No 2 Robe

In considering the problem of the South-East, we must go back to the early days, when vast tracts of the richest land in the State were alienated, either as freehold or perpetual lease. In those days the South-Eastern country was widely regarded as worthless. Modern farming methods were then unknown.

Just how this land was parcelled out will be seen from the list below of the original landholders. It is by no means complete, but it accounts for fully a third of this great area of 9,000 square miles. It is not intended to reflect on the old pioneers, who took their lives in their hands, and went out into the virgin bush to carve for themselves fortune, if not fame. Hats off to them, say I. They did exactly what you and I would have done in similar circumstances — provided we had the courage to face the hardships they endured. Many of these holdings had to be abandoned because of the ferocity of the blacks, which made it impossible to work them. Provisions had to be carted hundreds of miles over rough bush tracks, or through virgin country, where there were no tracks at all — just thick bush, with treacherous enemies lurking behind every tree. It was these sturdy, stout hearted, white men who made the country safe for those who followed, and who laid the foundations of the tiny settlements which were the nuclei of the flourishing south-eastern towns of 1932.

Take, for example, the story of Mount Schank, one of the best-known landmarks, I suppose, in the South East. The original owners of Mount Schank were the brothers Arthur, sons of the Lieutenant-Governor of Tasmania. They put up a valiant fight against blacks and dingoes, but in the end had to give in. They were glad to sell out for £300. I wonder how many acres of Mount Schank £300 would buy today?

Or take Mount Gambier itself, a young city which has arisen from the ruins of a log shanty hotel. For the first building in Mount Gambier was an unpretentious "pub," which stood in the scrub near the site of the present Town Hall Hotel. Its builder, John Byng, was an American negro, and if the tales told by history are true, that hotel saw life spelt with a capital 'L.' Mount Gambier itself was a station, an offshoot of the old Compton run. I do not know how much Evelyn Sturt — youngest brother of the Australian explorer — paid for Compton (85 square miles), but I do know that he sold the Mount Gambier portion of it for £500. In those days, of course, there was no settlement. Mount Gambier was only a name. This, however, is digression. The story of Mount Gambier — and an interesting one it is — will be told in its appropriate place. Just now, our business is to get on to Robe.

Robe is approximately, 30 miles from Kingston. That is an interesting coincidence about South-Eastern towns — they are all approximately 30 miles apart. Taking them in their proper sequence — Kingston, Robe, Beachport, Millicent, Mount Gambier, Penola, and Naracoorte — they are equi-distant.

Historic Ground

Providence has been very lavish with gifts to Robe. It is a scenic paradise. It is the Mecca of the sports man. It is one of the most historic spots in the South-East. It is full of memories of the early settlers. Its sea coast is picturesque; its lakes delightful; and its old stones almost talk about the early days. There is the marble bath of Governor Robe at the Robe Hotel, a very marvel of construction, which the guests use regularly; there is the old summer residence of Governor Fergusson, over looking Guichen Bay; there are the remains of the old-time gaol; and there is the old house where Adam Lindsay Gordon first met his wife-to-be, Maggie Park. Finally, there is Mr. T. G. Brown, the district clerk, who is a veritable encyclopaedia about Robe, ancient and modern. If there is any man who knows more about the early South-East, I should like to meet him. It is to Mr. Brown that I am indebted for the list of original landholders to which I have referred, and which I now publish for general information.

Station. Area Square miles. Owners.

Drainage Of Lake Hawdon

The two main problems facing present-day administrators are the drainage of the swamp lands, and how more territory is to be made available for closer settlement and heavier production. Robe is particularly interested in a scheme for draining South Lake Hawdon. If this were brought about, 7,300 acres (the area of the lake itself) would be directly made available, and another 30,000 acres of adjoining land would be improved. Thus nearly 40,000 acres of first-class dairying country would be reclaimed. There are enough reports on the proposal in the Government offices to choke the departmental archives — but nothing practical is ever done.

I found the people of Robe unanimous about the necessity for hastening on the drainage schemes. The chairman of the district council, Mr. S. Fletcher, described them as "absolutely the greatest problem of the south-east." He said the soil in this part of the country was as good as any in the Commonwealth. It was most suited for lamb-raising and dairying. But it must be drained.

Robe's Handicaps

Rightly or wrongly, the people of the South-East are far from satisfied with the drainage schemes so far carried out. They contend the drains are not answering the purpose, and say this is because the Government altered the plans of the original scheme, increasing the cost of the work, and rendering it less effective.

"Now," said Mr. Fletcher, "the Government apparently do not know what to do."

Robe, like Kingston, wants a seaport in the south-east. It has good grounds for this. It is seriously handicapped in marketing its produce by the lack of means of transport. Before it puts a ton of produce on the railway for Adelaide it costs 28/ for cartage to Kingston, with the railway charges to be added to that. Robe has no railway of its own, and everything, inwards and outwards, has to be sent 30 miles to the railhead by road. That is why Robe is so keen on a seaport. Its trade is being stifled without one. No other town in the south-east suffers a like disability. Either a seaport or modern road communication with Adelaide, is vital to the town.

Mr. J. Nunan, a member of the district council, said the south-east was being ruined by the policy of centralisation fostered in the City. There was a time when Robe was a busy port and goods could be landed from Adelaide at £1 a ton. Robe has endeavoured to revive that rosy chapter in her history, only to meet with re buff after rebuff. Deputations asking for consideration of this matter have interviewed the Government and the shipping companies without getting much encouragement. The Government says, "Get the ships to call and we will put the jetty in order." The shipping companies say, "Put the jetty in order and the ships will call." It is a game of battledore and shuttle cock all the time. And the South East languishes, the land fails to carry the population it should, and politicians boast that South Australia is the highest taxed community in the world!

Some Historic Buildings

It was at Robe that the poet, Adam Lindsay Gordon, first met Maggie Park, and the old ivy-clad house where this meeting took place is still standing. Gordon, who at one time was Alexander Tolmer's groom in the police force, had injured his foot, and was nursed in this house by the eighteen year-old Maggie. The romance developed quickly, and then marriage followed. Robe is full of stories like that. There is an old record which shows that as far back as 1851 there was a tendency on the part of the people to rely on the Government instead of themselves for all sorts of things. During a controversy which developed over the construction of the first jetty. we find Charles Sturt, then Colonial Secretary, writing tersely — "Unless the settlers help themselves there will be little disposition on the part of the Government to come to their assistance."

The old State prison, built by convict labor, with its massive walls, its airless cells, and its governor's residence, still dominates Guichen Bay. It is an old, historic landmark. It should have been preserved, for it represents a style of gaol that has now passed out of existence. Convicts were convicts in the day when it was built. But a short-sighted Government recently sold the price less old relic for a few pounds for the sake of the iron and stone it contained, and now it is being slowly demolished. Soon not a vestige of it will remain. Its stones are used for patching roadways.

Petrified Prisoner

Yet the old Robe gaol was history. Murderers in the early days were hanged there. Associated with it is the story of two prisoners who escaped from its massive jaws. One was recaptured. The fate of Lot's wife overtook the other. He got away, but weeks after wards his petrified body was found in Lake Eliza. The peculiar mineral properties of the water had turned the body into stone. Robe is a country of lakes. Some are salt and others fresh.

The fresh lakes are known to contain rich black soil which would make ideal pasture land for fattening lambs or dairying. The people would like these lakes reclaimed. Robe is interested in the drainage scheme, but it shakes its head over the Government proposals, and says they will be ineffective. Robe is land-locked. It is surrounded by large estates. The people will tell you that its only hope for the future is closer settlement, and they point to Naracoorte as an example of what can be done when the country is opened up.

While the prices for wool were high, there was little hope for Robe. Life was easy for the grazier, and money not difficult to obtain, and he was not prepared to talk about cutting up his holdings. The case is different now. Low prices and crippling taxation have made his life a burden. Generally speaking, wool production does not pay. In many parts of the South-East the station-owners, forced by circumstances, are going in for share farming. Robe hopes that something of the sort may happen there.

Chinese And The Goldfields

In the heyday of its youth, Robe was an important centre. At that time the Victorian goldfields were at the height of their hectic career. There was a poll tax against Asiatics in the sister State, but none in South Aus tralia. The wily Chinee, fresh from the crowded hovels of Hang-choo, knew all about this. He landed at Robe in his thousands, and trekked overland into Victoria through the virgin bush. In the office of the district clerk I inspected some oldtime shipping records. They told of shiploads of Celestials of 900, 1,000 and even more, coming direct from Hongkong and other ports. The bones of some of them lie Casterton, and Ballarat. By entering through South Australia they were not liable for the tax. They had "savvy" enough to know this.

But when it came to a question of paying a guinea for lighterage between the ship and the shore, John in his hundreds shook his head decisively, and his squeals of "no savvy" in every key of the minor scale was an entertainment no boatman was willing to miss. But in spite of his protests, John fought a losing fight.

Those boatmen had an excellent plan for bringing him to their way of thinking. With, a dexterous movement they sent him and his possessions flying "Now swim for it, you blighter," they yelled.

"All li, all li, I pay," sputtered John. Then they hauled him out of the icy water, and he joined the long, quaint queue which, with a bullock dray in the lead, marched laboriously across the sandy plains to where, over the border, Fortune beckoned. At Penola one of their camping grounds, now a farm, was pointed out to me.

The "Copper" And His Garden

If you want to see real carnations you must go to Robe. They grow them everywhere — not the sickly-looking masqueraders seen about the city plains, but great, plump, full-chested buxom blooms the size of roses. The soil is peculiarly adapted to their culture. If Robe was in the United States the whole area would be given over to the production of carnations. It would be the growing centre for the continent. But Robe has not yet learnt the secret of mass production at the source. When it does, it will be as famous for its carnations as is Ypsilanti. Mich., for its celery.

While on the subject of flowers let me relate an incident which did not happen in Robe. For obvious reasons it would be unfair to state the real locality. In the yard of the police station in a certain country town I saw a garden that was a model of neatness. The flowers were perfect, the vegetables healthy and the ground well tilled and devoid of weeds. Knowing that the officer ought to be a busy man, I said to him in some surprise.

"How on earth do you get time for gardening?"
"I don't."
"I suppose the wife does it?"
"No."
"Then, what's the secret."
"Well, it's this way. When the place begins to look untidy I go down-town and pinch some poor devil who can't pay his fine. Then I put him to work in the garden. Could anything be more simple?"

Beachport For Sport

Beachport is the kind of place to which I would like to retire some day supposing that the gods are ever kind enough to permit me to retire. It is a favored and happy land where nobody worries. Not even the tax gatherer can disturb its serenity. Neither time nor distance counts. If you ask a resident how far it is to a certain place he will probably answer, "About a mile." Your speedo shows it to be ten. If you ask the time, the man, to whom you are speaking looks surprised. He doesn't know. Moreover, he doesn't care. The sun gets up and it goes to bed, and that is the only division of eternity he cares about. I found this disregard of time to be characteristic of the lower South-East. So far. I have not been in a single town between Meningie and Beachport where clocks were anything more than ornaments. When the hands point to four the clock strikes ten, but Lord knows what the real time is.

In one email hamlet I said to a man — "What do you do here?" He grinned. "Eat and sleep," he answered. "What is the time?" I asked, for I had not set my watch for four days. "I don't know," he replied. "We don't worry about time here." I sighed enviously as my mind went back to town, where testy sub-editors, with their eyes on the clock, were hurling adjectives about because some body was a few seconds late with "copy," and the drone of the presses began with the punctuality of an express train as the hands of the clock moved to the appointed minute. But to return to Beachport. Why should the people worry? Nature has endowed them lavishly. There is fishing in he sea, and fishing in the lakes - real fishing, too; not the nibble-an-afternoon kind that one sees from the metropolitan jetties. Imagine nineteen big Jack salmon, one of them 17½ lb., taken from the lake in a single morning. If you don't believe it, have a look at the photograph on this page.

There are swamps where wild game are too thick to be counted; a fine golf course no further away than across the road from the hotel, and scenery wild and rugged, and picturesque enough to satisfy the cravings of the most hard-to-please artist in the world.

Problems

But like Kingston and Robe, Beachport has real grievances. Commercially it is being strangled by the policy of centralisation pursued by successive Governments. Once Beachport was a busy shipping port. It was the outlet for produce from as far away as Bordertown and Mount Gambier. The railways with their system of preferential rates have changed that, and the rising generation would hardly know a ship if they saw one. All that remains of its former maritime glory is the jetty, five-eights of a mile long, which is being allowed to go to ruin, and which was seriously damaged by last week's storm. Local residents will tell you this is the deliberate policy of the Government, which does not want the ships to call, so that the people will be forced to use the railways!

All along the south-east coast I found feeling very strong on the question of a local port. Kingston, Robe, and Beachport all stress the necessity. Drainage Beachport is much interested in the drainage schemes, which at present are in a state of suspended animation owing to the shortage of money. Back from Beachport are the Woakwine Ranges, five miles distant, and beyond them again another set of hills with an immense valley between them. This valley contains some of the richest soil in Australia. It would be ideal dairying country - provided it were drained. In the winter, under present conditions, it is mere unworkable swamp of no value to anyone. This observation does not apply to the Beachport country alone. It is typical of the great south eastern areas still awaiting the attention of the engineers. Where, as in Millicent, the swamps have been fully drained, the industry is flourishing. But then Millicent is not a Government scheme. It is administered by a local board. It is completed and paid for.

Difficult Problem

The more one travels through the South-East the more impressed one becomes at the magnitude of the problem confronting the Government, whatever its political color may be. The main difficulty arises because the whole question goes back to the earliest days when the land, then regarded as of little value, was practically given away.

Thoughts Turn To Dairying

The present time, however, is opportune to tackle the problem. Landowners are badly hit by the low price of wool. They are more disposed to day to discuss other kinds of production than they were when wool could be sold at 3/ per pound on a "take it or leave it" basis. At Beachport I found quite a tendency to investigate the possibilities of dairying. I discussed the matter one morning with Mr. M, Gilders, a local resident and landowner, who has lived 51 years in the district, and who remembers the first sale of town allotments in Beachport in 1878. He thinks the future of the South-East lies in small holdings and the cow.

Dairying is not new to this part of the country. A lot of it was done prior to wool soaring to peak heights. But the price of wool killed it, for it was easier to grow sheep than to milk cattle — and it paid better. But with wool at 8½d. to 9d., the cow may come into its own again. There are big possibilities for dairying north of Millicent, especially in the Clay Wells and Avenue Flat country. These areas have recently been closely surveyed by the Drainage Board, but no decision has been reached about commencing operations. Money, of course, is the reason. Circumstances, however, are turning the thoughts of many to dairying, especially as it is seen that those who stuck to then cows are now finding them their mainstay. The only people in the Beachport district who are doing well, considering the times, are the dairy farmers.