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Published On: Mar 29, 2011 10:46 AM
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The Early Years
This is the first in an on-going blog which will
seek to place on the record an occasional summary of my life, with photographs
where applicable or available. The blog will cover my early life, a long period
(four and a half years) in hospital, my emergence into the world from that
period, and my progression through life with its highs and lows, unique, and yet
a common journey to us all. It will cover the joys of marriage and starting a
family, and the darkness of losing them. It will include my growing interest in
indigenous culture and the culmination of that interest with my two years in a
central desert community. It will lead back to the now, with the interests,
skills and dreams which remain. It will hopefully deal honestly with my
shortcomings. (but not too much).
I've always thought of Littlehampton as being
my home town. It's certainly the place which contains the happiest memories of
my childhood, although through various complications which will be explained
later, there were particular reasons why it was so special to me. In later years
it was where I settled into married life, and where my three children were born.
Certainly Littlehampton was where I first lived - in a house which is still
there, next to the Country Fire Service station, though changed so much as to be
unrecognizable. My actual birthplace, to be pedantic about it, was the nearby
Mount Barker District Memorial Hospital, on 24th June, 1946. Mount Barker is
situated 35 kilometers south east of the heart of the capital of South
Australia, Adelaide. It lies in a fertile valley in the Mount Lofty ranges, and
was one of the first districts to be settled after the arrival of the first
English settlers in 1836.
The Mount Barker township and
district takes its name from the outcrop also bearing that name, which was
bestowed on this distinctive landmark after the death of Captain Collet Barker
at the Murray Mouth in April 1831. The circumstances of Barker's death at the
hands of Aboriginal people, considering his previous rapport with the indigenous
people of Raffles Bay, east of present day Darwin in the Northern Territory, and
at King Georges Sound in Western Australia, were particularly tragic, and other
links on this website explore these circumstances, and reveal something of a
life-long obsession that I have with his life and death, and with the mountain
which bears his name. Fate has decreed that at the time of commencing this
little summary of a life, I am again residing in the district, in the township
of Mount Barker, while the sleepy little village of Littlehampton I loved so
dearly as a child has morphed into sprawling suburbia, and like the original
residence, is barely
recognizable.There was another
move, before there was anything registering in my memory bank; to an isolated
back-road residence a couple of kilometers from Littlehampton - a region called
Shady Grove.
Shady Grove was a small
settlement established by members of the Unitarian Society. The Unitarians, who
still own the small church (which is still used at least four times a year)
hidden in a bush block across the road from where we moved, are a small 'l'
libertarian organization, who defy the literal constraints of most established
religion. My Mother's Father, Cecil E Smith, and his father before him, were
involved with this church, and it was to a house owned by Cecil that we moved.
My Mother, displaying the financial acumen she was to show throughout her life,
negotiated with Cecil to rent the Shady Grove house at a modest cost, enabling
her to rent out the Littlehampton residence at a profit - a useful way to
augment her income while her husband, my Father, completed his army service and
recuperated at Daws Road Repatriation Hospital. My Father, Donald Wilkie Innes,
had spent part of the war years in the army at Darwin in the Northern Territory,
which was bombed constantly by the Japanese during his tenure. On his return he
was diagnosed with tuberculosis, a not uncommon complaint among ex-servicemen of
the period. Don had married my Mother, Dorothy Victoria Smith, who was six years
his senior, in 1940, and by the time I was born I had been preceded by my elder
sister Yvonne, born in 1940, and my brother Dean, born in 1941. A sister,
Lynette, was born in 1949.
Needless to say, I have
no memories of this period of my childhood. When Don was discharged he resumed
his pre-war job, driving a truck for Cleggett Bros Carriers, who operated a
daily trucking service from Littlehampton and regions, to Adelaide and back. The
family later moved to Whyalla, near the head of Spencer Gulf, an industrial town
which processed iron ore, and which was a ship-building town. An isolated
northern city in an outback climate mitigated by its proximity to the sea,
Whyalla was an apex of the so-called 'iron triangle' consisting of Whyalla, Port
Augusta, and Port Pirie. These industrial cities were established to a large
extent because of the riches generated by the mining giant BHP, who virtually
ran the towns. BHP, (Broken Hill Propriety Limited) prospered through the
massive mineral wealth which was extracted from the mines of Broken Hill, - a
remote location just over the border of New South Wales, - and from the iron ore
mined at nearby Iron Knob, to the west of Whyalla. Don got a job driving a bus,
a long route which took in the whole of the Eyre Peninsula to the south and west
of Whyalla.I do have some fleeting
memories of Whyalla - just snatches of events and situations which lodged in my
brain. A vague memory of playing with small cars with my brother Dean, and
propping up the sheets in a bed with pencils to make a shed for the cars. - An
evening with a brass band playing, and a huge shape slipping out of my view at
an alarming rate (years later established as a probable ship launching). -
Walking through thick scrub with my Father carrying a rifle, obviously hunting
rabbits. - An air show. - My Mother chopping the head off a chook with an axe in
the back yard, muttering angrily as she did it, and freaking me out terribly. -
And one day being aware of a terrible pain in my hip. There are no more memories
of Whyalla.One of the clearest
memories I have of my early childhood comes next, at the age of three and a
half. I am in a taxi, pulling up before a granite-fronted building. It is the
Adelaide Children's Hospital, now known as the Women's and Children's Hospital.
My Mother is with me, but later I am with strangers, who are attempting to amuse
me with soothing words and cuddly toys. The Whyalla home, to which I shall never
return, is 400 kilometers away. It is 1949, and 400 kilometers is a long long
way.The following years seem to be
more of a bad dream (of which there were plenty) than a reality I have lived
through. They were years lived with strangers. They were years of being
bed-ridden, strapped from ankle to armpit in a steel frame, and years of
incredible fears and discomforts. My memories are of being wheeled along sterile
corridors, laid under giant x-ray machines, being surrounded, totally naked and
vulnerable, by doctors, students, nurses, as they discussed the 'case' before
them; of days of multiple injections, with the smell of the ether as the needles
were prepared heightening the fear and trepidation; of constant enemas. I was by
no means alone. There were others suffering from the same affliction I had,
which was a TB infection of the hip, and there were numerous cases of polio.
Many of these patients, like myself, were destined to spend their childhoods
ignorant of the outside world.I
don't know what it would be like, in the unlikely event that a child would be
hospitalized for such a long period in today's world. Certainly there is
provision for Mothers to spend time at the hospital with the children, with
living quarters provided, though that would never have been possible with my
mother; she did have three other children to care for after all (and one to
come). Changed attitudes would make it unlikely that a child would spend so much
time away from their home, but distance was one of the obvious reasons, given
the seriousness of my case, why going home was not an option. The busy lives of
nurses, doctors, specialists of all kinds, and the many patients and duties they
needed to attend to, meant that there was no-one 'spare' to tend to the fears
and insecurities of a single child in my situation, and although there were
isolated visits and many attempts to provide some comfort and entertainment for
us kids, it was never enough to calm the torment we were
experiencing.There were moments of
relief to some degree. Perhaps the limited pleasures one was occasionally
fortunate enough to experience were magnified by the circumstances. Certainly
there are highlights which linger in my memory to this day.
One much savored change to my
situation, was to be moved to an annex of the hospital, an isolated and imposing
building perched on sand-hills, with ocean in sight to the west, and a swamp to
the east. Escourt House had been built, as I recall, by a retired sea captain
and certainly the view was spectacular. It was not specifically built for
hospital use, and in fact the eastern side of a large room was not even
enclosed, but had curved brick arches open to the elements. Mosquitos were just
one of those elements.
Escourt
HouseThe isolation of Escourt House
had other consequences. The nurses who lived and worked there were not under the
same supervision as were those at the ACH, and there were times when they
literally ran wild. At one time there was a young and very wild man who spent
some time at Escourt House. Who he was, and how he came to be there I don't
know, but he carried a shanghai in his pocket, which he used to catapult rocks
all about the place. One night as the time came to turn the lights out and us
kids were being somewhat restless, the wild man took over and went along to
every bed and gave each kid a slap in the ear. Another time he set a newspaper
alight on the concrete floor, evoking a scream of fear from me. There was no
real danger of a fire starting, as the place was all concrete and brick, but my
lack of experience with fire had contributed to my fear. He cursed as he stomped
the fire out with his rubber boots, and slapped me around the ear. On another
occasion there was a real wild night, possibly involving alcohol now I think
back to it. (I would not have known what alcohol was at that time.) There was a
lot of running about in the darkness, with laughter and shouting, all of which
we were aware of and excitedly relating to each other. This night culminated in
the pursuit of one of the nurses across the outside yard, and a flying tackle by
the stranger, which brought her crashing to the ground, knocking the wind from
her and causing obvious distress. A day or two later, he was gone. No such
excitement was ever likely to occur in the sterile environment of the Adelaide
Children's Hospital, which may have been better administered, but was not a
patch on Escourt House for variety.
Other events which took place
at EH added special memories to those days. The open space lent itself to a
visiting movie show. The beds would be wheeled into position, a screen hung, the
tripod and projector set up in the middle of the room, and we were introduced to
the joys of Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, westerns, newsreels, and
cartoons. These nights left indelible memories of course. There also seemed to
be a radio going a lot of the time. Early in the mornings there would be country
music, not of the kind one hears today, but the yodeling cowboy type, (I'm Gonna
Tear Down th' mailbox, Tear Down th' mailbox, I never Get No Letters Anyhow)
with artists such as Smokey Dawson, Tex Morton, and the various American singers
they were emulating. Other popular songs of those days linger in memory. "Irene,
Good Night" - "How Much is That Doggy In the Window?" - "I'm Gonna Wash That Man
Right Outa My Hair" and dozens more. Also connected to radio were the visits by
5KA personalities "Uncle Jack (Fox) and Aunty Margaret," who came on a regular
basis to chat with each of us kids, who would send a "cheerio" to our relatives
at home, which would be recorded on reel to reel and played on air later in the
week. We would also be presented with a chocolate
frog.These memorable and enjoyable
occasions, as pleasant as they were, were more than balanced by moments of fear
and distress. As a child, there was always a place called "The War" which we
were somewhat aware of through the medium of the many hundreds of comics which
were readily available. The war, of course was something which happened
somewhere else, but when I heard on the early morning news that "bombs are
falling" (probably the Korean War) I immediately became fearful, and remained in
terror all of that day. Every time I heard a plane fly over, I shook with fear.
Finally, after darkness had fallen that night, one of the nurses noticed my
distress. "What's the matter Robert?' - "They said on the wireless that bombs
are falling." I replied tearfully. - "Oh, don't worry about that, that's on the
other side of the world!" And I was okay, but I had spent a full day in absolute
terror before someone had time to notice my state. There were other times when
visitors seemed to go out of their way to instill fear into us. Cretins who came
expressly to put the fear of God - or rather the Devil into us, came into this
category. We were told about the horrible consequences of hell and eternal
flames if we didn't live in perpetual fear, and Satan was lurking in much of my
waking hours, and in particular the darkness - and my dreams. If there was any
doubt about the kind of things the Devil could inflict on a sinful child, there
was always the violence of the Punch and Judy show to reinforce it. After Punch
beats his wife to death with a bloody great stick, he is dragged screaming into
hell by the horned demon, who seemed to be constantly evoked to keep us in line.
Him or the "Bogeyman".
One of the worst of the days at
Escourt House comes readily to mind. Because of the bed-ridden state myself and
others were in, and the lack of exercise, there was a constant concern about our
lack of 'regularity' and two of the less savory ways of dealing with this were
enemas, or the administration of a foul tasting concoction called licorice
powder. I absolutely despised licorice powder, and I put up a huge fight as
three nurses held my arms, and my mouth open as they tried to force the vile
mixture down my throat. Frustrated at my screaming and struggling, I was
carried, strapped in my frame, out into an isolated section of the garden, and
left there alone, with the assurance that the bogeyman would be along to deal
with me in due course. Not wishing to make the acquaintance of the 'bogeyman'
the Devil or any other perils of the creeping darkness, I determined to drag
myself back to the ward, and still strapped to the frame I clawed at the ground
with my scrawny arms, a foot at a time, across a lawn, past an astonished
gardener sitting on the verandah, somehow negotiating a screen door, along some
long corridors, and finally peering through the glass swinging doors to the
ward, whereupon I was spotted, given a couple of slaps, and put back into my
bed, the nurses somewhat shocked by my epic
odyssey.Despite the way these
events appear when viewed on the page, it would be wrong to assume my life was
all misery. Imagination was the tool which helped to steer myself and my peers
through our days, and in the eventual absence of any memory of the outside
world, our lives, to us, were normal. There was no television, no doubt to our
advantage, but apart from the radio, to which I am devoted to this day, there
was reading. I can't recall any teaching taking place at the Adelaide Children's
Hospital, but it was certainly there at Escourt House. I can remember a teacher
called Miss Wilson, repeating the sounds of the letters to spell out a word.
"Du..Rrrr..Uuuu...Mmmm - just say the letters slowly and hear the sound it
makes....... " and suddenly the sounds had formed an image of a drum in my
brain, and the whole world was available to me in this magical form. We were
read all the classic fairly tales, of Red Riding Hood, The Three Pigs, Hansel
and Gretel, Three Billy Goats Gruff, (horror stories most of them) and we worked
our way through the 'primers' of the day -'the cat sat on the mat' etc. But
there was a lot of other reading matter, from the Noddy and Big Ears type books,
to what must have been many thousands of comics.
Comics took me to the worlds of
many diverse characters, from Felix the Cat, to the wide range if Disney's
world, to cowboys, Superman, The Phantom, The Shadow, and numerous other
journeys of the imagination, many of whose characters have failed to survive.
What ever happened to "Lash Larue" for example, who countered the baddies of the
west with nothing but his skills with the whip - snaking out to expertly snatch
the gun from the villain's hand before he could fire, or "Ricochet Ross" who
never shot straight at anyone, but cleverly bounced his bullets off rocks,
trees, buildings, sometimes off two or three things en-route to his target,
generally knocking the guns from the villain's hand. (These goodies were so good
that they never actually killed anyone, 'though they were always ready to give
the black hats a bloody good hiding). Other publications, such as the "Eagle"
magazine, with its diverse characters, mostly English, were devoured with
relish. So Dan Dare, with his off-sider Digby, would do battle through
interstellar space with the evil 'Mekon' and his grotesque oversized forehead,
while PC 49 battled with the street crims on his daily beat, with his
traditional bobby's helmet and clipped mustache. These, and many hundreds, if
not thousands of other characters came alive in my world, and took me outside of
the four walls which limited, to large degree, my physical world. One strong
memory, buried at the rear of a traditional western comic, remains strong in my
memory. It told a simple story of the 'Indians', much vilified in film and
comics, before the advent of the white man to the shores of their country. They
were depicted journeying on their canoes, through their beautiful country,
hunting, singing, and relating closely to the nature around them. It was not so
much a story, but a sympathetic description by some enlightened writer, more
than fifty years ago, of another side to the story. The fact that I remember it
would suggest that it was a view of the world which lodged in my brain. A
seminal moment? Perhaps so. Another time I saw a black and white newsreel, which
showed an Aboriginal man sitting on the sandy soil, and drawing circles within
circles with slow sweeps of his fingers. It was a total mystery for
me.
Recent visit to Escourt House with
friends.The time spent at Escourt
House fills my memory much more than that at the Adelaide Children's Hospital,
undoubtedly because it was much more stimulating, but possibly because I was
there for more of the time. Other memories of Escourt House include some visits
by Scottish pipe bands, including the sword dancers, and some kind of a wild
west show, with a Buffalo Bill type character replete with buckskins, beard and
mustache, and mounted on a white horse. I recall pondering such mysteries as to
where the smoke from the chimneys goes, (and never getting a satisfactory
answer) and I recall having the conviction (or delusion) that somewhere,
sometime in the future, there would be a judge who would rule on the injustices
which had been visited on me by unfair decisions by nurses or whoever - that
whatever wrongs there were in the world could be righted. A travelling barber
would visit to give us all a haircut, as he sang songs. Sometimes a person
called my Mother would visit, though so irregularly, because of the distance
from home, that I did not really know her at all. I don't recall seeing any of
the rest of my siblings or my father during those years. One day the nurses read
me a letter to say that I now had a baby brother called Max. Another time
(obviously before I could read competently) I was given a letter from my mother,
and after hours of pleading to find a nurse to read it to me, to no avail, I
tore it up in frustration. It torments me every time I think about it. Like all
kids, I guess, we discussed the deep mysteries of existence, including such
incomprehensibles such as "we live on a planet called earth, which is a big
giant ball" and "the sun is another big round ball on fire, which floats around
the sky and shines on us'" as well as other matters, such as atomic bombs, and
racing cars. Sometimes we were asked (by teachers?) to remember the people who
had died in the war, but I found that a bit hard, because I never knew them in
the first place. Once I was placed on the floor in my frame as some nurses were
making my bed, and found myself looking straight up their dresses as they
stepped over me." What can you see up there Robert?" they laughed and teased me,
and I had to turn my head in embarrassment. Obviously another of life's deep
mysteries. One day a new nurse came to see me, and informed me that she was my
second cousin. For the first time in my memory, I had a nearby adult who cared
for me.The nurse's name was Dawn
Towzer. She was the daughter of my paternal Grandmother's brother, and for the
first time in my memory, I had someone who was really concerned for my welfare.
She would often spend time at my bedside, reading, talking, comforting. It is
hard to remember specifically what we talked of, what we read together, or what
it was that gave me a feeling of warmth and comfort, but it filled a huge gap in
my young years, and the general memory and appreciation of her remains
strong.It is pointless to go
through all I can remember of those days in fine detail - there are many many
snatches of detail. I made some good friends, other kids I would meet up with in
the hurdy gurdy shufle I underwent in those four and a half years. One was a boy
called Peter Datsun, another very strong friendship was with a girl whose name I
have forgotten. We would fantasise about the toys coming to life at night, about
Peter Pan and Wendy, Robin Hood and Maid Marion, whoever else was in the comics
or the movies. My obsession with the Walt Disney version of Peter Pan and Wendy,
as depicted in the comics, was noticed by the nurses at the Adelaide Children's
Hospital when I was back there for a stay, and to my delight, in her own time, a
nurse wheeled my bed to a nearby theatre, and I was able to view the full length
cartoon in glorious colour.Other
highlights stand out during my hospital days. In 1954, the newly crowned Queen
Elizabeth 2nd came on a visit to Australia, which was a really big deal. I can
recall the morning in 1952 when we were told that the king had died, and it was
a newly crowned and married Elizabeth who toured with her husband in '54. I have
three main memories of that visit. One is of being taken out on the lawn (in my
frame) and spending a long time in the sun, waiting for the royal procession to
pass by. I remember being frightened of the bees which were on the lawn beside
me, and of getting a headache from being in the sun for so long, and I believe
that it affects me to this day. I always wear a hat in warm weather, and get a
headache if I don't. After what seemed like hours, and certainly the sun had
gone down, we caught a glimpse of the queen and her man going by in their black
car, lit up by the interior light in their limo. One night someone, perhaps a
member of the red cross, took me in a car trip to the city, and the whole of
Adelaide was swathed in neon lights and decorations to welcome the new queen.
That was the most memorable memory of the visit, though there was another very
long day trip into Adelaide which is memorable once again for the long wait. I
don't recall seeing her that day. Every school child in Australia got a small
bible to commemorate the
coronation.Other highlights of my
hospital stay included being ferried into Adelaide to view the John Martin's
Christmas pageant, a large and spectacular event put on by the John Martin's
store to launch the Christmas buying binge. Marching bands, floats with
fairy-tale figures, Disney characters, clowns, and at the end the appearance of
Father Christmas, all combined to make a really memorable experience for us
kids.On 1st march, in 1954, a quite
large earthquake hit Adelaide, but asleep in the ACH I was not aware of it. No
buildings toppled, but there was considerable damage to buildings throughout the
Adelaide and Adelaide Hills regions. One day I was told I would be going home.
My parents had sold their house at Whyalla, and brought a house at the nearby
seaside suburb of Grange, at 15 Sturt Street. I had no concept of what going
home meant. One thing it meant was that I would soon rediscover the place which
was my home at birth,
Littlehampton.
15 Sturt Street,
todayThere was no memory of
Littlehampton for me when the ambulance delivered me to 15 Sturt Street, and in
fact apart from the fleeting memories already described, I had no concept of
what living in a house with siblings and parents would be like. Apart from the
adjustment to a life-style unknown to me, there were further complications. I
was still confined to a bed, albeit one with wheels. I was also strapped to a
frame and practically flat on my back at all times. Sharing the house were, in
the range of ages, Yvonne in her 14th year, Dean, a year younger, myself, about
to have my eighth birthday, Lynette, born in 1950, and Max in
1952.The house was of a solid brick
and stone construction, with square brick pillars supporting a verandah which
looked out on a sleepy street. There were houses across the road, and to the
right, a kindergarden, and next to that a bowling green. A divorced man lived to
our immediate left, and an older couple with a dog to our right. The next block
along belonged to St James Anglican Church, but much of the yard at the rear of
the church, which fronted our street, was wooded, and immediately christened
'Sherwood Forest' by me as I passed through a Robin Hood
phase.Every morning a baker's van,
pulled by a clysdale horse would clop along the street, stopping and starting to
the simple commands of the baker, who would dart from one side of the road to
the other to deliver fresh crusty bread from a large cane basket slung over his
arm.I recall being at home for some
time before my Father put in an appearance. He had been away on a
shooting-fishing trip, and entered the house with a .22 rifle slung over his
shoulder. He seemed stern and
distant.The hero of my life was my
brother Dean, at twelve going on thirteen, a font of knowledge, wisdom and
derring do. The wheel-bed which could have been such a contained world for me,
was wheeled everywhere by Dean. He would take me, sometimes with other friends
of his tagging along, to the beach a couple of blocks away, to the movies, to
the Royal Adelaide show. To get to some places we would need to ride the train,
so my bed would be wheeled into the goods van of the steam trains which ran past
our back yard. (An unkle of mine who drove the trains would give a hearty pull
on his whistle whenever he passed our house.) Gangs of us would play in Sherwood
Forest - I would even play hide and seek, closing my eyes and counting as the
others hid up trees and among the bushes, and spotting them from my prone
position. Going to the movies was a
major past-time. It was usually (if not always) the Saturday matinee. The Odeon
cinema was some half a dozen blocks to the south, at Henley Beach. The standard
fare seemed to be a cartoon or two, a gripping cliff-hanging serial, a minor
film followed by intermission, then the major film. The proprietor wore a
uniform akin to an American bell-hop, with a reddish/orange uniform with shiny
buttons, and topped off with a little round cap at a jaunty angle. Dean would
wheel me to the matinee while I was still in the bed, and the kindly proprietor
would let me in for free. He sometimes had to come and take my toy gun off me,
and ask me to quieten down as I rode with the goodies and shot at the baddies
racing across the screen. The two years or so at Grange loom large in my memory,
and seem to occupy a much longer length of
time.
There were many situations which I
found difficult to adjust to in those early days. Crossing a road (being pushed
by Dean) would strike fear into me as I saw cars approaching, as I had no way of
judging the speed at which they were moving, it being so new to me. Being
wheeled out onto a jetty, and seeing the sea below between the cracks of the
boards would frighten me, and in particular, being alone at night in my bed
absolutely terrified me, perhaps because I was so used to having someone nearby
in surrounding beds in the past years. I would spend hours imagining that
someone was creeping towards me, particularly on hot nights which would get the
floorboards creaking. I would be positive that an intruder had come right to my
bed and was about to pounce, for agonising hour after hour and night after
night. I always slept with my head under the
blankets.The mode of transport for
our family seems unbelievable when I think back to it now. We had a 1952 Ford
Prefect, for transporting five kids and two adults, but incredibly, I would
still be in my frame for our trips. The top of the frame, which reached to under
my armpits, would sit on the parcel rack in the back of the car, while the foot
end would sit on the top of the front passenger's seat, behind my mother's head.
The other four kids would squeeze amongst the remaining
space.
Mum and the
PrefectOne of the most enduring
memories of my life was the first trip to the Adelaide Hills we did in the
Prefect. We wound our way up the twisting Mount Barker Road, just a two lane
road in those days, despite being the main route to Melbourne, around the
hairpin of the Devil’s Elbow, grinding our way in second gear around the
numerous curves, past the Eagle on the Hill hotel. The beautiful curving hills,
the trees, and the sweeping views to the Adelaide plains below had my eyes
popping from my head. I had seen such views in books, but did not realise such
scenery existed in real life. It was literally like stepping into a
fairytale.We wound through
wonderful country villages - Crafers, Stirling, Aldgate, Bridgewater, Hahndorf,
and finally to the childhood town I had no conscious memory of - Littlehampton.
Willow Bank was a fifty acre farm, perched on the side of a hill, and
overlooking the picturesque village of Littlehampton a quarter of a mile away to
the right, and surrounded by rolling farmlands. The long blue slope of Mount
Barker Summit was visible over the brow of the hills opposite from the front
verandah. A creek followed the other side of the road at the bottom of our
driveway, and a railway line ran between the farm and the road. Long steam
driven goods trains, passenger trains and rail cars would ply this line, which
connected Victor Harbour to the south with Strathalbyn, Mount Barker and other
hills towns; a slow trip through the hills via a few tunnels, and on to
Adelaide.The farm was occupied by
Cecil E Smith, my mother's father, and his wife Mina, whom he had married after
the death of my Grandmother in the early forties. My mother had inherited Willow
Bank on the death of her mother, but her father had life-long tenure. Though
just twenty-two miles from Adelaide, (albeit a twisting and frustrating trip at
times, as the road was shared by the semi trailers which plied the
Adelaide-Melbourne route) the farm was a microcosm of local history, with sheds
built from great slabs of red gum, a stone barn and house, a large hay shed, and
in other sheds, horse drawn wagons, chaff cutters, seeders, and various other
farm impliments of unknown purpose. There were a couple of clysdale horses, and
some 1920's era trucks and
utilitys.Although most of the land
was cleared, the 'top paddock' behind the cluster of sheds still contained some
magnificent towering gums. In short the region was a sleepy, sparsly populated
patch of paradise, and returning to it really was tantamount to stepping into
the pages of the books which had shaped my imagination for so many
years.
Posted: Thu - September 21, 2006 at 04:27 PM
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