LURE OF THE CENTRAL

Otago Daily Times, Issue 20287, 21 December 1927, Page 12

LURE OF THE CENTRAL

Written for the Otago Daily Times. By Annie C. Anderson.

An evening calm, the air soft, sweet, full of balsamic odours from the flowering poplars; a sunset where the blue melted into torquoise, apricot, pink, ana crimson, over the Old Woman Range, snow-clad, of which we get glimpses through the poplars; a restful experience after our nine hours’ travelling. Behind us, high hills bristling with rocks ; to the south the Old Man Ranges, with white head and beard against the blue. The air, like wine, exhilarates, and one can walk for hours without feeling tired, either into Clyde and along the Cromwell road, about i2 miles; along the poplarbordered road to Alexandra, about eight miles; up a winding rockv hill road; or to the picturesque ,Fraser River and its rooky gorges. Along the river bank to the Clyde bridge, in thick lines an patches, orange and yellow escholtyias flourish in sand ?' soil scarcely sufficient to sustain that hardy Scotchman, the thistle. These “ Johnny-gd-to-bed-at-noon ” makes brave show of colour against the monotone of grey banks, broken only for a little way by the bridge entrance, by patches of golden gorse and green willow. Between grey banks the Clutha River moves with a long, sinister, oily motion with cruel white-edged eddies—character less, perhaps, because of its uniform greyish-green colour, with its never pausing, never ending story. Only under a sky of cloudless blue can the river s colou* be a beautiful green of eau-de-nile. The sunlight gives it a different life. Then the flood seems less sluggish, less lonely, less eddies, less cruel.

Now 45 years old, the bridge itself, with its want of paint and loose woodwork, shows signs of age—signs that are intensified when in the luiet air, though nearly a mile away, one can hear the rattling of the loose floor boards during the crossing of carts, motors, and motor bicycles. A graceful ondge, it is n sad need of paint. Why not rejuvenate it with a new coat of colouring, dull red or crimson, to break the monotony ,f grey? Crowning the river is a neat, railed-in plot of ground, in the centre of which is the soldiers’ memorial, on a stone foundation faced with a marble cross. It is a black granite shaft with the names of “ our glorious dead ” on front and sides, surmounted by a white marble stope. Drawn up below the monument is a gun but few flowers brighten the enclosure. Surely here is a fine opportunity for a community flower to flourish after the scheme originated with so much success by that enthusiastic garden writer, Mrs Cran! Lupine, hollyhocks, irises, wallflowers, asters, marigolds—any of these might be a community flower; but, no need is there for suggestion, for surely the white lilac is the community flower of Clyde. Certainly nowhere in Otago can be seen such a wealth of blossom! Lilacs white, lilacs mauve, guelder roses, mountain ash, kerria banksia roses, hawthorn—all in a flood of bloom! One garden had i hedge of quince blossom; another a long wall of white lilac: hawthorn trees n the little domain above the river where snowed over with blossom, and in every garden were mauve or white lilacs, over which many red ad mirals—“ flying floweos ” —were hovering with brave “ flame-mottled wings.” As gardens will, the gardens of Clyde take on some conception of the moods of the owners. One neat little enclosure had an air of old-fashioned peace, with rose-curtained veranda, close borders of large pink daisies (reminiscent of childgardens), then tulips, pansies, and roses, all in rows; then outer borders of pyrethrums, red and pink, “ granny-bonnets, ’ peonies, irises: against the house side -v lone border of forget-me-not. Another garden of cool loveliness, bounded by old grey stone walls, a fine lawn edged with flaxes and poplars 60 years old bamboos, laburnums, weepingwillows with long green fringes offering shady arbours : a large Tapanese rose, n bloom, of dark pink; in one corner a giant cvprus and a quince tree in bloaof white faintly tinged with pink; Jasmine climbing up an old white-washed chimney; a large white lilac, kerria in gay bloom of yellow tufts; honeysuckle forming a bower of the veranda; while flanking the gates two great mauve lilacs in such full bloom as almost to hide the leaves, a spot “ where 1] the air is resonant with sleepy summer sounds, with murmurous dream of bees.”

I did not notice a garden by the railway station, but no word of Clyde would be complete without mention of the kind and obliging station master and his immaculately kept station. Never a dusty window ledge, floor, chair, nor table can be seen; door handles and taps are polished to brightness, electric globes and shades dustless, even the station scales, as the grates, blackleaded and polished. Leading out from Clyde, where the railway line runs by the road, is a very pleasant walk, both sides of the river in marked contrast. On the left, across the river, are sandy fiats and bare, brown hills bristling with rocks. Zigzagging far up the hillside can be seen what is now only a faint track, which, in very early days, was the road where bullock drays carried goods from the river (then crossed by punts) to stations on the other side of the hills. Coming down the steep incline the bullocks progressed almost on their haunches, other members of the team acting behind at jrakes. On the right are high rocky hills, with wonderful carpets of thick green grass, creepers, and thorn bushes, with many a clump of sweetbriar, many a hawthorn bush in bloom springing out of the clefts. Here the loneliness of the river s broken by three or four large island rocks and banks with vegetation of willow and thornbush. Far along the Alexandra road, leading to the right, and over two bridges, is the Fraser River. Then another turning, and the sandy, pebbly road changes to a cool, sylvan beauty, a lovely green encampment, through which a river makes its way. Between willow-fringed banks it comes, clear, sparkling, dividing round tree trunks and through the long green willow fringes, forming tiny islands, mimic falls, tumbling over rocks, twisting, eddying, falling over a horseshoe curve, swishing little waves and foam, a clear, chattering river—as Blackmore has it, “ laughing like a maid at her own dancing.” Quite different is the river in the gorge. The hill slopes to left and right arc very steep. Only a narrow path runs between the pipeline and the river. Just before entering the gorge may be seen what might be called a veritable “ iron heap ” —the body of a motor car; a heap of white insulators, the stand of a Wertheim sewing machine, a small iron wheel, and stand, remnants of iron pipes with elbows or joints lying apart disconsolately, three or four concrete platforms, from one of which a wide iron sluice or shoot ran down to the river, much scrap iron, two corrugated iron sheds ; through the broken windows of one could be seen the mightly wheels of an engine, evidently the remains of a power-house. Here again the hills on either side seem to have no relation with each other, so dissimilar are they. On the right, though steep and rocky, they arc softened by green grass and a thick outcrop of thorn bashes; on the left, never a thorn bush nor carpet of grass, but there flourishes the fleshly-leaved wild tobacco, not unlike foxglove. From these plants tall flower stems spring np, bearing thick, yellow blossoms down the stem, which must be a gay sight when in bloom —now only tall sentinels like rods appear, out of one of which was fashioned quite a serviceable walking stick. Narrowed by the hills, the river foams and twists around huge boulders, tossing over rocks like wator-kelpios holding high revels; here, huge rocks, some with wide caves, watch the river: there, great gashes from where boulders have, been torn, and solid walls of dark rock, stern, immovable.

After so much walking on the flat, the climb up the bill road is worth all the trouble and breathlessness in the sain of a srantl view, wide perspective, clear hill

air, different ideas of locality, and the vivifying touch of the free wind. This rocky, winding hill road ending to a large station is now used only by pacii.horses and those pedestrians to whom the toil of climbing is commensurate with their love of Nature. Although the road consists of beds or flakes of rocks and uneven watercourses, on the whole, walking is not difficult, for the rocky path is edged with green mosspads, which look like great green rosettes when seen from below, and on which the foot finds a soft but firm cushion. Small patches of a tiny fc .e ow flower and brown leaves—oxahs prehaps—a small, modest white flower, and patches of bright green,. low-creeping plants with " biddv-bids, now nappi y at an innocent stage, were the onlv brightness of the path—great heaps of rocks everywhere. Interminable the road appears; at every turn you think ro reach the summit only to be confronted with another higher turn, yet the end comes. In the shelter of huge rocks we rested. Far below is a wonderful panorama of mountains, plains, and ruer, “a glimmering plain in drowsy trance the dim horizon bounds.” The plain, divided by the Clutha River, has two distinct names—Dunstan Flat and Earnscleugh Plain—and there, framed in tall Lornbardv poplars, are orchards and fields in squares like a chess-board, motors are moving along the road, dwarfed like perambulators. Awav towards Cromwell are glimpses of the river between the hills, the lower slopes of which end in orchards. On this side of the river sandy stretches • on the other green patches, grassy slopes; Clyde nestling among its trees behind a long tableland called the Terrace; then the Old Woman Range, with the lists rolling away from her snowy crown; further away to the right a glimpse of Mount Ida. and long purple heights towering behind a faint grey outline of lower slopes. Though the soil of Clyde no longer yields its yellow wealth, a healthier, if less ix .iting, harvest is evident all over the country when December, January, and February give up their riches of cherries apricots, peaches nectarines, and plum; Clyde also, by virbw af its pure, dry air, is one of the' finest health resorts of the South Island. So here, for five weeks have we loitered in the life of a beautiful orchard protected by the hills behind and its belt of poplars ; and to the town dweller, a new phase of life is opened up by new interests, new occupations, and new sympathies. Of their sympathies the fruitgrowers have much need, for against frosts, diseases of the trees, small birds, thieves—two-legged and otherwise—constant attention is needed, to say nothing of blizzards, against which no attention availeth !

Irrigation of the orchards is effected by races or runlets, drawn from the Frazer River, each orchardist drawing, or paying for. so many heads of water, according to the extent of his orchard. When the trees are to be furnished with water, furrows are ploughed close to the lines of th e trees. A bottle, with the bottom knocked out, is placed at the head of the furrow, and only so much water trickles through as the bottle neck allows. Box-making, thinning the fruit, where hundreds of baby apricots make the ground green, are two industries in which the visitor can give help. Later, it is “ all hands to the plough," for picking and packing in the hottest time of the years will start at 4 a.m. and continue until the sweeping out of the packing sheds at 11 o’clock at night.

In spring the orchards are a wonderful sight with their delicate and varied bloom. In November full leaf and crops of apricot, peach, nectarine, cherry, and even of figs, are seen. Oh *to be there In March or April, with the tread of autumn’s royal feet, when the poplars are a glory of gold, the fruit trees in their last effort are resplendent in russet and crimson, and there are hanging globes of red apples—Jonathans, delicious and Rome Beauties.

These are the impressions of Clyde, received during five weeks’ stay for health sake —impressions which may noj; come again—but the lure of the Central -s strong and compelling, and we are carried away south-east with the sure conviction that in some future autumn or spring we shall return.