 Barcaldine, Garden City of the West:  In 1891, Barcaldine became the headquarters of the Great Shearers' Strike that resulted in the formation of the Australia Labor Party and a graziers' group which later evolved into the National Party. An enduring symbol of the strike lives on in the Tree of Knowledge, the imposing ghost gum in the town's main street where the strike meetings were held.   Barcaldine has less then 2000 people yet this photo contains four pubs almost cheek by jowl!  A working windmill pumps water into a sculpture:  The old Radio Theatre:  War Memorial and Post Office:  Australian Workers Heritage Centre:  Jericho:    Over the Great Dividing Range (400 km from the coast at this point):  Emerald:  Lake Maraboon:   Neighbours:   Sunset:  |
Barcaldine to Lake Maraboon
We set off in yet another bright, sunny day, stopping first in the township
to explore some historical venues. Barcaldine’s [Bah-call-dn] claim to fame
hinges on possessing the Tree of Knowledge. This is now dead, but the
ancient trunk is enveloped by a surprising timber overhang, designed to
appear to the visitor standing below and looking up as if it were the
leaves. The tree is a memorial to the Shearers’ Strike which eventually led
to the foundation of the Australian Labor Party and the evolution of the National Party.
We explored the town on foot, noting the War Memorial in a side street and
the local ABC Radio station set up in what looked to have been a hotel in a
former life. After that, I drove the 90 kms to the hamlet of Jericho.
Stopping for a break, we admired an unusual stone sculpture called the
Twelve Apostles. I wondered if Jericho were a religious town. Bruce took
photos.
Bruce drove from Jericho to Alpha and I took the wheel for the easy drive
from there for the 70 kms of straight road into Emerald. The scenery was
changing as we drew further east. It was still very hot, but now there were
more trees and the landscape undulated. We smiled at a sign which said we
were at the top of the Great Dividing Range, 404 metres above sea level. In
Emerald, we parked in the welcome shade of an overhanging tree and went to a
nearby ‘Red Rooster’ for a welcome and delicious roast chicken dinner.
Needing more food supplies for our coming night at Lake Maraboon, we sought
the local shopping mall, large, air-conditioned and welcome. How good it was
to get out of the relentless heat! After a quick coffee and the necessary
shopping, Bruce took the wheel and turned off the Landsborough Highway,
eventually taking the road to Lake Maraboon. In a short time we had entered
the huge and attractive camp set in lakeside bushland. This stop would
revive our flagging spirits.
We were delighted with out van ‘spot’ at the far end of the park, private
and overlooking the bushland-screened lake. Quickly we set up table and
chairs, made tea and relaxed with a sigh for the next hour or so, taking in
the view, admiring the many bright and cheeky Lorikeets hopping nearby
hoping for handouts and making plans for the remaining journey. I had
already seen the amenities block, but knowing we had accumulated much
washing, tramped off to find the communal laundry. In such a big park, it
took me a while to find it, but I was not in a hurry and on the way back,
detoured down through the bush to the lake where several small parties of
picnickers were enjoying the serenity of the still lake in the warmth of the
late afternoon. Clambering back up the steep slope to where I guessed we
were parked, I flopped out of breath for a while before gathering up the
washing and heading off once more.
Having decided to wait for the wash to be completed, I upturned my bucket
and sat on that, getting out my knitting to while away the time while
enjoying the early evening. Not far away, there was another country and
western concert in full swing, the sound of many singing voices adding a
pleasant note to the evening atmosphere. Before long, seeing me sitting
quietly, a woman stopped to chat. She used to live in the pleasant green of
Bowral, but she and her husband now live in dusty Lightning Ridge fossicking
for opals. I was fascinated that a couple, no longer young, wanted to live
in such harsh conditions, but she reassured me. ‘We love Lightning Ridge. We
wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, though I do return to Bowral
intermittently to look after my grandchildren.’ That comment made me even more
curious to see Lightning Ridge for myself.
Back at the van, having risked leaving the washing on the park laundry line
overnight, we ate a simple meal and before long retired. During the night a
strong wind blew up, stirring the trees around us. I slept fitfully,
dreaming of washing strewn all around the park. Thankfully it was still
where I’d left it the night before.