We just went camping for a couple of nights down at Murphy's Creek. It was awesome. Just us (us plus Nath's cousin, her hubby and their daughter and her partner) and the bush. For as far as the eye could see there was bush surrounding us. It wasn't green and lushious. It wasn't like fields with wild flowers everywhere. It was dirty, scrub bush, gum trees, it was sunny, then it was cloudy and almost rained, it was hot, yet sitting in front of the fire was the best place to be. Not only was there a fire but we cooked up some damper (albeit yellow, tasting like custard and a little feral - I ran out of gluten free flour so used gluten free custard powder cos it was too runny which increased the yellowness of the besan flour!) and bambi stew.
I look at this particular photo and all of a sudden I feel at ease, at home, where I belong, something about that setting is in my blood, its natural, there is something about it that Im connected with. There is freedom in this photo, a sense of calmness and silence. I instantly feel at rest the moment I look into the fire, the bush. I feel like the dirt in that photo is in my veins, in my blood, making me alive the more I look at it. People who really know me will understand exactly what I mean. They know Im at home in the bush, in the dirt, with noone else around. People who know me best will know.....
I cannt remember where my love of the bush came from.
No matter how I look at it, Im a country girl. Whether its boots, jeans, flanny, rmw hat, shorts, singlet....whatever....its my love of the dirt, the solemness, the peace, the stillness and freedom of the bush that makes me who I am. I may enjoy a skinny soy chai latte but I love my rum & coke. I may enjoy a meal at a restaurant, but I love my camp oven. I may enjoy sleeping in my bed but I love my swag. I may enjoy having a bubble bath, a facial scrub and a massage but I love sitting in my $20 camping chair in front of the fire coated in dirt cos I haven't had a wash for 2 or more days.
Rain, hail or shine, the bush is there to be enjoyed, there to be in. Its there that I feel home and thats all there is to it.
So I thought to add this about my favourite poem ever: The Man From Snowy River as it is arguably Australia’s most famous poem. Us Aussies can at least recite the first sentence if not the whole opening stanza. But this little piece of beauty is less about the poetry than it is about the way many urbanised Australians would like to see themselves: showing that grit and determination of the Man from Snowy River, with his willingness to have a go against the odds. It also captures a barracking for the underdog which is an enduring part of the Aussie make up. Even if you know it, read it again. I bet most of us have never read the entire poem despite knowing the first stanza off-by-heart, then 3 of my favourite photos. I have 1000's of favourite photos, I can never pin point just 1 or 2 or 3, not even my top 3. All I know is that these 3 are on my list!!
Camp Fire
I look at this particular photo and all of a sudden I feel at ease, at home, where I belong, something about that setting is in my blood, its natural, there is something about it that Im connected with. There is freedom in this photo, a sense of calmness and silence. I instantly feel at rest the moment I look into the fire, the bush. I feel like the dirt in that photo is in my veins, in my blood, making me alive the more I look at it. People who really know me will understand exactly what I mean. They know Im at home in the bush, in the dirt, with noone else around. People who know me best will know.....
I cannt remember where my love of the bush came from.
Llanthony aka The Dolls House, Cambewarra NSW
Some of my first memories are of being in dad's 2 stroke suzuki sierra and driving past a black snake in the bush. The first time I ever laid eyes on my dream home was in early primary school - Llanthony, in Cambewarra. That feeling of being absolutely awe-struck when looking at the giant staircase is still really vivid. I dont remember a lot of being in the 'dolls house' as its known to the locals but I remember that exact feeling, that exact emotion of being in there like it was yesturday. Every now and then the beautiful house appears in my dreams, last time was only a few months ago with me huddling in the laundry outside and around the corner near the driveway with some children trying to hide from the 'baddies'. If I had $800k I would buy the dolls house! Its beauty resonates through Cambewarra despite it being tucked away. One of my best friends during high school lived across the road from the dolls house. Back then you could see it through the garden and if we weren't out riding horses (which was most of the time) we would lay there in her bedroom looking at horse magazines and staring at the dolls house. Oh she is a stunning home!! If only she could be mine!!
Llanthony
Then there is the other house in Nowra, Meroogal, built by the relatives of those who built Llanthony. Meroogal is a story in itself with women running the household for many generations. Imagine being on the balcony watching the tall ships sail up the river!! I swear I was born in the wrong century!!
Meroogal
No matter how I look at it, Im a country girl. Whether its boots, jeans, flanny, rmw hat, shorts, singlet....whatever....its my love of the dirt, the solemness, the peace, the stillness and freedom of the bush that makes me who I am. I may enjoy a skinny soy chai latte but I love my rum & coke. I may enjoy a meal at a restaurant, but I love my camp oven. I may enjoy sleeping in my bed but I love my swag. I may enjoy having a bubble bath, a facial scrub and a massage but I love sitting in my $20 camping chair in front of the fire coated in dirt cos I haven't had a wash for 2 or more days.
Rain, hail or shine, the bush is there to be enjoyed, there to be in. Its there that I feel home and thats all there is to it.
So I thought to add this about my favourite poem ever: The Man From Snowy River as it is arguably Australia’s most famous poem. Us Aussies can at least recite the first sentence if not the whole opening stanza. But this little piece of beauty is less about the poetry than it is about the way many urbanised Australians would like to see themselves: showing that grit and determination of the Man from Snowy River, with his willingness to have a go against the odds. It also captures a barracking for the underdog which is an enduring part of the Aussie make up. Even if you know it, read it again. I bet most of us have never read the entire poem despite knowing the first stanza off-by-heart, then 3 of my favourite photos. I have 1000's of favourite photos, I can never pin point just 1 or 2 or 3, not even my top 3. All I know is that these 3 are on my list!!
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up-
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop-lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend -
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."
So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their sway,
Were mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timbers in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound in their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up-
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop-lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend -
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."
So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their sway,
Were mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timbers in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound in their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
Cattle in the Snowy Country
Riders in the Snowy Country
The iconic Craig's Hut which was made famous in The Man From Snowy River movies.
