No 53 Belair

The highlands of Adelaide are full of romance, just as they are full of possibilities. South Australians have not yet fully realised the wonderful heritage they have in the hills. This story of Belair, Blackwood, and Coromandel Valley should create a new interest in these rural suburbs of Adelaide.

You and I, I suppose, have motored up the Belair road, over the bitumen track, more times than we could count. But now I want you to make the same journey under entirely different circumstances— as our great-great grand parents made it some ninety years agone. You and I, in these days of luxury and convenience, have stopped often to admire that magnificent view of the city one glimpses from Windy Hill. But at the time we propose to make this old voyage of adventure to "the top of the ranges"— for that was the only designation Belair, Blackwood, and the other near-hills towns had in those days— there was no city to glimpse, beyond a few huts and tents which could not be picked out from that distance, even with a powerful telescope. The giant timber which surrounded Adelaide would have made that impossible. Another reason was that the old road did not pass Windy Point. A third reason, probably the most important, was that there was no road at all. You will discover that for yourself presently. The period is about 1837.

For some days we have been thinking about this terrible journey into the unknown — ten miles from Adelaide. Our friends have cheered us tremendously by the tales they have poured into our ears of the treachery and cruelty of the blacks who swarmed in these unknown gullies. We did not have the gumption to ask them how they knew. We just swallowed them holus-bolus, and shivered as we thought of the perils which lay before us. We never dreamt that the day would come when swift motor cars would speed to the "top of the ranges" in hundreds every Saturday afternoon — and think nothing of it. We would have laughed derisively at the mere idea of such an impossibility — just as we would have laughed at a forecast of iron ships of 50,000 tons, music floating through the air from one part of the world to the other, or giant monsters of the sky carrying people from Adelaide to London. Mention of such absurdities would be flying in the face of Providence.

The Great Adventure

The morning of the great adventure dawns. We are going to pioneer those unknown heights we glimpse between the tall and stately gums from our tent in Hindley street. Street! ye gods; just a mass of virgin mud, studded with timber, some standing, some fallen, with scattered tents or huts here and there, and a bullock team hopelessly bogged in the middle of the road. Still, Hindley street, the maps of the surveyors call it, for Governor "Jack" Hindmarsh and Commissioner Hurtle Fisher have just finished rowing over the nomenclature of the streets of Adelaide, just as they rowed over almost everything that was proposed those days, when the settlement which is now Adelaide was split into three sections— those who supported the Governor, those who supported the Resident Commissioner, and those who didn't care a hang anyway.

So one cold and frosty morning, as the sun is just rising over the eastern hills, we yoke a couple of skittish oxen to the dray with some difficulty, climb in ourselves, and direct our course as near as the big timber will allow, straight for Brown Hill to the south. We could, if we chose, take Green Hill, which bears south-east on our left. But we have chosen Brown Hill, because the natives tell us there is water at Willa Willa (Brownhill Creek)— and water is the one thing we must be sure of on this terrible journey to the wilds. Now. why hadn't we sense enough to stick to "Willa Willa" instead of dubbing this small rivulet Brownhill Creek? But nomenclature was one of our weak points these early days — and it has remained weak ever since.

Where Unley And Mitcham Stand

Now, to make this journey with me as our great, great relatives made it, you must wipe all thoughts out of your mind of the busy city of Unley and the suburbs of Malvern, Kingswood, and Mitcham as we know them today. Instead, you must visualise a more or less swampy plain, studded with magnificent old gums of such, great age and stately appearance as none you know today. There is, of course, no road. We just keep jogging steadily at six or seven miles an hour towards that eminence we have christened Brown Hill. Occasionally we get bogged, but time and patience and a great deal of hard work get us out.

More occasionally still we encounter a group of natives, beautiful in their copper nakedness. The blacks grip their spears and point them menacingly towards us. We have been warned not to regard this as indicative of hostility. So we show them we are men of peace, and they lay down their weapons. They stand about, examining us curiously at close quarters, obviously interested in our clothes and as obviously unconscious of their own lack of them.

So, after a journey of perhaps one day we reach "Willa Willa.' We are at the bottom of the ranges. Tomorrow we reach the top. Brownhill Creek Today Brownhill Creek is a favorite walk and picnic place for hikers. Those who frequent the spot know the old gum tree which has been hollowed out by fire near the creek. That is the last remaining monument of the days I am going to tell you about — and I hope it will be preserved by the Mitcham Council, as I feel sure it will be.

"Willa Willa" in the early days was the favorite camping ground of the hills tribes. Painted with red, yellow, and white ochres, their fires stabbing the darkness of the night, their gins sitting round in a huge circle, their faces about as hideous as anyone, devil or man, could conceive, the natives held high revelry near the spot where the creek comes out of the hills. They gathered there 150 strong, built their wurlies, or lived in those hollowed-out trees, of which the one I have mentioned is the sole example existing there today. The nights were made awful with their howls and the yelping of their wild dogs, which were always on the starvation line, for Billjim never fed them except with such stuff that he could not eat himself. It was here their ceremonies were performed — their corroborees, their initiations, and their other weird ceremonials, guarded so jealously from the inquisitive eyes of the whites. Today there are no natives and no wurlies, and only that one tree to remind us of the scenes that were once enacted there.

Brownhill Creek Station

Not many of the present generation know that Brownhill Creek was the site of one of our earliest sheep stations. It was (I think) in 1838 that the South Australian Company established its "run" in the wilds, 4½ miles south of the city. The late Pastor Finlayson worked there as a shepherd's mate, and has left a most valuable description of the creek at that period. At the time there were 1,800 ewes and lambs on the property, most of them badly afflicted with footrot and scab. The pastor helped to dress these animals under the direction of an expert whom the company imported from Van Dieman's Land.

I do not know what the young men of the present generation would say if they were ordered to take their wives into the wilds, and live in a "house" made of a tarpaulin spread over a wooden frame, the roof being of canvas as well as the sides. That is what young Finlayson had to do. His only comment was, "it was for from comfortable." The site of this palatial dwelling was "a little lower down the hill than St. Michael's Church."

The foothills those days were the prowling grounds of various wild animals, but more inconvenient and in uisitive than dangerous. To keep them from establishing an unwanted intimacy with the occupants of the tent, fires had to be built outside at night. There was not a hut nor a fence between the station and the city, and the sheep were grazed on the hills which are now Belair, and over the plains almost up to the parklands round the capital.

Molested By A Black

I never write about these pioneer days without taking off my hat, metaphorically, to the men and women who did and dared when the little colony was in its swaddling clothes — especially the women. Theirs was the more heroic part. It seems absurd today to talk of the dangers of being left at home alone at Brownhill Creek. But in 1838 they were real. Finlayson's work repeatedly took him away from home, and his young wife was left alone to carry on. Her only neighbors were the blacks who roamed the bush, and whose reputation for gentleness was none too well established. Imagine being left in a canvas tent, a sole white woman amid a horde of savages, who might at any moment take it into their uncontrollable heads to hurl a spear through the thin fabric as a preliminary to raiding the "house" for tucker. That was Mrs. Finlayson's common experience!

One day, when her husband had gone off on some business or other, a big black buck stuck his head into the doorway. "You gib it tucker; gib it flour?" he demanded. The woman shook her head. Her supplies were short; she had none to give away. She explained this to the nigger. His face twitched with rage. Suddenly a big, black hand shot out, and Mrs. Finlayson was struck a fierce blow on the face. Fortunately the native did not follow up the advantage. Instead, he vanished into the scrub.

Willama

But, as in every other community, there were good and bad among the natives. In the good may be included an old man called Willama, with a long, snow-white beard, and blind from age. Too old to shift for himself, his sustenance was procured for him by his wife and his daughter, Mary. Mary dug roots and provided delicate fare in the shape of juicy snakes and tasty 'possums.

Then one day Mary met with disaster. She was climbing the big gum in search of an opossum which refused to be caught. The black girl overbalanced and fell. She lay groaning on the ground with a broken leg. There was lamentation in the camp. Mrs. Willama ran for Mrs. Finlayson. and Mrs. Finlayson sent for Dr. Moorhouse; the protector of aborigines.

But Willama had no faith in white doctors. Perhaps he was the type who inspired Charles Loeb's verses on their mania for operations.

However, Willama refused to allow the white doctor to touch Mary. The old man dressed her limb himself, then covered her with bushes. When, eventually, the doctor was able to examine the leg, he pronounced the native dressing to be very well done.

That early station is today the site of three suburbs — Kingswood, Mitcham and Belair. As settlement began to push out south the "run" was abandoned, and the sheep taken inland.

“Top o' The Ranges"

I think I have told you there was no Belair and no Blackwood in the late thirties, nor any other named town in the hills, though there may have been one or two isolated houses carrying the names of the owners, such as Crafers. All that country with which we are immediately concerned was "the Top o' the Ranges," and more to the east it was "the Tiers." I shall tell you some good stories about the Tiers and the tiersmen in a later article.

One day suddenly, the eternal silence which for centuries uncounted had wrapped itself about the peaks and the gullies of Belair and Blackwood was broken by the "clop, clop" of axes, and the ringing rasp of saws. It was the dawn of civilisation in these hills towns. These harbingers of the white man's advance into the wild fortresses of Nature were Tasmanian timber cutters who, with axe and saw bullock drays, tents, chains, and all the other paraphernalia of their calling, cut and hauled the logs which were to build the homes of many of Adelaide's elect. They were known as tiersmen. The period was 1838. Belair is far older than Blackwood. The latter town does not come into the picture much before 1880.

Adolphe Ludewigs Founds Belair

The section on which the town stands was originally acquired by John Grainger in 1849. He transferred it to John Chapman, and subsequently it passed into the possession of Gustave Adolphe Ludewigs. I know nothing about, the first two holders, but as, historically, they do not come into the the limelight, it scarcely matters. Ludewigs is our man. It was Ludewigs who named and founded the town. It was some time in 1850 that Ludewigs built a combined house and store on this section at the top of the range. It was the first store in the district and the first post office. Shortly after he subdivided the section into town allotments. He called the place Belair That combination of two French words, meaning "beautiful air," one of the few appropriate designations be stowed by Europeans in the naming of our towns, leads me to infer that it was Mrs. Ludewigs who suggested the name, because she was a French woman and her family for many years had lived at Belair, in the island of Martinique. There, I venture, you have the origin of the name. She was rather an interesting woman.

The Two Graves

In the grounds of the recently closed Inebriates' Retreat at Belair are two graves. This was the site of the home of the Ludewigs, and the graves are those of Ludewigs' two wives. The oldest is that of Marie Helena, the subject of this notice. She was born in 1813. At the moment I cannot tell you when or under what circumstances she came to South Australia, nor who her parents were. But she was one of the earliest teachers (probably the first) in Belair, where she conducted a school for many years. Prior to that she had a boarding school for young ladies at Kensington. She died in September, 1861, and was buried close to the house. Incidentally the school, after Mrs. Ludewigs gave up teaching, was carried on by Miss Chapman, who subsequently became Mrs. Edmonds.

Ludewigs married again, his second wife being Adelaide Paddock. Their happiness lasted barely a year, when the Great Reaper claimed her too, and she was buried beside the first wife in the residential grounds. To complete the story, I ought to mention that the founder of Belair made a third matrimonial venture, which proved more permanent than the others. He died at Wallaroo in September, 1869, at the age of 51, and is buried in the public cemetery there. His wife survived him.

Story Of The National Park

I doubt whether one or the thousands of pleasure-seekers who enjoy the benefits of the National Park know how it came into existence, or that the Government illegally acquired it, or that, prlor to 1891, when a special Act of Parliament was passed, it was known as the Government Farm. It was on July 21, 1840, that the first actual steps were taken to acquire the park. For some time prior to that date the authorities had been searching for a place to use as a "run" for the horses of the police, and the bullocks of the Emigration and Stores Departments. It was reported that a large area of suitable country was available in the "Val ley of the Upper Sturt,"' by which name the country which is now Belair was officially designated before there were any towns there to christen.

So George Hall (Acting Colonial Treasurer) wrote to the explorer, Charles Sturt (Acting Commissioner) tendering for "ten sections of land, numbered from 819 to 829, containing 80 acres each," for which he gave a promissory note for £800 for 800 acres, "including the house and stockyard now occupied by Mr. Foote." We shall meet this "Mr. Foote" again presently. In the letters of the day the name is variously spelt "Foot," "Foote," and "Foott." But, assuming that the gentleman himself knew how to spell his own name, the correct identification is "Nicholas Foott." The correspondence on the subject still preserved does not make it clear just how Mr. Foott came into occupation of this desirable property on which the Government cast its covetous eyes. Probably he had just "squatted" on it as was the habit of the day when any desirable slice of country appeared to be going begging. However, he had as much right there as her Majesty's Ministers, despite Crown prerogatives, the doctrine of the public good, and all the other more or less legal excuses envious Governments put up when they want to collar some one else's property. Mr. Foott had a house on the "farm." Although the Government only ten dered for ten sections, thirteen were reserved for them, while an additional 1,108 acres of unsurveyed country were added to the holding, making a total of 2,212 acres.

Mr. Foott Ejected

Now, despite the fact that there were already doubts in the mind of Ministers as to the legality of their possession—and we shall show presently that these doubts were more than justified— Mr. Foott was unceremoniously kicked off the property. They did, I think, allow him £200 or £300 "remuneration" for his house, but they would give him nothing further "after the repeated notices you have received that you would not be paid for any work done by you on ground which was not your own." Pretty good, that, from a Government which itself held the ground illegally.

However, Foott went, the ground was fenced in, and the property became the "Government Farm." And the Government Farm it remained until it became the National Park about 42 years ago. The "farm" had only been in possession of the Government a year when they began to wonder where they stood regarding ownership.

You see, the land laws of the day were made in England under powers conferred on the South Australian Commissioners by the Act which created the province, and these laws provided that the sale of all lands should be public, and that a month's notice of the intended sale should be publicly given, so that everybody might have an equal chance of securing holdings. In the case of the Government Farm there had been no public notice and no competition.

In July, 1841, Ministers gave up scratching their heads over the knotty problem, and referred the whole of the papers to the Advocate-General (William Smillie). That, of course, is what they should have done in the first place. But even in those days Governments had a habit of doing things Chinese fashion — and they haven't improved their methods since. Now Mr. Smillie told the Government in the polite way that counsel has just what sort of asses they were. He told them the land was not legally acquired, the Colonial Government could not acquire the property under the conditions they did, nor could they give a legal title to it, except, of course, under the ordinary regulations governing sales, and as these laws had not been observed in the acquisition of the holding that was impossible. So the Government found itself with 2,000 odd acres which it didn't own. It had spent a fair amount of public money in fencing and other improvements which, in the circumstances was illegal expenditure. And it couldn't sell the mess because it couldn't give a clear title to the property. Therefore it did nothing, except keep the matter a State secret, which is the natural way of Governments when things go wrong— or till the Opposition gets hold of the story. But in those happy days (for Governments) there wasn't any Opposition to flaunt the sins of the other side, so the matter remained buried deep where the taxpayers couldn't see it.

Unfortunately I cannot tell you with any definiteness just how the affair was legalised, or if it ever was. I suppose it was fixed up somehow, for Governments would not continue spending public money illegally, which they might, as individuals, suddenly be called on to refund. You will recall that there was a case of that kind recently. But how the Gordian knot was cut does not appear in any record I have been able to lay my hands on. The probability, is that the Government continued in illegal possession until such time as the control of unalienated Crown lands was vested in them. Then, naturally, the park would pass legally into their possession. This, of course, is mere conjecture.

NEXT WEEK. Belair, Blackwood and Coromandel Valley (concluded).

Images:

• • Old Government House in the National Park, formerly the Government Farm. The place was used as a summer vice-regal residence until superseded by Marble Hill. It is still standing.

  • Old Blackwood Inn, the story of which will be given in next week's article. It saw hectic days during the building of the Hills Railway at the beginning of the eighties.