Chapter 19: Moree to Canberra

I was already feeling hungry when I passed through Narrabri, but I kept on till I got to Pilliga National Park. I stopped at the posting of the Park Service to see where the archaeological remains were. I lost both my appetite for food and for archaeology when I read:

Deep in the vast Pilliga Forest lies exquisite Dandry Gorge and the magnificent Sculptures in the Scrub. This once secret location of the Aboriginal Gamilaroi People is now an extraordinary place for all to share. Visit the sculptures to see five unique art pieces which reveal the cultural history of Pilliga.

Sculptures in the Scrub picnic area and campground in is a great place to base yourself while exploring Timmallallie.

If Patrick could honor Aboriginal secrets, so could I. I didn’t need to go to the tribe’s “secret location,” nor was I hungry to have the Pilliga’s “cultural history” revealed. In fact, I was embarrassed for the coarseness of my fellow Australians. I could see those noisy children from the paddleboat desecrating the secrets of the Ancestors.

I got back into the Range Rover and got back onto the highway. In the back of my head I heard a voice say: “You are a worthy father of the Carpet Python.” I actually felt less hungry.

I thought of stopping to see the Goonoo Forest, one of the most-recently established preserves. But I decided to forge ahead and it was only a bit after 14:00 when I got to Dubbo and located the Castlereagh. They had rooms and I took one. I decided to walk down Macquarie Street and get a snack somewhere.

(Macquarie was the last governor of New South Wales [1810-1821], so there are many places named after him. He played a crucial role in the transition from penal colony to free settlement. Macquarie formally adopted the name Australia for the continent, as had been proposed by Flinders.) I discovered that the Western Plains Cultural Centre, which I’d wanted to visit, was open from 10 till 4 (or 16:00). So I was too late today to do more than stick my nose in the door and I would be leaving too early tomorrow. I knew it would take at least four hours to get to Canberra. And I wanted to stop in Cowra, which would mean another hour plus lunch. I’d phone Charles and get exact instructions as to where they lived. Actually, I’d have to settle whether they wanted me there or would let me take a hotel room.

But first I walked past the “Old Dubbo Gaol,” which I discovered was actually the second gaol. But it was an interesting – if extensively rebuilt – site. Though the first “lock-up” was built in 1847-48, the entire developed edifice was closed in 1966 and after a decade of bureaucratic struggle, a “Gaol Restoration Committee” of the Dubbo Historical Society took over a large-scale restoration and clean-up.

I went in to view the exhibits, but I found the “original hangman’s kit” in a black tin trunk too much for my sensitivities. Between the Park’s curiosa of “cultural history” and the current macabre enthusiasm for the hangman’s kit, I had had enough. I’d be horrified again in Cowra, I was sure.

I walked to Church Street and over to the river. There were some children playing under the trees, but it wasn’t exceptionally disruptive, so I walked down to where the Mitchell Highway crossed the river and then back to Macquarie. I noted the Old Bank Restaurant as I walked back to the Castlereagh.

Thinking as I strolled back, I’d spent too much time in the Rover, the Rainbow, the Beechcraft. This walking was good for me. It was getting toward dusk. I’d go by Yass tomorrow. I thought of Banjo. I still had his books from decades ago. There were verses of his I could recall: The daylight is dying /

Away in the west, /

The wild birds are flying /

In silence to rest; /

In leafage and frondage /

Where shadows are deep, /

They pass to its bondage — /

The kingdom of sleep. /

And watched in their sleeping /

By stars in the height, /

They rest in your keeping, /

Oh, wonderful night.

Before going out again, I changed my shirt and phoned Canberra. I got Michiko. She sounded just as she always had. They’d prefer that I stayed with them. She’d prepared Al’s room, as there was little chance he’d suddenly appear in Canberra. Their house was in Turner. I should drive in on A23 – Northbourne Avenue – and make a right onto Condamine Street. She went on for several minutes and asked whether I wanted it repeated. I said no, that I’d phone late tomorrow if I got lost. But I had spent several years at Black Mountain myself.

Michiko began apologizing, but I hushed her by acknowledging that things had changed a lot – we had kept day-workers shackled. That got her. I told her of my plan to leave Dubbo before ten and to be in Cowra for lunch, a visit to the camp and the Garden, and to get to Turner by 16:00 or 16:30. And I plugged my Sat-phone in to recharge.

I then retraced my steps to the Old Bank where I had a superb rack of (local) lamb with roasted cauliflower and two glasses of excellent wine. I walked back, showered, and read several chapters of Upfield. (Was re-reading Upfield regressing? No, I didn’t think so. But it was me reaching back to the familiar and stable. Was this kind of introspection expected?