Christmas at Palmers Channel

Christmas at Palmers Channel was always a happy family time. One of my life's regrets is that my children have never had the childhood Christmas experience the I grew up with.

I can’t remember Mum cooking the pudding but she always did. She has often reminded me that her mother boiled the pudding in the copper and she probably did the same - at least for as long as we had one. We still use Nana Skinners recipe today. This was in the pre-decimal currency days and one of the thrills of Christmas day was finding a threepence or sixpence - or if we were really lucky, a shilling - in the pudding. Unless, of course, you swallowed one. I don’t recall that I ever tried to recover a swallowed coin.

The pig was prepared early. Once selected, the unfortunate beast was unceremoniously slaughtered with a bullet through the head from Pa Marsh’s single shot 22 calibre rifle. We used a 44 gallon (200 litre) drum with part of the side opened to boil the carcase over an open fire. In latter years I recall the pig then being sent to the butcher for salting but I think that was all done on the farm earlier on. Nana Marsh’s favorite part of the pig was the trotters.

We had our own chooks on the farm as well and one or more of these would always make the supreme sacrifice for our festivities. I remember the year Mum raised some chickens to sell for Christmas, hoping to raise a little extra. Just before sale time a fox broke into the chicken shed and killed them all.

Each year Pa Marsh would make ginger beer. This was lethal. I don’t know how much he made but some of the bottles would explode before the day. And we didn’t get much a great deal from those that survived. The standard procedure was to point the bottle into a bucket as it was opened to catch the very foamy contents. There was so much froth that eventually if we got a couple of mouth fulls out of a bottle we were lucky.

Money was always scarce. I remember Dad making toys for for Christmas gifts. Dad was quite good with his hands and while some of the gifts were simple - such as the shape of a dog cut out of plywood and fitted with wheels - there were more complex things, such as a model garage with petrol bowsers out the front. I may have been the lucky recipient, but then again memories are vague.

On Christmas eve David and I would go to bed early - before the sun set at times. But we were so excited we hardly slept. I remember being warned - probably by Nana Marsh - that if we saw Santa he would throw pepper in our eyes. But that didn’t mean we couldn't get up every hour or so and see if he had been. We would sneak from our room into the lounge where the tree was placed and we had left our stockings only to be met with a rather abrupt ‘Get back to bed’. Eventually, around six o’clock, Mum and Dad would relent and we could open our stockings before Dad went to milk the cows. The other presents had to wait till later.

Like many families, Christmas dinner (the mid day meal on the farm) was held with Pa and Nana Marsh one year and Pa and Nana Skinner the following, with the evening meal likewise rotated. The years the Lamonds came up from Sydney have a special memory for me. Aunty Aileen was Dad’s only sister and we didn’t see her all that often, whereas we saw quite a lot of Mum’s side of the family - especially the Ryans - throughout the year.

I also felt closer to my Father’s parents, simply because they lived so close and I spent so much time with them. So Christmas on the side veranda of Nana and Pa’s place with Granny Carter and Aunty  Ethel (Nana’s mother and sister), my grandparents, parents and the Lamonds was in deed a special time.


25 Dec 2010

The Black Man

Palmers Channel in the 1950s and 60s was a much different world to the Australia of today. The area had opened to white settlement in 1862. My great-great grandparents, John and Mary Ann (nee Parkinson) Marsh moved to the Channel in 1869 and took up a selection of land. I attended the Palmers Channel public school which had a little over 30 students. It was a single teacher school and most of the students were members in some way of the extended Marsh family.

David and Me with Pa Marsh, 1964. The way we are
dressed indicates we have just got home from Church

In 1885 a Mr John Carter leased approximately 1/5^th of an acre of land to the citizens of Palmers Channel for the purpose of building a Union Church Hall. This was located on the corner of what is now South Bank Road and Amos’s Lane. The aim was ‘… to allow Protestant Christians to hold Divine Service in the Church to be erected on the said land and to allow the said building to be used for all purposes that shall have for their end an aim, the object of advancing Religion, Morality and the General Welfare of Mankind’. The property was leased to the citizens for ninety-nine years at a nominal rental of one shilling per annum. Both John Carter and John Marsh were among the original trustees. John Davis, my grandmother’s grandfather, was another trustee. All of the trustees in the late 50s early 60s were grandsons of the original trustees.

I recall attending one wedding in the hall, although by the 50’s weddings were normally held in Maclean. During both world wars farewells to local boys who enlisted in the services were held here. It was used for social events, community meetings and during my childhood by the Grand United Order of Oddfellows. Grandfather Skinner was a member of this lodge but would have attended meetings on Harwood Island.

David, my brother, and I regularly attended Sunday School in the hall. Jack (John) Carter was the superintendent. There was an annual Sunday School Anniversary concert where children sang songs and recited poems and scripture verses for the parents and other attendees. Prizes were awarded for attendance, learning memory verses and possibly other things as well. Reflecting the Protestant Catholic divide of the time Mum once expressed some surprise at but also appreciation for the attendance of the local school teacher at an anniversary as the teacher was Catholic.

As members of the Church of England (now Anglican) we attended Church here once a month. Other denominations took their turns on the other Sundays in the month. Dad played the organ. I sat with my grandparents on one side of the hall and, for some reason, everyone else sat on the other.

The first minister I remember was, I think, Reverend Kemp. He was followed by the Reverend Gaden who served in the Maclean district for many years. During our monthly service the Reverend would conduct a communion service in the Anglican tradition. While I cannot verify the accuracy of this statement I was told that it was against the rules to throw out the left over wine that had been used for the service. It was always noted that the Reverend Gaden made sure that there was more than enough wine to cater for the parishioners and he fulfilled his pastoral duties by consuming the left overs. One only wonders what would be the situation today if, after conducting a number of communions, the man of God were pulled over for a breath test.

I will always remember the day the minister had brought a guest with him. While I may have seen people of different races before this man is the first non-Caucasian I recall seeing. I have no idea if he were aboriginal, South Sea Islander, Indian, or whatever. All I remember is that he was black – well, at least dark skinned. Unlike every other Sunday, every member of the congregation sat on the same side as my grandparents and me – all, that is, except our visitor. I remember looking at this lone figure on the other side of the hall and being tempted to go and sit with him. But the attraction to my grandparents was stronger. So far as I remember no one spoke to our guest that day.

I often reflect on this and another event that occurred a little later. We had a new cane cutter in the district, and he was Italian. Now this was a real talking point at the time, although I believe there was an Italian connection with the Lower Clarence that went back probably to the late 19^th century. There were also families of German descent in the district and my own great-great grandmother Johanna Davis was German. But all this was not obvious as no one spoke with an accent, which is why the cane cutter stood out.

How different it is today. We rightly recognise the place of Aboriginal Australians in our society. Yes, there were some aboriginal kids in high school but this incident happened in my primary school days. We live in a quite cosmopolitan society. I was always amazed at the variety of ethnic origins represented in the different schools my kids attended. My own kids have a parent born overseas, so unlike me. So far as I have been able to determine all my great grandparents were born in Australia. Two of my grandchildren have Asian and Greek blood while the other has Macedonian ancestry.

Australia in the 1950s, including Palmers Channel, rested in the security of the White Australia Policy. We were insular in our thinking and, yes, racist. Racism is not an Australian, or an English, thing. Most, if not all, races are cursed with this condition. I suspect at its root is fear of the unknown, that which is different. I love to see kids of different backgrounds mingling and playing together in our schools and forming friendships that are based on character and common interest, not religion, skin colour or other culture differences. This gives me hope that we can continue to develop in this country a culture that is both diverse and inclusive, one that encourages peaceful and respectful co-existence. 

The Day I Disappeared

Maclean show, 18 months

My parents often told this story about one of my early experiences. I was about 18 months old at the time, obviously too young to remember it.

One day Dad was working in the car shed. Eventually, his patience ran out in the face of my incessant ‘tar tar, tar tar, tar tar.’ ‘Oh, tar tar’, he exclaimed.

A while later Mum appeared in the shed. ‘Have you seen Kenneth?’ she asked. ‘I thought he was with you’ replied Dad. Then the panic started because, after all, a farm is not the safest place in the world for a straying toddler.  A hurried search commenced.

It probably didn't take long till I was spotted. There I was toddling through the cows heading towards my grandparent's place.

By the time Dad caught up with me I was pulling up a chair for lunch at Nana and Pa’s place, rather hot and red in the face. Now you would think that after all that effort and initiative I would be rewarded with the lunch I looked forward to. But that was not to be. 

When the Cream got the Rat

Leanne at a kiddy farm 1980. So sanitised.

The cow yard, as we called it, was located on the eastern side of the creek that ran through my Grandfather’s farm. It was a short walk from his house, past the barn to the dairy. In a good flood the comparatively narrow ridge running along the creek bank was all that remained above flood-level between it and the road that ran between Dad’s farm and my grandfather’s. In reality, Dad and Pa worked together and while I don’t know how the arrangement worked financially it was basically a shared concern.

The dairy was an important part of the farm economy. Here the cows were milked, the cream was separated from the milk for sale, and the skim milk was piped across the creek into a 44 gallon (200 litre) drum with the top cut out. From here it was scooped out in a bucket and poured into the different troughs in the pig sty. Each year one of these animals would make a contribution to the Christmas festivities.

A bridge of sorts had been constructed so that we could cross the creek to the pig sty. Basically, this was a row of planks resting on the top of poles that had been placed in the swamp. I can’t recall anyone ever falling off this, but it was not all that stable.

Twice each day, every day of the year, the cows were herded into the cow yard for milking – we probably had somewhere between 30 and 40 animals. The yard itself, apart from a narrow strip of grass along the side nearest the creek, was totally devoid of grass. In dry periods it was a dust bowl and in the rain boggy and slippery. The dust, of course, was a mixture of soil and cow manure. No bull dust however. He was kept on the other side of the fence.

We had, from memory, six bales into which the cows were herded for milking. This part of the facility was covered, had a concrete floor, and was closed in on three sides. Once the cow was herded into a bale she was chained in to stop her wandering and the milking machine fitted to her teats. Sometimes it was necessary to rope one of her back legs to stop her kicking. The milking machine was operated by vacuum and it allowed a gentle massage of the teat. Sometimes I would place my fingers into one of the cups of the machine and let it massage them. Once most of the milk had been sucked out by the machine we would finish the process by hand, making sure that we had fully milked each cow. This was the fun bit.

Flies were attracted to the milking area by the bucket load, especially in summer. At times the air was thick with them. As we tried to milk the cow the flies would crawl in our eyes, ears, and if we breathed in through our mouth we could inhale them. Just because the cow was being milked didn't mean she would not urinate, defecate, or both. So as we milked away we could be splattered by cow wee or poo as it landed on the concrete floor. To add insult to injury, the cow might attempt to swat away flies with her urine drenched tail and it was not uncommon to have this strike across the face.

Once a calf reached a certain age it would be taken from its mother and placed in a paddock alongside the cow yard. For a while after this we would feed them milk from a bucket. This was a fun job. The calves would jostle with each other to get their heads through the fence into the bucket and we had to make sure that each one had a good feed. One way of keeping some control over this chaos was to drench the hand that was not holding the bucket in milk and stick it in the mouth of one of the calves. They would suck away on this and I loved the feel on my hand.

The rest of the facility was fully enclosed and was divided into two rooms. One housed the electric pump that drove the milking machine and an older, large, single cylinder four stroke engine from the pre-electric days that was used as a backup when the power failed. In the other room was a large tank into which the milk was pumped before being fed through the machine that separated the cream from the milk. It was also in this room that all the equipment was cleaned after each milking session.

One thing I still miss is milk fresh from the cow – warm and creamy. And we had an endless supply of it. Pasteurised milk took a bit of getting used to after growing up on the real stuff.

The cream was stored in a purposely built shed a short distance from the dairy. It had flow through ventilation at the top and bottom. Cream was stored in a cream can and the local carrier picked it up two or three times a week to transport it to the butter factory at Ulmarra. Another childhood delight was scooping the cream out of the can with my fingers and sucking them clean. After day or two the cream would begin to taste like yoghurt.

Cream was graded by the butter factory as either A, B, or C class, with A being the best. The cheque reflected the grading.

Well I remember the day my grandfather found a drowned rat in the almost full cream can when he came to put the lid on to send it to market. This didn’t deter Grandfather. He simply lifted the rat dripping cream out by the tail and threw it into the creek, placed the lid on the can, and sent it to the factory. It became a bit of a family joke for some time after that the cream tested A grade.

One drawback of dairying is the need to milk twice a day every day. This was not a real issue while Dad and Pa worked the farm together because there was always one to cover for the other. Mum or Nana would always help out if needed and Mum would often help while Dad was helping our neighbours during the cane harvesting season. Sometimes Dad would also pay Colin Green, who was 6 or 7 years older than me, to help if we were going away.

After Pa died and as sugar prices increased Dad let the dairy go and along with this the piggery.  However he kept the cattle, sending a load to the abattoir from time to time. Sometime later, probably to do with a downturn in the sugar price, he played with the idea of returning to dairying. However, by this time the regulation of the industry had changed and the costs associated with establishing the dairy made this an unattractive option.

The farm is no longer in family hands. So it seems most unlikely that my grandchildren will ever know what it is like to be splattered with cow poo, slapped across the face by a cow’s tail drenched with urine, or drag a dead rat out of a cream can. 

Angourie

Me, Mum and David at Green Point, Angourie

Angourie was a great place before it became a famous surfing destination. We roamed for hours along the sandy bush trails without a fear in the world – except for the ever-present threat of death adders. But more about that later.

Nana and Pa Skinner had a holiday house at Angourie. Mum isn’t sure when it was built but it must have been around the time I was born. By today’s standards it wasn’t much. Two or three bedrooms at the most, unlined weatherboard and always dark inside. No electricity or running water, only a rainwater tank out the back which supplied this basic necessity. Uncle Searle – the oldest of Mum’s siblings – had a place close by which was eventually turned into a rather nice retirement home. They were separated by two or three vacant blocks.

Both places were towards the top of the hill that faced the main beach and from where you could see Yamba. In those days there were a few houses further down the hill and so far as I can remember only one higher. So when I say ‘we roamed’ I mean my brother David, and our cousins the Ryans and the Skinners. And sometimes our families may have been the only inhabitants for the other houses were often vacant.

Pa Skinner’s family had an association with Angourie at least as far back as the 1890s and one of the main attractions to us went back to that time. When rocks were needed for break walls in the mouth of the Clarence a source was found at Angourie. The Searles – Pa Skinners mother being Ellen Searle – farmed near Iluka on the northern banks of the Clarence. They rowed from there to the south side, a distance of some kilometres, and then walked the few kilometres to Angourie to sell produce to the quarry workers. Rocks were transported from the quarry by train and the tracks were still there in the late 50’s and early 60s.

Mum holidayed there when she was a girl. Her uncle, Sam Causley, had a large house down the hill from my grandparents – it had to be large to accommodate his family – and Mum stayed with them sometimes. Other times she holidayed in a tent.

The quarries had a short history. According to the story, the miners hit a freshwater spring one day and when they returned the next morning the quarries were flooded. A new quarry commenced operating at Ilarwill on Woodford Island in 1900 to replace these. And the legacy for Angourie – and us kids – were two freshwater pools no more than about 20 metres from the ocean.

The Green Pool may still contain the remains of quarry equipment. It was quite obvious in my childhood days, a forlorn reminder of a failed project.

Rumour had it the Blue Pool was bottomless. All I know is it was deep. It was here that we frolicked for hour after hour. There was a ledge where you could jump 10 or fifteen feet or more into the pool but I don’t recall every being allowed to try this. The pool was one thing we couldn’t use unless supervised. One day David did a running jump into the pool – not from the ledge – and claimed that he hit the bottom, but it was obviously a submerged ledge.

While we played on the beaches and roamed the headlands and rock pools, we were not allowed to swim in the sea.

Not far from Angourie is Shelley Beach. This is now part of Yuraygir National Park and is only accessible by foot. In the 50s it was a sand mining site. My first visit to this beautiful and isolated place was with Pa Skinner who took us there on his grey Ferguson tractor (no OHS rules about not riding on tractors in those days). I have only been back a few times since. Once not long before Mum and Dad retired to Hervey Bay Marilyn, Dad and I walked through from Angourie. Marilyn, Emily and I walked through from Red Cliff when we were holidaying at Brooms Head, and once while at the Broom I got up early and walked to Shelly for breakfast. It was awesome having this place all to myself.

The only downside to this little bit of paradise were the death adders. Not that we ever came across any. But we were warned many a time. Death adders, so we were told, buried themselves in the sand with just the tip of their tail protruding as a lure to attract their next meal. Any unfortunate child who happened to stand on a death adder’s tail would feel the adder’s sting and their venom was deadly.

In the late 1990s I caught up to my cousin Jenny who was living in Brisbane at the time. It may well have been the last time I saw her and I know it had been too many years since we had seen each other. As we reminisced Angourie naturally came into the discussion. Jenny was 9 days younger than me and as Mum’s sister’s child we virtually grew up together. Jenny confessed that, as much as she loved Angourie as a child she lived in constant fear of death adders. I told her I was so relieved to hear that, because I thought it was only me.

When Nana and Pa Skinner retired they built a house on the Yamba Road, not far from the Angourie turn off. One day during either my first or second year of high school, Pa hopped on his bike to ride to Angourie. They found him dead from a heart attack on the side of the road. We had had our last holiday at Angourie and the house was sold not long after that.

When I think about it, I think what a good way to die. Angourie was one of, if not, Pa’s favourite places. He must have had many happy memories of this place, both of times with his own children and then his grandchildren. The only way I could improve on that is to see him standing on the hill up from his house, taking in the view, or relaxing on one of the beaches or beside the Blue Pool with all those great life memories.

Angourie, a great place before anyone but the locals knew it existed.

Dear Candidate for the Federal Parliament

Dear candidate

As a grandfather I am more concerned for the next thirty years than the next three, the next sixty than the next six. For this is the legacy I leave my grandchildren and their children. With this in mind I would appreciate your response to my following concerns.

The Economy

Our aging population means that we are likely to face increasing demands on health services. Aged care appears to be chronically underfunded. Gonski, or the Better Schools program, and the National Disability Insurance Scheme now appear supported by both sides of politics - at least in the short term. But neither have secured long-term funding.

John Daley, Chief Executive Officer at the Grattan Institute, expects Australian governments face a decade of budget deficits owing to lagging income and expenditure demands. In June last year David Hayward, Dean of the School of Global, Urban and Social Studies at RMIT University, wrote of the deteriorating condition of state budgets resulting from revenue ‘flat-lining’ rather than ‘reckless spending’. State and Territory governments are the recipients of the GST.

If we are to provide for the long-term needs of the nation it seems we must address taxation. Yet as soon as taxation changes are mentioned in the political debate the other side runs a scare campaign. Dear candidate, what plans do you or your party have for a far reaching review of the taxation system that includes company tax, superannuation concessions, GST and tax concessions to ensure it addresses the nation in the longer term?  The aim of any tax review should, I believe:

·         Maintain a socially cohesive society by providing for a fair and equitable distribution of income. This means arresting and reversing the increasing income gap in our society.

·         Create and maintain equality of opportunity by addressing social disadvantage.

·         Rewarding effort while providing incentive for those who could work but won't.

·         Consider the demands the Commonwealth, State and Territory governments.

Population Growth

Continued population growth coupled with finite resources presents the world with one of its most significant challenges. At the same time we have an economic model that relies on a growing population. Why is there little discussion of this?

What thought are you and your party giving to alternatives that enable the creation of wealth and the provision of essential services while arresting and reversing population growth? If there are areas where we should consider lowering our expectations, what are these and what would be a more realistic expectation. I would appreciate you addressing this in both national and global terms, including education and development in poor nations, something that has been shown to slow population growth in poor communities.

Species Extinction

Unless we act quickly the only koalas, tigers, rhinoceroses, Great Barrier Reef and many other species my great-grandchildren may see will be digital preservations. Australia has suffered a significant loss of biodiversity since European settlement and the introduction of too many harmful feral and exotic species.

How do you and your party propose to arrest this decay and preserve what is left for future generations?

Climate Change

Both Liberal and Labor state that they believe the science that says human activity is affecting our climate and both have committed to similar reduction targets. If the expectations for the future eventuate we face significant disruption to the world’s economy, the displacement of people and loss of species. Even if your targets are achieved this may not be enough to prevent rising sea levels, and most certainly will not be if larger carbon based economies than ours do not achieve significant reductions in greenhouse gas emissions.

What risk management strategies do you have to mitigate loss associated with climate change? Do these include the identification of critical resources and measures to safeguard these, including food production, habitation and transport?

Managing Risk

I fully understand that things will always come up during the Government’s term of office that require it change course and will therefore be unable to deliver on all its election promises. For this reason I would prefer you presented your strategy as policy objectives, not promises. It is one thing not to hit an objective, another not to keep a promise.

Over the last few years we have been continually promised a budget surplus, only to see successive deficits. While I have no economic expertise I have watched with interest as formerTreasurer Wayne Swann has held to his budget forecasts on more than one occasion long after economic commentators have predicted the promised surplus will not be delivered. Frankly, as a voter this does nothing to instill confidence.

Risk management is being used increasingly in business to identify risks to business objectives and develop strategies to first prevent loss associated with those risks and then to mitigate against those risks if they eventuate. If this strategy had been applied in the budget example above, the government would have been able to spell out its budget strategy, explain to voters the risks that might prevent it achieving its objectives, and what plans it had to manage these risks. This may have included delaying the move to surplus, reducing expenditure in some areas, or options for raising income. Such an approach would allow me to better evaluate the performance of the government by considering its performance against its overall strategy, including its risk management strategy.

Conclusion

While there are other issues I could have listed I will limit myself to the above. As I said above, my concern is not so much for the next three years, but the next thirty, the next six but, the next sixty. Right now I see little, if any, evidence, that either side of politics have a vision for the future or have given consideration to the issues that concern me. Therefore, I have little confidence in either side and it seems that it will make any difference who I vote for in September.

Please convince me I am wrong by spelling out your vision for the long-term, addressing the points I have raised above.

Yours Sincerely

Ken Marsh

Learning to Drive

A couple of years ago I taught my daughter to drive. I sat patiently beside her for most of the compulsory 120 hours of supervised driving. Long will I remember her first evening drive to her weekly piano lesson. As we approached a car parked facing us on our side of the road, lights blazing, she made no effort to slow. ‘Stop’, I said. No response. ‘Stop’ I repeated, this time more firmly for the same result. ‘Stop!’, I screamed, this time getting the required response. ‘Didn’t you see that car?’ I asked. ‘What car?’ Needless to say I drove home that night, and if I were still a drinking man I would have stopped at the first pub I could find for something to settle the nerves.

How times have changed. I remember the story of how my grandfather got his licence. Uncle Roy, Pa’s Marsh’s brother-in-law, was the local Morris dealer and a WW1 veteran so Pa purchased a new Morris. However, he didn’t have a licence so down to Maclean police station to rectify that little anomaly they went. Pa’s request for a licence was met with a ‘Can you drive?’ ‘Of course I can’ answered Pa. ‘Can anyone vouch for that? returned the officer. ‘I can’ said Uncle Roy and so the license was duly issued.

Now Pa had never driven a car, so when the officer asked ‘I’m going out your way, any chance of a lift?’, Pa had to think quickly. ‘Have you ever driven a new Morris?’ he asked. ‘Never’ came the reply. ‘Would you  like to?’ The officer jumped at the chance.

I learnt to drive on the farm. My earliest memory is of Dad taking delivery of a new grey Ferguson tractor around the time my brother was born - the tractor is a much stronger memory than the arrival of a baby brother. A raised road ran through Pa Marsh’s farm and I remember the truck backed up to this as the tractor was driven off the tray. As I grew older I would sit between Dad’s legs holding the steering wheel and it probably wasn’t long after I was tall enough to sit on the seat and reach all the controls that I began to drive. Before I left home I was hauling sugar cane along the road to the derrick where it would be loaded onto punts to be transported to the Harwood sugar mill. Can you imagine that these days - a 15 year old kid driving an unregistered tractor towing an unregistered trailer on a public road?

The Palmers Channel public hall had been built in the late 19th century for the benefit of Protestant Christians and was used by four denominations, each with their allocated Sunday in the month. We were Church of England and would faithfully attend on our rostered day. Pa bought an XL Falcon, released in 1962,  and I remember driving this home from Church often, a distance of just over a mile, or 1.6 km. I can’t remember how old I was when I started doing this, but I must have been 13 or 14.

I obtained my license while on leave from Wagga at the end of 1967. I drove the policeman around the back streets of Maclean in Dad’s automatic XK Falcon while Mum sat in the back seat. It was a happy young man who went home that evening with his ‘P’s. 

The XK was the first model Falcon released and Dad had bought this - a station wagon, as was Pa’s - second hand. I remember a later experience in this car - perhaps when I was on leave from Williamtown. On the Maclean bypass I decided to see how fast it would go. As the speed increased the car started to wallow, the speedo fluctuated wildly, and there was absolutely no sense of feel through the steering wheel. It felt as if I could have turned the wheel from lock to lock without it making any difference. Those that raced these things around Bathurst in the early 60s have my greatest admiration for I still recall this as one frightening experience.

Twelve months later, again while I was home on leave, Mum and Dad surprised me with my first car, an Austin Lancer Series II. This was probably a 1962 model. In the twelve months between obtaining my licence and taking delivery of the car I don’t think I had any driving experience - except, possibly, driving Don Bank’s Mk II Zephyr at Wagga. So I had very little experience as ‘P’ plate driver, as we were only on them for 12 months in those days - and, if I remember correctly, without speed restriction.

At the end of my leave period I drove my new car back to Wagga - but that is a different story.