28.3.11 – Sheep, grey nomads and the call of home (Wilpena Pound, South Australia)

Hiking Meg

28.3.11 – Sheep, grey nomads and the call of home (Wilpena Pound, South Australia)

Burnt tree

Over rocks and gullies, under spreading gum trees that scattered the sunlight around our feet, below immense red ramparts of cliff faces, across little water-filled creeks, past huge silvery fallen trees, perforated with insect burrows, or hollowed out by fire, creating caves of charcoal in the heart of the trunk.

Hill's Homestead

At last we reached the look out, and spread out below us was the great bowl of Wilpena Pound, rimmed with red rock faces softened by trees, and filled with abundant growth. But it wasn’t always like this. We had passed a little stone house – a ‘but ’n ben’ as we would say in Scotland. This was once the Hills Homestead where in the 1850’s, the Hill family established a sheep farm. Lush greenery, water, some shade from the sun – it was all there to make for success. They leased the land and built the house. The Government told them how many head of sheep they should keep, and taxed them accordingly, so they had no choice but to put 120,000 sheep into the Pound. Within 15 years, the lush growth was totally gone, and cracked, hard, drought stricken earth and blinding dust nearly drove them off the land. But then it rained, and they tried again, this time with only 20,000 sheep. Again the drought came. So they moved over to growing wheat. In order to get the wheat out through the narrow gulley, which is the only entrance among the towering cliffs, they spent years building a roadway. Again the drought came. Just as they were despairing, on Christmas day, torrential rain poured down, the rain they had dreamed of. But its violence and power, as it fell on the parched, brick-like ground, washed away the roadway they had built with so much pain and effort. That was the end for the Hill family’s endeavours – the longed-for rain had done what the drought could not do.

Landrover Letter Box

Wilpena Pound is now a National Park, and is full of hiking trails and wild life. Unfortunately, one of the hikes proved to be miles through the pitch black forest, full of ominous rustlings, to the toilet block. Furthermore, altogether too much wild life of the winged variety was keen to share our caravan overnight. So we cancelled our second night and retired back to the site at Hawker, narrowly avoiding the emu which dashed across the road in front of the van, and discovering the best letter box yet, cunningly disguised as a pink Landrover. 

 

Back at the site, the silence of the bush was mellowed by the gentle chatter of a group of mature citizens, including us, who sat in the sun with the owners, sharing anecdotes about life on the road. I asked what ‘Grey nomads’ were. ‘You are’, was the reply. It seems that a lot of aged Australians set off in caravans to have a good look at their country, ’before it’s too late’. They stay away for months or even years. We’ve met numerous people doing this. Most campsites are full of them. The owner here said that this is the bulk of their custom, and indeed they are about to become grey nomads themselves when they sell their business (if anyone wants to buy a lovely campsite with house in the Australian bush, now is your chance!) 

 

We also met another couple, dusty from their recent hike as we were. Reading my T-shirt (emblazoned ‘SCOTLAND’) we got talking. They are from Broomhill, near our flat in Glasgow, and he is also a fisherman around the islands of Muck and Eigg. They were in the last week of their stay here, and admitted that they were now missing home. I agreed that the call of Scotland was getting stronger for us too – ‘Westering Home’ is beginning to sound very attractive.