The Crops

The Crops

 Crops – crops – crops - the biggest I have ever seen – the biggest and best the young farmers here have seen – “see my crop dad – see what modern agriculture can do” says the farmers son – “son my crops in ’55 were better than yours!” says the old timer.

These are crops that are huge – crops that are dense – barely a weed in site –crops that would normally be scrappy and ready for harvest still grow more and more dense and are unlikely to announce their readiness for reaping for another fortnight – “Oh I hope they down get any weather damage before harvesting” says Bernie.

I contemplate what these crops might mean - When these crops yield up their bounty they will be responsible for the ruin of the professional services business offered by the local rural phycologists – The yields will induce the bulldozers out to level the top of the hill adjacent to the existing homestead to enable the construction of a hug new, elegant home that will dwarf the old and signal the new found prosperity of the lease holders – not only will the bulldozing provide a level platform for the elegant house it will accommodate the range of colourbond clad farm sheds of such ugliness that they will render the effort put into the architectural design of the house a waste of time and of effort –

These are crops that will raise the price of farm machinery and enable the farm machinery suppliers to once again become prosperous.

And finally these are crops that will open some of the shop fronts that came into existence after the occasional bumper crops of earlier years or the pound per pound returns of the Riverina wool boom.

Turn into the caravan park – nice, clean – occupied but not overcrowded – decide to stay – the cabins that available for occupation unless the potential tenant has an appropriate boat licences – the cabins sit in water that challenges their floor boards – the normally dry flood plain serving it purpose in ameliorating the peak of potential downstream flooding.

The normally petulant van is starting to behave like a newly broken horse – nervous but obedient – she tolerates efforts to turn her from trailer to overnight accommodations – Bernie and I look at one another – we recognise that the transformation of the trailer has been achieved without any sign of tension or any elevation of voices.

The caravan park issues vouchers for fee drinks with dinner at the Shamrock Hotel – we stroll down towards the pub – pass a range of shops open for business but open in a relaxed and casual way that is consistent with customer streams that more resemble a gentle forest brook than a raging river – we pass the inevitable unoccupied shop front but they are much less frequent than expected – we pass the regal and ornate shell of the old Balranald Theatre Royal and dancehall – the dancehall remains but the street wings have been turned towards the service of commercial pursuits.

We reach the pub - we occupy the back bar while we await the opening of the bistro – three old timers sit with their regularly recharged glasses sitting in front of them – they have been together for a while this afternoon and they have temporarily exhausted their range of conversational topics – we stroll across to them – we provide them with the stimulus to re-engage in conversation – old mates – one a local – the others from Wollongong – they meet here every year for the Melbourne Cup – how has your day been? – today has been ok but yesterday was a blood disaster! says one – Wollongong is a great place says another – better than that bloody Newcastle says he – what are you doing here says the local – just passing through says I – do you know anyone here says he – yes – the people at Koolamon Station – “I know them! – They will know me – I drove the bus from Balranald to Swan Hill for years” Says he – “I know everyone here” says he.

I cannot believe it – a pub set so much in yesteryear that it is yet to be dragged down to complete desecration of that culinary masterpiece – the Vienna schnitzel – at least its imitation of the delight of Vienna is made with real beef tenderised by the generous and local application of the chef’s pulverising mallet and not with chicken bred specifically for the pub chicken schnitzel trade with preparation carefully controlled to remove all taste.

Memories of survivors – impressed! – The town remembers its returned soldiers – celebrates their lives both during and post the war

Back to the van – the giant mosquitoes follow us home – apply the “bushman’s” – they are rendered innocuous! – We sleep like true travellers.