"Only a pound!" and was this the end -
Only a pound for the drover's friend?
The drover's friend that has seen his day,
And now was worthless and cast away
With a broken knee and a broken heart
To be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart.
Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame
And the memories dear of the good old game.
"Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that!
Against you there in the curly hat!
Only a guinea, and one more chance,
Down he goes if there's no advance,
Third, and last time, one! two! three!"
And the old grey horse was knocked down to me.
And now he's wandering, fat and sleek,
On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek
I dare not ride him for fear he'd fall,
But he does a journey to beat them all,
For though he scarcely a trot can raise,
He can take me back to the droving days.
A Dutch fellow was telling me at breakfast this morning that only a week ago in these parts he was walking with his girlfriend. The day before, the temperature was 28 degrees, but on this particular day it dropped to minus six. They were caught in a blizzard. In six inches of snow, she said, "I'm not going any further," (Now where have I heard that before?), and they telephoned for someone to rescue them. He was back today walking the part he had missed.
But there was no snow today. A few clouds and lots of sun. Delightful day!
For much of the morning I was on the highway steadily climbing, and I gained about a thousand fee all told. Then I was back on the Via de la Plata cum Cañada Real, the droving track, by royal decree 90 Castilian yards or 72.22 metres wide, although in practice its width varies considerably, sometimes wider to allow for a sheep fold for the night, and sometimes narrower as farmers have stealthily extended their boundaries. Like Australia, Spain had its droving tradition.
I passed an enterprising stork who had built her nest on top of a transmission tower, the nest supported by the high tension wires. An electrifying experience! Around the huge nest, four or five feet across, little birds were fluttering, for they too are enterprising, making their own homes in the side of the nest, and taking advantage, I'm sure, of any tidbits that come their way.
The storks are likely to take advantage of any high spot, where they can be monarch of all they survey, but this has its hazards too, for while secure from earthly predators, their young must be favourite targets for any high flying eagles and hawks. Obviously, therefore, the storks nest in pairs, one guarding its young, the other searching for food. I often see them in the fields, or flapping lazily above.
And I passed some sheep, who listened appreciatively as I sang their favourite song.
Then it was up through a mountain pass, and down on the Roman road, deep into the valley, the highway clinging to the slope 500 feet above, and finally up again into the village of Calzada de Béjart.
Life seems to go on in this old village as it has for centuries. Some of the old houses are literally sagging with age. An old woman shuffles down the street oblivious to all about her. Then a rattling of cow bells, and half a dozen cattle pass by. The clock on the church tower chimes, or should I say, croaks out, half past five. The village, like many others, has sprung up on the Roman road, which comes out of the fields, becomes the main street, and then moves on.
I am sitting by a wood stove, logs ablaze, in the albergue. I ran into the Spaniards again, passed them by, and arrived here before them. I confess that I took a malicious delight in feeling the water turn cold at the end of my shower, for on two other nights they got there before me, leaving me with the cold water.
The extract above is from "In the Droving Days" by A. B. (Banjo) Patterson, a narrative poet, Australia's equivalent to Robert Service. He was attacked during his lifetime for romanticizing the bush, but what great narrative poet didn't romanticize his subject? Think of Homer. My English teacher considered him a rhymester rather than a poet, but anyone who can capture an emotion and move the reader is a poet to me. If you liked the extract, you will find the entire poem on line, and if you like the poet, then "The Man from Snowy River" is a famous Australian poem, and "Clancy of the Overflow" is a truly great one.
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