Tag Archives: Nancy Cato

Chapter one: GOOLWA THE GHOST TOWN

“Though most men are contented only to see a river as it runs by them,” wrote Sir William Temple, “yet he that would know the nature of the water… must find out its source…”

Equally he must seek out its end, for when a great river at last approaches the sea it is most truly itself.

Here are gathered together all the streams, trickles, tributaries and back—waters of which it is formed, from the far—off source to the sea.

The Murray River, which cuts off a wedge—shaped slice of the Australian continent in its south-eastern corner, ends at Goolwa Beach in South Australia. The last and widest section is called the Goolwa Channel.  Here one of the oldest and most interesting towns on the whole length of the river grew up in the paddle—steamer days.

Goolawa or Gulwa was the local aborigines‘ word for “elbow”.  They bestowed it on the last great bend of the Murray, where the river holds Hindmarsh Island in the crook of its arm. After this it turns and cuts a way through the barrier of sandhills to the sea.

Along the beach great heaps of empty cockleshells can be found in the sandhills, and digging reveals further layers beneath the sand, with the charcoal of old campfires. For this was a gathering place of the tribes, a place for meeting and feasting for thousands of years before the white man came.

Sometimes the wind uncovers a skeleton. Sometimes the glance of a smoky dark eye, a creamy complexion, or thin brown legs proclaim the aboriginal ancestry of a local inhabitant.   Otherwise little trace remains of this once handsome and numerous race, who wove seaweed cloaks and made garments of kangaroo skin and built shelters to keep the cold. south-west winds away.

Like the blackfeller* with his stories and traditions the river-boats and their captains have disappeared from Goolwa.

(*After much thought I have used the word “blackfeller” in my book, as I love its liquid poetic lilt, rather than the harsh-sounding ‘aborigine’.  In no way is it meant to be offensive, as I have the deepest respect and affection for these people.)

The old graving-dock has been towed upriver to Mannum.  The beat of hammers and anvils at Graham’s foundry is heard no more; the slips where many steamers and barges were built are gone, and the last paddle-steamer settles deeper in the mud.  She is the sternwheeler Captain Sturt, which helped to build the first locks on the Murray and the series of barrages at the mouth to keep the salt sea out of the river and the lakes. Her bottom is filled with cement, and she didn’t even move in the great flood of 1956.   Her owners simply moved to the top deck and let the water flow through.  Where once the boats unloaded at the bustling wharf, all is deserted except for the young Australians – “New”, “Old” and “Oldest” — who swing from the idle cranes and drop into the water about the sunken wreck of the Renmark.  The Invincible hides away among a jumble of launches

and houseboats.  The William Randell and the Cadell, named after the two rivals who were first to navigate the Murray by steam, lie side by side on the bottom with the old Melbourne barge. The chunk-chunk-chunk of paddles, the gentle chuff of steam, and the shrill thrilling whistle of paddlewheelers departing for Morgan and Mildura, Wentworth and Wilcannia and Bourke, are heard no more. Goolwa has become a ghost town.

The imposing courthouse and gaol have little use these days. The Signal Station at the mouth, built in the days when George Johnston took cargoes regularly from the river to the sea, has crumbled away with disuse.  Though sometimes, with mistaken zeal, it is whitewashed, the local limestone weathers to a mellow gold when left alone.  The old stone walls fronting the houses on Admiralty Terrace, the magnificent round—roofed stables which sheltered the horses that pulled the train to Port Elliot, the charming home built for Mr Jones, Superintendent of the railway — all blend with the sunburnt grasses and the blue—green river as though they had grown there like trees. ,

Just as the murmur of history sounds under the somnolent everyday calm of Goolwa township, the voice of the sea is an ever-present undertone. When the “bald sou’easter” beats up the channel, rippling the surface into choppy waves, the never-quiet surf is lashed to a menacing roar as it beats on the open coast beyond, out of sight behind the sandhills.

So it sounded when Captain Charles Sturt crossed those sandhills, the first white man to do so. That was in 1830, a hundred and thirty-five years ago.

“Our situation was one of peculiar excitement and interest. To our right the thunder of the heavy surf, that almost shook the ground beneath us, broke with increasing roar upon our ears; to our left the voice of the natives echoed through the brush… “

That night the moon was nearly full, silvering the wide reach of river. It was such a lovely night that Sturt, who had intended leaving at dawn to cross the sandhills to the coast rather than drag the boat over the intervening mud-flats, called the others at three a.m.  With McLeay and Frazer he crossed row after row of sandhills. The tide was in, and they had an uncomfortable walk in the soft sand for seven miles before they came to the narrow mouth of the Murray.   They reached it just as dawn was breaking, and stared with dismay at that inhospitable coastline, with its curving rows of foam like the bands of white lace edging a shawl.

“The mouth of the channel,” wrote Sturt sadly, “is defended by a double line of breakers, amidst which it would be dangerous to venture except in calm and summer weather; and the line of foam is unbroken from one end of Encounter Bay to the other.  Thus were our fears of the impracticability and inutility of the channel of communication between the lake and the ocean confirmed.”

Indeed this is one of the grandest, loneliest sights in the world, akin to the terrible peaks of the Himalayas.  Standing alone on the Ninety-Mile Beach one has the feeling of General Bruce regarding Nanga Parbat: “It gave one a feeling of impossibility; it gave one also a feeling that one wasn’t there, and that if one wasn’t there, it didn’t matter…”

The whole fury of the Southern Ocean, unbroken by any land between here and the Antarctic, beats upon this shallow sandy coast.  It can make little mark upon it, and “the league-long rollers” pound in vain.  A cold white spume drifts inland, shrouding the sandhills in perpetual mist.  After days of southerlies the foam becomes solid, scudding along the sand like soap-suds.

Occasionally with a north wind the thunder of the surf is subdued, but not the massive swell. Captain Johnston, the “River Murray spaniel”, a man of great strength and a remarkable swimmer, is one of the few men who have gone overboard into the breakers at the river’s mouth and lived to tell the tale — he and the man he saved, the master of the Eureka barge.

Many others were drowned, including Captain Blenkinsop and Judge Jeffcott, who had gone through in a small boat to prove that the mouth was navigable and Goolwa an ideal site for the capital of South Australia.  Many steamers and barges went aground there, but many others made the passage safely. George Johnston took the “Melbourne” steamer in and out on a. regular run round to Port Adelaide, nearly a hundred years ago.   On Admiralty Terrace, Goolwa, high above the river bank, stands the stone-walled house built by Younghusband of the River Murray Navigation Co. ; and “Cockenzie”, the big house built by Captain Johnston for his wife Lizzie.  Between them was a lookout, where watch could be kept for steamers coming through the Mouth, and a cannon was

kept for signalling.  Up would go the flag on the signal station, and out would go Lizzie Johnston to fire her gun to announce the arrival of the Melbourne by way of the channel Sturt declared unnavigable. How proud she was of her man!

He plied hack and forth in his ungainly-looking steamers, side-wheelers with high, topheavy superstructures and very shallow draught.  He brought out from Scotland the finest of them all, the Queen of the South, which was to prove that the Mouth was safe in all weathers.  Alas! the ‘Queen of the South’ grounded on one side of the channel; a grand piano was thrown overboard and washed up, an unlikely wreck on Goolwa Beach, and George Johnston lost the bonus promised him by the Government.

Francis Cadell too lost his famous Melbourne and once was nearly drowned in the river entrance he was first to open up to trade. For it was he who brought the Johnstons and the Ritchies and the other Scottish skippers out from Cockenzie, to build cottages in the style of their home town so that Goolwa was given the name of “Little Scotland”.   Almost all the houses in those days were solidly and attractively built of the local limestone with brick coigns -as were the Institute, Landseer’s flour mill and the big Customs shed.

In those days Goode’s store in the main street was the largest in the Colony; there were three hotels, three churches, two breweries, three boat-building slips, a sawmill and a foundry.  A train ran to Victor Harbour four times a day.

The river alongside the wharf was jammed with steamers,  the Customs shed overflowed with wool and wheat and hides, the town was bursting with life and activity.

In the 1860’s Abraham Graham built at least twelve vessels, (with iron hulls that later had to be sheathed in river gum, which becomes harder than iron under water) and supplied engines for nine of them.  Today no trace remains of the foundry except the old beam engine which used to haul the steamers up onto the slip.  It stands today near Sturt’s Landing, by the children’s playground. The rest of the machinery from the foundry went upriver long since to the pumping stations of the irrigation settlements, to help turn the Murray water into the gold of sultanas and oranges.

Graham’s Castle*(*now acquired by University for adult education), which he built with profits from the foundry, still stands on the high land looking towards the open sea. It has foot-thick walls, towers and battlements and secret rooms, and a well-authenticated ghost.

No steamers come off the slip these days, to be launched with champagne and tricolour silk, for it’s many a year since Goolwa people bid godspeed to a steamer built from stem to stern by Goolwa men.    Landseer’s flour mill is a pathetic ruin, but many of the old buildings remain.  The public buildings of Victorian period and the Cockenzie-style cottages give the town its quaintly old-fashioned air.

Let us hope no modern “motel” of concrete and glass will displace the ancient Goolwa Hotel, with the figurehead of the wrecked “Mozambique” — her face and buxom figure kept in repair with a yearly coat of paint — perched upon the roof.  Inside, the cedar bannisters and the cedar chairs came from the same Windjammer.

TILL about ten years ago Thomas Goode’s wooden hut still stood beside his store though you’d never notice it unless you knew it was there, with its shingles peeping from under the iron roof.

Adam Johnstone’s house, built from the hull of a boat with planks that are slightly curved, is still standing.   Sir George Ritchie added an imposing front and called the house “Port Seton”.  He mounted a gun at the stone gateposts, and on the roof the signal-gun that once belonged to George Johnston.   (Port Seton was later owned by Mr. Dodd, of the pleasure launch “Rose”.)

The wide sweep of cloud-reflecting waters, the flotillas of swans and pelicans, the shags drying their wings in the sun, are much the same as when Sturt came this way, for from here to the Mouth has been proclaimed a sanctuary for birds.  Much of the past remains. The surf thundering on the bar still sounds the same, and the far wild cry of the swans going over from the sanctuary to the Lakes.  Goolwa, liquid-sounding name given by its first inhabitants to the river’s last bend, has developed enormously in recent years, but its heart remains essentially unchanged today – one of the few historic towns in Australia to have kept its individuality and its charm.

go to chapter 2

RIVER’S END – THE HOW, WHY AND WHEREFORE OF THIS BOOK

RIVER’S END:

THE HOW, WHY AND WHEREFORE OF THIS BOOK

The drawings and the stories for this book were collected in and around Goolwa between 1950 and 1960. This is the explanation of how it all happened and how the book developed into its present form…

I gained my degree in medicine and surgery at Manchester University in 1935.  I married in Bombay in 1936. I went home to have my first baby in Manchester in 1937 and met for the first time a much loved sister of my mother’s who had spent her married life in Australia married to Dr. Frank Mathwin, for many years doctor at Port Broughton.  After his death she came home for a trip with her daughter – we liked each other very much
and she gave me a very pressing invitation to visit South Australia with my husband and baby. Many British people in India spent their annual leave visiting Australia on the P&O ships.

 

The war came in 1939 and I got a most loving letter from her offering a home to me and my children (two by then) if Donald should be posted to the Middle East.  In September, 1940 we were in Calcutta. Donald was ordered to the Middle East, my baby boy was very ill after a dreadful attack of dysentery, I gratefully telegraphed to my aunt and we landed in Port Adelaide on October 14th, 1940. What a welcome! I shall
never forget their warmth and generosity.

 

My cousin had married a descendant of the original German settlers in South Australia and was living in Tanunda. The children and I spent many many happy weeks there. I was fascinated with the stories of the German settlers, many still speaking German and above all worshipping in German, yet loyally fighting for Australia in this bitter war against Germany. The war memorials tell only too sadly the price the Barossa Valley paid in two world wars.

 

This is what drew me to read all about Wakefield’s dream and the settlement of white people in South Australia, determined by Act of Parliament in 1836, almost a hundred and fifty years ago.

 

Another event that tied my love and loyalty to South Australia, apart from my children’s wonderful health, was my commission as Captain in the Australian Army Medical Corps in charge of the Blood Transfusion Service in the Freemason’s Hall on North Terrace. I was so proud of my uniform and my rising suns, the only woman in South Australia commissioned into the men’s army.

When the Japanese were defeated I took the children back to India. My husband had been able to come on leave so I had a nine months old Aussie baby born in Mount Lofty – one born in Manchester, one born in India, and now one in Australia.

I went back expecting to pick up life as 1 had left it, like the happy years we had spent from 1936 to the outbreak of war. I did not dream that within two years the partition of India would confront us. What to do? I had been very happy with the children here in South Australia, so Donald brought us over to find and make a home here while he went back to spend a last six months in India trying to tie up loose ends. He had a very responsible job in Ordnance to hand over.

 

Meanwhile, I looked for somewhere to settle. It wasn’t easy after all the confusion of the war, but somehow we found ourselves in River Road at Goolwa, opposite the Captain Sturt camping ground.

I had no medical work and so I looked for something else to do. My deep interest in the history of South Australia sent me delving here and there, all over Goolwa, the quiet ghost town. It was easy to find people who remembered going up the river on the paddle steamers with their grandfathers. I began to write down their stories. I looked at all the old buildings, and gradually the river history began to shape itself in my mind and then on paper.

Two wonderful people appeared to help me. My husband and I went to England in 1956, and on the way back we met Harry Rolland, a famous architect and Commonwealth Director of Works, who had built Canberra from Burley Griffin s plans.  He started in 1913, and handed over the city to the Duke of York (later George the Sixth) in 1928.  Later he planned and built Alice Springs when Director of Works here in Adelaide. When
I saw how beautifully he could draw I begged him to come and draw Goolwa. Retired, widowed, lonely, he agreed and for three years he came for about three weeks perhaps four or five times a year and drew everything that was precious and beautiful in and around Goolwa.

My ‘book’ was a hopeless uncoordinated muddle. I gave my manuscript with the drawings, to a much-revered man of letters at Adelaide University whose family I had known well during the war. I shall never forget him standing on some steps at the University with my manuscript in his arms. “Leslie!” he said. “What on earth have you written?  A document or a novel? An autobiography? A collection of anecdotes? What a muddle!
But there is so much in it, and of course the sketches are exquisite. Do try and do something sensible with it.”

Along came my second wonderful person, Nancy Cato. She was living in Goolwa at the time. She already had a number of highly successful books to her credit and above all she loved the River Murray and Goolwa. She took my muddle, added to it much of her own knowledge, worked for six months and produced this book, River’s End.  A third wonderful person was Dr. Norman Tindale, anthropologist, who had spent many years studying the Narrinyeri, the Aborigines who belonged to the river. Recently a full blood aboriginal born at Point McLeay told me that he had been about ten years of age when Dr. Tindale went to live with his people there. He said it was because the elders of the tribe loved and trusted Dr. Tindale that they told him their stories, for they were very silent secret people.

When Dr. Tindale met me and read what I had managed to put together he gave me all the myths, stories, beliefs that he had been given by the elders of the Narrinyeri, and he gave me permission to include them in my book as a permanent tribute to those wonderful people who had belonged to the river for thousands of years.

I have just had the great pleasure of meeting Dr. Tindale again after all these years, and ne has given his blessing to this book and to my use of the name ‘blackfeller’ rather than aborigine’ because of its poetic sound. He also confirmed the story about the Encounter Bay tribe singing to the whales, and told me that there is evidence that they were using porpoises to bring in the fish!

Thank you, Nancy Cato. Thank you, Harry Rolland. Thank you, Dr. Tindale.
Lastly I must add one more thank you. I had great difficulty in trying to publish the book.  Then in 1960 I became a Medical Officer at Northfield Mental Hospital – 1200 patients under the care of Dr. Salter with only three doctors on his staff. I was the fourth, and for twenty-one years I worked at the hospital which later became Hillcrest.

There was no time to think about books! It was people that mattered.  However, I retired three years ago, and with all the publicity about South Australia’s 150th anniversary I began to think of my book, River’s End. Harry Rolland’s pencil sketches were nearly twenty-five years old. But our Senior Pharmacist at Hillcrest, Peter Ruch, is a gifted artist, and he took Harry’s drawings, copied and strengthened them, making them young again. The majority of drawings in the book are Peter Ruch’s copies of Harry’s sketches. Thank you, Peter. . .

*    *    *    *

 

Today I am sitting quietly in my little office, so generously given to me by Hillcrest Hospital when I retired, and thinking about the past.  We moved from the house on River Road at Goolwa, to the original old house built by
Younghusband the Chief Secretary in 1854.  It stands on Admiral Terrace high above the river at the exact point of the elbow. We can look far up the river towards Point McLeay and down as far as the Barrage.

We still go down to Goolwa most weekends and from our verandah watch the sun and the moon rise above Hindmarsh Island and make a path of light across the water opposite our house.   Many of the old buildings appearing in this book have been demolished or altered beyond recognition. But more and more people are coming to Goolwa today and building new houses. They are interested in the past, and the Goolwa Museum is doing wonderful work keeping old memories alive.   I hope this book will add to the history of our town and our river. Let us not forget that in the early days Goolwa supplied the needs of the Eastern States, and played a
great part in the development of early Australia.

 

And that’s the how, why and wherefore of this book. . .

Leslie Margaret McLeay

Hillcrest Hospital
April 1985

http://www.bishop.com.au/chapter-1-rivers-end-goolwa-the-ghost-town/