# Old Melbourne Memories/Chapter 20

CHAPTER XX
YERING
When Mr. Lemuel Bolden and I rode to Yering from Heidelberg, about the year 1845, to pay a promised visit to Mr. William Ryrie, the Upper Yarra road and the place of our destination presented a different appearance.
We forded the Yarra below Mr. D. C. M'Arthur's orchard, and crossing a heavily-timbered river-flat, with deep reed-fringed lagoons, debouched on the up-river road. This particular locality was well known to me, inasmuch as, being formerly in our pastoral possession, it had constituted a species of "chase" in my early sporting days. The only denizens of that period were an occasional pair of sawyers, generally "Derwenters," as the Tasmanian expirees were called, thither attracted by the unusual size and straightness of the timber which grew in the flats and "bends" of the winding Yarra.
Owing to the sinuous shape of the lagoons on the south side of the river, coupled with the dense nature of the thickets, it was not an easy matter for a stranger to find his way through the maze. It ​naturally came to be, therefore, the happy hunting ground of my boyhood; many a grand day's sport and thrilling adventure did I have therein.
The largest lagoon was fringed with a wide border of reeds, growing in deep water. It had in the centre a clear lakelet or mere, upon the lonely waters of which disported the mountain duck, with his black and other congeners, the greater and lesser grebe; while among the reeds waded or flew the heron (Ardea australis), the sultana water-hen, a red-billed variety of the coot, the bittern, the landrail, and in the season an occasional flock of pied geese or black swans.
To approach the wild-fowl in the open mere was a work of difficulty, if not of danger, inasmuch as the water was too deep for wading, and the entanglement with weeds—which then cost more than one strong swimmer his life—was not out of the reckoning. I did once struggle to the verge of total exhaustion within the green meshes of one of these weed nets, in a lonely pool in which I had to swim for a black duck. The thought uppermost in my mind was that it would be such a time before I should be found, in case of—an accident which didn't come off. I used to circumvent my feathered friends in the horse-shoe lagoon by climbing a tree upon the slope which lay opposite. From this coign of vantage I could see the birds swimming in fancied security, and lay plans accordingly. In order to open fire with effect, I had caused to be conveyed a light canoe, which one of my sawyer friends had neatly scooped out for me, into the outer mere among the reeds. It was in waist-deep water—carefully ​concealed, and I could, of course, gain it unseen. Paddling or pulling it through the outer reed-brake, I ensconced myself at the edge of the clear water, waiting patiently until the unsuspecting birds sailed past. Once I remember getting two couple of black duck. An occasional goose, or even the lordly swan, found its way into my bag.
Once, as I had planned a day's shooting, I was startled by seeing a flock of ducks wheeling around, and finally making straight for the South Pole, as if decided not to return for a year. Gazing angrily around to discern the cause of this untoward migration, I descried a man carefully got up in correct shooting rig emerge from the reeds. Half-paralysed by the audacity of the unknown—this was years before the free-selection discovery—I sat still in my saddle for one moment. Then, as the enormity of the offence—trespass on our run—rose before me, I dashed spurs into my horse and charged the offender.
"What's your name, and what do you mean by coming here to shoot and frighten the ducks?" I called out, stopping my frantic steed within a few feet of him. "Don't you know whose ground you're on?"
The unknown looked calmly at me with a rather amused countenance (I was about fourteen, and scarcely looked my age), and then said, "Who the devil are you?"
"My name's Boldrewood," I returned, "and this is our run, and no one has any right to come here and shoot or do anything else without my father's leave." "Gad! I thought it was the Lord of the Manor ​at least! You're a smart youngster, but I don't know that there are any game laws in this country. What are you going to do with me for instance?"
The stranger turned out to be a guest at a neighbouring station. There were cattle stations in the vicinity in those days. Anyhow, we compromised matters and finished the day together.
Not far from the spot the late John Hunter Kerr, afterwards of Fernihurst, had a veritable cattle station. I attended one of the musters for a purpose. The cattle were in the yard, with various stock-riders and neighbours sitting around, preparatory to drafting, as I rode up, attended by a sable retainer driving a horse and cart.
What did I please to want? "I've come for our black J. B. bullock," said I. "He has been running with your cattle these two years, and I thought he would most likely come in with your muster."
"He is here sure enough, and in fine order, but how are you going to take him home? He always clears the yard when we begin to draft, and no stock-rider about here can drive him single-handed."
"I'll take him home fast enough," returned I, with colonial confidence, "if he'll stay in the yard long enough for me to shoot him."
"Oh, that's the idea," quoth Mr. Kerr. "Go to work; only don't miss him or drop any of my cattle." "No fear."
Old Harvey, an expatriated countryman of Cetewayo's, handed me my single-barrelled fowling-piece, a generally useful weapon, which had been loaded with ball for the occasion. I walked cautiously ​through the staring, wildish cattle, to the middle of the yard, where stood the big black bullock. He lowered his head, and began to paw the ground. I made a low bovine murmur, which I had found effective before; he raises his head and looks full at me for a second. The bullet crashes into the forehead "curl," and the huge savage lies prone—a quivering mass. Harvey promptly performs the necessary phlebotomy, and being dragged out of the yard, the black ox is skinned, quartered, and on his way to the beef-cask at Hartlands well within twenty minutes of his downfall.
Years after, when a full-fledged Riverina squatter, Mr. Kerr and I met in partibus. He at length recalled my name and locale, remarking, "Oh yes! remember now; you were the boy that shot the black bullock in my yard at South Yarra long ago."
Well, Mr. Bolden and I ride along the winding, gravelly bush road, over ranges that skirt and at times leave the course of the river wholly, not seeing a house or a soul, except Mr. Gardiner's dairy farm, for more than twenty miles. The country, in an agricultural and pastoral point of view, is as bad as can be. Thick—i.e. scrubby, poor in soil, scanty as to pasture, when all suddenly, as is so often the case in Australia, we come upon a "mountain park."
We cross a running creek by a bridge. We see a flock of sheep and a shepherd, the genuine "old hand " of the period. The slopes are gently rising towards the encircling highlands, the timber is pleasingly distributed, the soil, the pasture, has improved. We are in a new country. We have entered upon ​Yering proper, a veritable oasis in this unredeemed stringy-bark desert.
How Mr. William Ryrie, in the year 1837 or 1838, brought his flocks and herds and general pioneer equipment straight across country from Arnprior in far Monaro in New South Wales, hitting precisely upon this tenantless lodge in the wilderness, will always be a marvel. It was one of the feats which the earlier explorers occasionally performed, showing their fitness for the heroic work of colonisation, wherein so many of them risked life and limb. With the great pastoral wild of Australia Felix lying virgin and unappropriated before him, Mr. Ryrie might easily have made a more profitable, a more expansive choice. But he could not have hit upon a more ideal spot for the founding of an estate and the formation of a homestead had he searched the continent.
Amid the variously-gathered outfit which accompanied the pastoral chief, as he led flocks, herds, and retainers through unknown wilds to the far promised land, happened to be some roots of the tree, the survival of which caused Noah so much uneasiness, and more or less humbled his descendants, before John Jameson and Co. took up the running with the now fashionable product of the harmless avena. A few grape vines reached the spot unharmed. Planted in the first orchard on the rich alluvial of the broad river-flat which fronted the cottage, they grew and flourished, so richly that the area devoted to the vine was soon enlarged. From such small beginning arose the vineyards of Yering and St. Hubert's. From those, again, Messrs. de Pury and others ​planted the wine-producing district which has now a European reputation.
Little of this, however, was apparent to my companion and myself, or we might have been entertaining royalty by this time—who knows?—carrying ourselves like other eminent and gilded colonists, envied by everybody and sneered at by our less fortunate compatriots. We rode steadily on, through hill and hollow, past plump cattle, not, however, showing quite so much white and roan as do the present herds; past a "manada" of mares and foals, from which ran out to challenge our steeds Clifton the Second, "with flying mane and arching crest." Finally we ride up to a neat weatherboard cottage, whence issues our kindly, warm-hearted host, breathing welcome and hospitality in every tone of his jolly voice. We were soon enjoying the change of sensation, which after a thirty-mile ride is of itself a luxury. With him as visitors were "Hobbie" Elliot, a well-known squatter of the period, and a stalwart younger brother just out from home.
The cottage, as I remember it then, was built upon a slight elevation overlooking a richly-grassed meadow, below which the Yarra, not much less wide and rapid than near Melbourne, ran its winding course. On the farther side of the river, looking eastward, was a purple-shadowed mountain, apparently, though not in reality, overhanging the stream. In the dimmer distance rose the vast snow-crowned range of the Australian Alps. We walked about after our afternoon meal, admiring the great growth of the trees in the garden, and the picturesque appearance of things generally.
​On the next day we took a long ride, and, I well remember, crossed the river upon a primitive bridge, which enables me to say to this day that I have ridden across a river upon a single tree. It was even so. An enormous eucalyptus (E. amygdalina), growing upon the bank of the Yarra, had been felled or grubbed—I think the latter—so as to fall across the stream. Afterwards it had been adzed level—a hand-rail had been supplied. A quiet horse could therefore be easily led or ridden across to the other side, the width being an average of three feet.
We crossed that way, I know, next day, and had a look at the Heifer Station, as the trans-Yarra run was then called. It was a sort of Yering in miniature, not so open, and much smaller. To it, however, our host was compelled to retire, when (upon how many good fellows has the same fate fallen?) he made a compulsory sale to Paul de Castella and his partner, another Swiss gentleman. Fortunately for him, pastoral property rose in value prodigiously "after the gold," so that he was enabled to sell the heifer station for five times as much as he got for Yering.
However, "unconscious of our doom," we took a long and pleasant ride through ferny dales, and darksome woods where the giant eucalypti reared their heads to heaven. We watched the sparkling streamlets dash down their course from alpine heights, praised the cattle and horses, and returned with appetites of the most superior description. Our chief adventure was in crossing a water-laden flat, when Mr. Elliot, jun., raised his long legs high on his horse's sides to escape splashing. That ​animal, being young and "touchy," immediately exhibited a fair imitation of that well-known Australian gambade known as "buck-jumping." For the honour of Scotia, however, our friend, new chum as he was, stuck to the pigskin, and was justly applauded at the end of the performance.
Live stock were cruelly low about that time—£1 a head for store bullocks, and so on. Fat cattle were never worth more than £3 each, often considerably under that modest price. The expense of stock-management bore hard upon receipts, particularly when the proprietor had not inherited the saving grace of "screwiness." Our host, gallant, generous, warm-hearted William Ryrie, was not in that line; far otherwise. As a matter of fact, Yering was sold to Messrs. de Castella and Co., within a year of our visit, for two or three thousand pounds—some such trifle, at any rate.
So Yering passed into the hands of another good fellow. Though "foreign," and not "to the manor born," he quickly demonstrated his ability to acquire the leading principles of stock-management. Of course, the gold came to his aid, causing the cattle he had purchased at £2 each to be worth £8 or £10, and in other ways making things easy for an enterprising pastoralist. Besides managing the herd satisfactorily, Mr. de Castella saw his way to developing the vineyard, enlarging it twenty or fifty fold, besides building cellars, wine-presses, and all the adjuncts of scientific vine-culture. He imported French or Swiss vignerons, and commenced to acquire that high reputation for "white and red Yering" Hermitage which remains unblemished to this day.
​Years afterwards, when the tide of pastoral prosperity throughout the colonies was high and unwavering, I made another visit to the spot, under different circumstances and in far other company. A large party had been invited by Mr. and Mrs. de Castella to spend a week at Yering, when a picnic, a dance, and all sorts of al fresco entertainments were included in the programme.
We were to meet at Fairlie House, South Yarra, and the day being propitious, the gathering was successful; the cortège decidedly imposing. Charlie Lyon's four-in-hand drag led the way; Lloyd Jones's and Rawdon Greene's mail phaetons, with carriages and dog-carts, following in line—it was a small Derby day. The greater proportion of the ladies were accommodated in the vehicles. There were horsemen, too, of the party. The commissariat had been sent on at an early hour, accompanied by a German band, retained for the occasion, to a convenient halting place for luncheon. As we rattled along the broad, straight roads of Kew we saw hedges of roses, orchards in spring blossom, miles of villas and handsome houses, all the signs of a prosperous suburban population. How different from the signs of the past!
Early in the afternoon we sighted the dark-browed Titan on the hither side of which the homestead lay. Mending our pace, we entered a mile-long avenue, cleared with a bridegroom's munificence, as a fitting approach for so fair a bride, on the occasion of his marriage.
I don't think we danced that night—the fairer portion of the company being moderately travel-worn—but we made up for it on the succeeding ​ones. Each day's programme had been marked out, and arrangements made in regal style. Some of us had sent on our favourite hacks; side-saddle and other horses were provided by the host in any quantity. Riding parties, picnics to fern gullies, to Mount Juliet, and other places of romantic interest, were successfully carried out. Races were improvised. Shooting parties, fishing excursions, kangaroo and opossum battues—everything which could impress the idea that life was one perpetual round of mirth and revelry—had been provided for.
As we sat at mid-day on the velvet green sward, by fern-fringed streamlets, under giant gums or the towering patriarchs of the mountain ash, while merry jest and sparkling repartee went round, ardent vow and rippling laughter, we might have been taken—apart from the costume—for an acted chapter out of "Boccaccio." When we came dashing in before sunset, the sound of our approach was like that of a cavalry troop, or the rolling hoof-thunder of marauding Apaches. The Germans were musicians of taste; to the "Morgen-blatter" and the "Tausend-und-eine Nachte" valses we danced until the Southern Cross was low in the sky, while as we watched the moon rise, flooding with silver radiance the sombre Alp, and shedding a passing gleam on the rippling river, all might well have passed for an enchanted revel, where mirth, moon, and music would disappear at the waving of a wand.
Years had rolled on since my first visit to the pioneer homestead. The cottage had disappeared, or was relegated to other purposes. In its place ​stood a mansion, replete with the appliances of modern country-house life. The vineyard covered acres of the slope, and the grapes were ripening upon thousands of trellised vines. The stables were filled with high-conditioned, high-priced animals, with grooms and helpers in proportion to their needs.
In the meadows below the house grazed hundreds of high-priced shorthorns, some hundreds of which had been purchased from me, Rolf, a few months previously, so that I had the exceptional privilege of drawing attention to the quality of my herd. Steeds of price were there that day. Diane and Crinoline, two peerless ladies' horses; Mr. de Castella's half-Arab carriage pair; Sir Andrew Clarke's roan Cornborough hackney, equally perfect in harness; Mr. Lyon's team of chestnuts, high bred and well matched, not to mention the swell bright chestnut mare "Carnation," for which the owner had refused eighty guineas from an Indian buyer.
The cool, capacious wine-cellars played their part on the occasion, being requisitioned for their choicest "cru." Soda was abundant, the weather warm, and the daily consumption of fluid must have been serious. When the "decamerone" expired, the guests, one and all, were ready to testify that never did mortals more deeply drink of Pleasure's chalice, never return to the prose of ordinary life with more sincere regret.