Hannan’s grave. An eastern brown
slides elegantly away as I search
for the headstone and then it’s off
to the nearest operating pub, where
I’ve got a date.
I’ve barely knocked the head off
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up. He’s a very keen local historian
and lives just up the road in the old
Temperance Hall. He’s brought a
mate, and another one, an ex-shearer
should be here soon.
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of the bar and barman does this sort
of ‘really?’ double take when I ask
that seeing as we’re the only paying
customers up this end, could he turn
down the television just a bit: it’d help
my voice recorder.
Robin, the ex-shearer turns up.
I buy a round and we get stuck
into the stories.
Sometime down the track Robin
tells of ‘boutique shearing’ for Sir
Walter Merriman.
“In the entire day I only shore 3 and
a half sheep. They were show sheep
and the wool left on had to be exactly
this long all over. Could only do it
with blades, not with machines. He
paid us day rates when we were doing
this special stuff ”.
He illustrates the length of the cut
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reminded of how eloquent hands
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the skin and the scars have a massive
vocabulary of their own.
Eventually, Greg and his mates have
to shoot. We’ve been yacking for nearon a couple of hours and they’ve all
gotta get home for tea. My cheeks are
tight from laughing and I’ve got more
yarns, more gossip, more tales, more
insights and historical gumph than I
thought I had a chance of getting. It’s
been a good evening.
(Later young Greg SMS’s me and in
part his message reads,“Great stories. Ir