Tag Archives: Bridgewater

The sheen on Shene

No. The historic Shene property is not reflected in the Derwent River. Nevertheless it shines bright in my memory for the number of stunningly well restored and conserved 19^th century sandstone buildings.

The Shene Estate, located just north of Pontville, covers many acres only a few kilometres inland from Bridgewater which sits on the Derwent River. A few months ago a brilliant photographer, one of my blog followers, presented a set of images that stopped me in my tracks (pun not intended) – have a look.

When I visited last Friday, one of the owners, Anne Kernke enthralled me with the history of the property. Long term blog readers know that I get excited by many things and where possible I try and make a connection with the Derwent River, simply because I want to write a record. I was on high alert the moment Anne mentioned the Derwent. When she said that one of the key family members died near Pearson’s Point which is the location where I suggest the mouth of the river is located on the western shore, I knew I had reason to create a post.

Edward Paine/Payne emigrated to Van Diemens Land in 1820 and his eldest daughter married Gamaliel Butler who established the Shene estate. Unfortunately Edward drowned when travelling in a small boat with others because a boatman went “to the mast-head, which a small boat would not bear”. The boat capsized and it seems Edward could not swim. Anne Kernke has provided the following information: “an ill-fated boat trip to North West Bay, where Paine was looking for land to purchase.[1] The Hobart Town Gazette gave a very detailed account of the day’s tragic events:

It falls to our painful lot to record one of the most distressing and melancholy accidents which has ever occurred in this Settlement. On Saturday afternoon last, Mr. Edward Payne (who arrived recently in the ‘Deveron’), Mr Wickham Whitchurch, Mr James Kay, and Mr George Read, Superintendent of Government carpenters, left the port in a boat with three men to go to North-west Bay. On their way, they put into Tinder-box Bay, about 10 o’clock at night; but not finding the landing good, they determined to go on to the Government huts at North West Bay. When the boat had got about 300 yards, from the shore, the halyards being jammed in the mast-head, one of the boatmen went up to clear them, and in an instant the boat overset. With difficulty, and by the assistance of a Government boat which was in the bay, all were saved but Mr. Payne and Mr. Read. There was scarcely any wind or swell at the time; and this unhappy accident was caused solely by the man going to the mast-head, which a small boat would not bear. Mr. Whitchurch is an expert swimmer, and knowing that Mr. Kay could not swim, laid hold of him, and conveyed him within 50 yards of the shore, but from extreme weakness, was compelled to leave him for his own preservation. Mr Kay, although he never swam before, struggled through a thick bed of sea-kelp in deep water, and made the shore. Mr W. in the meantime floated on his back to recover his strength, until the Government boat came to their help.

Late on Sunday evening, accounts of the melancholy event reached Hobart Town; and upon its general circulation on Monday morning, it occasioned a sensation of feeling and regret proportioned to the estimation in which the unfortunate sufferers were held, and the loss inflicted by their sudden and premature fate. The body of Mr. Payne was found on Sunday, near the place where the boat overset. A Coroner’s Inquest on Tuesday gave a verdict of Drowned by Accident.’[2]

1]Journal of Peter Harrison, 1822, Royal Society of Tasmania, p.40 (typed copy)

[2] Hobart Town Gazette, 13 July 1822, p.2

On the following day, the distraught Mrs Paine was visited by the Reverend Robert Knopwood, who spent the evening trying to console her for her loss. Several days later, Knopwood conducted Paine’s burial service at the Hobart Town Cemetery (now St. David’s Park) on the 6^th July 1822. The headstone was removed when the old cemetery was converted to the present day park.” St David’s Park is in the Salamanca precinct which sits by the Derwent River at the edge of Hobart’s CBD.

Currently, to help support the expensive and meticulous restoration work across the Shene property, the owners provide guided tours by appointment, keep polo horses and will soon have competitions (the Hobart Polo Club now call Shene home and they use the 1851 stables as their clubhouse), they operate a distillery making a filtered and an unfiltered smooth tasting Gin, and much much more. More information can be read on the Shene website.

Settling in, indoors+

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Once inside the Gretna Green Hotel, immediately I felt comfortable. I walked out to a back room, plonked my gear and then hung onto the bar looking eager.

“Would it be possible to have a shower? I’m happy to pay. I don’t care if the shower is in the private residential quarters upstairs. I’ll even clean it afterwards if that will help. I’d REALLY like a shower.” All said with pleading eyes. ‘No. Can’t do,” said the barman. I stared with desperate eyes, waiting for an explanation. Apparently TasWater, which manages water quality and delivery around Tasmania, has declared the water at Gretna to be so unsafe that no-one should drink it, and the locals deem it so bad that there is a flow on risk with showering and washing your clothes in it. “Well we all shower in it, but that’s the risk we take”, barman Brad informed me. “But we won’t let you take the risk.” I spoke up. “If you shower in it then I am happy to shower in it and will even sign a slip of paper saying I am accepting the risk against your advice.” “No can do. Nah. Sorry. The publicans won’t allow it,” was the barman’s response. He was trying to be helpful and so I saw no point in putting him offside. After all, my bus back to Hobart wasn’t passing through Gretna for another 7 hours – I reckoned that creating an aggro situation wouldn’t be smart.

“OK. A bottle of water and a cup of black tea please.” The cup with its tea bag was soon in front of me. While the hot drink cooled, I sculled the bottle all the time sitting and chatting to friendly and informative Brad. After the second bottle and second cup of tea, I began to feel refreshed. I made up my mind to get clean including brushing my teeth (in the offending water) and to change my clothes, so off I went to the toilets and slowly completed the ablutions and the makeover. When I left the cubicle, I felt like a new person. I was rehydrated within from having imbibed the fluids earlier, and now I knew I looked different. I felt so much more alive. I only had to survive the waiting time until the bus came through. Only 6 hours to go.

Crossing the Derwent River

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In stages over more than the past year, I have walked as near to the Derwent River as I can, and each time I see it up close again I am thrilled. Its scale, its colour, and its texture are always different. The changing effects of the sky on the water’s surface are fleeting, and I love seeing every view.

On Day two, I had left Bushy Park, crossed the Styx River and was now on my way to the Lyell Highway with a despondent resignation that no more close encounters with the River would be possible this day excepting when I crossed the bridge.

The bridge was long and offered one lane for traffic and no pedestrian path. This is an area where powerful log trucks, various large transports, farm vehicles, massive four wheel drives, and all manner of smaller cars and motorcycles power along the road. I considered hitching a ride over the bridge with the intention of travelling across in safety. Thankfully the vehicles do not come in a continuous stream, so I looked for a gap in the traffic.

With an ear to the wind, I listened to hear approaching vehicles. In a moment of quiet I made my ‘run’ for it. Friends would know no running was involved. Rather I stepped out purposefully and as quickly as I could, humping my backpack along with me.

Two thirds of the way across I felt indignant. I wanted to have a look at the river but the fact that it was dangerous to be on the bridge unnerved me. Nevertheless, I glanced around and noticed the magnificence of the views up and down the river. As I readied to take a quick photo I could hear an approaching vehicle. But I stood my ground. Then I flattened myself against the bridge railing as a monster dual cab ute whizzed past with the driver glaring at me. I glared back; I hoped my stony look, backgrounded by thoughts of frustration that walkers were not considered in the bridge design, communicated to him. I know I know I know. Of course it didn’t. I am sure he simply thought my presence was the impediment to his safe progress.

Before long I was off the bridge crossing the Derwent River and heading eastwards to the Lyell Highway. Getting down to the water was impossible. In this case it was the tangled Blackberry canes that stood in the way.

The quest for water to drink

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The road narrowed. The road verges reduced in width. The traffic sped past. Vegetation grew rampantly between the road and the Derwent River. The river poured towards the sea. And I walked, occasionally sipping, and wondered what I would see over each new crest or around each corner. Would I find accessible water?

A cluster of large rocks and a pull-off area for vehicles alerted me to a new chance to reach water.

Rayners Corner

At the bottom of the incline, a rocky track was extended into the River with a few rocks – most suitable to fish from. And most suitable from which to fill up a water bottle! This location was on the opposite side of the river from a mapped point known as Rayners Corner (although not showing on Google Maps).

I sat for a while and soaked in the clean atmosphere. Looking back down the river I watched the hard glassy flows of the Derwent.

Then I made a short video scanning the environment.

Marvellous place. Marvellous water.

Leaving Ivanhoe’s cows behind

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Day 2 and the vista looked splendid. Despite my fingers seeming to freeze as I released the tent and repacked my backpack, the sun shone and the landscape sparkled after the evening’s shower of rain – any dust in the air was long gone.

I hadn’t been walking for long when I could see the next railway bridge down the line. This time the bridge was taking a long haul over the Derwent River. Again, I wasn’t prepared to play with my life and try to cross it. Instead, I detoured after finding a gate with an easy slip fastener and walked up a soft vehicle track. I saw rich green paddocks everywhere.

Before long I had walked over the hilltop and could see a couple of houses.

And then I was following a curving track across the property expecting eventually to return to Glenora Road.

Not far along, I passed a gigantic pivot irrigation structure.

The morning was truly marvellous. The location was magnificent.

I felt all the happier when a couple of the property owners drove past and waved cheerily. At the time I thought it strange they didn’t stop to talk which is something country people normally do (and, after all, I was on their private land), but when I reached the road I realised they had been having a laugh at my expense. The gate was padlocked and unclimbable. One fence was electrified and the other barbed. Fortunately, I was able to make my own way around this obstacle and get to the main road. It was then I could see I had been on the property named Ivanhoe.

You can see my red gloves on top of the stone fence; by the time I was on the outside of Ivanhoe, I had warmed up and no longer needed them.

The Ivanhoe property is for sale if this interests you and you have over $3.6 million in loose change hanging around.

The railway bridge

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When I sighted the railway bridge crossing onto the southern/western side of the Derwent River, I was excited because my maps indicated I had every chance of getting off the main road and beginning to walk in paddocks closer to the river.

I loved the rush of the water close by.

20150917_113430

Then access became a challenge.

Fortunately, a tiny track existed at the water’s edge and I took advantage of this gap. The sullen grey clouds attempted to dampen my spirits, but the sound of the rushing water reinvigorated me as I walked towards, and then under, the railway bridge.

No longer was the roar of traffic disturbing my thoughts. Only the sound of the river, the breezes in the trees, and birdsong caught my ears. I was immensely relieved to be away from the madding crowd.

Starting out last Thursday

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Blog followers know I have waited almost impatiently for Spring weather to arrive; I had been so eager for my walk from New Norfolk to Gretna to be pleasantly memorable. At home the early morning sun shone and Hobart sparkled. At 8am the Derwent Valley Link bus departed from the city. I was the only passenger until well into the Northern Suburbs when school kids jumped on and took over – as kids do. By the time the driver dropped me at New Norfolk central the sky was grey and a stiff cold wind blew. The day seemed as dull as the car park (note the bus shelter in the centre).

Determined not to be distracted by the weather, I headed off towards the bridge over the Derwent River, past the historic Bush Inn.

I was ready to follow signs.

I needed to follow the road which led to the Salmon Ponds (although I expected to bypass this location during my walk), however I deviated to the right so I could stare at the Derwent River from the bridge. At first I looked down onto the mown lawn where I finished Stage 14 of the walk.

Then I swung around to look at the river from the inland/western side.

After retracing my steps I was ready to embark on the next adventure. After turning into Glenora Road (designated as B62) on the southern/western side of the Derwent River, I proceeded past St Brigids Catholic School.

Between the few suburban houses I caught glimpses of the river and then, within minutes, I was leaving New Norfolk.

For many kilometres, my view of the river was rationed. Occasionally I spotted the beautiful river through an inaccessible profusion of weeds. Mentally I stripped away the vegetation and loved the changing surfaces of the river and the speed with which it flowed.

Everywhere I looked was lushly green or silvery blue. I was thankful that the overcast sky allowed the colours to reverberate and seem so much richer.

Lots of R&R on Stage 15

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There was no rest although perhaps everything I did was recreation. The R&R’s I had in mind were quite different.

I had little choice but to walk on Roads and Railway lines for the majority of my experience from New Norfolk to Gretna. You can deduce from my previous posting this wasn’t where I wanted to walk. I had hoped for soft ground directly next to the Derwent River as much as possible.

Roads

Over the first kilometres west of New Norfolk, the bitumen minor road towards the townships of Plenty and Bushy Park was narrow, and the road verges were tiny or non-existent.

To my right, initially house blocks got in the way of my ability to access the river directly. Before long it was metal guard rails, steep drop offs, and weedy tangles which provided a permanent separation. I walked patiently along the road edges changing sides every few minutes to try and get the safest side where I was least likely to be side-swiped by speeding vehicles. Natural gutters with stagnant green slime, or dry mini gulches below the road edges required me to be careful not to tip over when stepping off the road. Apart from not being knocked down by traffic, keeping my balance and not twisting an ankle were paramount concerns. Up and down, across and back. These were the rhythms for many kilometres.

In that early period I thought of owners walking their dogs; dogs off a lead. You know – the dog runs ahead then runs back to you then runs off and runs back etc etc. In the end your dog has ‘walked’ two or three times as far as you. Similarly, as I stepped into and climbed out of gutters, the distance I covered seemed to double or triple.

At some points along the road, the guard rail was only a foot / 30 or so centimetres from the road making it very dangerous to be walking such sections. To protect myself, when a stream of cars was approaching I stood with my back to the rail and backpack hanging over towards the river, and held myself tightly against the rail so that the whoosh of cars or their side mirrors wouldn’t catch me. It was on one such section that a couple of cars approached and the front one slowed (with the second doing his best not to ram accidentally into the front car, and crash into me at the same time) and stopped in front of me. The old fellow rolled down the window and asked if I needed a lift. I pointed out he was going in the direction I had walked from and that I was happy to continue in the other direction on foot. Thanks but no thanks. As I moved on, he drove off.

Later a couple of people stopped and offered me a lift. I think all offers were genuine. But I accepted none. I stood out on the road as an oddball. People just don’t seem to walk much anymore; certainly not on highways and byways. And road planners show no expectation of pedestrians in their designs.

Some of the road surfaces were rather special. I rather liked the green lichens gradually growing across the black bitumen; I guess there is simply insufficient traffic numbers to wear it down, in this part of the world.

The special patchwork quilt of a road shown above made me wonder whether this bit was at the extremities of two local government areas. I suspected that both Councils might be thinking that repairing this road was the responsibility of the other.

Occasionally I had the bliss of walking on smooth green soft grasses away from potential close contact with traffic.

On other occasions the green was deceptive with uneven ground hidden beneath, sometimes containing rabbit scratched holes.

Road bridges over rivers provided me with the greatest stress mostly because each was unavoidable and I needed to cross over them. Narrow with only two-lanes and without a pedestrian pathway, these were usually preceded or followed by sharp enough corners so drivers were onto the bridge before they could see what else was on the bridge.

Plenty River bridge

Styx River bridge

Towards the Derwent River bridge

I gave the bridge over the Derwent between Bushy Park and Gretna a lot of thought, including considering whether to hitch a ride across it, before taking a deep breath and walking across. The bridge was long with a sweeping corner at one end. It had only one lane with signs at each end that indicated to drivers they should not enter the bridge if another vehicle was travelling across. I was aware that massive multiple-trailer log trucks were regularly on the road, as were other heavy and large transports, and of course locals who whizzed their way everywhere at high speed.

I wondered how much drivers could be trusted to follow the directions and to slow down. I waited until there was no sound of oncoming traffic from the two distances, and then I hastened across. But the view distracted me; it was so wonderful looking up and down the river that I felt compelled to take a photo in both directions. I clicked quickly as a large 4wheel drive flashed onto the bridge. I held myself back against the rail as he sped past glowering all the way.

Railways

First and last I walked on main roads but in between I often had no alternative but to walk on the variously rotting sleepers of an unused railway line. I couldn’t create a walking rhythm: the sleepers were irregularly spaced and irregularly sized and the spaces between each were filled with rocks, gravel, dirt or grass and weeds. Sometimes there was no fill.

In this region, the railway line runs on the northern/eastern shore and then, about two thirds of the way from New Norfolk west to the district of Plenty, it makes a diagonal line crossing the Derwent River. I met the railway on the southern/western side and was able to walk under the old sandstone supports on the river bank before proceeding westwards by following the river closely.

Later I reached the railway bridge over the Plenty River, where a quick reconnaissance indicated some sleepers were missing and others looked suspiciously like they might disintegrate under weight. My weight.

For 30 seconds I thought about whether to cross the bridge. I decided that walking on the metal rail track could be safe enough for those experienced with walking on gymnastic balance equipment, but not for those carrying a backpack, nor those easily thrown by sporadic wind gusts. Instead I detoured onto Glenora Road crossed the road bridge and then made my way off the road and back to the railway line. Thick impenetrable vegetation prevented me from walking closer to the river so I stayed on the railway line for many kilometres, with an occasional foray closer to the river. However, mostly I found it impossible to proceed and returned to walk on the railway line.

This railway line walk should be a stunning place in autumn especially where rows of well-established poplar trees marked the edges. I know the leaves of poplars turn gloriously yellow after summer.

Towards the end of day one of Stage 15, an impending rainstorm seen at the end of one stretch of line prompted me to look for a suitable campsite.

A while later I pitched my tent beside the line.

Next morning the sun was shining, despite very low temperatures, and the glorious views lifted my spirits. I received a text from blog follower Ju that Rail Track Riders http://www.greatrailexperiencestasmania.com.au/event/rail-track-riders/?instance_id=485844 would be in motion along the line during the day. What I surprise for them it would have been to find my tent on the side of the line – but I was well gone before I suspect there was a movement at any station back up the track.

After Bushy Park and en route to Gretna I saw my first railway sign when the track crossed the road.

Looking back, clearly no railway vehicles had travelled this way in a long time.

Now cyclists and governments are discussing ways in which to turn this old railway track into a cycling corridor. But no one is talking about edging closer to the Derwent River.

Hobart to Lake St Clair in 1850; mostly by foot.

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Another of the stories published in Hilary Webster’s compilation: The Tasmanian Traveller A Nineteenth Century Companion For Modern Traveller, recorded the Journey of F.J. Cockburn who on foot travelled ‘From Hobart to Lake St Clair and Return’ in 1850.

Cockburn seems to have been the butt of nonsense advice when he asked around for the best time of year to walk from Hobart to the remote inland Lake St Clair, which is located roughly in the centre of Tasmania. He tells ‘I received replies which induced me to start on May-day.’ By that time of year, temperatures are plummeting and the further you progress away from the coast of Tasmania the more the rain settles in.

He took a steamer to New Norfolk and then it rained for 4 days. On one of these early walking days he found an essential bridge had been washed away with the deluge. His crossing was memorable. ‘The river remained impassable until 7^th, when by letting a long ladder down from the remnant of the bridge onto the ruins of one of the piers, I was able to cross, like a monkey, before an admiring audience’.

Miles later he ‘stopped at a little eating house, in a damp situation surrounded with wet fields …” What was wrong with F.J. Cockburn’s powers of perception? All the weather signs indicated that proceeding further at that time of the year was a bad idea. Then came more reasons for abandoning the walk; ‘the last six or seven miles of my day’s journey was along a regular wild bush road, affording admirable opportunities for murder and robbery.’

Despite these factors, F.J. Cockburn persisted with his journey. After losing his way at one point he came across a hut with two shepherds who fed him mutton chops, damper and tea. “My bed was formed on the floor near the fire, of sheepskins, and I was very thankful that it was too cold for fleas.”

When he reached Lake St Clair, his appreciation of the lake was stymied. ‘The sides of the lake being covered with dense forest, almost impenetrable, it cannot be seen to advantage without a boat, and boat there was none.’

Cockburn summed up his experience of Lake St Clair as ‘certainly a gem in its own way. It is as fine as any Scotch lake of its size, excepting in the beauty of the foliage on the banks. It was a wild and striking scene.’

F.J. Cockburn carried a satchel weighing ‘about twelve pounds: one shooting coat, waistcoat and trousers; one pair of shoes; three shirts; three flannel waistcoats; three pairs of socks; three handkerchiefs; one pair of braces; one neck-tie; one travelling dressing case – and when I started, half a pound of “nailrod” tobacco.’ I can’t help wondering how small this man was – these days the clothes on this list would weigh much more for the average sized walker.

He concluded ‘on the whole I was pleased with my trip; the roads were bad, the country wet and the air cold, but on the other hand, the grass was more vividly green than at any other time, the air was clear and crisp, there were no fleas, and walking was pleasant in the cold.’

Long-term followers of this blog know that I found the start of my last walk (in April) from Bridgewater/Granton to New Norfolk way too cold. This led me to the decision to put on hold any further walking towards Lake St Clair until Springtime when the temperature starts to climb towards summer. I am in awe of walkers around the world who like being cold and wet and find pleasure in achieving walking goals in such environments. Perhaps I am too soft!

Walking from Australia to London

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I blinked and blinked again. Walking from my home to London? How would this be possible? Yes it will be possible … but in 100 – 200 million years’ time when continents reconnect with each other, according to a recent news story: http://www.news.com.au/technology/science/australia-on-path-to-join-uk-as-part-of-supercontinent-amasia/story-fnjwl2dr-1227331780435?sv=1e2848859e5b4afa30b76819882202f0&

I reflected that the Derwent River might no longer exist and its beautiful ribbon-like pathway through our landscape might only be remembered in the fault lines of rearranged rocks.

Considering the geological and weather upheavals likely during those intervening years, I imagine the footsteps of human kind will not even be a distant memory. My guess is that the ant and cockroach populations will have mutated strangely and may be the only lively fauna roaming the planet. If water remains on the Earth then possibly some creatures who can survive in highly acid waters may be in the ascendancy in some regions.

It is rather strange to sit here tapping on my computer and to consider that not only do I expect the human race to become extinct, but all the artefacts of mankind will be obliterated over the millennia. Having held a career in the museology industry for much of my professional life, I retain the urge to collect and conserve the artefacts of our histories. Nevertheless, these collections and preservations will probably only be valued for a few more hundreds or thousands of years.

On this basis it seems that walking and discovering what we have around us is a much more worthwhile thing to do – at least at the personal level. In an earlier posting I referred followers to the blogsite of a man who took 11 years to walk around the world. Even if I should set myself a similarly outlandish goal, it won’t be possible now to walk from home to London in my lifetime except by using some water or air based technology to move from land to land. What a small dream this is in relation to the expanse of the history of the universe. But then, humans are not so great when compared to the scale of the universe.

Chatting with a traveller

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On Stage 14 of my walk from Granton to New Norfolk by the Derwent River, a car pulled off the road ahead of me at Sorell Creek. The female driver sat motionless. I plodded on and, as I walked past the car, she wound down her side window and asked for help. A farmer from inland NSW, she and her daughter were staying temporarily in Maydena (http://www.discovertasmania.com.au/about/regions-of-tasmania/hobart-and-south/maydena), a small town on the way to Strathgordon in south western Tasmania – a town where our shy native platypus can be seen in the fast flowing Tyenna River, the waters of which eventually flow downstream to help keep the Derwent River level high.

While her husband worked that day, she decided to take a drive in the car and look around to see more of the country.

When we met, she wanted to find a route to the convict penitentiary at Port Arthur (http://www.portarthur.org.au) without needing to navigate busy Hobart city streets. Her only map was a small abbreviated tourist map of Tasmania that showed the main highways and a few towns. I dragged out some of my maps, and we chatted amiably while many options were considered. Through these conversations I was clear that our road signage is designed for those who know where they are going, and not always for those who don’t know the terrain.

The thought of encouraging her to take the East Derwent Highway, come out near the Tasman Bridge and then need to cross three lanes of traffic immediately, filled me with dread. When you are driving and unsure of where you are and how to get there, many signs and endless traffic can be disorienting. I felt sure she would find herself in suburbia and never understand how to extract herself from there in order to be on her way to Port Arthur.

To take the Midlands Highway by crossing the Bridgewater Bridge, and travel towards Oatlands to find a cross country route, also seemed impractical. Once off that highway, narrow winding roads lead eventually to Richmond but this would not help her easily to get onto a road leading to her destination, without much more direction asking of locals.

We settled on the option where she would continue along the Lyell Highway, drive along the Brooker Highway towards Hobart city, before taking the left hand exit to the Tasman Bridge near Hobart, and then driving across the Bridge. I hope the blue airport symbol was posted liberally during that journey. If she followed that symbol, then once at the final roundabout to the airport she knew to drive straight on. We didn’t exchange contact details so I continue to wonder if she found Port Arthur without getting lost and without losing time.

At 12.15pm we parted company. I was glad to have had someone to talk with. Besides, she had been considering walking (http://www.bicentennialnationaltrail.com.au/) from the north to the south through Australia (a mere 5330kms from Cooktown in far northern Queensland to Healesville slightly east of Melbourne, Victoria). I wish her all the best.

A tribute to the Australian men and women who fought in overseas wars hoping for a safer Australia

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Today is a powerfully important day in Australia’s psyche. It is ANZAC Day; a day of remembrance and commemoration. In particular, this year’s ANZAC day represents 100 years since our defence forces arrived on the beaches at Gallipoli, Turkey near the beginning of World War 1. In 1914, an officer created the acronym ANZAC to register the coming together of two sets of national troops: the AUSTRALIAN and NEW ZEALAND ARMY CORPS. From then on and because of the actions of those men and women during the first World War, ANZAC has come to mean mateship and extraordinary personal and team efforts in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. We talk about the ANZAC spirit.

From dawn services, to town and city parades, to commemoration services at cenotaphs, today Australians will watch, march, place floral wreaths or otherwise be involved. We will remember those who have lost their lives, been injured or otherwise involved not only in World War 1 but also in all other arenas of war where Australians have travelled to help out another country.

From the beginning of last century, most towns built cenotaphs or other memorials in prominent places. This blog, during the walk along the Derwent River, has shown photos of structures built for such commemoration purposes. It seems appropriate to reshow a selection.

On Stage 1 when walking near the mouth of the river on the eastern shore, I found the Lone Pine memorial standing proudly. Today, ex-servicemen will gather there to remember the sacrifices of those who stormed the beaches at Gallipoli and went on to battle it out at Lone Pine. ‘Lest we forget’.

The South Arm cenotaph.

The Memorial Reserve at Bridgewater

The Australian Tracker and War Dogs Memorial at Lowestoft Bay

The Hobart City cenotaph on the Domain

One war memorial, which I am yet to see, is located at Gretna a small rural town located inland from New Norfolk. The Gretna war memorial was built after World War I and sits on a hill overlooking the Derwent River. The spectacular photo below is by Lex Prebski and was taken from http://www.abc.net.au/news/2015-04-22/11-unsung-war-memorials-to-see-in-tasmania-this-anzac-weekend/6401618

It is interesting that the two most special days on the Australian calender have an element of doing wrong to others: Australia Day on the 26 January celebrates settlement of Australia by foreigners and the displacement of the local indigenous peoples; and Anzac Day on 25 April commemorates the death and activity of thousands of Australian men and women fighting other nationals in wars outside Australia not of our making. The positive sides of these two days are equally clear to me: Australia Day is the chance for everyone who lives in Australia to enjoy the fact we have a safe and friendly country; Anzac Day offers the chance to value people who had in the past or have currently, a belief and act on it hoping to make the world a safer place for everyone.

Did I feel uneasy walking alone past Murphys Flat on Stage 14 of my walk along the Derwent River? Answers and extraordinary stories.

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Yesterday one of my posts introduced Addington Lodge as a Haunted House and since then a few readers have wanted to know more.

The photograph above is of Addington Lodge, Granton, apparently a former residence of Governor Arthur – from the collection of Linc Tasmania

In Hobart’s The Mercury newspaper of Saturday 6 July 1935 (http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/30094484?searchTerm=Anthony+Geiss), J Moore-Robinson wrote his version of the history of the House and area (then not known as Murphys Flat rather as Marsh Farm). A few descriptions and some extraordinary stories of what happened to a hop picker and others, create a feeling of how the crumbling remains of Addington seemed at that time.

The author talked about people “who visit southern Tasmania who have not seen the Haunted House but have been intrigued by its shady reputation and shadowy tradition. Empty and forlorn it stands to-day near the road-side on the way to New Norfolk, a gaunt spectre of a vague past, a meet and fitting rendezvous for apparitions which, if the poets speak truly, steal at the witching hour of midnight, from yawning graves and uneasy vaults, to curdle the blood of humans. Motorists roll by unthinking at all hours of the day and night, but pedestrians, I am told, walk warily, or walk not at all past the place.”

Did I walk warily? Well yes I did. But my caution was the result of the stream of traffic pouring down the highway a couple of feet next to me. Sometimes, in some situations, my body can feel ’something’ about a location, but with the incessant roar of vehicles close to my left ear, the brittle wind in my face, and the chilly temperatures I was charging on northwards and gave no thought to ghosts of the past. Perhaps the bright hard sunlight kept them at bay.

The newspaper article continued: “The existing owner, Mr. F. B. Rathbone of Mt. Nassau, tells me that the place has been rather a bane and an expense to him, and he will not be sorry when nothing remains but a heap of rubble foundations. I asked him why. ‘I have lived in the place myself for weeks at a time,’ he said. ‘My son lived in it for more than a year. Neither of us saw anything uncanny, yet nobody will take it. It has a bad name, and I think it better to let it fall to ruins’. It appears that long before the war, folk were apprehensive and the Haunted House, lacking regular tenants, frequently was empty. Mr. Rathbone said that there are no spectres, never were any and that the noises and apparitions came from a loose board in the roof and from rats, rolling-apples and potatoes in a cupboard.”

But is this true? The newspaper article continued and included a number of stories which might explain the haunting reputation, and which might even be factual.

The hop-picker story

“Shortly before the embers of discontent of South Africa burst into the flames of war, a hop-picker having drawn his cash at Bushy Park was ’Waltzing Matilda’ to Hobart. He was weary with tramping the hot and dusty road but, doubtless he looked forward, with unfeigned pleasure to the flesh pots and foaming tankards, of the city. As the sun set, he came, unaware of its story, to the Haunted House. Shadows deepened on the nearby river as the hop picker, pushed open an unfastened door, entered the fateful house, ate his cold mutton and bread, washed it down with part of a billy-can of beer purchased at New Norfolk, spread his blanket on the floor, and slept the sleep of the weary. Presently he stirred and rubbed his eyes and, as he looked, the very marrow froze in his bones. His hair stood on end and his heart seemed to stay its pulsing, for rising before him in the doorway he saw a ghastly thing. ‘Thing’ is the right word, for the hop-picker had not seen or dreamed of anything like it. Thin legs, curved, and bent, supported an enormous body which, though it seemed to be clothed, was still visible to the trembling mortal who saw the apparition’s internal organs hideously pulsing and distended. Its neck, gashed from ear to ear, was unable to support the head which sagged horribly from one side to the other. Blood dropped from the severed jugular and the baleful gleams from the staring eyes pierced the semi-darkness and seemed to impale the terrified watcher. A butcher’s knife was clasped tightly in the spectre’s right hand, and hand and knife were horribly red.

In a crouching pose, the creature swayed toward the ‘hopper’, whose limbs seemed fettered by unseen manacles, from which he writhed and struggled to free himself as the menacing and blood stained figure approached. A foul smelling breath stung his nostrils and the knife was within striking distance of his heart, when, with a wrench that would have done credit to Samson, the ‘hopper’ broke free, dodged the ghost, darted through the doorway and, looking neither right nor left, sped down the road, a white and terror-stricken figure clad only in a shirt. Feeling rather than seeing the ‘thing’ close behind him, he essayed a short cut over a bank, slipped on a stone, gashed his head on a sharp rock, and lapsed into blessed insensibility. When he came to, he found himself prone on the cold floor of the room in which he supped. His blanket lay in a disordered heap. His fingers bled where he had scratched and torn at the floorboards. A lump on the side of his head betokened a meeting with some foreign body. Looking around cautiously the ‘hopper’ could see nothing of his ghastly visitor but, thinking discretion the better part of valour, gathered his belongings, moved tremulously through the door to spend the remaining hours of darkness in vigil by the roadside.”

The hopper’s ghost

“It is said that the hopper’s ghost is the spiritual remnant of a whaler, who, wandering further afield than usual, met at the Golden Fleece (for that was the sign of the haunted house 100 years ago) a bushranger disguised as an honest man. The pair spent some happy hours until the Tasmanian Robin Hood, seeing his chance expertly slit the throat of his ‘friend’ and disappeared with his wallet.”

Lady with the broken heart

Another story has to do with a young and beautiful woman who, betrayed by the usual dashing cavalier, languished in spite of the kindly protection of the landlady until, with a broken heart and saying a prayer for bitter revenge, she stabbed herself, and so went away to brighter, and, I hope, happier fields.

The landlord and his landlady

“Still another tale is told about the landlord and the landlady, when the place was the William the Fourth hostelry. This couple, having decided to essay life together without bothering the clergy lived happily for a while, but only for a while. Quarrel followed quarrel, and in these the woman usually came out on top for she was bigger, quicker and stronger, although the landlord had been a soldier and had seen wars, having been with that army which ‘swore terribly in Flanders’, he became tired of being the vanquished, and one day finding his ‘wife’ asleep, stabbed her. Not content with that, he drove a spike into her head, cut out her tongue, slit her throat and not being quite sure at this stage that she was really dead, and poured some poison down her throat. He then tenderly buried her and was caught and duly hanged which seems to be the only really proper and moral part of the story.”

The Golden Fleece’s reputation as an Inn

“It was during Fitzgerald’s term as licensee that, according to legend and tradition, the place achieved its notoriety, which, considering the grounds on which he was later pilloried is not surprising. It is certain that the ‘Golden Fleece’ had an evil reputation, and that the name was truly descriptive of the ‘fleecing’ accomplished within its walls, and the ‘golden’ results which accrued to the enterprising landlord.”

Kelvin Markham (http://www.km.com.au/tasmania/ch14.htm) has a different view on why the House was haunted.

“During the twenty one mile journey to New Norfolk, I had the company of a ghost – one Denis McCarty. To you who follow me along this road, the first made in Tasmania, I present this Irish ghost, ex-convict, constable, farmer and grazier, road-maker, Deputy Provost Marshal and much more. My assertion is that Denis, after all his troubles in constructing the road, drinking his share of the 500 gallons of rum that were to be part payment, and then dying whilst his claims for final settlement were being considered by Governor Sorell and Macquarie, perambulates this unpaid-for road, and, when he finds it necessary to take shelter, rests in the old Golden Fleece. If you dive into the history of this road, you will learn a number of things. For example You will stand at his deathbed, seeing it only as through a glass darkly, and wonder what Jemott and Broadribb had to do with it – if anything. Contemporary records refer mysteriously to these persons as knowing more than they should of McCarty’s end.”

These background stories and reasons for Addington House or Lodge/Golden Fleece Inn/William the Fourth hostelry to be haunted make for wonderful fiction-writing and movie-making opportunities. Anyone interested?

The image above is a drawing of ‘Addington Lodge Colonel Arthur’s Marsh Farm between Bridgewater and Sorell Creek Derwent Valley’/’The Haunted House on the Granton New-Norfolk Road’ by artist A. T. Fleury c1931 – from the collection of Linc Tasmania

Why are these wetlands called Murphy’s Flats? Who was Murphy?

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Thanks to http://www.parks.tas.gov.au/file.aspx?id=17347 I know that “Murphys Flat Conservation Area historically formed a portion of the property locally referred to as Marsh Farm, which was established through an ambitious land reclamation endeavour begun by Governor Arthur in 1824. The property was hailed as an agricultural “show place” throughout Tasmania and was one of the earliest land reclamations in Australia.”

The site http://www.derwentestuary.org.au/assets/NIE_-_wetlands.pdf provides the information that “In 1997 we nearly lost 40% of these wetlands when a farmer started draining the 66 hectare marsh known as Murphy’s Flat.” This action was the catalyst for various tiers of government to step in and fund the process to purchase the land and retain it as a conservation area. The area known locally as Murphys Flat was acquired on 1 May 2001 by the Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife Service.

The 2010 Management Statement at (http://www.parks.tas.gov.au/file.aspx?id=17347) is informative.

“Murphys Flat Conservation Area is located within a wetland complex on the southern shore of the River Derwent beside the Lyell Highway between Granton and New Norfolk. The area has been recognised as being particularly species rich, with expansive areas of marshes, underwater grasses, tidal flats and reed beds that provide habitat and breeding areas for large populations of fish, platypus and waterfowl. Murphys Flat Conservation Area comprises 25 to 30 per cent of remaining wetlands in the River Derwent. It is listed within both the Directory of Wetlands of National Significance and the Tasmanian Geoconservation Database.

Birds are particularly abundant in the reserve due largely to the diverse habitat. The vicinity is well known for its large population of black swans and it is a likely hunting and foraging area for five significant bird species including the wedge-tailed eagle, white-bellied sea-eagle, swift parrot, masked owl and great crested grebe. The secretive, little-known Australasian bittern is also known to occur there.

Murphys Flat Conservation Area serves as a nursery for the sandy flathead and also provides important shelter for other juvenile native fish. Backwater areas of the reserve are of particular biological significance with unique botanical assemblages and an abundance of gastropod molluscs.”

Until the early years of this century, “Murphys Flat was used as a dump site for domestic rubbish, garden waste and for overburden from road and earthworks. As a result, the area of wetland vegetation communities has decreased and its condition has been further compromised through the spread of weeds, largely from this source.” Now a weed control program has been instituted. “The vision for Murphys Flat Conservation Area is that it will contribute significantly to regional biodiversity and geodiversity in the upper River Derwent estuary, provide water quality services and research opportunities and be a vehicle for increasing public awareness of wetland values.”

In addition to the natural history and situation, Murphy’s Flat has a cultural history.

Firstly, the site is reported to have been on a travelling route for two Aboriginal tribes (http://www.parks.tas.gov.au/file.aspx?id=17347).

Then, according to Kelvin Markham at http://www.km.com.au/tasmania/ch14.htm “Four miles beyond Granton stood a derelict grey stone house, known to all and sundry as The Haunted House. No one can tell why it received its name, though it is popularly (and wrongly) supposed to have been the country seat of early governors. The haunted house was originally the Golden Fleece Inn, licensed on 22 October 1824 to one Henry Fitzgerald. It did not long cater for travellers and in 1837 was on the market. This building was also called Addington Lodge Villa at one time.”

The image above is a drawing of ‘Addington Lodge Colonel Arthur’s Marsh Farm between Bridgewater and Sorell Creek Derwent Valley’ / ‘The Haunted House on the Granton New-Norfolk Road’ by artist A. T. Fleury c1931 – from the collection of Linc Tasmania

The photograph above is of ‘Addington Lodge, Granton, apparently a former residence of Governor Arthur’ – from the collection of Linc Tasmania

The National Library of Australia (http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/30094484?searchTerm=Anthony+Geiss) offers the information that “Addington Lodge was named after Mr. J.H. Addington, the Secretary to the British Treasury at the time. It was constructed by Governor Sorell to serve as a country house in 1820, a year after the construction of the Hobart to New Norfolk Road. The lodge was a double storey brick house with an architectural style typical of a late Georgian villa with symmetrical doors and windows and a wide fan-lit front door. The lodge was renamed the Golden Fleece Inn and opened to the public after a Mr Barker sold it to Mr. Henry Thomas Fitzgerald in 1824 having owned it for 4 years only. Addington Lodge at Murphys Flat became a popular half-way house for travellers between Hobart and New Norfolk and earned an unsavoury reputation.”

If remains of this house still exist they are now obscured from view by the lush vegetation growing across the wetlands. I saw no sign of it as I walked past Murphy’s Flat.

To give you some idea about the look of the wetlands from the Highway, the photo below shows the landscape when I looked back over the road just walked.

The wetlands looking toward the road yet to be walked.

Along the kilometres (Murphys Flat Conservation Area is approximately 2.7 kilometres long and 550 metres wide at its maximum width) of Murphy’s Flat Wetlands, the vista consisted of subtle variations of the following:

When I walked, most of the landscape between the Lyell Highway and the smoothly flowing Derwent River seemed impenetrable. I can only imagine this is a very safe place for water birds and fishlings to breed, and for native grasses and other plants to re-establish.

This posting started with a question which I have been unable to answer. I cannot discover who Murphy was. Regrettably.

Murphy’s law is a commonly heard saying which is typically stated as: Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. I wondered if the land now known as Murphy’s Flat had been purchased for the purpose of grazing animals and growing crops without due checking, and then found the wet soggy land to be useless in the days when preservation of native flora and fauna was not considered – I wondered if someone bought the land without really checking how it was and having spent all their money decided Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. BUT according to the definitive book The History of Murphy’s Law written by Nick Spark, this adage was named after an American aerospace engineer Captain Edward Murphy who said as much around 1950. The naming of Murphy’s Flat at Granton seems to have preceded this ‘law’ so the area must have been named after a local – but who was it? More research required.

Google maps cannot locate Murphy’s Flat so I have attempted to indicate the location this posting has referred to. Within the hand drawn oval above, the Murphys Flat Conservation Area sits contained between the Derwent River and the Lyell Highway.

Between the bridges: Stage 14 of my walk along the Derwent River

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The achievement yesterday was to walk from the Bridgewater Bridge to the New Norfolk bridge on the western shore of the Derwent River.

I set off from home before the sun was up and I found Hobart was quiet when I arrived at the city bus mall.

Then I bussed to Granton and alighted from the bus at the intersection with the Bridgewater Bridge causeway.

From Granton I walked north-west then west towards the inland town of New Norfolk walking mostly along the Lyell Highway and then on a walking track for the last 5 or so kilometres. The morning was freezing and the afternoon warm. But the sun was out; its hard autumn light made the world seem alive and sparkling. The Derwent River was splendid, often still and reflecting the trees and hills on its surface, under a bright blue sky with the sun shining gloriously.

I finished my walk at the bridge crossing the Derwent River in New Norfolk.

During the walk, I covered about 15½km of the length of the Derwent River. By my reckoning, the total distance of the Derwent River on the western shore from the mouth of the River to New Norfolk is 54¼ km.

My walking distance was approximately 20¼kms. I have now walked approximately 191¼ kms not counting getting to and from buses, as part of this project to walk along the Derwent River.

The highlights of the walk to New Norfolk were finding the remnants of two clearly visible heritage lime kilns, seeing a family of 6 pelicans, finding the track along the river leading to New Norfolk, and being mesmerised by the spectacular autumn foliage along the walk and especially in New Norfolk.

I started walking from Granton around 8am and, despite wearing a thick woollen beanie plus a thermal top under my windproof jacket, I was frozen for the first two and a half hours. It was 8 degrees Celsius at Bellerive when I left home, 6 degrees at Glenorchy and I suspect much less with a wind chill factor along the first part of the walk. On this basis, I will not be walking further inland until sometime in Spring, and the timing of starting again towards Lake St Clair will depend on the air temperature.

Over the coming week I plan to enjoy writing up the journey and the discoveries of Stage 14’s walk in a series of different postings.

Walking the Derwent River

The ribbon that separates the eastern and western shores of Hobart, Tasmania's capital city

Tag Archives: Bridgewater

The sheen on Shene

Settling in, indoors+

Crossing the Derwent River

The quest for water to drink

Leaving Ivanhoe’s cows behind

The railway bridge

Starting out last Thursday

Lots of R&R on Stage 15

Hobart to Lake St Clair in 1850; mostly by foot.

Walking from Australia to London

Chatting with a traveller

A tribute to the Australian men and women who fought in overseas wars hoping for a safer Australia

Did I feel uneasy walking alone past Murphys Flat on Stage 14 of my walk along the Derwent River? Answers and extraordinary stories.

Why are these wetlands called Murphy’s Flats? Who was Murphy?

Between the bridges: Stage 14 of my walk along the Derwent River

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