With the bloody sheep behind us we tootled on unmolested south down the A5. The historic town of Bothwell was our next intended point of call, but we were waylaid no more than ten kilometres beyond the flock of sheep.
I had spotted a notation about 'homestead sculptures' on the charts near the Steppes State Reserve, but had not given them too much thought until we drew up in front of this old home with its 'official' looking blue sign, the first indication of something interesting here.
Indeed there was, and what a story unfolded, that of what must surely be one of the most remarkable Tasmanian families. The sheep we had so recently encountered must have been a harbinger!
You see, the story of The Steppes and the Wilson family is inextricably associated with sheep. It all began in 1863, when James Wilson, a Scottish emigre, arrived in the area (and is believed to have named it after a small settlement near his native home of Glasgow, although this remains somewhat unclear).
For some years prior to this, sheep had been driven up to the highlands to spell the lowland grazing areas during the summer months, resting en route in a series of holding paddocks as they moved up from farms near Ouse and Bothwell. This practice continues to some extent to this day (we know!!).
And with human nature being what it is, another practice grew out of this annual stock movement.......sheep duffing! To counter this, police districts were established on the plateau, and mounted patrols began.
A police station was built at The Steppes, and because of his extensive knowledge of both stock and of the Lakes plateau and surrounding areas, James Wilson was offered, and accepted, the position of Chief Constable of Police a role he held for the next thirty years.
raised five children at The Steppes, one of whom, Madge, never left.
To accommodate the growing Wilson family, the original police residence was replaced in 1888 with a larger building which included a bakehouse with a brick oven. It is this and the other homestead infrastructure we can still see to this day.
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Of all that was to be seen here, I found the structure of the chimneys to be the most fascinating aspect of the old buildings. They were certainly meant to last, and they have!
This extract from the Tasmanian Police Museum notes the dates and effect of the end of James' police career:
"James Wilson policed the Lake Country from 1864 until he was discharged owing to the reduction of police establishment numbers on 31 December 1894. James was re-appointed as a Special Constable on the 16th of January 1899 and was finally discharged on 30 June 1903. When the Police Department sent James a notice in 1903, which stated that his position was to be made redundant and which enclosed a sum of £20 as his final remuneration, he is said to ‘have been shattered’ that his diligence with his numerous duties over many years was to be ended in this manner."
This strikes a familiar chord!
James' duties were numerous indeed. As well as his main task in charge of the local police contingent, he acted as the mailman (often bringing the mail up from Bothwell in atrocious conditions), rate collector, bailiff and district overseer of stock.
He was even highly active in his time off. In 1870 this remarkable and energetic man liberated brown trout fry into Great Lake and in so doing laid the foundation of the valuable trout fishery of Central Tasmania. In 1910 James accepted yet another role, that of volunteer weather observer for the Bureau of Meteorology.
It is said that James never fully recovered from what was, in his view, his ignominious discharge, and he died of a stroke in 1922 at the age of 85, but even then the story of the Wilsons and The Steppes did not end.
The youngest daughter Marjorie (Madge) Wilson continued to live in the family home until her death in 1975 at the age of 92. She had worked in the Post Office and assisted her father with the weather observations and continued in this role for many years.
Madge was also a prolific artist with a deep love of the highlands. She produced innumerable drawings and paintings of native flora and fauna in her small studio on the homestead grounds,
grounds which still house the original laundry and 'outhouse' (what a trek to reach this dunny in the middle of a bleak and freezing winter night... at least the likelihood of redbacks lying in wait for the unwary would be minimal!)
An old water tank set high on a gravity feed stand,
many of the original stone walls
and old post and rail fences,
can still be seen by wandering around the grounds of this very well preserved and important piece of Tasmanian history.
Whilst there are no formal camping areas here, much more recent outdoor loos can be found some distance from the main house and grounds, facilities placed here to serve those who chose to just 'pull off the road' (as stated by the Parks and Wildlife Service) near the homestead or spend a fine summer day enjoying a picnic in the grounds.
Madge gifted this land and its buildings to the State on her death, a fact which is acknowledged on a small bronze plaque mounted on a modest stone plinth near the stone and wooden benches of the gathering place built for day visitors.
At this point I have an admission to make, one of touring sloth. I saw a sign pointing in the direction of The Steppes Sculptures, but because of time constraints (and the fact that Liz had chosen to wait in the Cruiser whilst I roamed about), I chose not to walk on. Silly me!
Had I done so I would have been rewarded with the sight of a circle of marvellous bronze works known as the Steppes Stones, statues which reflect on some of the wildlife and history of the Central Highlands.
We had already seen some of Stephen Walker's work in the form of the Southern Right Whale at Cockle Creek (that seems like an eon ago), and several pieces on the Hobart waterfront, but I'm afraid this picture of his offerings here comes to you courtesy of another of my 'blog friends', 'think tasmania', rather than first hand from your scribe.
As we left The Steppes to continue southwards towards Bothwell, I could not help but reflect for some time on the life and times of the 'Wilsons of The Stepps'....all 112 years of it!
But we were not yet done with farms and life on the land. The next 50 kilometres or so took us past several magnificent properties, the first of which was well identified.
Green and white were obviously colours much favoured by the owners of Hunterston!
Farms, sheep and power lines, all typical of a trip south down the A5.
'Cluny' had to be the pick of the properties we saw in this area with its sprawling congregation of farm buildings
and magnificent main house, which unfortunately my sense of propriety and respect for privacy enabled me to only snatch a quick and restricted shot through the front gates....but this was enough to confirm what a grand establishment this is.
Fifty kilometres south of The Steppes saw us entering the outskirts of Bothwell, which as the town sign proclaimed, was established in 1822.
With a current population of less than 400, Bothwell is neither large nor as well known as Richmond, Campbell Town or Ross, but it remains one of Tasmania's most important Georgian towns, with sixty buildings and locations of historic interest.
Apart from any historical significance, Bothwell, which nestles on the banks of the Clyde River, has been described as a really pretty, quiet agricultural town. Our fleeting visit certainly confirmed that, a visit which began in the main street where the Castle Hotel has pride of place.
I should comment at this point that our 'tour' of Bothwell was haphazard to say the least. We really just drove around, stopping here and there, something which is reflected in this presentation!
Stone cottages such as this were not uncommon. I suspect that this one has an interesting provenance, but we wandered about unarmed with the relevant 'historical' map and remain ignorant of this type of detail.
Stone was again the favoured building material for the old Town Hall
and the rather grand 'Bothwell Grange', built in the 1830's as a resting place for travellers through the district. This tradition of hospitality (for a fee) continues here in the form of a fine B&B.
Pink mountain berry trees were commonplace in the 'backstreets'
and it was whilst toddling around this area that we spotted the unique street signs of Bothwell....all set on a tartan background. Well, why not? After all Governor George Arthur named Bothwell after a town in South Lanarkshire, which lies to the east of Glasgow.
Bothwell really is a pretty little place, where the locals have obviously been keen to maintain its almost 'garden' setting (poorly presented in this shot unfortunately)
This creeper covered building is typical of the rustic charm to be found in Bothwell.
The old school building is now home to the Visitor Information Centre and stands at the entrance to the council owned and managed Bothwell Caravan Park.
Needless to say we took a quick look for future reference, and although the park was anything but lush, its sites were large and level with a backdrop of lovely old stone buildings
which even included the amenities block.
And this notice made it very clear that the business burghers of Bothwell are keen for business. Notes were taken!
And whilst the caravan park may have been a little dry and dusty, the same could not be said for the green and shady public park opposite
where at least one 'local' was having a very good time of it.
The the nearby Uniting Church with its solid stone tower is but one of several places of worship to be found in Bothwell (what a surprise this was!)
whilst along the street on the opposite side of the central town park old cottages, in varying states of repair, spoke of earlier days.
One building in the same vicinity did at least have an associated plaque which told of its background
so in this particular instance I can provide some historical commentary.
But as I said initially, our tour of Bothwell was 'whistle-stop' to say the least, a quick whiz around which ended with yet another view of the Castle Hotel,
a passing glance at the town 'CBD' (read supermarket and servo!)
and a quick view of this gracious old 'Georgian' on the outskirts of town.
Brief as it was, this introduction to Bothwell was enough to convince us to include it on our 'for the return trip' list. Apart from its obvious appeal, Bothwell is also home to one of Tasmania's finest whisky distilleries, Nants, and to a museum celebrating all things golf.
Now there is some contention about the town's claim that the golf course built here by a district settler Alexander Reid, was Australia's first.
Laid in the mid-1830s, the course has square putting greens (thanks 'tripadvisor') and fairways maintained by grazing sheep.
For years it was thought that this was the site of the first round ever played in The Antipodes, but recent research has challenged this contention, with Grose Farm near Sydney laying claim to this honour.
As a self confessed and unabashed complete 'NAGA', all this was of limited interest to your scribe, but I guess this is not the case for the good folk of Bothwell.
We now had one final stop to make on this (for us) rather lengthy tour of discovery, the last of the more recognised towns of historical significance in the midlands area, Oatlands. As this highway signs shows, this last leg of just under 50 kms would take us through Melton Mowbray,
but before we reached this road junction we had more 'sheep' country to traverse,
a few more bends in the road
and yet more delightful midlands countryside views.
Melton Mowbray is not actually a town, but a district, one named after its English counterpart (I've actually been there more than once!) with a very distinctive feature, its hotel.
It was on approach to this marvellous old hostelry that touring disaster struck...our trusty camera ran out of electrical puff.
Liz did her best with her phone, but the result was less than useful (although she did get a side shot),
so I've again resorted to a visit with my old friend, Geoff Richie and 'On The Convict Trail' for this photo of what surely has to be one of the grandest old country hotels on the Island.
This distinctive pub stands on the junction of the A5 and the Midland Highway. We had seen it several times previously in our comings and goings, and lamented the fact that we did not now have time to stop for a closer look. It has a fascinating history, but this will be a subject for our return visit!
From here Oatlands, noted for its mill as the welcome sign shows, was a mere 30 kms away, a distance quickly covered now that we were back on broad the Midland Highway.
From the tourist perspective, Oatlands plays second fiddle to the more popular Richmond which is interesting given that this town (Oatlands) reputedly has the largest number of colonial sandstone buildings anywhere in Australia (over 135 in all, with 87 of them located along the main street) and the only working example of a Lincolnshire windmill in the country. So, what's lacking here, one has to ask?......a bridge!
It has been noted that one distinct advantage Oatlands has over its nearby 'colonial rivals' is that here visitors can wander about in relative peace and quiet as opposed to the hubbub of Richmond, in particular. Hear, hear!
Mind you, our visit was less than fleeting and amounted to a quick drive down the main street and out again.
Our schedule, one of diminishing available time in which to see all we wanted to, meant that some hard decisions had to be made, and one of these had been the need to choose to spend a few days at either Ross or Oatlands. As you know, Ross won out.
Notwithstanding this, we also thought that we just had to at least see what was on offer here, with the result that this town has now been added to our 'must stay next time' list.
I have but few photos to share with you, taken by Liz on her phone as we briefly cruised the town, but at least they do provided some idea of what is to be found here.
That colonial sandstone buildings predominate is indisputable as this shot demonstrates.
Many are modest dwellings, wonderfully maintained (albeit with, as in this case, the addition of a new roof),
others are quite large and imposing buildings, such as the Town Hall
or another 'hall', this time Roache Hall, the town's original school building, circa 1886.
Oatlands was established not only to take advantage of the excellent agricultural soil of the area, but as one of the series of military posts designed to protect those on the newly built Hobart to Georgetown (Launceston) road.
Needless to say, a gaol was a feature of the town, but here at Oatlands that which rose in 1836 was the largest of its type in regional Van Diemen's Land, and as a quick morbid aside, Oatlands was also home to the island's most feared convict hangman, one Solomon Blay!
Another bleak aspect of the history of Oatlands centres on the fact that much of the conflict now known as the 'Black War' occurred in the nearby districts. This conflict between the British colonists and the local aboriginals, fought mainly as a guerrilla war by both sides between the mid 1820's to 1832, is reputed to have claimed the lives of as many as 200 European settlers and up to 1,000 of the indigenous population (although this figure is thought to actually be much higher).
On a brighter note, the town's fully restored Callington Mill, built here in 1837, remains not only Australia's third oldest of its type, but the only 'Lincolnshire' wind driven mill which is operational in the Southern Hemisphere. We caught a brief glimpse from the main street as we toddled past.
As a matter of interest I later discovered that this mill was actually built almost 'on spec' by a chap who owned several pubs here and in nearby towns. He soon sold it on, and after a series of various owners it ceased operations in 1892, a mere fifty five years after it had been erected. Its sails were then removed and the entire complex, which includes houses and stores, went into decline. It is a credit to the folk of Oatlands that it has been restored so well (a bit of economic imperative here, too, I suspect).
As we drove back out of town, we were reminded that not all in these wonderfully maintained and restored colonial towns is as it was two centuries ago. What a discordant note the Oatlands Kentish Hotel stuck. Ah, well, patrons have to be attracted somehow I guess!
We returned to our digs at Ross on the entrance road off the Midland Highway on the opposite side of town to that from which we had departed, a road which brought us over the famous town bridge for the last time.
This was a fitting farewell to a beautiful little town and a wonderful few days. On the morrow we were to change tack completely......from the historical midlands and the heights of the Great Western Tiers to the seaside on the east coast. Swansea, and what could be described as the last leg of our Tasmanian experience, beckoned.
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