Australia Day breakfast in The Stinson Memorial Park for Upper Christmas Creek (or as the farmers say - the "burbs").
It was BYO everything and so there were lots of sausages, bacon and eggs, dampers, billy tea -yum!
We swapped names (in some cases), gossip, email addresses and took lots of photos.
Bernie Smith read two of his marvelous poems - " Christmas Creek Road Upper" (first edition below) and a potted commentary of "reel"" Aussie authors. Note his costume - Australia Day thongs - especially for the occasion - and there were plenty of others amongst us in similar costume to confirm he was on track.
We all went home before it got too hot!
(Photos by Katrina and Heidi! )
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Christmas Creek Road (Upper)
by Bernie Smith
Twenty - nine k’s past Laravale
Is where the bitumen ends,
But Upper Christmas Creek goes on –
A road of gravel blends.
If you intend to travel there,
To see we’ve nothing to hide;
You’d better gear up, make a start-
And here’s your travel guide.
Wave to Bob and Ilona, where once were goats,
And to Gary and Gayle on your left;
They’ve cottages there, where the dingoes howl
At night, in Cave Rock cleft.
It’s spin- your- wheels in dry-dust times,
Mighty slippery in the wet;
You’ve passed the community mail-box,
The only mail you’ll get!
There used to be a locked gate here,
And keys let local snobs in;
They knocked it down some years ago,
So now we let your mobs in.
Go up the hill past Jeffreys’ place,
Barb and Lionel mow there now;
The other side’s changed hands several times -
New owners - Barnetts - Take a bow!
You pass The Cottage, fading, forlorn,
And race round the hairpin bend;
Watch for red- necked wallabies as you go -
They’re slow to comprehend.
Now drive among arm-twisted apple gums,
The grid near Richards’ shed;
Avoid the washout at what-used-to-be North’s
Now it’s Ross’s track - down and ahead.
Wend your way through the dry- leaf scrub,
Some go down, some around, some uprise;
Keep well to the left on the one-lane curves
Or you could get a crashing surprise!
Emerge in the open, and, looking ahead
An assortment of mountains appears;
On your left shoulder, Buchanan’s Fort –
That basalt massif - rears.
Now head straight through, past Mana Caroo,
With their highly-official grid;
That’s Mark Farmer’s eponymous farm!
Yes! That’s his name! Truly! No kid!
Drive carefully on the cliff road now -
A girls’ bus crash long ago!
Go creeping round the corners-
Drop down a gear! Dead slow!
Here’s the Blue Dairy – it was blue once!
Where John and Sue’s cows now graze;
There’s Brahmans white, Droughtmasters red
Kikuyu-fat, they laze.
Cross Waterfall Gully – a stream runs out
To help Christmas Creek on its way;
Go quiet if you can, past Lamington Glen
A cottage where tourists could stay.
Slip it down a cog, up Oakes’s hill,
Past Rosemary’s garden of fame.
Hey have you heard? They’ve sold the place!
The valley just won’t be the same!
We welcome there Brad Beaverson,
Mark Michael, to the fold;
They’ve started off, brand spanking new,
But keen to learn, I’m told.
Here’s Chester and Norma’s Little Red House,
He’s a Yank, and doing jes’ fine!
And there, on the hillside, a bit further away,
Beadles’ orchard of finger – limes.
Nell and Graham have quite a spread,
Their parties really rock!
Why not call in? You never know-
If you’re lucky, it’s Home Brew O’clock!
Now you dip down beside the creek,
That’s the last of the mountain air;
Lantana grows round The Creek Retreat,
But the bell -birds know it’s there.
You enter a place with history now,
On Tom and Ted’s long- held block;
Where Bill Half-Master’s slab hut stands,
Charlie, the hermit, lived under a rock.
He’d been a soldier with post- war stress,
Now avoided both women and men;
He’d seen so much carnage in trenches at Somme,
Swore he’d eat meat never again!
Travel with reverence through the tall trees,
Shedding summer-strip bark (once again);
They’re called flooded gums, by common name,
Rose gums, by timber men.
By night their trunks have ghostly gleam,
Reflecting the faint moonlight;
Look out! That’s a fat black pademelon!
In a last-minute cross- road flight!
You’ve passed the end of the power grid now,
From here you must make your own!
But still press on, not much to fear -
Can’t use your mobile phone!
Cross one causeway, there’s the creek,
You’re now on the northern side;
What? Just a trickle? – So you think!
When it floods, it rages wide!
Past Tony Pritchard’s – he’s long gone,
It’s David and Gretel’s now;
Up their pecan–sprinkled hillside, spy
The odd lingering lonely cow.
Another causeway - built much too low-
Floods about three times a year.
That’s Smith’s place, Sue and Bernie’s patch
Don’t their striped cows look queer?
Pause and refresh in their rain-forest arch,
Cool relief from urban strain;
In tangled vines and ferns and leaves,
(Look out for their “hydro” drain!)
It’s near journey’s end – the last causeway!
A popular party space!
Then that council-offending gateway
Marks Peter and Karen’s place.
There’s only Houston’s left on the left,
Up their winding concrete track;
Unless you’re a fan of the National Park,
It’s time you started back.
Or stay and dream of the mists of years -
Of all those times gone past!
When Midginburri’s clans lived here –
No more, long lost, outcast.
The timber- cutters, bullock- teams,
Silky oak, cedar, hoop pine;
The dairy flats, the Friesian herds,
The cream- carts, the tramway line.
You’d hear the name, O’Reilly,
The Stinson, Westray’s grave;
The rescue party’s long hard slog,
Those stretcher- bearers, brave.
So much for dreams, that’s all in the past,
Off home, the old year’s gone.
Oh bugger it! You’re stuck here now!
A bloody Causeway Party’s on!
Bernie Smith (with apologies to all!) 31 Dec 2010. [C]
Happy New Year!
