Part 1

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SYDNEY

TO

CROYDON.

(NORTHERN QUEENSLAND.)

An Interesting Account of a Journey to the Gulf Country with a Member of Parliament.

BY “SALTBUSH.”

PRICE ... ONE SHILLING.

Sydney:

“CAXTON” PRINTING WORKS, 247 GEORGE STREET.

1889.

FROM SYDNEY TO CROYDON.

BY “SALTBUSH.”

Having received letters and telegrams from an old mate of mine who has been on the Croydon goldfield for some considerable time--in all of which communications he strongly advised me to pay a visit to the field in order that I might judge for myself as to its richness and permanency and its suitability for investment--it being in his opinion the grandest goldfield ever discovered in Northern Queensland. I finally decided to make the trip, and in company with a friend of mine, who with myself, had on a former occasion visited Normanton and the Gulf-country before Croydon was ever thought of, we started from Sydney on Monday, the 25th July, and as the incidents of our journey may prove interesting to many others who may visit the locality in the near future, I have ventured to jot down a few experiences and impressions picked up during the journey. We waited upon Messrs. Burns Philp and Co. in Sydney and made all arrangements as to return passage from Brisbane to Normanton, having decided to proceed overland from the capital of New South Wales to the capital of Queensland, my friend, who had never travelled that route, being particularly anxious to have a good look at the New England and Darling Downs country, more especially as I was pretty well acquainted with it, and could furnish him with some information concerning it that might be eventually both useful and profitable. Having packed our travelling trunks and various necessaries for the voyage, and confining ourselves to such articles as were absolutely indispensable, in order to make our “impedimenta” as light as possible--knowing from experience that too much luggage is a terrible handicap on a long journey--the first step was to secure berths on the Hunter River Steamship Company’s fine boat, “the Namoi,” which left the wharf at half-past eleven, for Newcastle. With the assistance of “Alick,” the well-known and genial bedroom steward, we secured a very comfortable cabin to ourselves on the upper deck, and a more obliging and attentive steward than the same Alick I never wish to drop across in my travels, as nothing seemed any trouble to him and he relieved us of all anxiety concerning our luggage by looking carefully after it whilst in transit on the steamer, and then, on our arrival at the coaly city, by conveying it on board the Northern train advertised to leave at a quarter-past seven, a.m., on the morning of the 26th.

As we had half-an-hour to spare before its departure we stepped across the street from the Railway Station to the Terminus Hotel, where we interviewed a very old friend of mine in the person of Walter Sidney, and imbibed a refresher in the shape of a first-class glass of whiskey and milk, which proved very refreshing in the sharp morning air, when we strolled into the main street; passing the Post and Telegraph Office and turning to the right, we climbed the hill at the back of the town, from which point of advantage we had a most glorious view of the city and its surroundings--the Pacific Ocean spreading away to the horizon on the right; Nobby’s, with its light-house lying in front of us, Carrington, late Bullock Island, to the left, and the city and its environs at our feet, altogether formed a most delightful panorama, viewed as it was under favorable circumstances, the morning being beautifully fine and clear with a crisp, sharp feeling in the air, which rendered our stroll truly refreshing and enjoyable.

Returning to the Station we found the train on the point of starting, so securing our seats and a supply of literature, in which the “Town and Country,” “Sydney Mail,” “Evening News,” “Echo,” and “Bulletin” figured prominently, we made ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, having for fellow passengers, Mr. and Mrs. Blunt--the former the contractor for one of the sections of the Homebush and Waratah railway extension--who were on their way to Muswellbrook to spend a few weeks at home and enjoy a well-earned rest.

Leaving Newcastle we steamed along past Honeysuckle Point, then onwards through Hamilton, Waratah, Sandgate and Hexham, where we commence to traverse the famous swamps, rendered memorable as the breeding-grounds of the well-known and duly appreciated “Hexham Greys,” those noted mosquitoes, which beyond all question, are able to climb the trees and _bark_, whilst it is also an equally well-known fact that many of them weigh a pound, but as this is not the real mosquito season we escape any very pressing attentions on their part, and running along through this flat swampy country with the Hunter River shining brightly in the morning sun on our right, we gradually strike into better country, and by the time East Maitland is reached the land looks about as good and as fertile as they make it in this part of the world.

Passing the gaol on our right, where no doubt many an unfortunate is bitterly regretting the hour in which he strayed from the paths of rectitude, we shortly afterwards pull up at East Maitland, where the guard and porters inform us that passengers for Morpeth change here, and after a few minutes delay we again proceed on our journey, calling at High Street (West Maitland) where the inevitable newsboy supplies us with the “Maitland Mercury,” one of the best country papers in New South Wales--conveying, as it does, an enormous amount of information on every conceivable subject to its numerous readers--and a journal of which the proprietary may feel justly proud. On, past Farley, formerly known as the Wollombi Road, where most of the fat cattle are unloaded for the Maitland market, past Lochinvar, Allandale, Greta, with its noted colliery, Branxton, famous for the excellence of its wines, Belford and Whittingham platforms, and we emerge on to the famous Patricks Plains, passing through the valuable estates of Messrs. Dangar--Baroona lying to the left of the line situate on a commanding site, overlooking a most charming and extensive view of the surrounding country, Neotsfield being hidden away to the right, whilst the paddocks with their wealth of pasture are thickly dotted with groups of cattle in splendid condition, who seem highly content with their comfortable quarters. Past Dalcalmah, the beautiful residence of the late D. F. Mackay, who I remember years ago as the proprietor of “Bullamon” and “Nindygully” Stations on the Moonie, in the colony of Queensland--before the Messrs. Fisher became the purchasers--and where he passed many years in the pursuit of his occupation as a squatter, roughing it with his men through fair weather and foul, and where, no doubt, he contracted the seeds of the disease that eventually terminated his life; past the magnificent Beebeah Vineyard, the property of Mr. A. Munro, whose vines have won a deservedly high reputation for purity and flavor, and we pull up at Singleton, 49 miles from Newcastle, about half-past nine, quite ready for the breakfast which awaits us, and which we have been anxiously looking forward to for the last half-hour.

Several old friends greet me on the platform, amongst them being Harry York, formerly a well-known host at Jerry’s Plains, and Joe M‘Alpin, who is now the boniface of the old Caledonian Hotel, and who looks as though the life agreed with him down to the ground.

Breakfast over, we get under way again, and pass over the bridge across the Hunter, where a former member of the New South Wales Legislative Assembly now does duty as gatekeeper; and that reminds me of a racy story told at his expense, as follows:--During his Parliamentary career he on one occasion received an invitation to dinner at Government House, which, of course, was duly accepted; and at length, arrayed in full evening costume, he had the pleasure of stretching his legs underneath the Governor’s mahogany. Waiting at table was at that time reduced to a science in the “uppah succles,” and our worthy M.L.A., who felt rather at sea in such high and dignified company, awoke some compassion in the bosom of his right-hand neighbour, who, to relieve his embarrassment and to make him feel at home, engaged him in conversation on the various topics of the day. Soup was duly served, when a remark from his right-hand neighbour caused our friend to lay down his soup spoon and turn his head to reply. In a twinkling his plate disappeared, to our friend’s utter astonishment; but a supply of fresh fish brought peace to his soul for the time being, when “A glass of wine with you, sir,” from his friend caused him to relinquish his hold upon his fish-knife and fork, turn his head to reply, when, lo and behold! the balance of his fish, plate and all, disappeared like a flash. Turning round to continue his meal, our friend discovered his loss, and coming to the conclusion that some practical joke was being played upon him, he determined to keep a sharp watch during the remainder of the repast. Everything progressed to his satisfaction until the joint was served, when the same performance was likely to be repeated; but our worthy legislator was equal to the occasion, and, seizing his knife, he wheeled suddenly round as he saw the waiter’s hand stretched forth to grasp his plate, and in low but impressive tones said to the astonished waiter: “By Jove! if you remove _that_ plate until I have finished with it I will chop your blooming hand off.” Tableau. Still onwards, passing through some lovely country, both agricultural and pastoral, of which the famous Ravensworth Estate forms no inconsiderable portion, noted in years gone by for the excellent breed of horses raised there by Captain Russell, we at length arrive at Muswellbrook, the great store cattle market of the colony, where thousands of horned stock from distant parts of New South Wales and Queensland are annually brought under the hammer and disposed of to various buyers, a great number of them finding their way into the grand fattening paddocks of the Hunter River valley, there to be topped up for the metropolitan market.

There is a sale advertised to take place on the day we pass through; and away on the hillside, at the south-eastern corner of the town, we observe the saleyards filled with cattle, whilst drovers and stockmen are hurrying hither and thither, giving life and animation to the scene; whilst buyers are congregating from different parts of the district in order to supply their requirements.

Mr. and Mrs. Blunt leave us here; and away we go past Aberdeen, pulling up at the bridge which here spans the Hunter, to replenish the water tanks of our engine. On past Turanville, of which a splendid view is obtained away to the left; and Scone, where thousands of pounds have been spent in the extermination of that terrible pest, the prickly pear. On through the fertile and beautiful valley of the Upper Hunter, past Wingen, with its famous burning mountain, and into the valley of the Page, tributary of the Hunter, eventually pulling up at Murrurundi, nearly 120 miles from Newcastle, about a quarter to one, and where we are allowed ten minutes to stretch ourselves and refresh the inner man if we feel so inclined.

We change engines here; in fact, we obtain two for one, it being absolutely necessary to attach an additional locomotive in order to climb the Liverpool Range at the head of the valley, and which I have many a time climbed on foot in the coaching days of King Cobb, when Murrurundi was the terminus of the Great Northern line, it being more than even their noted good teams of horses could do to drag a heavy load of passengers and mails to the summit.

Onwards and upwards we go, winding around spurs and alongside steep ranges, obtaining some magnificent views of the town and valley below, the prospect in some places being most lovely and enchanting, with its background of noble-looking hills; and at length we plunge into the tunnel and intense darkness, from which we emerge into the far famed Doughboy Hollow, a famous camping ground in the olden days, where the teamsters who had surmounted the difficulties of the range were glad to rest themselves and their tired cattle before tackling the black soil plains of Breeza, and where they would gather round the camp fires at night relating their various adventures by flood and field, backing “Doughboy” and “Damper” against “Bally” and “Brindle,” and swapping lies generally, until it was time to go to roost. On past the Willow Tree, Braefield platform, Quirindi--a thriving little inland town, situate in the midst of some splendid agricultural country--the whole of which, from here to Tamworth, must in the course of time come under the operation of the plough, and find employment and food for thousands of people--we at length pull up at Werris Creek, at half-past two, 156 miles from Newcastle, where, in exchange for half a-crown, we are allowed to discuss an ample repast in one of the largest and best refreshment-rooms in the colony, twenty-five minutes being allowed for the operation; and as a lavatory is attached to the establishment, we find a good wash very acceptable and refreshing before proceeding to dinner.

Here part of our train is detached, it being the junction of the North-Western line, and with its complement of passengers proceeds onwards, via Breeza, Gunnedah, and Boggabri, to Narrabri, the present terminus of that portion of the line; although it will be a good day for the colony when the extension is carried out via Moree to Queensland border, the country in that direction being some of the finest grazing land in the whole of the colonies, which must eventually become populated, as means of communication are provided for the people; the roads, so called, being simply impassable in wet weather, and many a time and oft have the inhabitants of that part of the colony been threatened with famine in consequence of their supplies being detained for weeks and months at a stretch in transit from Narrabri to their destination.

However, I suppose all that will come to an end when the colony is blessed with a progressive Government, and in the meantime we will proceed on our journey, via Currabubula and Duri, to Tamworth. We pass through beautiful open forest and plain country, every acre of which seems fit for cultivation, and is dotted here and there with comfortable-looking homesteads and smiling farms, and shortly pull up for a few minutes at West Tamworth, where I greet a very old friend on the platform in the person of Mr. David Brown, of Menedebri Station, who is beginning to look “like a flour bag” now, although still as smart and active looking as I remember him in years gone by, when he was bossing the Millie South run on the Galathera Plains, then the property of his father, and where a traveller was always secure of a real Australian welcome. He was riding, as usual, a splendid-looking specimen of a hackney, being always reckoned a good judge of a horse; but as the train waits for no one, except perhaps a Minister for Works or a Railway Commissioner, we bid each other good-bye and steam away for Tamworth proper, crossing the valley of the Peel and the river itself by a long viaduct and bridge, and curving away to the right, shortly afterwards pull up at the station, where on the platform I espy another old and esteemed friend, Mr, Frank Wyndham, who formerly owned the Boronga Station on the Macintyre River, but after many years of hard work and anxiety finally had to succumb to the combined forces of droughts, bad markets, and excessive rentals; but being one of the old sort, who never say die, he has established himself in business in Tamworth as a stock and station agent, and I was very pleased to learn he has succeeded very well in his undertaking, and is doing much better than he did in his squatting ventures. He deserves all the good fortune that time may have in store for him, for he is a “real white man,” whichever way you take him.

The town of Tamworth is pleasantly situated at the foot of a bold chain of mountains and on the Peel River. The soil on the flats is very rich, and has been occupied and under cultivation for years; and on the border of the town is situate the famous Little Paradise garden, a most lovely and charming resort during the summer months, which is duly appreciated by the citizens and those visitors who may be staying in the town for a few weeks’ change.

Skirting the foot of the ranges, with the river flats on the right cut up into farms and paddocks of every size, and tending eastward and northward, with signs of cultivation and occupation on every hand, we at length reach the Moonbies, and commence in earnest our climb to the tablelands of New England.

Onwards and upwards, following the course of a romantic-looking stream, containing some beautiful pools of clear, sparkling water, at one of which, where an overshot dam had been constructed, we pull up for a few minutes to replenish our water supply. Then, still onwards and upwards, we at length reach the summit, the first station on the tableland being the Macdonald River, 208 miles from Newcastle, a splendid stream of water, cool and clear-looking, and enough to make a dweller in the back blocks suffering from drought turn green with envy.

As it is now nearly six o’clock and darkness is setting down over the land, my powers of observation are for the time restricted, and can merely discern that we are passing through rocky granite country of poor character, although where patches have been cleared and ring-barked, it shows decided improvement, on past Walcha Road, Kentucky and Uralla. At 7.40 p.m., we alight cold and hungry at Armidale, 260 miles, where tea is provided, and for a cold, cheerless, uncomfortable meal, the tea at Armidale “takes the cake.” As the air is piercingly cold no fire is visible in the dining-room, whilst the viands are neither tempting nor appetising, but the fifteen minutes allowed soon expire and away we go again, and still rising we cross Ben Lomond--the highest point of elevation on any railway in New South Wales, it being 4471 feet above the sea level--302 miles from Newcastle, about a quarter to ten. Coiled up in a corner of the carriage with my rug wrapped round me I make myself as comfortable as possible, fall fast asleep, and do not awake until we reach our destination at Tenterfield, the present terminus of the line, at five minutes past one in the morning, and bitterly cold we find it on stepping out of the carriage and making our way to the coach in waiting to convey us to Browne’s Hotel, where fortunately a good fire and a warm welcome await us, but we are not long before turning in, being anxious to obtain a few hours rest in a comfortable bed before resuming the journey. At 5 o’clock Wednesday morning we are roused up by a knock at the door and a voice saying, “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” and shortly afterwards appear in the breakfast-room where a well cooked and appetising repast is quickly placed upon the table, to which we do ample justice, and a few minutes past six take our seats on the box of Cobb & Co.’s coach with luggage aboard, to compass the 13 or 14 miles of road between Tenterfield and Wallangarra on the border and the terminus of the Queensland line.

Our driver is “Old Larry,” a well known whip on the Northern roads, and quite a character in his way, so that we have a remarkably pleasant drive in the crisp mountain air, and being well wrapped up we defy the cold, for it is cold without a doubt, many of the little pools by the wayside being coated with ice, whilst the frost in the valleys is thick and heavy, and the air ten degrees colder than on the summit of the hills, where the beams of the rising sun are dispersing the mists and warming the atmosphere. The steam rises from the horses in the frosty air, but they are staunch and good, and about eight o’clock we cross the border, and shortly afterwards transfer ourselves and luggage from the coach to the train at the township of Wallangarra, on the Queensland side.

I am afraid this township has not a very bright future before it, the surrounding country being of remarkably poor quality and evidently incapable of maintaining anything like a large population, and I should fancy that the branch of the Royal Bank of Queensland established there can hardly pay expenses, whilst the hotelkeepers must have all their work cut out to make both ends meet. However, I wish them all sorts of good luck--for any man deserves it who would live in such an out-of-the-way hole.

Our train starts about half-past eight and is not long in running into Stanthorpe, formerly a very thriving town and the centre of a large and important tin-mining industry, but judging from what we saw during the few minutes the train stopped, I should say now that the principal residents are goats and Chinamen; in fact, the place seems almost handed over to the Chinkies, and I hear that the Chinese Commissioners on their overland journey to Brisbane had a high old time of it here with their countrymen during their short stay, being driven round to the principal mines in the vicinity, and being made much of generally, to say nothing of the wine consumed in their honor.