Field Guide to Falling in Love in Tasmania

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  • The Swamp

    The Swamp

    The day I was supposed to shuffle into Invermay, back in June, the rivers were in flood. Invermay was evacuated and it seemed likely that the suburb would be swept away.

    We were lucky: despite the huge volumes of water in the rivers, they didn’t exceed the newly-built flood levees. I moved in along with my scarce few possessions. William, my housemate, had put the record player on the mantelpiece: the only concession he’d made to possibility of
    disaster.

    Invermay remembers floods: in 1929, around 2000 of its homes were washed away and 22 lives were lost. But this has always been an area that is susceptible to the rivers’ influence. The suburb is built on reclaimed land, and an early colonial name was ‘Swampton’. It was not seen as attractive land, and settlements didn’t spread much in this direction until the first systematic draining works occurring after fifty years of Launceston’s settlement. The area had serious hygiene concerns for decades, with scarlet fever, typhoid, and respiratory illnesses all worryingly prevalent.

    It quickly built itself into an industrious area – a lively neighbourhood, replete with buskers and brothels. It retains an eclectic local population. It also has eclectic architecture: cottages line narrow alleys between the main drags, and a number of beautiful art-deco buildings stand, including our lovely Post Office. We also have a high concentration of mechanics, and more takeaway stores than you can poke a stick at.

    History persists and pervades, but changes are always wrought, and more are on their way. Our footy ground, York Park, is branded as the University of Tasmania Stadium; a plethora of government dollars have been pledged to transfer the entire uni to its Invermay campus. It will change everything here. Sorting out the traffic will be challenging; house prices will surge; businesses will open; demographics will change. The bain marie may be replaced by taps of craft beer.

    I spent the winter here, my first Tasmanian winter in some years.
    Afternoons were crushed by darkness quickly, old boats’ silhouettes disappearing as river and darkness merged. The sirens at the nearby football stadium yowled, corresponding with the anguished mewing of our local cats. The Boags brewery gave up its malty belch. Smoke, fog and mist lowered themselves into the river valley. Pedestrians battled robust winds that are driven down the Tamar. The hostelries seem quiet, but there is always life at the hearths in the corners of the public bars.

    Summer fled by, with its usual flurry of visitors and excursions. Bright red baubles appeared on the tomato vines in the backyard. Housemates passed like ships in the night.

    Now evening darkness comes early again, and I'm off. Mick, my neighbour, caught me putting boxes of books in my car the other day. “You’re not moving out are ya?” he bellowed. I felt guilty telling him that I was.

    I was never going to be here for long enough to become a true swampie: not like the bloke I met at the Bizzy Bee, on an electric skateboard, wearing the t-shirt of a local contemporary dance show. He had Invermay’s postcode, 7248, tattooed on his neck. We were both buying hot chips.

    Mick and I kept talking. He’s a good neighbour: he’s a gruff character, but always happy to stop and chat when we run into him walking his two dogs, Bear and Nightmare, down the street. Somehow our rambling chat came to a familiar old topic. Mick threw his arms up to express its mystery: “Love.”

    This is a place that invites the curious to keep paying attention. My notebooks are replete with Invermay observations. As I write this, Mick stops to chat with another neighbour and his pram-bound baby. Black swans and purple swamp-hens stomp the rushes along the North Esk: they are the true swampies, I suspect. The marsh beneath asphalted streets shakes beneath the tyres of trucks.

    I am moving out of this ecosystem, Mick, and wandering off into another one. I may or may not be back in Swampton. You never really know.

  • On a Moonlight Night

    On a Moonlight Night

    “Memory takes me back to the scene of the Tamar in the hop grounds of Mr. Barnes of Trevallyn where on a moonlight night in 1829…”

    Upon arrival to Van Diemen’s Land, William Barnes was given a 30-acre block of land at the confluence of the Tamar and South Esk Rivers. It was the summer of 1824, and Barnes was 33 years old, unattached, and ambitious.

    On the Triton, which had brought him from his native Cheshire to Hobart Town, he had befriended a Scottish brewer who was also migrating to the colonies. Making his way overland to the north of Van Diemen’s Land, it suddenly dawned on Barnes that although the town had grown to a population of more than a thousand people, it had no brewery.

    Described as ‘a young man in a hurry’, it is little surprise that Barnes used another allotment of land to build his own brewery. It was not the first on the island – a Mr. Gatehouse had begun brewing in Hobart in 1823 – but it was certainly the original brewery in the north. He called it the Port Dalrymple Brewery.

    The allotment of land was on the corner of Margaret and Paterson Streets, between the barracks and the windmill. Today, a bottle shop stands there.

    Using water from the Tamar, and barley at four shillings a bushel, Barnes’ beer was well received. Convict labour helped with the brewer’s investment.

    For three years he was without a competitor. By the time John Fawns began the rival Cornwall Brewery – collecting water from the Cataract Gorge by punt – William Barnes was an exceedingly wealthy man.

    So much so that he managed to acquire further land along the Tamar and South Esk Rivers. What is now the Cataract Gorge, as well as the entire suburbs of Trevallyn and Riverside, belonged to William Barnes. With his passing in 1848, it became the property of his and his wife’s only child together, William Barnes jnr.

    Barnes jnr. and his wife donated the Cataract Gorge grounds to the city of Launceston.

    But what was it that the letter-writer to the newspaper remembered from that moonlit night in 1829? (Actually, it was 1830.) It was a scene where the author saw missionary George Robinson and his assembly of ‘sable friends’ camping out on Barnes’ land. While the correspondent spoke with Barnes, Trugernanna was cooking a possum over the coals.

    “I observed the conversation and saw the flashing eye of the black girl, then a few years older than myself,” he wrote to the newspaper, on the occasion of Trugernanna’s death, nearly five decades later.

    Memory takes us back to the scene indeed.

     
    What does it mean to propose to make changes to the Cataract Gorge?