The Long Way Home - Chapter 6 - Gladstone Day 4

One of the things we at Property Portfolio Solutions like to do is reward our best customers and we have singled out our number #1 client for a special treat. He, like me, likes to fish and given our trip “home” takes us past his place I have arranged to take him on a charter onto the great blue rather than in his other great passion as a pilot into the great blue yonder.

This young man, an only child, is self made who continues to make his parents proud. His business successes are now funding investment to make the money he has earnt work harder to a point where passive income will generate a lifestyle not dependent on business exploits. He certainly does not shirk hard work because without it he would not be in the position he finds himself.

A quiet achiever, simply going where he needed to promote and sell his wares. The business grew within the confines of cashflow initially, and rather than rape the profits, he reinvested the majority of cash to ensure the ongoing success of the business. Always looking forward to the future, he has taken sound advice, rewarding himself when appropriate, using after tax cash, mindful of all the aspects of life not just the microcosm of self.

Erik is no wall flower. His father will tell you from time to time there are a bevy of young women wanting to accompany him through life. A pilot by trade this young man epitomises success without the gaudiness that often accompanies it. His business, nothing to do with aeronautics although the use of his pilots licence does come in handy amongst the vastness of his market, sees him wandering the countryside marketing, supplying and installing product.

That aside we had decided to explore today and not far away in the town of Calliope has a replica historic village. We head out in the direction afforded by the street sign towards the town.

The town itself is set in an idyllic picturesq valley. It seems modernly appointed and has all the “mod cons”. Nowhere are there any suggestions or signs directing us to a historic site. Even the visitor information signs are devoid of any real help.

Enter Mrs Google and we are soon on the track of the attraction. On arrival we seem to have found the volunteers on morning tea break. We decide to join them and order a devonshire tea, mine with a milk shake as opposed to the hotter beverage. The scones and cream come first and are well on to being consumed before the beverages arrive. There is no hurry, and we sit and enjoy the repast before heading out into the display buildings of the village.

The $5 admission suggests we may not be long here which is backed up by the counter staff’s warning as to the effect of sun on tin rooves. But the first exhibit belies any thought of a hasty pace.

Immediately I am taken back in time and not into the pre-history of the Oz Jeff Banks. I have been, used and seen a lot of this stuff.

A train carriage exhibit is built inside the exact type of carriage I used to travel to National Fitness Camp in Year 6. We caught the mail train at Galong, the junction of the main southern line from Sydney to Melbourne and the spur to Boorowa at midnight and rumbled into Central and then after changing, to Gwandalan and the camp.

Cramped into these uncomfortable seats which made sleep impossible we were bundled off to camp, interestingly at the same time as the birth of my youngest brother.

There is a pub, which looks like it is fully functional for special occasions, complete with a half full bin of empty local containers. The Clyde Hotel is quaint with a large verandah and sign that suggests free beers. A suggestion only as the beer fridge is securely locked.

Moving on we come to three connected huts – Barmumdoo Homestead. Each room is decked out in period furniture and accompaniments. There is a corridor of hats, womens hats, the highest of fashion at their time. There is a similar display of dolls in an adjacent room. Displays that take panoramic settings to get them all in one photograph. 

The homestead display belies the harshness of the times the home was built. It seems almost pristine without being clinical or less than authentic. There are displays of radios and cameras for day gone by (and not so long ago). Not out of place in the display but many well past the effective use by date of the house before it was moved to its present location and keeping the link with the “past” as fresh as possible without being “overly incorrect”

The slab hut is much more authentic. The display includes a dummy made up and laying on the bed. The hut is about the same size lengthways as our caravan and perhaps three times as wide. It houses all the “mod cons” required to survive the outback. The stove is even, almost like a poop out caravan section sitting outside the square of the hut. There are kemodes in the bedrooms and an out house as well.

But for me the display that is the Machine Creek School brings back the greatest memories. Certainly a primary school, the desks down the left hand side remind me of those we encountered at Rye Park. These though, although they have lift up desks, do not have the pop up seats that allowed us to stand at our desks rather than beside them. The blackboard has something akin to Einstein’s theory of relativity on it, a little ahead of the children who would have graced these desks. 

Children across the seven years of infants and primary schooling packed into one large room, different to Rye Park which had two sections split by a large sliding door which rarely, if ever moved. In fact the only time I remember it being so was the day my year 6 colleague and I, Terry, the son of the headmaster, were left to minister to the younger pupils as he (and the infants teacher we I suspect) were off on some sort of CPD excursion for the day.

We had been left a detailed list of tasks to complete for the day, which we worked through ensuring the day was not lost across all seven classes. In the days of rote learning it was a simple task, far easier than the home schooling escapades of the Covid lockdowns.

Back to our wandering around this exhibition, you feel, if you are a train enthusiast, the best has to wait until last, and if you were in a hurry and don’t investigate the signs, you could be forgiven for missing it. Set well down a lane guarded by two commercial pieces of full size rail equipment is a large shed filled with model train tracks, architecture, scenery and trains. Nothing is running on the tracks, but along with the tracks there is a myriad of memorabilia.

I take a panorama shot of apparently increasing speed numbers from 50 through to 160. The mind boggles at a train of yesteryear hurtling along tracks at those speeds. Certainly not along any of the tracks I remember checking with Uncle Arthur Thornton, a railway inspector who I once accompanied on a trip from Narrandera to Tocowal in his role, checking the tracks. As a youngster it was amazing to be in control of the train, ensuring the whistle was blown as we approached, then unsignaled, level crossings.

The train even made a “special” stop to let us off closer to their house than have to alight at Narrandera Station and walk home. The perks of the job I suspect.

The sweat now ringing from our bodies, we bid farewell to the volunteers, heading straight to the Engle in the Cruiser and an ice cold drink. I have been utilising the solar panels during the mornings to ensure the auxiliary battery feeds the fridge in which we keep the excess soft drinks.

Back at the van the test cricket marches on. Khawaja a ton and a continuation of the drubbing the poms have been receiving at the hands of the Aussies. Vagaries in the pitch have already started to appear which must be striking fear in the hearts of the Poms.

My phone continues to reveal missed calls and no matter what I do, turning up volumes, nothing seems to make it work. Only one thing to do, ring a millennial. I have one of the them, a PHD student in fact who has exactly the same phone as I do, she should know what I have done, because of course it will be user error for sure. Our investigations reveal nothing that she can see.

Robyn, looking on the internet, suggests a run through the settings. I instantly see the issue. Somehow I have engaged the “Do Not Disturb” button somehow. As soon as I disengage it I get a call from a client and THE PHONE RINGS.

That issue sorted, we now need to get through his – another bane of the aged computer illiterate – user names and password upgrades. I need to access the statements from his credit card which has just expired and with the new card came a new password apparently. No one managed to tell him, so we have to go through a password reset, meaning he has to identify himself before we can access the statements AND make a payment to the account.

It amazes me why it is so difficult to make payments to people. I understand the taking out needs to be monitored and secured but putting it into an account should not be so difficult.

Khawaja falls for a magnificent 137 towards the end of the day. Robyn has taken out some flathead fillets for dinner. They will take a bit of preparation as the rib bones are still in the fillets. There is plenty of time to individually remove them and sort out some sort of accompaniment for dinner.

The exercise of the day has taken its toll and bed wont be far away.