tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-316616122024-03-12T17:57:59.838-07:00... and three trees on the low skyThe reflections of a 50 something Anglo-Celtic male. Perhaps a prayer, a voice spoken to the great darkness - knowing that the darkness is not empty. 'Freighted with hope, crimsoned with Joy, we scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, their distant employ, we never shall know.... (Amy Lowell)Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-16211619903457883102012-06-01T17:39:00.000-07:002012-06-01T17:56:00.380-07:00The first woman I lovedI was born in the year Queen Elizabeth II first visited Australia. When she came again I was nine and proudly stood on Macquarie Street, Sydney waving a flag. Her return in 1970 saw me standing on Taren Point Road, Caringbah as the motorcade returned to Sydney from Kurnell. A highlight of Christmas was always her televised Christmas message to the British Commonwealth of Nations. Beside my mother Elizabeth was the first woman I loved. Regardless of the flux of time and shifts in the cosmos she still holds a piece of my heart.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJw9KI8nKfqw6fcx5JM0mE6bQjGA0-V6YtKUuZLrZ2e0rPz8stsDdreiYcp9-BM2GcULoGQVBBPCYYZkPN3mSS9kgC3u7pZlxbx-_KVziJbpUmDINECLZlFV3v4Gzsx8iQM3A/s1600/queen+elizabeth22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="400" width="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJw9KI8nKfqw6fcx5JM0mE6bQjGA0-V6YtKUuZLrZ2e0rPz8stsDdreiYcp9-BM2GcULoGQVBBPCYYZkPN3mSS9kgC3u7pZlxbx-_KVziJbpUmDINECLZlFV3v4Gzsx8iQM3A/s400/queen+elizabeth22.jpg" /></a></div>Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-62542848831315802412012-01-15T09:58:00.000-08:002012-01-15T10:26:00.936-08:00Nissen huts I have known<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLuQA4BbaJS__rOx2DMFBvmznjjnbmcFIcPytVhERFnea0zClGvza6jdxOwiORPAxcYOHMx2_TDYl4zgP21_RYGzkiBclxTheUNHlqseRKjtOmSAVHnAHlksiTus9vPgzPTRBS/s1600/1590030b2.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLuQA4BbaJS__rOx2DMFBvmznjjnbmcFIcPytVhERFnea0zClGvza6jdxOwiORPAxcYOHMx2_TDYl4zgP21_RYGzkiBclxTheUNHlqseRKjtOmSAVHnAHlksiTus9vPgzPTRBS/s400/1590030b2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697926763443196898" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRfMUYFK0Lpee5oEjUzA3qeD5wkNVNMXGtVzHofgVuE178WraP8alxbJfKNt55atuLIcm2M8izkFzZbnGhVOZYky8H95DNxOdZRuwtfBfavnhjclAp24ePckIbfsgbTyFfRz3X/s1600/DSC00482.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRfMUYFK0Lpee5oEjUzA3qeD5wkNVNMXGtVzHofgVuE178WraP8alxbJfKNt55atuLIcm2M8izkFzZbnGhVOZYky8H95DNxOdZRuwtfBfavnhjclAp24ePckIbfsgbTyFfRz3X/s400/DSC00482.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697926077096515250" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLm-z88wnm0bBE8JoD-17XhnJgGwA-epOr153h6kjLDfNCsjJnBDwVtptrzN_AGlbfQ0xI6Zi6IPXBZ13ru_L8dUfYbp9ifBDPv9YocNNrtBgYyGqZoK3fyBYvEkbhO3svr4dm/s1600/DSC00430.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLm-z88wnm0bBE8JoD-17XhnJgGwA-epOr153h6kjLDfNCsjJnBDwVtptrzN_AGlbfQ0xI6Zi6IPXBZ13ru_L8dUfYbp9ifBDPv9YocNNrtBgYyGqZoK3fyBYvEkbhO3svr4dm/s400/DSC00430.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697926075481959570" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfRYnF0I7RLbnenVmQ0z_zGH11hubhL5ffqDQ4R2-ysL1XaGwbbC-y4cGrwOegWzrkAidDCi1DxCeYyxvwCFzfJVCwsAXP840ZwPqLjuvH-sAQOGgpcR4hLesuhQAGjfqGXK0u/s1600/DSC06359.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfRYnF0I7RLbnenVmQ0z_zGH11hubhL5ffqDQ4R2-ysL1XaGwbbC-y4cGrwOegWzrkAidDCi1DxCeYyxvwCFzfJVCwsAXP840ZwPqLjuvH-sAQOGgpcR4hLesuhQAGjfqGXK0u/s400/DSC06359.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697926067690997266" /></a><br />As a child I was fascinated by these rather bizarre buildings randomly distributed around the landscape. I knew their original use was military as they regularly featured in movies set in World War II. They were used as aircraft hangars, as warehouses, as barracks and offices, and for many other military purposes. <br />My life has been peppered with brief liaisons with these elliptical wonders. I recall one wonderful visit to the former Royal Australian Navy Stores Depot on the Parramatta River at Rydalmere in the 1970s. Here were rows of enormous elliptical buildings stuffed full of aircraft spares and small watercraft. These buildings are now long gone, as are many of their compatriots from the 1940s.<br />Over a decade ago I was privileged to oversee the construction of a new building at the museum I manage. This building was constructed in the style of a Nissen Hut to replace a structure demolished in the 1960s. We found a builder who's normal business was the construction of grain silos. It made me realise that the Nissen Hut is basically just a water tank or silo cut in half and tipped on its side.<br />In my work as an archaeologist I have recorded structures of this type at Sydney Kingsford Smith Airport, Gilgandra Shire Council Depot and scrub blocks in the Pilliga Forest. Last week I was delighted to record near Lightning Ridge a large Nissen Hut converted into a shearing shed. These buildings always fascinate me.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-34510547847845570022011-12-07T00:45:00.000-08:002011-12-07T00:59:53.879-08:00Tam o' Shanter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-2izN-5r0hSZd4-9OlZSqvNKLoAxr3R-rd0ssw9uJzM-uTN2qbi0RohTAO0DPwZnb_Q_VzcSJOuMOdtRpBtrJCLDqUh4rNxfoUBXiBz0o2p06dUjMBRQYamaWTgVD0xkjGk-j/s1600/JHC+Travelling+Clothes.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 328px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-2izN-5r0hSZd4-9OlZSqvNKLoAxr3R-rd0ssw9uJzM-uTN2qbi0RohTAO0DPwZnb_Q_VzcSJOuMOdtRpBtrJCLDqUh4rNxfoUBXiBz0o2p06dUjMBRQYamaWTgVD0xkjGk-j/s400/JHC+Travelling+Clothes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683308068770672498" /></a><br />John Hampton Christison left his home in north east Scotland and migrated to New South Wales in 1878. Before he left home his older brother David gave him a copy of The Complete Works of Robert Burns. Like many 19th century travellers John had his photograph taken before he left home. This was taken in the town of Arbroath, not far from his parents' home in Brechin. The athletic young man, an accomplished highland dancer, cut quite a dashing figure in his travelling cloak and Tam o' Shanter.<br /><br />Thinking of the twists and turns that were to occur in John's life, one wonders if he ever heeded the words of the great Rabbie:<br /><br />"No, wha this tale o' truth shall read,<br />Ilk man and mother's son take heed; <br />Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, <br />Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, <br />Think! ye may buy joys o'er dear - <br />Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare." <br />Tam o' Shanter, Robbie Burns,Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-41412366037630706972011-12-06T02:02:00.000-08:002011-12-06T02:08:14.663-08:00The letter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1qkngx4kIGDSyS6eKF0xum88iLcND_Qip04QI1zhtBBxfShwmKgRT9j-PdIICI-47X8DqRiUcD1PqttcVusU4mN-lCReQC5kEDpI3pgPnn9k6wViRBBpAey2HDpo957Oggq_/s1600/Letter+1900.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1qkngx4kIGDSyS6eKF0xum88iLcND_Qip04QI1zhtBBxfShwmKgRT9j-PdIICI-47X8DqRiUcD1PqttcVusU4mN-lCReQC5kEDpI3pgPnn9k6wViRBBpAey2HDpo957Oggq_/s400/Letter+1900.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682955059982331618" /></a><br />In late 1900 this letter was received at my Great-Great Grandparents' house in Mittagong. Their son had been wounded in far off South Africa. His injuries were received at a place they had probably never heard of. I sometimes reflect on the months of anguish they must have face until they saw their son again.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-72260858466958878512011-12-06T01:18:00.000-08:002011-12-06T01:52:43.150-08:00My Great Grandfather and the South African War<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZxLW6tEmHmsZUpecdxgK4p3qkctyU6GcH4wF9naNaThFrL76r_txUs4fleVctoaIBp-2PpVzvMwstBY8zibc_bww_BiH_NRTL3RNl28mPxCAhMtYYI-1-aeUWBSJjidPa-6L/s1600/JHC+in+South+Africa.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 281px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZxLW6tEmHmsZUpecdxgK4p3qkctyU6GcH4wF9naNaThFrL76r_txUs4fleVctoaIBp-2PpVzvMwstBY8zibc_bww_BiH_NRTL3RNl28mPxCAhMtYYI-1-aeUWBSJjidPa-6L/s400/JHC+in+South+Africa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682948252619376482" /></a><br />My Great Grandfather was a complex man. He was a blatant self promoter, a womaniser, adulterer and serial bankrupt. In many ways he was a true Victorian man - a person who worked at multiple callings and in many ways made his own luck. A star dancer as a child, in adult life he taught dance and etiquette under the title Professor Christison. His Manual of Dancing and Etiquette was published in Maitland in the early 1880s. By 1884 he was operating his own vineyards and winery at Hinton. I have even heard that he trained champion boxer Les Darcy to dance. I just may begin blogging his biography.<br />When war broke out in Southern Africa in 1899 he was one of the many New South Welshmen who flocked to join the colony's mounted forces. Volunteers greatly outnumbered the available places in the NSW Mounted Rifles and the NSW MIlitary Forces were very choosy. High levels of physical fitness, horsemanship and firearms skills were demanded, yet despite his age (he was close to 45) he was accepted and sailed for South Africa in early 1900. In September 1900 he was wounded at Rhenoster Poort, near the Mozambique border, during one of the horse-killing hunts for Boer Kommandos following the cessation of conventional warfare. For the remainder of his life he had a steel plate in his skull. <br />This photo was taken in from of an African hut somewhere in the Orange Free State or Transvaal.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-10806607767484663602011-12-01T13:14:00.000-08:002011-12-01T13:43:49.122-08:00Memories of waiting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6_NEcDb2o0NHzPD7Thi5EiPhslNp8ouyOhDHADxzKAVDGHCNFq4vjARe2HO6ebt5T2tyRajHlAX1U9a0x_dmP8yBb7BkF9dZrlTDTWffNX5j2JsDNYlaFHUpM6IAWPFrC5Vf/s1600/Ray+baby.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6_NEcDb2o0NHzPD7Thi5EiPhslNp8ouyOhDHADxzKAVDGHCNFq4vjARe2HO6ebt5T2tyRajHlAX1U9a0x_dmP8yBb7BkF9dZrlTDTWffNX5j2JsDNYlaFHUpM6IAWPFrC5Vf/s400/Ray+baby.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681278885715891378" /></a><br />My father's youngest brother was buried this week. Also in the last seven days I have reconnected with a cousin whom I admired greatly in my younger years. He and my oldest sister were the two people who most stimulated my imagination and my delight in history. Even today I treasure books given to me by my cousin almost fifty years ago. Books such as Roger Lancelyn Green's "Tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table" or Dorothy Sutcliffe's "Beowulf" with their wonderful re-telling of ancient tales were markers on the unique journey that has led me to my current place in life.<br />Today I tripped over a memory related to this cousin. I recall his mother, my aunt, being quite ill over many years. I have vague recollections from some time in the late 1950s or early 1960s when she was in Sydney Hospital. For me these early memories always consist of brief glimpses, almost like small strips of film cut from feature movies. When I ponder them I am reminded of the amazing end scenes of the movie "Cinema Paradiso". <br />One Saturday evening my father visited my aunt in Sydney Hospital as we waited outside in Macquarie Street, I remember it being dark and the dark was accentuated by the drab Victorian walls of the hospital. We waited for what seemed like an eternity with a cloud of sorrow hovering over all. As a small child I was painfully aware of the crawling pace of time spent in anticipation. Eventually my father emerged with another man - I think this was my Uncle Neil. He gave us a lift to Kogarah (or perhaps it was Rockdale) where we then waited for a bus, or something, to take us closer to home. In those days this would have probably meant a trolley bus ride to Sans Souci, a punt ride across the Georges River and then a two mile walk from Taren Point to Caringbah. We waited and waited and eventually got home. I have little recollection of how this was achieved.<br />The overwhelming memory from that evening is a memory of waiting. Waiting for my father, waiting for the bus and all else being well beyond my control. Like all of these glimpses it is a brief memory.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-42506353648866405962011-10-08T14:57:00.000-07:002011-10-08T15:10:09.265-07:00The old shower block<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbGlDdT3R9UDwgxEVICxZfp7hJJNrNs7ky3VoiVPQ_T8V04gBFXhTw7tuOQVcduIxEBg1eQGp_-CTNsLXyeVpborl7njcXMAWNL0xsEzErHBvaimch9I3hePaPUvZf-j-SsRFS/s1600/Showers.tiff"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 399px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbGlDdT3R9UDwgxEVICxZfp7hJJNrNs7ky3VoiVPQ_T8V04gBFXhTw7tuOQVcduIxEBg1eQGp_-CTNsLXyeVpborl7njcXMAWNL0xsEzErHBvaimch9I3hePaPUvZf-j-SsRFS/s400/Showers.tiff" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661246930760078162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55cX7S_mgCszBSP9AP8fHidc78HRLVhSC2uP954jbQdkAJHIqrKeJbVFkfD31h02AnodPjlk9oVWvtgVpHePtDhngLbiC9XR_FpxaM9rBbORUUzc7XDtW5skUBKB9B4SlrupJ/s1600/oct+038.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55cX7S_mgCszBSP9AP8fHidc78HRLVhSC2uP954jbQdkAJHIqrKeJbVFkfD31h02AnodPjlk9oVWvtgVpHePtDhngLbiC9XR_FpxaM9rBbORUUzc7XDtW5skUBKB9B4SlrupJ/s400/oct+038.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661245138234544162" /></a><br />The museum in which I am involved is currently developing a theatrette in space that was once used as a colliery shower block. The ambience of the space as grown on me as we have worked in it. It will be wonderful to interpret this aspect of the coalminers' lives.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-65408892099904481482011-09-29T15:30:00.000-07:002011-09-29T15:42:23.654-07:00A Light in the Vale<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5LzYZ4Ww1zVSLAtMbm7ErVGVxQXh3byfmGVBZXDKltwIaHG2sfnRLNBz5hbbSsD0NxmWOAtCx5KOpKmDnclPNvWy7ahx0DiZqQIuwJlHCn12HYICxQu_2F8wKOfqi5M6wE22/s1600/Light+in+the+Vale+cover.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5LzYZ4Ww1zVSLAtMbm7ErVGVxQXh3byfmGVBZXDKltwIaHG2sfnRLNBz5hbbSsD0NxmWOAtCx5KOpKmDnclPNvWy7ahx0DiZqQIuwJlHCn12HYICxQu_2F8wKOfqi5M6wE22/s400/Light+in+the+Vale+cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657914343598737314" /></a><br />I have recently published my latest coalmining history. I have become addicted to researching and writing on history of the New South Wales Western Coalfields. A Light in the Vale is my third publication to date. <br /><br />This book records the development of trade unionism among the coal and shale miners of the New South Wales Western Coalfield between 1875 and 1900. Faced with what they regarded as intolerable working conditions the miners of the Vale of Clwydd Colliery formed an association for their mutual protection in 1878. They achieved some early successes but their union was forced out of existence by 1881. By the mid 1880s the region’s miners had formed a district union, which successfully weathered the economic and industrial storms of the 1890s. The organisation entered the 20th century ready to become an active player in a developing national miners’ union. The book charts the early struggles and successes of the union. It includes brief biographies of the union’s leaders, including Joseph Cook who became Prime Minister of Australia in 1913.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-88978547078037230302011-07-09T03:07:00.000-07:002011-10-01T20:13:28.027-07:00The empty hearth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYi1m3fDo-0IFpA2KWqpD_a2ktxBfY3iqSAm2F43G8yOxAJjdab2Si6Mm6CGZfR1mUT8mc-yFpTHBvAxaXH3grSUI7tEaI0Qv1YfE-oeqqruN_1r_Vjou2NztXLGStiMbO2NCV/s1600/DSC08722.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYi1m3fDo-0IFpA2KWqpD_a2ktxBfY3iqSAm2F43G8yOxAJjdab2Si6Mm6CGZfR1mUT8mc-yFpTHBvAxaXH3grSUI7tEaI0Qv1YfE-oeqqruN_1r_Vjou2NztXLGStiMbO2NCV/s400/DSC08722.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658727641384399650" /></a><br />People once loved, laughed, ate and cried around this hearth. Now it sits cold and silent.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-74220413304475377162011-05-31T02:45:00.000-07:002011-09-29T15:45:02.317-07:00White Ants<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxFPSKd__bUkUyfOMB2M7_KDEUIWWxxDYjnOO95U4k_CNaGE0E1J3JFQNOXyhswVov82X2eCly-PXRjID5b14_F7i3aiNKvRdn-e_YabIktz2klDjY5VgVeRUnSGrGCNklfF1/s1600/DSC08369.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxFPSKd__bUkUyfOMB2M7_KDEUIWWxxDYjnOO95U4k_CNaGE0E1J3JFQNOXyhswVov82X2eCly-PXRjID5b14_F7i3aiNKvRdn-e_YabIktz2klDjY5VgVeRUnSGrGCNklfF1/s400/DSC08369.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657916306546372066" /></a><br /><br />I was inspecting an old miner's cottage at Lightning Ridge a few weeks ago. The place has been attacked by white ants. This sideboard was really worked over!Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-55813382830011095882011-04-26T22:55:00.000-07:002011-04-26T23:06:32.393-07:00Put a light in every country window<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCOuA8U2X-1F4SjRVzJczJTGsQYSA4gGm8JAXqkFvv8H-yIEDsR5zNDitwjeymurg6Y4m2i5gVCgOjFpGIXb_URXfq_UI3wXoJFYZkwIwBeysAngob6sJvMT74uo2N2v6ep6DQ/s1600/DSC05865.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCOuA8U2X-1F4SjRVzJczJTGsQYSA4gGm8JAXqkFvv8H-yIEDsR5zNDitwjeymurg6Y4m2i5gVCgOjFpGIXb_URXfq_UI3wXoJFYZkwIwBeysAngob6sJvMT74uo2N2v6ep6DQ/s400/DSC05865.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600140788032133554" /></a><br />This post tells its own story. It is part of the generator shed erected to serve a rural homestead in northern New South Wales during the 1920s. The post and adjoining wall are stained with fumes from the old generator. The light switches tell a story of isolation and connection. From the 1920s many pastoral properties had their own stand-alone generators capable of supplying electricity at 32volts. This was enough to light a house and banks of batteries provided power after the generator had been switched off. This was enough to undertake some late evening chores or read a book in bed. <br /><br />After the Second World War the cry "put a light in every country window" went up all over the land. Isolated town and council electricity generation and supply systems were connected by newly-formed county councils and throughout the 1950s new feeders were sent out across the vast rural lands of the interior. Rural dwellers were able to access the marvels of agitator washing machines, refrigerators, electric sewing machines, mixmasters and vacuum cleaners. And there was a light in every country window.<br /><br />The wooden disc on the post was a mounting plate for the 32volt light switch supplied by the building's own generator and the square bakelite switch served the new 240volt system powered by the fires of Wangi, Wallerawang or Lake Macquarie Power Stations.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-9811425905909101442011-04-25T05:05:00.000-07:002011-04-25T05:15:33.874-07:00Another woolshed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZpxfacCztwYdqP6Z4tyr8KMkP08V_Rh2So3_GD4iqOE4qeJUUchIjQEvr6coiLh7xYcyunUp2xI-An5NKEAnLSzue4LFEj9OSn0iw4kOlsS6EvfcCyLjdbHCeRyPyrbej_CgP/s1600/DSC07178.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZpxfacCztwYdqP6Z4tyr8KMkP08V_Rh2So3_GD4iqOE4qeJUUchIjQEvr6coiLh7xYcyunUp2xI-An5NKEAnLSzue4LFEj9OSn0iw4kOlsS6EvfcCyLjdbHCeRyPyrbej_CgP/s400/DSC07178.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599493707865327602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4kXorHB38ENRbgadxDm-Lba8MFX7HyzwbE6CoLuDEF2BZ1Y8LLloBtDTMfPnPnNlY43TWGkwLKnFHC6G-h1R7GYFRI78u04JM_7ghvQR5QP_aEeQpfkOhnQgvnK60g4usy4Y/s1600/DSC07171.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4kXorHB38ENRbgadxDm-Lba8MFX7HyzwbE6CoLuDEF2BZ1Y8LLloBtDTMfPnPnNlY43TWGkwLKnFHC6G-h1R7GYFRI78u04JM_7ghvQR5QP_aEeQpfkOhnQgvnK60g4usy4Y/s400/DSC07171.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599493705047505426" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglx_OyjgOaF7gG9Vk5hu79V69g0E0ahY8hij5KRSZXFfRpLqRffuByc5g_Pt2bMCHlAvoUT7CuP3vaYVj8EIL5XQ1byCPQKe5Njs2jnotytMHdTUflIO86lzuwfxKR0AuqgT9J/s1600/DSC07251.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglx_OyjgOaF7gG9Vk5hu79V69g0E0ahY8hij5KRSZXFfRpLqRffuByc5g_Pt2bMCHlAvoUT7CuP3vaYVj8EIL5XQ1byCPQKe5Njs2jnotytMHdTUflIO86lzuwfxKR0AuqgT9J/s400/DSC07251.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599493699272522194" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGEf-NQZMhx-R_QLbNxEECHAUT8pWfgdrsIejfERv-MAdm6QuezMkQyWWtUJSU-bW7WHnjWk4L3FIcfWlPCL2tmVw6QgNk46klTrZAya_y-lsGcKKLokodZXw0RpZ3T5bst0TB/s1600/DSC07254.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGEf-NQZMhx-R_QLbNxEECHAUT8pWfgdrsIejfERv-MAdm6QuezMkQyWWtUJSU-bW7WHnjWk4L3FIcfWlPCL2tmVw6QgNk46klTrZAya_y-lsGcKKLokodZXw0RpZ3T5bst0TB/s400/DSC07254.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599493702706759378" /></a><br />We recently worked on Hunthawang, the former T.A. Field Estates Ltd station acquired by the NSW government in December 2010. The woolshed was orginally constructed for the Little Willandra run on the northern side of the Lachlan River in the 1880s. It is a delightful building clearly erected by craftsmen.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-426914145624654712011-03-15T02:26:00.001-07:002011-03-15T02:33:38.107-07:00The artistry of spiders<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6aEP0P_jsCT3rSleYsI5fpbCaefZuZVq0E6IuH0qThiLITzOG5qnafYrsUxXbzDplmI_OaVGKXxoDXbqauhtP_CCDV6HQqUGmh-U0YIJIItfSwrsutXBaMSVmw7i7ktI-I1d/s1600/DSC06040.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6aEP0P_jsCT3rSleYsI5fpbCaefZuZVq0E6IuH0qThiLITzOG5qnafYrsUxXbzDplmI_OaVGKXxoDXbqauhtP_CCDV6HQqUGmh-U0YIJIItfSwrsutXBaMSVmw7i7ktI-I1d/s400/DSC06040.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584237096454913250" /></a><br />The spiders have made a home of this silent shearing gear in a woolshed on the Barwon River.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-43587289042876516242011-03-06T00:50:00.000-08:002011-10-01T01:14:03.789-07:00SIngle-Jian<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26U9QTlpug60ZqkFp2y84zptfeV-zKFppbjr0b12MnrCweFcnImvq6XZuxadEpu6VCaTxZqdTeSUtToG_W8PaTIhWLqRqpXUfRszlIIbqcQWCWv10_e7BkPQgm8nMKgmyZXqy/s1600/DSC05386.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26U9QTlpug60ZqkFp2y84zptfeV-zKFppbjr0b12MnrCweFcnImvq6XZuxadEpu6VCaTxZqdTeSUtToG_W8PaTIhWLqRqpXUfRszlIIbqcQWCWv10_e7BkPQgm8nMKgmyZXqy/s400/DSC05386.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580888774215855906" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFe5ijflr2CXQSLeHEFeistOzKAV2b7bq2ZmABYvQROASIQ2iOFJAiFm5e1qsbNLlYqem1gxIGzsK48sselX2yeAMlGdBYnObIB0pmfRjriH2QUnlCUcXWystv9xx_slx3PVEX/s1600/DSC05385.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFe5ijflr2CXQSLeHEFeistOzKAV2b7bq2ZmABYvQROASIQ2iOFJAiFm5e1qsbNLlYqem1gxIGzsK48sselX2yeAMlGdBYnObIB0pmfRjriH2QUnlCUcXWystv9xx_slx3PVEX/s400/DSC05385.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580888773351547282" /></a><br />I have long been obsessed with the material footprint left on the Australian landscape by the Chinese who migrated here in the 19h century. Recently I had the privilege of recording the ruins of a single-jian dwelling in a valley near Young. These dwellings follow a pattern for vernacular residences that has been followed in China for 1,500 years. They are built in a standard pattern with low stone walls and one entry. My assumption is that this and a nearby dwelling were occupied by Chinese rural workers employed on nearby farms.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-91144381543355066702011-02-23T00:48:00.001-08:002011-02-23T00:58:20.498-08:00Stencils<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBS50-RLK8T-61oQ-t3oS6JtkFq04XRJ7qyELP7zoGgfg7eG_Dq2SJ-H15y3L1Npv15PgcxTlSRlx5Ba1TP93wzEIh5AJoGKYrcOLvXUDKv3Hpfh4P4HThE51Sc1RD1kSAny0A/s1600/DSC04794.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBS50-RLK8T-61oQ-t3oS6JtkFq04XRJ7qyELP7zoGgfg7eG_Dq2SJ-H15y3L1Npv15PgcxTlSRlx5Ba1TP93wzEIh5AJoGKYrcOLvXUDKv3Hpfh4P4HThE51Sc1RD1kSAny0A/s400/DSC04794.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576806383865077506" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyprbt95dM1OhQaUFFoGuBCJ_GXzKJ3lHwHDHPcPBMjT7W8PDeVdKTT3pjIXr0gkCk15uIIARhVAQNT-tHMWPg1alGXiNuqkdS0dvCsK0ZcBCWxXx53UqQDQGGZq9owwjr7od8/s1600/DSC05680.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyprbt95dM1OhQaUFFoGuBCJ_GXzKJ3lHwHDHPcPBMjT7W8PDeVdKTT3pjIXr0gkCk15uIIARhVAQNT-tHMWPg1alGXiNuqkdS0dvCsK0ZcBCWxXx53UqQDQGGZq9owwjr7od8/s400/DSC05680.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576806375791426354" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdLMOB53CFFFddJ8bkcmDvtdTV7KpofYBhxQY8PlRVvlobO42gmp7PRCZlY2vzIiQ9rI_6zyAyDJ5v3waYcsFcMCI0mcvo2dbUfRij2nS4VcAv-Do40HdvFvRt8mrLMGztRDd/s1600/DSC05678.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdLMOB53CFFFddJ8bkcmDvtdTV7KpofYBhxQY8PlRVvlobO42gmp7PRCZlY2vzIiQ9rI_6zyAyDJ5v3waYcsFcMCI0mcvo2dbUfRij2nS4VcAv-Do40HdvFvRt8mrLMGztRDd/s400/DSC05678.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576806374050434562" /></a><br />Wool bale stencils are one of the great little delights hiding in the wool rooms of abandoned woolsheds. These little joys are often left hanging or just discarded on the floor. The voice of the collector in me says: "Pick one up, nobody will miss it." The voice of the archaeologist says: "No, leave it!". The archaeologist always wins.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-4082301523330467292010-12-21T00:01:00.001-08:002010-12-21T00:05:14.416-08:00Happy Christmas!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihoTqF_y_tI6PeRra6GfluX332iJ6aj0_yrFmFUuE-gwFv81cXtfoWNfCDgZlLK4CmOgn3eadbt0OepVxqLuSNQ8LSGwEgDX25o9HA19_qdRpdlkUkOOO6YsnMWqxnbt-XeoAK/s1600/Christmas2010.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihoTqF_y_tI6PeRra6GfluX332iJ6aj0_yrFmFUuE-gwFv81cXtfoWNfCDgZlLK4CmOgn3eadbt0OepVxqLuSNQ8LSGwEgDX25o9HA19_qdRpdlkUkOOO6YsnMWqxnbt-XeoAK/s400/Christmas2010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553042708599014514" /></a><br />Expert's room, Nebea WoolshedJose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-24730093740892467292010-12-17T02:31:00.000-08:002010-12-17T02:44:21.562-08:00Old schoolhouse<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRJFqcq9M1bMCCyvlUBAnBV3wOgkXxv6O5OnHD8W9SsDSG8rWbM1nYPjLPWWOUAI8McKINU55RFNGYAAu9RO7_gAmt9twFteyl68HPmUHwNvbViPlsYJMrW9YP7VgP-Xoogm5c/s1600/DSC05005.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRJFqcq9M1bMCCyvlUBAnBV3wOgkXxv6O5OnHD8W9SsDSG8rWbM1nYPjLPWWOUAI8McKINU55RFNGYAAu9RO7_gAmt9twFteyl68HPmUHwNvbViPlsYJMrW9YP7VgP-Xoogm5c/s400/DSC05005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551600196383726002" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDI_JipcR6c30GOO8Qg-zsexFcpbITVi-FujR618AoloHV_Dqb2ezjYSltz_5ycAAhBw0akGCHlnH_ThZz8xmjkrysFE0b8b74mgFQIZvPMpo2ewVMbvtbJ0KIet7J715hLGSU/s1600/DSC05004.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDI_JipcR6c30GOO8Qg-zsexFcpbITVi-FujR618AoloHV_Dqb2ezjYSltz_5ycAAhBw0akGCHlnH_ThZz8xmjkrysFE0b8b74mgFQIZvPMpo2ewVMbvtbJ0KIet7J715hLGSU/s400/DSC05004.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551600190961784514" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqnupKAbcTPw-R37KyACQRHpg6pCQAXzm6HVNg0vpiE_096p_l7ox4OYS3nh-YPQr-oxJQOt0Wt2E31jQdv1J86pcktuo8rrOIlf8pvsJL5JwfvnMeQ0jd-ZzO7UFOmpv_YS0d/s1600/DSC05025.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqnupKAbcTPw-R37KyACQRHpg6pCQAXzm6HVNg0vpiE_096p_l7ox4OYS3nh-YPQr-oxJQOt0Wt2E31jQdv1J86pcktuo8rrOIlf8pvsJL5JwfvnMeQ0jd-ZzO7UFOmpv_YS0d/s400/DSC05025.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551600189783866962" /></a><br />My work often takes me to derelict and unloved buildings. I recently recorded this old schoolhouse on a property in the valley of the Talbragar River. Many of these little supported schools dotted the rural landscape in the early 20th century. Their purpose long passed these buildings have stood vacant for decades. Many have succumbed to the ravages of time and season. A few still stand as a testament to a time when rural areas teemed with workers and their young families.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-13838674453744436172010-12-14T12:45:00.000-08:002010-12-14T12:53:45.470-08:00Abandoned sawmill<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQBG-C7-9TudBVf0T8YIOGBo73_ei30PLMzHheTYhppsxJ-uzL068uRVrJ6199I59k8FUPKSMlwUwEBQ_oQXtvbTC6p398g4Wwrd9k6yFsruL1HVwQJ6jGnilI7-Ch-xqUWVvu/s1600/DSC05186.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQBG-C7-9TudBVf0T8YIOGBo73_ei30PLMzHheTYhppsxJ-uzL068uRVrJ6199I59k8FUPKSMlwUwEBQ_oQXtvbTC6p398g4Wwrd9k6yFsruL1HVwQJ6jGnilI7-Ch-xqUWVvu/s400/DSC05186.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550643732129965138" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaOEkbZIOua9CflbvgDp8SFDleMJzwtNihrO7vcU-oArVXzR6xf6wukQ5uz1xd3v6CRka8QHPXjztxfQ2f6Dl9GGG8VDVQpTB1kVVKFpX3swW7tktJOuRajJ5monE7NcJhzVBw/s1600/DSC05121.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaOEkbZIOua9CflbvgDp8SFDleMJzwtNihrO7vcU-oArVXzR6xf6wukQ5uz1xd3v6CRka8QHPXjztxfQ2f6Dl9GGG8VDVQpTB1kVVKFpX3swW7tktJOuRajJ5monE7NcJhzVBw/s400/DSC05121.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550643726652363410" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU78LhUkssrYQtxr4mhaf8ZClEDqBzOjbzfomORuAFH88aWAwXdPKIdeQfjftzzJINkqCal4Hc3BLDDLvugANzBqNCEMa5WayjruuCy0QtoUerXbxUWgSt7Aa0TGOTUBzChelN/s1600/DSC05143.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU78LhUkssrYQtxr4mhaf8ZClEDqBzOjbzfomORuAFH88aWAwXdPKIdeQfjftzzJINkqCal4Hc3BLDDLvugANzBqNCEMa5WayjruuCy0QtoUerXbxUWgSt7Aa0TGOTUBzChelN/s400/DSC05143.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550643714436994690" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3sjAuSfSAoE8oxaImiG4DFKS2pmJAjJe954XEjwMsuPv_Jlcpvi0CQl5LEWYumqnV2NjI4aiqvIKFnDLQDtdq11LRiQGFje2y5ck8NCoHwa6bmMZHhClY-6Vm8adD7vm0JRLU/s1600/DSC05058.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3sjAuSfSAoE8oxaImiG4DFKS2pmJAjJe954XEjwMsuPv_Jlcpvi0CQl5LEWYumqnV2NjI4aiqvIKFnDLQDtdq11LRiQGFje2y5ck8NCoHwa6bmMZHhClY-6Vm8adD7vm0JRLU/s400/DSC05058.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550643706102847666" /></a><br />I've recorded a few sawmills over the years. This one is located in a beautiful position high in a small valley. The mill is virtually complete and almost appears as if everyone just knocked off and walked away. It hasn't worked for at least 40 years.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-2231673422668243602010-11-16T02:20:00.000-08:002010-11-16T02:31:34.791-08:00Another day, another woolshed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoJTG9B6I6JWljlNrtfVl-tZX6VjjrobCfss4U8KE60Zt6TXNgR3aXeJEIm5x-5y_ZDrQq9hQvYHLf-6J9HeGlkFqPiXEb3O5uykOQJJIPPYSeMtFCOj66SvvUYWp6oeW9myzl/s1600/DSC04810.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoJTG9B6I6JWljlNrtfVl-tZX6VjjrobCfss4U8KE60Zt6TXNgR3aXeJEIm5x-5y_ZDrQq9hQvYHLf-6J9HeGlkFqPiXEb3O5uykOQJJIPPYSeMtFCOj66SvvUYWp6oeW9myzl/s400/DSC04810.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540093262846191826" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RpJQDLpXHHC16u8Tr2vNqnqTAtGLWq6qw5DjCXWJAYOpyzb8mLdXESrQCRZ3RG8hRvQrBPr4sWk2roDrON33CaPU28zcclbLShJltfKO5VrOre0_I_qO13TrCFxyPO9w840i/s1600/DSC04811.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RpJQDLpXHHC16u8Tr2vNqnqTAtGLWq6qw5DjCXWJAYOpyzb8mLdXESrQCRZ3RG8hRvQrBPr4sWk2roDrON33CaPU28zcclbLShJltfKO5VrOre0_I_qO13TrCFxyPO9w840i/s400/DSC04811.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540093260537018658" /></a><br />I can never get enough of woolsheds. The glow of the timber, the special light and the smell of lanoline so ingrained into the structure that it is still present decades after shearing has ceased. This shed on the Gwydir Wetlands appears to have originally been constructed as a blade shed and later converted to machine shearing with Wolseley shearing gear.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-47024103487137036902010-11-08T13:01:00.000-08:002010-11-08T13:22:09.579-08:00A long-term love affair<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyAynRTKNPcbJnPcXwQX81_dxwmoaMfz4YlgTyX1ST7eZTAxsvbIjU0TLBIgajbjz17tAopgMe3EIVEIh5acXAIPO9IpKGqfqYduYaSjPgGeyJEDYMPLvwT7dn6SRGJZTivptg/s1600/Woolloomooloo.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyAynRTKNPcbJnPcXwQX81_dxwmoaMfz4YlgTyX1ST7eZTAxsvbIjU0TLBIgajbjz17tAopgMe3EIVEIh5acXAIPO9IpKGqfqYduYaSjPgGeyJEDYMPLvwT7dn6SRGJZTivptg/s400/Woolloomooloo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537292238761830178" /></a><br />I attended meetings in Sydney last week. These meetings were at the harbourside areas of The Rocks and Woolloomooloo. What a treat it was! A cup of coffee at Circular Quay and lunch at Harry's Cafe de Wheels on Cowper Wharf Road at Woolloomooloo reminded me just how much I am in love with this beautiful city. The place is so pregnant with memories for me. Some of my earliest snatches of recollection relate to catching trams in George Street, the hundreds of steam engines around Eveleigh and delightful ferry rides on the harbour. I remember as a teenager being captivated by the almost forgotten histories of the place and recall exploring The Rocks with my friends during school holidays. The Anzac Memorial in Hyde Park is, and will always be, my favourite building in the world.<br />There were the years I worked in the City and revelled in its chaos and energy. It was always the city that never seemed to be finished and remains so. <br />I tip my hat to you my beautiful goddess of the South Pacific. The place from which Cargo comes. Always a place of immigrants. Always a place of change. Forever a place of contradictions and little conflicts that irritate the place like a flea bite or foot blister. Every decade seems to make the mix richer, although I do mourn what is lost along the way. So much architectural beauty and so many delightful little places that have been dragged into the slipstream of progress. <br />There are many things now that could cause me to say that this is no longer my city. This will never be so. In my heart I know that, like a lover hopelessly besotted by a wayward beauty, it is not a matter of me owning the city, but the city owning me.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-2938922906124931482010-10-22T16:24:00.000-07:002010-10-22T16:36:17.220-07:00The Glory of God<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4LDPD7gkUkY-5Id4eYkxz2zEIlSmYMLegok_MlimyKkU-HQww1DSKyLDCHhAJHiKtaAXQmvTGQc7_aOATZmuGg2w3HcYR11LhKUepAl3JhY35ny-ZlmF49rNJRY_MlBp7H5e/s1600/DSC04632.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4LDPD7gkUkY-5Id4eYkxz2zEIlSmYMLegok_MlimyKkU-HQww1DSKyLDCHhAJHiKtaAXQmvTGQc7_aOATZmuGg2w3HcYR11LhKUepAl3JhY35ny-ZlmF49rNJRY_MlBp7H5e/s400/DSC04632.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531018249967773634" /></a><br />King David's Psalm 19 begins with the words: "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands." I was reminded of these words the other day when I was recording cultural heritage sites on the the Marra Creek on the western side of the Macquarie Marshes. After a delightful little luncheon on the banks of the Marra I drove up to the little Church of St Mary the Virgin. This little Federation gem sits quietly in the paddocks of the Marra. The day I visited it was surrounded by a carpet of white native daisies. A storm was brewing and the clouds hung over the scene with such majesty and power.<br /><br />The scene reminded me of the one who is all and in all. The "I am". The beginning and the end. I was reminded of the words of King David and the experience of the prophet Elijah. In desperation and loneliness he had laid down under a broom tree, wishing only to die. Twice God sent a ministering angel who gave him food and water, and the words: "Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you." This simple expression of God's love has comforted me many times on my own journey.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-23905089995512163942010-10-07T17:28:00.000-07:002010-10-07T17:39:27.335-07:00Coonamble waterhole<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqmZ1znlr-COhP2GgT0mqKjrYVmVGMyT69sIDheC9ujm0Yw6NMg8a85qY0ET6EVhdB-9hssqR0FRj7KXz46zone1K96Gj7x1T_j8Q7C3nne3Ig6VhxyvN6XGzLJoq8Gx0WJ3Ba/s1600/DSC00230.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqmZ1znlr-COhP2GgT0mqKjrYVmVGMyT69sIDheC9ujm0Yw6NMg8a85qY0ET6EVhdB-9hssqR0FRj7KXz46zone1K96Gj7x1T_j8Q7C3nne3Ig6VhxyvN6XGzLJoq8Gx0WJ3Ba/s400/DSC00230.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525468379479906434" /></a><br />I've just been finalising a heritage study of the Coonamble Shire and was reminded of the record I made of the Coonamble waterhole. Like many towns in the northwest of New South Wales Coonamble developed around a waterhole. These holes have been critical to the development of the cultural landscape of the northwest as they have provided a reliable source of water and a source of food. At this point the Castlereagh River (the upside down river) is joined by Warrena Creek and Eurimie Creek. The place has been special to Aboriginal people for thousands of years. In the 1830s it was identified by European stockmen travelling up from Wallerawang as an ideal place to establish the headquarters of pastoral runs. Over succeeding decades it witnessed the development of the town of Coonamble. As the town grew Aboriginal people continued to live along its banks, retaining their strong emotional and spiritual connection to the place. <br />One can drive through Coonamble and visit the shops and barely notice the waterhole sitting quietly nearby. The centre of town is just behind the trees on the far bank and every day hundreds of car and trucks cross the bridge in the background. I never spend much time taking photos as I'm usually in a rush to record numerous places. Sometimes I stop and ponder. This was a place that made me stop and ponder.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-53442860568366898432010-09-25T02:44:00.000-07:002010-09-25T02:52:22.345-07:00Any umberrrrelllaaaas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6UfNE5AEqiZM1jp4rFwGujnZgzQ-8MErg5XS25KtsYenjoOtadR96Z5DzQdolm8sG9WIx04rkPIttDjR14naaNEtd0zMSlwQ-URwvTexLe2GtkAEp-s5fr6y7pIxQDmzIf0P/s1600/Photo0094.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6UfNE5AEqiZM1jp4rFwGujnZgzQ-8MErg5XS25KtsYenjoOtadR96Z5DzQdolm8sG9WIx04rkPIttDjR14naaNEtd0zMSlwQ-URwvTexLe2GtkAEp-s5fr6y7pIxQDmzIf0P/s400/Photo0094.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520786590870330530" /></a><br />I photographed this sales placard in Canberra a few months ago with a mixture of mirth and revulsion. What are they doing to my language!!! Umberellas, potatoe curry, tomatoe sandwich, the carnage seems almost endless. Then there's the dreaded apostrophe man and the havoc he wreaks on the written word. I'm not even going to start on the current craze to "customise" the spelling of baby names.<br /><br />AAARRGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! (That was the closest I could come to an inarticulate cry.) My world, my world.<br /><br />Reduced to clear - my language.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-28168948961005723642010-09-19T22:07:00.000-07:002010-09-19T22:26:31.529-07:00The end of the line<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1dOLkURnPP_W0KnAN_SthmfAhwXOmtJ_osTD1i2xrO3xTwh-fzOLaOJVtGcSWYkopamnxDTk38JRpGzd-IB4n8_U39Wbtp6g1upS0oaoccmVPIYXc0Sc_Us0pIJqqhtnyKuD-/s1600/DSC04200.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1dOLkURnPP_W0KnAN_SthmfAhwXOmtJ_osTD1i2xrO3xTwh-fzOLaOJVtGcSWYkopamnxDTk38JRpGzd-IB4n8_U39Wbtp6g1upS0oaoccmVPIYXc0Sc_Us0pIJqqhtnyKuD-/s400/DSC04200.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518862705632998338" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_KO-CX4EplJD4X3uHc9SKI_O6peo-dJeG8ABJJZzoL_uSBRcU-Z4G1Y23z1j-rO4TI4dwFovrqHqi_uoWk3G2jM2w5R6wHn_6Pe9_NwPARb7tQHEAd5CDuHKcEDje57mVwojN/s1600/DSC04166.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_KO-CX4EplJD4X3uHc9SKI_O6peo-dJeG8ABJJZzoL_uSBRcU-Z4G1Y23z1j-rO4TI4dwFovrqHqi_uoWk3G2jM2w5R6wHn_6Pe9_NwPARb7tQHEAd5CDuHKcEDje57mVwojN/s400/DSC04166.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518862354103570546" /></a><br />I haven't blogged for so long. In recent months my creative instincts have been directed into my work, landscaping around our new garage and writing my latest mining history. I feel compelled to blog as I love the concept of what I do and am captivated by the thought of throwing little tidbits out into the void.<br />Last week I recorded an abandoned railway station building at Belmont south of Newcastle. This station was once the terminus for a privately constructed railway line constructed to service collieries between Adamstown and Belmont. The railway and its stations were built on a budget and Belmont was no exception. It was constructed with timber and second-hand railway line. Over time the functional section of the platform was truncated. <br />The railway line is being converted into a walking and cycling track, and the stations are being interpreted as part of the landscaping. The whole project is a wonderful adventure in adaptive re-use. It has been exciting to be involved in it.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31661612.post-8416231010453650332010-06-04T01:01:00.000-07:002010-12-17T02:53:21.762-08:00El pueblo unido<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtx8-LOTqD8zhFa4Oucp3hDJjruyBS9TGJToTb8Ql1nWTlNRfOOdoN_nvmWK4-DCu7GoPZDz6Ub7N4jSDa3rd3DX9cEmmFjeOS2k0ZInReyucYp0pAjb6d42L1vnTMEW5NVkzB/s1600/Free+woman+1926.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 279px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtx8-LOTqD8zhFa4Oucp3hDJjruyBS9TGJToTb8Ql1nWTlNRfOOdoN_nvmWK4-DCu7GoPZDz6Ub7N4jSDa3rd3DX9cEmmFjeOS2k0ZInReyucYp0pAjb6d42L1vnTMEW5NVkzB/s400/Free+woman+1926.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478830896272130866" /></a><br />Over 25 years ago we attended a concert at the Sydney Opera House featuring the legendary Chilean folk group Inti illimani with guitarists Paco Pena and John Williamson. It was a magical night in the Concert Hall of the Opera House and one of the best concerts I have attended in that excellent venue. The Andean sound of Inti Illimani was hypnotic and the night was wonderful.<br /><br />Towards the end of the evening we witnessed a phenomenon that will stick with me for the rest of my life. This was the era of the ghastly Pinochet regime in Chile and many Chilean exiles had moved to Australia with heavy hearts and a longing for what Pablo Neruda described as their "elongated homeland". As the concert moved into encores Inti Illimani, themselves exiles from the military regime, began to sing protest songs. All were sung in Spanish.<br /><br />At one point they commenced a song during which the audience stood. As the chorus started most of the crowd began to sing in animated Spanish and punch their fists in the air in time to the music. The air was electric. I turned to my wife and said: "I have no idea what is going on here, but it is something important." Years later I realised that they were singing the words to the song "The people united will never be defeated". <br /><br />This was one of the most memorable moments of my life. To be an uncomprehending part of this powerful statement by people so full of passion and pain was an immense privilege. Years later I have downloaded the song by Inti Illimani and am moved each time I hear it.Jose the travelling padrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17328003063287040954noreply@blogger.com0