IRON KNOB

It lay there twisted and winding just outside the perimeter.  It sat there, snake-like, but never threatening, merely promising something that might have eventuated but never did.  Was it really salvation, had anyone tried to use the hose?  These were questions that ran through my brain as I lifted my gaze upwards once again to the burnt out ruin in whose grounds I stood.

Couldn’t help but wonder just how it had started, who had been affected and where their lives had gone afterwards.  It had all the appearance of insurance not being involved.  Nothing had been cleared, the corrugated iron lay strewn where it had fallen, charred bits of wood stuck out here and there, noticeably the beams that once supported the floor.  There were things here, but there was nothing.  It all seemed symptomatic of the town really.  What once was, was no more, but you could still see the signs.

                                     

The Newsagent had long been closed, shops boarded up and the barren multi-hued hill in the background only added to the air of melancholy.  There were indicators to the museum and guided mine tours.  I followed them and, for some reason I know not, decided to go in.  I sort of figured it might be a thrill for those inside to actually get a visitor.  There were sounds and visions of children 50 metres away – signs of life at last!  I took some outside shots of the brightly painted old cart that had been lovingly restored and eyed off some of the freshly painted mining equipment before going inside.

      

I opened the door apprehensively.  The museum may have had lots on show but little had been spent in the lighting department.  They were in somewhat cramped circumstances and a trained curator had been noticeably absent when they set the display up.  There was a significant collection of minerals at one end but you could hardly make them out in the dimness and they were sadly not shown to their best advantage.

                     

The cricket team photo, circa 1913, was something I paused at.  Some of the lads were dressed with shirt and tie and braces, a couple looking decidedly uncomfortable, while the umpire was primed in his 3-piece suit.  It was the scorer that troubled me, couldn’t work out whether he was attired in a monk’s habit, a boiler suit or an unfastened straightjacket.  While most gazed askance, his eyes penetrated the camera and were clearly aimed at YOU, though with what intent I couldn’t tell, but somehow there was an evil there.  Other photos were classics; a dressed up aboriginal family in a cart pulled by camels, a vintage haulage truck from the 20’s and a ten pound Pom recruiting poster.  Then there was a poem from an old people’s home in Monteith, Scotland, extolling the virtues of a lady well past her prime.

Other bric-a-brac and the usual suspects (old typewriter, phone etc.) littered various spaces around the interior and I ended up buying a souvenir tea towel (come on, be honest, how many of you have got an Iron Knob tea towel?) mainly because I felt like they needed some cash flow.

As I paid, I couldn’t help notice the tiny café off to the side whose furnishings were distinctly 50’s, though there were only two tables.  How many people had they served today on their ill-matched tablecloth and napkins I wondered but the lady taking my money had been perturbed that she’d just had 40 school children in.  I guessed that was probably about a month’s worth of normal tourists like me in one hit, so she needed a rest.

Next I headed off, well, almost.  I was intrigued by some buildings over yonder so I drove up a gravel (read “dust”) road to them and discovered it was actually stables and entry was forbidden.  The sign clearly said, “Keep Out Private Propity, by order Babe and Red Dog”.  Well, I certainly didn’t want to argue with that, so I contented myself with gazing at the unusual array of horses and such they had inside.  All manner of same appeared from tiny ponies to something resembling mules to colourful normal sized horses.  How such a collection had been arrived at I was curious to know but would never find out.

                                                       

Back through town I passed the decidedly rustic Buckingham Shack, a corrugated iron abode of mismatched colours with a window either side of the main door and a strange fence of interlocking rings that caught my eye.  The air conditioning consisted of an open front and rear door and I could discern two figures inside.  Someone actually lived there, but what sort of a life was hard for me to imagine.  I’d certainly want a library close by.

                                      

It was time to leave and I bade farewell to the big bucket dredge beside the main road and headed off further west, still with the images of a mining town struggling with the realities of a new century.