IN CENTRAL OTAGO

Southland Times, Issue 19431, 24 January 1922, Page 2

IN CENTRAL OTAGO

MOTORING TO THE FRUIT LANDS. (By T.D.A.M.). For sheer exhilaration commend me to a run to Clyde, Central Otago. The splendid and expansive downs, plains and flats of Southland proper are scarcely appreciated by the man who seldom goes beyond, into the hills and far away past Gore, through Waikoikoi and Tapanui and over the first stiff pass approaching Rae’s Junction. Running down this, what at first experience seems a sharp and twisting incline, you get into the Eastern Gully, which offers a fine downhill run of about two miles and then turns into the valley of the Molyneux river, right on through Miller’s Flat and Ettrick, where some of the best stretches of country are met with on the run. Following the road nearly parallel to the river, Roxburgh is reached. With the exception of a stretch of badly loosely metalled road on the Edievale Hill where tyres suffer on the sharp blue metal, the whole road is really good. Running through the Molyneux Valley the journey is full oi interest and land-marked in many places by scraps of dredge material turned to account in the shape of strainer posts, which once were portion of water pipes of the dredging days. Sometimes a culvert will be marked by old buckets as cornices and so on, and everywhere are gigantic heaps of dredged-up material, reminding one of the mining dumps to be seen in old Ballarat. The tens of thousands of tons of dredged-up stone and rubble strike one as stupendous. Round Miller’s Flat, where the big red bridge is much in evidence with its pretty township on the opposite or eastern side of the river, these gigantic workings are a striking feature. All up the valley pleasant little homesteads are dotted about, and hay-cutting, with back-delivery, was going on in many of the paddocks on the flats between the main road and the hills- on the west which form a huge shelter to all this Valley country, and which accounts for the splendid tree growth to be seen in so many places along the route. The township of Miller’s Flat, with its bridge and mining relics, is passed by, But its expansive open land is still seen away to the east. Running on and on, one begins to realise that one is in the great fruitgrowing land—at any rate in embryo—and one is suddenly struck with the fact that this country intends one day to cater at least for the stoned-fruit supplies of Otago and Southland. But until the precincts of Roxburgh are reached one does not realise what an orchard is. To us of the flat and plain without a hill for 20 miles, this sunny hill-locked valley, with its thousands of trees growing in perhaps rather monotonous regularity, excites surprise. En route, a large glass house is to be seen, a precaution against early frosts, which sometimes play havoc with tomatoes and strawberries.

The Molyneux is again bridged at Roxburgh, but the township itself' is on the main road route. The valley has narrowed a lot here and the distance between the foothills does not seem very much to the eye of a plain dweller. The place is picturesque beyond a doubt, and the many knolls and kopjes with their queer-shaped and craggy rocks that in the evening light appear to pop up and question one at every turn in the sheltered little streets and byeways, are a prominent feature in this pretty township. A stop over for a night is quite advisable, if Clyde be the ultimate objective—unless you happen to be an expert at hill-driving. An early morning start in the sunny and rarefied atmosphere of Central Otago is something to delight in, and the sense of it is soon appreciated, for, go as hard as you like for the first few miles out of Roxburgh, old Sol is almost certain to be ahead of you, and tyres and radiator need be in perfect order, for the long and steady climb in broiling sun will test both severely. Lame duck tyres which might serve many a turn on our perpetual flat, are no good here (see that your car is well shod, that is the writer’s advice), and don’t be scared of oft-told terrors of the 42 mile trip along the mountain road which faces you, with dips and rises and bends numerous enough to make the going both interesting and instructive. Go down the steeps on second gear and you are all right. Your emergency brake need never be used—a good front brake will steady you sufficiently anywhere; but you will always be on the look out for that particularly steep bit about which you have been forewarned but which really never comes. It is advisable to look out for the coaster coming in the opposite direction to that which you are going. This chap, probably a regular user of the road, at any rate at Christmas time, seems to think that he and his load of women and children are the only ones on the hills. You don’t mind him, however, on the journey up, for your track is inside and if he has to swerve smartly out to avoid you, in his coasting stunt, it is mostly his look out—just hug your own side and you are safe. About eight miles out from Roxburgh you are well up in the gorges, on a splendid road, which twists and turns like the lashing of a gigantic eel’s tail, and here far below you on the right the big river, blue and sparkling, seems to have dwindled to a mountain stream not 20 feet broad. The sight is just beautiful; not a bit awesome, for there is no suggestion of a shimmering drop, only of a far away rocky ravine where the river loses itself appart^jtly beneath the mountain.

Fruit trees have long since been left behind, but an occasional homestead is met with near the road —wool raising being the occupation. Near Shingle Creek a mob of 500 shorn were passed on the road, a well-behaved lot which streamed off the main track in most matter of fact fashion, while we purred along on low gear. At Chasm creek look out for the old gentleman of 82 summers who emerges from his picturesque little stone dwelling at the foot of the gully where it crosses the road. In the sunlight the little stream hurries down in cascades of sparkling opal col-

ouring, and if you are not “scorching” the old man enjoys a cigarette and a yarn. Still on along the mountain side—the road rising and running in fairly easy grade!—the “Cape Brown Hotel,” a stons erection, a relic of the old days and of considerable pretensions, is passed, and standing opposite another large building of grey stone, but no signs of life when we passed. “Fruitlands” is soon reached and judging by the splendid growth of its young orchards much in evidence, it seems to have a great future. Here there is a fine flat and the road is wide and affords driving with no apprehension about safety. Then again more steeps and rises and on to rocky hills again, and then down a long incline with a stone fenced road. The country here is very barren with flat rocks of peculiar mushroom shape, and little vegetation, with little water oases imprisontd in rocky reservoirs in the valley bottoms, held there for irrigation purposes. You are now nearing Alexandra and Clyde, and but for this knowledge one could easily imagine oneself entering a country the way to which would assuredly be contested by some native hill tribe lurking amongst the crags and rocks and what appear to be high natural pillared ramparts on either side of the widening defile. In reality this is a huge cutting or road, blasted out of the solid rock, which is apparent on closer inspection from the innumerable drill-hole marks to be seen. Out of this barren country one shortly after emerges on to the flat which opens out far in front and extends away to the right for six or seven miles. These plains and downs of the Clyde district afford a great relief after the long, though intensely interesting journey through the mountain road now left behind. Splendid quality soil is soon encountered, but at first glance one is impressed by the growth of beautiful and majestic poplar and willow trees, dotted in singles and clumps, extending to huge plantations and continued still further on till they are almost lost and merge in the beauty of the landscape. Approaching Clyde, on your left is one of the oldest orchards in the district, now the property of Mr Duncombe. Visit this if opportunity offers—such profusion of fruit it is hard to imagine unless actually seen. Picture seven trees bearing five tons of fruit in one season. The trees appear to be swarming with fruit as bees swarm—it can be likened to nothing else. Talk about parched Central Otago! On this estate there are to be seen acres of as luxuriant a growth of grass as could be wished for anywhere, but of course irrigation is the secret —water is the main factor in this country of sunshine. The road now continues on north across the plain towards the township and some time before crossing the fine suspension bridge several nice homesteads and plantations are to be seen, all of which are fairly sheltered by the warm and rocky adjacent hills. Cosily yet majestically situated at their base and surrounded by a fine plantation is Mr Spain’s imposing residence and ample outbuildings, and further on, quite close to the township, we pass the fine little orchard property of a former Invercargill resident, Mr Elder, who, by the way, has happily regained his health in this beautiful climate. On his estate it is interesting to note the three stages of development by man which has taken place on this property. First the stone and mud cottage of the first dwellers (now used as a motor shed), the dressed and well built and capacious stone residence of a following generation, and now turned to commercial uses—fruit sorting and packing—and, lastly, the modern brick nad rough cast dwelling of the period, a very pretty bungalow, with its hot water service, even into the wash-house. And oh, what vegetables are raised here in the splendid soil! Fruit picking, chiefly peaches, was going on at the time of our visit and the orchard opposite, a very nice looking cleaned tree’d property was also yielding a fine crop of fruit, judging from the busy workers amid the trees with their fruit cans of newlyconverted petrol tins—a very cleanly utensil for the business. A walk of 15 minutes from either of these estates lands you over the suspension bridge into the pretty little township of Clyde. You at once feel “at home” on account of the kindly “good day” you meet with from the fine stamp of men you run across. Each one seems Ito have heard that you were coming, and the welcome is warm. You stroll round after lunch and of course you look into the store for fruit, and you buy some, and a few toys for the children. You are asked if you like green walnuts for pickling. “We have some in our garden at the back, come and pick what you want, but there is another place of ours down the road a bit, go and help yourselves.” As you step out you are recognised by Mr Stevens, the proprietor of the Dunstan Times, and who as a youth was resident of Invercargill. Kindly greetings here again and “does your sick friend like trout? I’ll get him some from the Fraser river to-morrow,” and he does. And so it is it would seem with the whole of its 300 odd present-day inhabitants who have strongly inherited those hearty free-handed ways of their forefathers, those adventurous spirits who opened up the way to the ancient Dunstan Diggings in the golden days, and who numbered 10,000 souls, chiefly tent dwellers, in and around where Clyde now stands, where still the big swift river, as then, gleams in the sunlight and surges and eddies and curls round the islets, now willow grown, and hurries on through its deep cut course for more than 100 miles to the sea.

Clyde boasts of a good high pressure water supply, and modern sanitation, and beauty enough to satisfy the most aesthetic should they wander along the uphill track and view the glorious panoramic view obtainable at any little distance up. And let me ask the people of those districts of so much historical interest to sacredly preserve every stone of those old cabins and cottages—reminiscent of the old time diggers. They will disappear only too soon in the march of time and settlement, which undoubtedly must soon assert itself when the material advantages of sun and good soil and plenty of water distributed at. will at such altitudes are fully appreciated and have become part and parcel of the daily life of the district.

Profiiteering hasn’t reached Clyde yet. They’ve been either too slow, or is it contentment and honesty, that has given them pause, and don’t be afraid to let Bob Smart tune up your motor if you find your car has not been pulling as well as she ought. He will tell you that the heat and rarity of the atmosphere calls for a slight adjustment of ,your carburettor, and he proves it to you at a ridiculously low charge, and he’s there when you want him. And who would think of encountering in Clyde our old Orepuki friend, Sergeant McGlone! Well, there he is, in as comfortable surroundings as one could wish for, and as kindly and hospitable as ever, and let me remind you to inquire of his horse if passing at any time. In his fine upstanding “Bay” you will find a real clinker with an abnormally large list of “firsts” to his credit. And of the others, many of them young single men, and returned soldiers; they are fine fellows every time. Think of Waddell, the young blacksmith (and successor to his father), who has a nice sheep run to the good! There is an anvil in Clyde which will take a lot of beating. It is the property of Mr Waddell, junr., and for tone and ring I never heard its equal. I warrant that the “Village Blacksmith” never had a better. Now what about a little run up the Omakau Valley, where Chatto Creek Government camp is at present located for the accommodation of the men on the big £200,000 water-race scheme which is destined to transform these lands. This big work shows as a serpentine grey streak around the foothills as it now approaches the lands adjacent to the plains and the township. Think of it, three miles of the race concreted! Andthe big tunnel is about through. The men receive from 14s to 21s a day and appear to be earning it well. Pick and shovel work is no joke at from 80 to 102 in the shade, and there’s not much of that out on thejob. From the artistic point of view, Clyde and its surroundings are full of beauty, with its old-time digging relics of stone and sun-baked schistose mud cottages peeping out from odd comers in tree-sheltered nooks in numerous gullies and against ma-

jestic old poplars and homely weeping willows which invite one to come into their cool shade and rest beneath their great green pendant branches. Even we of the plains have heard of the Old Man Range, and there sure enough is the old man (rock) on the range top just as he appeared to the miners of 60 years ago. Since those days there has been discovered an “Old Woman” rock, though far away from the old man. As to the date they parted company no one seems to have any idea, but the old lady is of the long flowing skirt age, and as the last rays of the sun glint on her stony figure and the mist creeps over from the further valley and blots her out of sight, the peaceful little hamlet takes on the evening afterglow colours of deep purple, which flood the landscape while night creeps over the scene.