No 1 Kingston

COORONG ROAD

One does not even get as far as the South-East before stumbling across one of the great questions of the day modern road transport. When you talk of transport you raise a hornet's nest. It involves the railway question, the break of gauge at Wolseley, the wisdom of the Mount Gambier Portland railway, the question of border railways in general, the bad roads on the South Australian side of the inter-State line, the good roads on the Victorian side, motor competition, and lastly it involves the Coorong.

All the South-eastern questions are like that. As soon as you mention one there are found to be half-a-dozen others allied to it. They can argue in the South-East. All you have to do is to mention some matter casually in a room full of people. Then you can sit back quietly and sip your whisky and soda in comfort, secure in the knowledge that in ten minutes you will hear the problem discussed from every possible angle. They handle it much in the same way as a puppy deals with a shoe, and with the same result — when the argument is over there is not a shred of the original substance left.

Meningie is the gateway to this agricultural El Dorado. I say agricultural instead of pastoral because I believe the future of the South-East lies in small holdings and concentrated development. When one passes Meningie one enters the Coorong, that geographical marvel which is the paradise of the sportsman and the despair of the road engineer. The Coorong — at present — is practically the one and only means of reaching the Promised Land. One hears of nebulous schemes for opening up other routes. Some day they may, like the old earth itself, become concrete propositions. But today the Coorong is the only substantial thing in the way of a road — and what a road!

TREACHEROUS BUSH TRACK

Tortuous as a snake, sandy as a desert, it is alternately stretches of bone-shaking, pot-holey metalled road way, or deep-rutted, treacherous bush track, going off at a dozen different angles. The new chum pulls up in despair, uncertain which of the numerous tracks he is to follow. The old hand takes the best and goes right ahead, knowing that all tracks lead to Kingston, just as all roads lead to Rome. In summer the sand is so dry that the wheels of the car will not grip. In winter it is so wet that the cars get bogged. On occasions, such as the last Murray floods, the waters of the Coorong completely obliterate the track. Then, if you have courage, you set the car at the sand-hills and carve a road for yourself through the ti-tree, or whatever the bush is that grows, on the hillsides. If you have sense, you reverse the best way you can and get back to town. And this is the principal entry into the State's richest agricultural province! That is why I say you encounter the South East problems before you get there.

DREAMS OF A BITUMEN ROAD

I am told that the Coorong is now a simple proposition compared with the Coorong of a few years ago. I am thankful to the Fates that they preserved me from making its acquaintance until 1932. Some day, I under stand, there is to be a bituminous road from Adelaide to Mount Gambier. It is already reaching out in that direction. There is bitumen as far as Murray Bridge, and another long stretch between Tailem Bend and a point 15 miles on the city side of Meningie. I believe the present objective is McGrath's Flat. When they attempt to take it beyond there the engineers. I think, will have to scratch their heads. The waters of the Coorong, lapping at the road-edge, present another problem. One would imagine that the suggested modern road from Adelaide to the South-East would be hailed with delight. So it is, generally speaking.

But there are some who see in it another of the many blows which have been dealt at South-Eastern towns by the pernicious policy of centralisation. They fear it will bring Adelaide too close to the province, and that halfway towns may be deprived of trade in consequence. As I said before, every question raised in the South-East presents complicated aspects.

GIRL HIKERS

The Coorong is the paradise of the tramp. He can get plenty of fish in the sea; plenty of rabbits on land. There is wild fowl galore. Best of all, he can generally get a "lift" from some passing motorist. At Kingston, on the first night of my stay, I struck a new type of hobo. They were two girls — not to be confused with the Misses Borg and Krummel — tramping it from Adelaide to wherever they could get a job. The night was wet, and there was a keen, cold wind. They were most unsuitably dressed for the climate. They had left Adelaide a fortnight before with the intention of walking to Melbourne. They told me they had been fortunate, as they had slept only one night in the open. At one of the towns en route a friendly policeman took pity on one of them who was dressed only in silk slip and shorts — a substantial enough costume for the athletic track, but hardly suitable for wintry conditions in the South-East — and gave her a pair of men's trousers. The girls refused to reveal their identity, though they were ready enough to talk of their experiences. But, womanlike, they could not resist the camera. When I asked permission to take a snap they posed without demur. They were decent, refined girls, but they took a grave risk in going on the roads. I heard later that they, had got work in a neighboring town.

The South-East is about the most valuable piece of territory within the boundaries of the State. The cow is going to make it. A million people can be settled, there easily. It has assured rainfall and rich soil. It is about time the people woke up to the value of this possession. The object of these articles is to help them to do so.

IN AND ABOUT KINGSTON

The glory has departed from Kingston. Time was when it was the centre of a great area reaching as far as Narracoorte. Long lines of bullock teams moved lazily along its highways, drawing vehicles laden with wheat and wool. The wheat came from as far away as the western district of Victoria. Kingston was its natural out let. Its sheds bulged with grain, for which big ships called regularly. In those days Kingston had dreams of becoming a great town. Today, the dreams remain, but the substance has vanished. Victoria sends her wheat to Portland, or direct to Melbourne. Modern transportation, both road and rail, has struck a deadly blow at the historic little town. Now there is nothing much to carry, and the ships no longer call. The jetty, second longest in the State, is deserted. Kingston typifies the problem of the South East — transportation.

South Australia has got to solve that riddle, and to solve it quickly. She has dawdled with it too long. For instance, Kingston is 185 miles by road from Adelaide. By rail it is nearly 300 miles. It is largely sheep and cattle country — the former mostly. There is the break of gauge at Wolseley, which adds to the expense of transport. If sheep are sent to the Abattoirs by rail the journey takes three days. The animals, which are the finest in the state when they leave the stations, are jaded and travel-weary when they reach market, and in appearance not to be com pared with animals from the north, which reach market in a day. Many sheepmen, therefore, prefer to use the road. That brings them up against the problem of the Coorong, with its rough bush tracks and unsafe roads. The Coorong is better than it used to be. But it is a hopeless proposition compared with the smooth roads on the Victorian side of the border.

If South Australia wants to keep the South-East — and it is a garden area well worth the keeping — she has got to set to work in earnest, ignore the meagreness of South-Eastern political representation, and go ahead with a scheme of development on non-party lines. That this country is occupied by a mere handful of people it to the everlasting shame of the State. It suggests that neither Governments nor people are properly alive to the value of this great possession. But if South Australians are not, the Victorians are.

MARVEL OF THE WORLD

To return to Kingston. It has been declining gradually for 30 years. Years ago wool was shipped from there direct to London. Ships of 12,000 tons used to berth at the pier. All that is changed. The wool goes to Adelaide or Melbourne. No ships call. Kingston is the natural seaport of the South-East. But it is suffering from the deadly policy of centralisation. Mr. Edward Goode, one of the most influential men in the town, a nephew of the late Sir Charles Goode, told me that Kingston was "one of the maritime marvels of the world." Something similar has been said by Admiral Sir Day Bosanquet and Admiral Sir William Creswell. Ships may ride there safely through the strongest gales, while a few miles away they would need half the anchors in the State to hold them. Why this should be so has not been satisfactorily explained. - It is a "maritime marvel," and the matter must rest there.

DAIRYING THE HOPE OF KINGSTON

The country around Kingston Is mostly given over to sheep grazing. A large area, known as the black flats about 10 miles out from the town would make wonderful dairying country. This land extends right through to Millicent, and at present it is mostly in the hands of station owners. There is a great deal of talk locally about draining this country, and opening it up for dairying. So far it has not got beyond the discussion stage. But there is not the slightest doubt that, if the industry could be started, the fortunes of Kingston would begin on the upgrade.

REMARKABLE BORE

Linked with the prospects of dairying is the production of lucerne. The country inland from Kingston is undoubtedly rich. It will grow practically anything. About Kingston itself it is a sandy loam, rather on the poor side. It is contended that if this land were brought under irrigation it would produce thousands of tons of this fodder. It seems curious to talk of irrigation in a part of the State where hundreds of thousands of pounds are being spent in draining the land of water. Such, however, is the fact.

Rather remarkable means for irrigating this soil are at hand, no further away than four miles, with a natural fall towards Kingston. This is a bore struck at 250 feet in an old sinking for oil known as Whaley's bore. I motored there with Mr. C. L. Evans, the chairman of the Lacepede District Council. A tremendous volume of water has been flowing out of an 8-in. pipe continuously for eighteen years. The country in the vicinity has been transformed into a great lake. No accurate measurement of the flow has been made, but the local estimate is a million gallons every 24 hours. Assuming this to be correct, 6,570,000,000 gallons have gone to waste since the water was struck.

DOES IT COME FROM HAY?

The bore is on private property, part of Mr. John Ryder's Ashmore Station. Kingston people think it ought to be harnessed and conveyed to the town by gravitation for irrigation purposes. I was unable to discover what Mr. Ryder thinks of the proposal, but residents seemed certain le would offer no objection. Regarding the origin of this water, Mr. Goode has rather a curious theory. It is known that the Murray loses a large amount of water at Hay (N.S.W.). Mr. Goode thinks it is this water which comes underground to Kingston.

CANAL THROUGH COORONG TO KINGSTON

Kingston people are more or less interested in a proposal to cut a canal through the Coorong to Kingston. At first hearing the idea seems fantastic, until it is mentioned that in the early days specially built flat-bottomed boats used regularly trade to Salt Creek. It is contended that the necessary depth is there already for the greater part of the way, and that where dredging is necessary there would be no need to go deeper than eight feet. The canal, of course, would link up with the lakes. Whether the proposal is feasible, of course, is a matter for the engineers.

FREEZING WORKS WANTED

An industry which Kingston is convinced should be established there is the freezing of mutton and lamb. Up to the present there are no freezing works in the South-East, and buyers from Portland are busy amongst South Australian sheep farmers. Kingston feels strongly about this. It is certain on two points— that South Eastern mutton should be frozen in the South-East, and shipped direct to London and that the proper place for the establishment of such works is Kingston, "if the South-East is to be developed," remarked Mr. Goode, "it must be drained. If it is, it can produce £5,000,000 worth of stock for freezing each year and Kingston is the only freezing port."

Around this town there are large areas of a plant known as "cutting grass." It is a variety of broom, over which an Adelaide company has recently secured extensive rights, reaching from Kingston to Dismal Swamp. The company, which has not yet begun operations, hopes to handle a minimum of 70,000 tons of this grass annually.

Anther new industry is the burning of seaweed for its conversion into fertiliser. Experimental kilns have been in operation for a consider able period, and as a result of the experience gained the first permanent furnace is nearing completion on the beach, and it is expected that others will follow. A Mount Gambier syndicate is interested in this venture, which is believed to be the first of its kind in the Commonwealth.

HOPES OF OIL

Kingston still clings to its belief that it is oil country. Various test bores have been put down. When the most promising one of these was abandoned by the syndicate which originally began operations, the local people showed their faith in the proposition by subscribing £1,000 to continue the work. The directors receive no fees. The bore is down 2,612 feet, and the last thousand feet was through hard, granite-look rock mixed with lime stone. The money of the local people is now almost exhausted, but not their faith. They talk of getting another £2,003 to continue operations, and dream of a new Kingston which will be a great city sometime in the near future when the oil gusher comes in.

I wrote of Kingston a maritime marvel. There is one other circumstance about the place which entitles it to this distinction. Instead of the sea there eating away the land, the reverse is the case — the sea is receding from the coast. I inspected this phenomenon with the district clerk, Mr. P. W. Flint. Where, in the early days, small boats rode at anchorage is now the shore. The water has receded 132 yards. Kingston reminds one of a plucky battler who has been dealt undeserved blows by fate. She does not worry much about the loss of her past glory, but she is concerned about the future. Many prominent people pin their faith to oil. For my own part, after viewing the remarkable bore at Ashmore station, and seeing what can be accomplished by irrigation, I am inclined to think that the salvation of Kingston lies in dairying, with its regular monthly cheque and almost inexhaustible market. (To be continued.)