first European to lay eyes on the place, in 1827. He battled his way north from Sydney through forests and mountain ranges and suddenly he saw this open, rolling country. Perfect for grazing. He named it after the Governor of New South Wales — Lieutenant-General Ralph Darling. And so here we are today.’
William nodded. He knew that Cunningham was a famous explorer — but that was only history. He was more impressed by the station unfolding before him. They couldn’t be more than a mile along the track, but to William it already felt wide and empty. Old fences ran alongside the road, and a few grazing cattle lifted their heads as the utility drove by, but there were no buildings, no ploughed paddocks, no telephone poles or power lines. Just the hills and the blue sky above.
‘Of course, what Cunningham saw was only the southern edge of the Downs. That’s miles south of here, down near Warwick. He never saw the Kuran Plains or the Hoop Mountains. That was left to the first settlers. The grass was so tall that it came up to the shoulders of their horses. But along the spur here, this was all eucalypt forest. It took them years to clear it for grazing.’
They hadn’t cleared it entirely, however. There were still plenty of trees on the open slopes, where the grass grew brown and stiff, and cattle rested in the shade. Tall graceful gums with smooth white trunks, or grey ones with the bark peeling away in hairy strips. Trees that flung out wide canopies and had fat red trunks like rusty iron, trees that were hunched and contorted, with rough, jagged bark. There were gullies too, with a denser scrub of bushes and ugly, tangled vines. William saw crows take flight as the utility approached, heard their harsh croaks over the engine. He glimpsed a hare darting off the road in alarm. And once he was startled by three wallabies rearing out of the grass and bounding away. But mostly the hills were a sleepy, shaggy place, an old country baking under the sun. His uncle said it was young, but that was impossible to believe.
‘Hardly anyone comes here now,’ the old man said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Only the cattle, and not so many of them, not with the drought. We’re running about a quarter of what we’d have in a good season. At mustering time I’ll have men up here with horses or motorbikes, but otherwise there’s no reason for anyone to be around. And that’s the way I want to keep it. Some stations out west get tourists in. They set up campgrounds and picnic areas, and people wander all over the place. Not on my land, though. I’d never let that happen here.’
William could hear the pride in the way his uncle said ‘my land’. It had never occurred to him to be proud of his little farm back home. How could you be proud of a square mile of dirt? But the station was something much more, a great bulk of land that rolled and reared. The hills rose steeper, and the crests of some them were tumbled with boulders. The banks of the gullies grew more precipitous, the scrub within them more dense and forbidding. Now they were passing into an altogether wilder, darker country. The House and its gentle hill seemed far behind, and it was easy to imagine packs of wild dogs roaming up here, and century-old trees lurking in forgotten corners. The only modern structure William could see was a rusty windmill, standing at the foot of a tall slope, a water tank tethered to its side, with a trough for the cattle. The grass was beaten down around it, and from the windmill a narrow path curled back and forth up the hill. The top was half hidden by trees, but staring up William thought he could see — somehow disturbingly — a ring of stones there, jutting from the grass.
‘In the early days,’ his uncle continued, ‘these hills were a lonely place. The only thing up here was an old shepherd’s hut. When I was boy I used to hear stories about how two men were stationed there, way back in the 1850s, when there was no House
William nodded. He knew that Cunningham was a famous explorer — but that was only history. He was more impressed by the station unfolding before him. They couldn’t be more than a mile along the track, but to William it already felt wide and empty. Old fences ran alongside the road, and a few grazing cattle lifted their heads as the utility drove by, but there were no buildings, no ploughed paddocks, no telephone poles or power lines. Just the hills and the blue sky above.
‘Of course, what Cunningham saw was only the southern edge of the Downs. That’s miles south of here, down near Warwick. He never saw the Kuran Plains or the Hoop Mountains. That was left to the first settlers. The grass was so tall that it came up to the shoulders of their horses. But along the spur here, this was all eucalypt forest. It took them years to clear it for grazing.’
They hadn’t cleared it entirely, however. There were still plenty of trees on the open slopes, where the grass grew brown and stiff, and cattle rested in the shade. Tall graceful gums with smooth white trunks, or grey ones with the bark peeling away in hairy strips. Trees that flung out wide canopies and had fat red trunks like rusty iron, trees that were hunched and contorted, with rough, jagged bark. There were gullies too, with a denser scrub of bushes and ugly, tangled vines. William saw crows take flight as the utility approached, heard their harsh croaks over the engine. He glimpsed a hare darting off the road in alarm. And once he was startled by three wallabies rearing out of the grass and bounding away. But mostly the hills were a sleepy, shaggy place, an old country baking under the sun. His uncle said it was young, but that was impossible to believe.
‘Hardly anyone comes here now,’ the old man said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Only the cattle, and not so many of them, not with the drought. We’re running about a quarter of what we’d have in a good season. At mustering time I’ll have men up here with horses or motorbikes, but otherwise there’s no reason for anyone to be around. And that’s the way I want to keep it. Some stations out west get tourists in. They set up campgrounds and picnic areas, and people wander all over the place. Not on my land, though. I’d never let that happen here.’
William could hear the pride in the way his uncle said ‘my land’. It had never occurred to him to be proud of his little farm back home. How could you be proud of a square mile of dirt? But the station was something much more, a great bulk of land that rolled and reared. The hills rose steeper, and the crests of some them were tumbled with boulders. The banks of the gullies grew more precipitous, the scrub within them more dense and forbidding. Now they were passing into an altogether wilder, darker country. The House and its gentle hill seemed far behind, and it was easy to imagine packs of wild dogs roaming up here, and century-old trees lurking in forgotten corners. The only modern structure William could see was a rusty windmill, standing at the foot of a tall slope, a water tank tethered to its side, with a trough for the cattle. The grass was beaten down around it, and from the windmill a narrow path curled back and forth up the hill. The top was half hidden by trees, but staring up William thought he could see — somehow disturbingly — a ring of stones there, jutting from the grass.
‘In the early days,’ his uncle continued, ‘these hills were a lonely place. The only thing up here was an old shepherd’s hut. When I was boy I used to hear stories about how two men were stationed there, way back in the 1850s, when there was no House
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