An insight into the life of Australian artist, Bill Pidgeon (Wep) 1909 – 1981
Took the opportunity to visit the Bylong Valley to day and find Wep and Jess’s camp site near Ginghi. Was successful in my venture but disappointed in the weeds and scrubby growth which prevented me getting photos with the same angle. It has changed in 73 years but still recognisable.
Grimm Tale of Man IN Snowy River
By L. W. LOWER
JINDABYNE, Monday.
I, myself, personally, alone, and unaided, have crossed the Snowy River on foot in my downy underpants.
This, so far as I know, has never been done before.
As for me, it will not be done again within living memory.
Asked by an interested bystander why I did this, I told him in my simple, forthright way that I wanted to see what was on the other side.
This seemed pretty weird to him.
Halfway across I became bunkered in the rapids, but the indomitable Lower spirit triumphed, and nature took a dirty slap to the face.
Innumerable turkeys roam around our caravan.
I missed eight with various-sized rocks, and had just drawn a fine sight on the ninth, with every chance of bringing him down, when a man in dirty khaki trousers came and said: “Waddger thinkyer trianterdo?”
It seems that they were his turkeys.
“I was just teaching your turkeys how to duck,” I replied.
I thought that was rather bright, considering. He didn’t.
Un-palette-able!
My artist companion, Wep, is becoming more tiring every hour.
Today he was squinting at a little church built on the top of a bare rock-strewn hill.
He walked me up and down for miles saying, “It looks better from here, don’t you think. Do you think I’d get the light better from over there?”
I said that it would probably look swell from the verandah of Straw Weston’s pub.
He became temperamental about it, and said I had no eye for beauty, no sense of balance and proportion, and no soul.
I got into my huff and walked off.
I beat him to the hotel by only four minutes.
Quavering Made Them Crotchety
By L. W. LOWER
JINDABYNE, Sunday.
Pity you weren’t at the dance last night.
All the girls in this town have been mooning around with cast-iron hair-wavers all over them for days and days.
I sang.
The policeman who put me out told me that he was a great lover of music, but there were a lot of narrow-minded people in the town who had no ear for music.
One of our main storekeepers has been fined 28 shillings for fishing for trout out of season.
He didn’t catch any trout, either.
Ain’t he lucky?
If at any time the Government thinks of dredging the river up around these parts, they may come across a safety razor.
That will be mine.
Cows, But No Milkmen
I have now the perfect excuse for not shaving.
When I think of the hot towels, bay rum, and cold cream and talcum powder shaves I had before I went bush, I blush.
That dance I mentioned was in aid of the Bush Nurses’ Association.
What I need mostly now is a bush nurse.
Almost any kind of nurse will do, but I think a bush nurse would be more appropriate.
Little did I know when I left town that I would wake one morning frozen to death and entirely surrounded by munching cows.
“Will you go for the milk?”
“Certainly. Where do I go?”
“See that hill over there, well you keep that on your right shoulder till you come to a creek. You go across there and take to the left track past the bull paddock.”
“Pardon, but do you really think we need any milk? They tell me that the stuff is full of tubercular germs and things. I think we’d be safer without milk.”
Not Much Remains …
There will come a day, I suppose when I’ll just have to go for the milk.
When black-trackers find my remains, people will say, “Poor Lennie. Cut off in the bloom of youth. A winsome lad. How we all loved him.”
Make my wreath of Iceland poppies, freesias, and snowdrops.
Wep is lying on his back, covered with blankets and inertia.
He has gathered sufficient strength to tell me to make the fire and put the chops on.
I wish I had a shilling.
Any of you lads who contemplate having a hot rum about now, please think of me, and breathe in a southerly direction.
In the 1930s, Lennie Lower was considered one of Australia’s foremost humorists. His novel, Here’s Luck was first published in 1930 and is considered a classic of Australian humour. It has been reprinted many times since and was illustrated by his good friend and colleague, Wep with the 1955 edition. Wep and Lower were closely associated from the time Wep first started illustrating his column at the Daily Guardian in Sydney and later at The Australian Women’s Weekly when that publication commenced in 1933 cementing their notoriety throughout Australia.
Lower was reknowned for his drinking and in the winter of 1938, Wep and his wife Jess were accompanied by Lower for a week’s sojourn in the Snowy Mountains region around Jindabyne and Cooma. Lower was to write a series of columns for the Daily Telegraph and Wep was under instructions not to give Lower any more money than 2 shillings. Lower went to Cooma with his two shillings and returned rotten drunk with seven and sixpence change. He’d gone into Cooma and told everyone who he was, and that he was there with Wep. No one would let him pay for a drink and actually pressed money on him thus defeating the other instruction to Wep to “sober him up and keep him sober.”
Tuesday 17th Aug.
Wattle Flat
Parked alongside the road home. Tired & jittery after trying drive over rough & lousy mountain roads. Full of worries concerning cracked connecting bar on caravan. Coupling on car giving up the ghost. Wireless dead. Supplies all exhausted. Me fed up. Guess it is time I went home!
Sat. 14th Aug.
Existence most inordinately quiet down here. Absolute remote hermit-like. Conversation confined between three of us. Me, Jess & Dawnie. An occasional school child falls into my trap. I learn the name of the mountain I have painted from 3 angles. Wondy Peak.
Twice a week I recontact civilization, such as it is, at Rylstone. A dull old town appearing as if made from debris of some old prison. A uniformity of ancient stone and morgue like quiet. Radio, consequently, working overtime. Have had to change batteries. Nothing of any consequence happening. Only excitements are furtively snooping water from school house and chasing canvas blown like paper before the howling gusts that swell down the valley. Returned from Rylstone this morning to find our calico lean-to razed to the ground. Had day off from painting & spend time shooting tins – with indifferent success.
Occasional cars pass towards Ginghi – loud whoops and squeals traverse the night. A mile or so down, the local dance. Complete with piano accordion & violin, cheap plonk, and “King hits,” so our local correspondent informs us.
How hard it has been trying to rain. Day finished with Wondy Peak silhouetted against tufts of salmon cotton wool languidly floating beneath a ceiling of blue grey dappled sky. The definite pearly quality of the landscape here. The incredible subtleties of blue, green, and pinks, & ochre deepen to dusk.
Monday 9th Aug.
Got a letter from Geoff, I mean, Mickey Blunden yesterday. Seem to be enjoying themselves. Hope none of the wicked Frenchmen grabbed a bit of Mickie’s buttocks. South of France – I too would like to see it, the country of Van Gogh & Cézanne. Be interesting to see the actual scenes they had painted. Be very illuminating as regards their conceptions of nature.
Letter dated 30th June. I suppose they’re pretty near back by this. Strange that they should have seen so much of the world while I have been busy prying & poking into odd corners, gullies and old trees. If only one could take such a leisurely trip on such a vast scale.
Had our first guest yesterday. Farm hand from homestead up yonder, on property of which we are camped. Spoke to me whilst doing my ‘masterpiece.’ Treated him to a cup of tea and was rewarded with vision of him balancing said cup on lap and trying to avoid getting crumbs on his lips, all in very best drawing room style.
Did a spot of bush carpentry today. Made a lean-to table against the tree. Have also constructed sunken brick fireplace. Stay here much longer I’d better buy the acre and, so conserve my activities. My! But I’m proud of that table. Jerky writing here the results of most powerful hiccups. Potent rissoles I make!
Have got 4 paintings on the go. Only 1 any good I’m afraid. Still, having great old experiments on others. All mistakes duly covered over with tempura white (home made). How I loathe painting over dried & mistakenly applied colour! Seem to be discovering, after 6 months, the method of painting I prefer to employ. Essentially all a prima, which gives freshness, but unless greatly interested in the subject and it well within one’s capabilities is difficult of execution. However, all mussy paintings can, I suppose, serve as a basis for subsequent, more considered attempt. The difficulties will probably have managed to resolve themselves in the messy soup of paint.
7th August Sat.
Finally rooted after vain seekings for roadside spot further up the road. Laid our foundations cunningly close to tiny local school with water tank attached and windmill well across the road. In desperate plights for water. The creek having dried up in consequence of 7 months drought here. Did blessedly rain on the Monday and granted us 4 gallons of water & hail dutifully drained off the fly erected over front of home. Water for sundries extracted from sleep through. Green, slimy, thick. Ugh!
Milk unobtainable – Nobody here knows where I can get it. Bloody stingy liars!
Tuesday tripped up to Bylong Post Office for cash & stores. 21 miles away! From the G.P.O. to Hornsby for shopping! God, don’t know we’re alive down town! Spent largely at Gertie Wilson’s store & waited upon butcher & baker to appear from Wollar just a bare 17 miles further on. As a reaction to our prison fare of Monday rather overdid the eating of biscuits, lollies, etc & the drinking of lemonade. One needs must, I ‘spose, in times of plenty.
This morning went to Rylstone, a brisk walk of 16 miles, which we did in the car, & repaired damages suffered by our larder. Demand and supply of cakes & pastry was terrific. Dawn causing great neck twisting & eye swivelling amongst locals. Anyone’d think I had a blarsted tame tiger in the car. They make me sick! Kids down here panicky, climb over barb wire to avoid passing here. Poor soul, she made her first kill yesterday. A baby rabbit. Guess it must have been half dead with shock when I got it & broke its neck. Stupid couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t play any more. She’s never been told about the facts of life – and death.
Could only rustle up a quart of milk at Rylstone. “Too late,” they told me at the dairy. “If you’d come about 3:30 a.m. when we start milking……” Told them about “Gentleman” Johnny Weston of Jindabyne who started milking at 9:30. Too much for them – I left.
5th August Thursday
Ginghi, Bylong Valley.
Thank God for a quiet life. A welcome relief after tiresome, tensed up driving. Seem to have a positive genius for picking lonely unfrequented roads. A lonely plugging uninteresting trip from Wauchope up the Oxley highway. Miles and miles of intolerable hill and forest. A worrying run beset with overheating troubles & fears of petrol shortage. Miles and miles of dense sub-tropic forest atop the range, a sudden glimpse of busy human ant like activity in the shape of timber mill, tucked securely in a corner of the hills, manifesting its existence with harsh whine of the saws & the blowing hiss of steam. More miles of dark and darkening green & ever present frost in the gullies. At night fall a petrol pump is discovered, to our eyes, orchid like, aside the road. A lone house attends it. We fill up and enquire the locality. Yarrowitch. And it is on the map!
Time our arrival at Tamworth perfectly to coincide with lunch at the Holes. How delightful after days of dining on sad, aged meat(!) pies, and soggy mullet, & lemonade. Lemonade at 11d a bottle!! Enough to send a man to drink. Had pleasant lunch & even more important, the first decent water for weeks. Water, without weeds, mud and slimy dressings! Sat around till 3 o’clock & were regaled with choice scandal.
Slept on top of Murrurundi that night & wakening waited on 10 o’clock for the bank to rescue us from 1/10½.
Entered the Bylong Valley after lunch. Saw Daddy, Mummy & Baby kangaroo dash startled through the cypress covered slopes. How remote from the world this valley seems cupped by hills and traversed by the near dry Goulburn River. Fenceless & houseless & motionless the senses suggest that even time itself has stopped down here. We turn a corner expecting to emerge upon some great lost Atlantis but grey & still, the grass still mats the earth. Bladeless, red & rocked, the hills. Cypress mournfully aid the pervading melancholic suggestions of desolation & despair. A twenty mile suspension of recollected life. We are in the grave awaiting resurrection or disintegration. We climb around the spine cracking curves of Kerrabee Mountain & descend into the ragged head of Bylong proper. Finally arrive at a 2×4 store. A telegraph and telephone office, not yet dignified with the title Post Office. I get out & buy cigarettes & am beset with daffy looking people. The general excitement over the caravan and Dawn is intense. Their photos are taken and Jess is duly informed of the viciousness & untrustworthiness of the breed. “Tell me the old story.”
Black bushy eyebrows & moustache are cock quizzically as a Scotch terrier beneath my abstracted gaze. A simple youth rolls his head and his face floats silently gaping & guffing at my dissertations on said Alsatian’s food. I wish to send a telegram. Immediately great comings & goings & fumblings & seekings & behold, from beneath a pile of rhubarb & papers a hand emerges triumphantly clutching a dog eared telegraph form. The memory expert has saved the day. 4 of us telephone the wire to Denman. I leave in a daze, my mind remote.
Am settled beneath the shadow of encircling cliff faces. At sun down, gold lit with Rembrandtesque effulgence, glowing orange above the bluing shadowed trees.
27th July Tues.
20 miles north of Kempsey
Touring a much over boomed pastime – i.e. as seen and enjoyed(?) by travelling all day in car. Fed up completely. So much so, as can only manage about 17 miles a day at the most. Get very tired after 60 miles. God knows how I did that 270 from Cooma on that ‘day-after’!
Skyring Creek already buried in past ages and distance. Towns float kaleidoscopicly (some spelling!) past inner vision, all of a pattern, & strange sameness, differentiated by occasional purchases of fish & chips, lemonade, meat, etc. A vast long ribbon of varying texture, mostly poor embroidered indifferently & occasionally with clumped cottages. How dreary to my tired eyes. And yet each spot of it full of intimate enchantment which escapes the swift superficial glance, parsimoniously granted from the exacting road.
The myriad lovely trees of Queensland, the blarsted toll bridges, our lack of money, the sole Good Rescona town, Beerburrum, the fence down the middle of the road dividing the 8 o’clock Queensland pub from the 6 o’clock NSW pubs at Coolangatta, Tweed Heads, the incomparingly better looking NSW girls, the noisy louts down south, the ever present sugar cane, god-damn sleepy Grafton, the interminable scrub forest, the tick gate border & thousand other impressions.
Found two broken wires in the radio tonight. Fixed same and was rewarded.
Feeling low today, wished I was home. Tired, worn out.