

One of the problems of early Georgetown was an adequate supply of water. So scarce was the precious fluid that one could easily exchange a bucket of water for a bucket of beer. The original post-office was located next door to Mr. Buckenara's residence. The existing verandah of the house marks the site. Nowadays Georgetown gets its water from the Beetaloo Reservoir. The water shortage in the old days was, of course, a summer annual. In the winter the creeks came down as "bankers," and the roads took on something of the aspect of that masterpiece between Blyth and Brinkworth, of which I told you earlier. Then the coaches had a bad spin. The horses slipped, and the vehicle skidded, and as often as not on reaching the Yackamoorundie Creek they couldn't get across. Then there was nothing for it but to camp on the site until the waters became more tractable. Looking back, we call that the romance of the coaching days. I wonder what the passengers of 50 years ago called it?

These days Georgetown has sadly degenerated. It has grown quiet and respectable— the result, I suppose, of advancing years. We all get like that. Fifty years ago, when wheat had to be carted to Port Pirie by bullock team, strings of creaking waggons passed through the main street, which resounded to the cracking of the long, curling lashes of the whips and the "encouraging" exhortations of the bullockies. And every one of those teamsters was a master of languages— you couldn't drive a bullock those days without possessing a vocabulary that would melt the strongest thermometer ever made.

Then there was St. Patrick's Day. Nowadays you would never know it was the 17th of March, unless you happened to be looking at the calendar. But 50 years ago the sons of Erin in Georgetown wouldn't let you forget it. There were serenades, and parades, and processions, and shillelaghs, and there was one enthusiast who formed a coat with trailing toils, armed himself with a business-like cudgel, and challenged all and sundry to "sthep on th' tail av me coat, bejabers." No one ever did. There is a suspicion locally that Pat died of a broken heart in consequence.

Corner In Trophies

On a hill at the top end of the town is "Sunnyside," the farm of Mr. George Hill. Mr. Hill specialises in horses— great big, strapping Clydesdales, which look capable of upending the Tower of Babel. One of these monsters, Devonlea Norseman Hero, was trotted out for my benefit. Mr. Hill might have saved himself the trouble. To me he was just a horse. What his points were I haven't the slightest idea. I was told he stood 18 hands. I saw that I was supposed to be impressed by that. But, frankly, I don't know any horse jargon, and, as far as I was concerned, 18 hands might have been 18 inches or 18 feet. What I do know is that if I had been asked to mount him I would have called for a step ladder. But I could see that he was good blood. One does not have to be an expert to tell that. Breeding is like the measles — it must come out.

While Mr. Hill was talking about haunches, forelocks, buttocks, and other equine anatomy, I asked him if he couldn't translate it into spark plugs, gearboxes, differentials, and such like terms that I could understand. I think I had him there— but I'm not quite sure.

You see, Mr. Hill is an up-to-date farmer, with electric appliances scattered all over the place. I felt like a fraud when we went into the paddocks to inspect the progeny of the aristocratic brute I had been viewing. But when I was taken inside and shown a room full of trophies these animals had won in all parts of the State I began to comprehend the exact value of the privilege that had been conferred upon me. I counted 60 cups and other prizes before I gave up in despair. They seemed as endless as eternity. When I was told there were others in different parts of the State which had been won but had not yet reached "Sunnyside," I began to suspect that Mr. Hill was endeavoring to corner the market in trophies. I was even ready to concede that he knew more about horseflesh than I did— and that is a long way for a newspaper man to go.

Turning The Tables

Without any warning, this big man swung round on me. "Hey," he said, "why are you city blokes always telling us cockies what we ought to do? Don't you think it's time we gave you some of your own medicine?" I said I thought it a good idea, and asked him what advice he had for the "city blokes."

"Well," he answered, "you can start with those fellows in the Government offices. What's wrong with them keeping a few chickens as a sideline? They can get up a couple of hours earlier to look after them. They can sell the eggs, and reduce their screws correspondingly. What's wrong with that, eh?"

I told him I would pass the suggestion on and that I was sure it would be enthusiastically received by the public service. Evidently Mr. Hill had been brooding on the subject. A little later he exploded scornfully, as he chased a mob of fowls out of the chaff house, "Sidelines Pouf! When a farmer has ploughed his paddocks, fed his horses, mended his harness, milked his cows, patched his sheds, attended to his pigs, cut his chaff, and repaired his fences, where the thunder is he going to find the time to do more?"

I shook my head and assured him that the problem was beyond me.

NEXT WEEK Gladstone: Old and New

Images:

The road between Blyth and Brinkworth is a trap for motorists in winter. There arc eleven miles innocent of metaL Note the depth of the mud in the wheel tracks.
St. Mary's (R.C.) Church, Georgetown, in its picturesque garden setting.
Mr. J. A. Lyons, M.F Chairman George town District Council.
Railway Station at Brinkworth, the centre of a noted wheat area.

TOWNS, PEOPLE, AND THINGS WE OUGHT TO KNOW. (1932, October 20). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 42. Retrieved June 25, 2013, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article90630105

Google Sites

Report abuse