118 Australian Geographic
As for many regional museums, if you look beyond the glass
cabinets crammed with paraphernalia of differing historical
value, the real treasures here are the colourful stories regaled
by locals.
Take, for example, 70-year-old Bruce Temple, a trustee
of the museum and life-long Nerriga resident, who not only
knows every twist and turn on the Wool Road like the back
of his heavily calloused hands, but who also went to school
in this very cottage.
You can even check out his grades, which, along with
those of all the other students, are neatly recorded in carefully
catalogued yearbooks under the blackboard.
Bruce explains that the numerous creek crossings around
Nerriga weren’t just a problem for those carting wool down
to Jervis Bay, but also for the school kids.
“During one flood when the footbridge was washed away,
some blokes at the sawmill [behind the school] had to piggy-
back us back over the Bindi Brook creek,” Bruce recalls, fondly.
“We didn’t leave school that night until eight o’clock, but at
least we got home.” Now retired, having operated a business
carting wool for many years, Bruce is also able to shed some
light on the mystery of the current lack of sheep in the district.
“As recent as the 1970s, I’d take loads of wool into Goulburn,
but these days you could fit the entire wool clip of this area on
the back of a ute,” he says. “Most of the farmers have moved
into cattle due to lower long-term sheep prices.”I
T’S SATURDAY, and up in town the Nerriga Hotel, which
had dubious beginnings in the mid-1800s as a sly grog shop,
is abuzz with lunchtime trade. Outside, a 44-gallon drum
stocked with smouldering stumps is keeping motorcyclists, part
of a passing rally, warm. Inside, thirsty tourists line the cosy bar.
“It used to be a bit like the wild west,” says Bruce, who has
tagged along, he says, “to make sure we don’t get lost”. He adds
that “a publican in the 1960s encouraged patrons to shoot at
targets across the bar with a pea rifle”.
According to Bruce, during one especially heated argument,
the publican “picked up his sawn-off .303 from under the
counter” and shot a man through the stomach. “Although the
poor fella survived, he lost part of his liver,” Bruce deadpans.
“They found the bullet lodged in the battery of a car parked
out the front of the pub.” Heck.“...these days you could fit the entire wool
clip of this area on the back of a ute.”
Josette Allester tends
sheep on Tomboy, one of the
last remaining properties
to have continuously grown
wool since the mid-1800s.