Travelling westward from the Snowy Mountains we are twenty K’s past Wagga Wagga and we were still talking about the brumbies at Yarrangobilly. Typically, an argument arises about directions that distract us for a while, before the GPS resolves any differences and we then focus on our original destination. Keeping up with the latest technology is great if it were readily available for all, but I found that at a place out West like Barellan, Population 328, EFTPOS and handy banks are hard to find. The acquisition of cash for the entry fee is best left for another story.
Across from the railway line we pull up at the General store. The main street has one car parked in it, with its nose at an angle to the kerb. If that car was not situated in that fashion, I would not have known that angle parking was expected. Across the road is a 15 meter replica of an older style wooden tennis racquet, the size of which would suggest some notoriety that would place this town on the map. What would an icon like this be for in the mid West? I walk over to read the text displayed on the large tennis racquet. It reads “Evonne Goolagong”. “Well there you go” The town is where the famous Tennis champ grew up.
The place is like a ghost town. Further along I spot the newly placed sign that directs us across the railway line to the Barellan working Clydesdales Old Time Show. Finally, I see some activity and as I drive closer, there are parking attendants collecting admissions and issuing directions. I am starting to feel more relaxed, now that I can hear and see human activity. I reckon the whole town must be here.
It’s nothing like the Big Day Out, but for me just as exciting, with less people to crash into and a fraction of the cost. We park the car and move in the direction of the commentator. There is more happening than I had expected. The source of the male voice on the PA now comes into view. The voice bares a heavy old country droll, with sayings that would estrange the city folk. He is talking about his prize Mallee bulls all chained in line and how clever he thinks they are. He talks to them by name and they respond. “Now that is clever”, no reins just voice control and a bull whip for insurance.
I am adequately impressed, but that’s nothing unusual for me, I am always impressed with these simple acts of making things happen. I know that it has taken years of training and making mistakes to arrive at a confident display of authority without placing the onlooker in danger. The saying “Bull in a china shop” comes to mind as I witness the proximity of punters near the line of bulls and witness them being unaware of any danger. 
The bulls are then hooked up to a Mallee scrub roller and lead around the arena. The rig itself is impressive.
I proceed cautiously around the displays of skill in animal handling. In the distance there are glints of motion coming from a grassy field. My inquisitiveness draws me closer, and as I approach I sink in awe at what comes into focus.
I am now in a state of heart thumping emotion, like “Toad” in the well read novel “The Wind In The Willows” (a wide eyed stunned dribbling idiot, for those who have not read the novel).
Out from behind the grass and around the bend, a 3 metre munching wooden paddle wheel, drawn by three abreast, Dark, big and beautiful Clydesdales, snorting like a well tuned locomotive driven by a tanned figure under an Akubra. He is perched and balance on a cast iron seat within the spectacle.
They round the corner and I see sheaths of grass (which I believe to be wheaten hay or rye) spilling off a tray, twine bound and in an orderly fashion. The hay exits the old time horse driven mechanical conveyor in bundles that are ready to be gathered and stacked in pyramids ready for drying in the field. I’ve been told that one would return and check for moisture content and colour of the grass within the next day or so prior to the age old skill of stacking hay.
I have seen paintings of old time hay pyramids and farmers stacking their hay. It is an inspiring experience to see it happening as it would have in times gone by. The following lap, the spectacle (Reaper and Bailer) stops in front of me and the dark figure dismounts and introduces himself to us. I look behind me and see that the numbers of spectators has now rapidly increased.
I now get blown away (so to speak) as I listen to his delivery. Steve Johnson tells of his small farm where he currently does exactly this (what we are seeing) as he has many horses to feed and train in the manner of our forefathers. He doesn’t use tractors, just horse drawn machines and uses them daily. The exhibition is studded with his working horse drawn farm and processing machines.
The following photos show Steve and Jan Johnson prepare 20 horses and 5 drivers for this afternoons’ exhibition to transport 40 hay bales on a massive wagon weighing over 10 tonne all up. It is impressive enough to see the fully laden wagon being pulled by 20 horses. What most people didn’t see was that he used 2 horses to reverse the wagon into position which only took him less than a minute to do. I was not quick enough to capture it on camera. Yes I am totally impressed with the power of the Australian Draught Horse (a registered breed).
“It’s reining!” (The caption on my face Book Cover shot)
Yes….. I can be funny by throwing in a pun as a caption for my Face Book cover shot and enjoy receiving appreciative responses. However, the “value” in that cover photo is the respect I have for the individuals with their efforts and responsibilities for the shot to have even been possible.
The last six photos are nice to look at, but the effort and skill that these individuals display to simulate what our forefathers did daily, commands my respect and admiration. If it wasn’t explained in detail, one would never know……. for instance……. There is a well dressed gentleman that sits on the wagon looking as though he is just enjoying the view as he hitches a ride on the wagon just to make up the numbers. He sports a short white beard, a dark brown akubra and a darker blue shirt. He is seen with nothing in his hands. He is the henchman. His responsibility is as daring as the name implies. At a moments notice he is expected to be able to take charge of any threatening event that may occur. He would be the “toughest dood” there. One could only imaging what could go wrong!….. in the wild west days he would be the man “riding shotgun”.