Tom Lockie - Artesians Country Tours.

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thestoryteller
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Tom Lockie - Artesians Country Tours.

Post by thestoryteller » Mon Jul 11, 2016 3:30 pm

TOM LOCKIE - ARTESIAN COUNTRY TOURS

'Twas billy tea and damper time within the 'Homestead Park'
and ringing that old cowbell was a friendly kind of lark.
The flames from off the gidyea brought the billies to the boil,
while midst the coals, a damper cooked wrapped up in silver foil.

Then Kingsley welcomed one and all and poured the hot black tea,
soon followed by some damper, which appealed to folk like me.
"I have a local mate," King said, "he runs a little tour.
Artesian Country Tours in fact. You’ll like the man I’m sure."

A dumpy, short, though happy bloke stood up before the crowd.
"How are you folks? I’m Tom," he said. His voice was clear and loud.
He then enlarged about the trip - threw in some yarns as well,
convincing us to go with him. We'd like it, we could tell.

A rooster crowed from not far off and in the still morn air,
it carried like a trumpet's blast, announcing he was there.
The wakeup call was welcome though, for our plan of attack,
was touring with Tom Lockie out north-east of Aramac.

"Let’s have you all aboard," Tom said, "we’ve quite a day ahead.
Good Lord old mates, you’re looking tired. Forget to go to bed?"
"We’re just not early risers Tom," was how we made replies,
"but we'll come good as soon as you start telling us your lies."

The Homestead but five k behind old Tom was in full swing,
describing Nat Buchanan's feats and why he was the King.
"Old Bluey or King Paraway was legend in this land
and blazed the road we'll take today and did it all by hand."

Tom told us Harry Redford's tale, in good old bush verse style
on how he duffed a thousand head with all a bushman's guile.
A replica of that white bull that gave his game away,
stands in the town of Aramac to show how crime don't pay.

We left the bitumen behind to take the road Nat blazed
ascending slowly up a range and soon we were amazed,
to view the Grayrock monument, with names carved there within,
most dating back a century - some recognised their kin.

A shanty once stood on the site, as glass lay on the ground
and relics of a fireplace with sardine tins strewn 'round.
The gidyea signpost still remained and telegraph as well,
then came the call of - "Smoko’s on!" - a Lockie kind of yell.

We only ventured down the road, when there was more to see,
seems nature had preserved in time, a piece of history.
For rising like an anthill's nest a solid mound of ground
had impressed tracks of wagon wheels. I thought well I'll be bound.
The twenty-seater coaster raised a cloud of dust behind
when to our right a wall of rock, it really blew our mind.
Tom pointed out how back in time; there flowed a lava tide,
but somehow, in its own good time, had now solidified.

"Let’s move on folks!" Tom cried aloud, "we’ve much more up ahead.
The Murri tribes who roamed this land, of whom most now are dead,
they've left behind an art display unique in ev’ry way,
upon a wall of sandstone rock that still remains today."

It seems poor Mrs Patterson, a lady of some years,
was tiring rather quickly and she whispered in Tom’s ear.
"I'll have to wait down here for you; I'm rather tuckered out,
but you folk go and see the art and I'll just poke about."

"No way!" Tom said, "You’ve come this far and just a tad up here,
you'll see a site you'll not forget; a Murri carving, dear."
"Oh no!" she cried. "I couldn't Tom," and waved her walking stick.
"I once saw Daisy calving, Tom, which nearly made me sick!"

"It must be time to feed the worms," old Tom spoke out in jest.
"I’ll take you down to meet young Jill; her sangers are the best.
Her husband owns the place we're on and after lunch you'll see
the dam we built in just one day, but first some billy tea."

While eating 'neath the old bush bough, Tom gave us all a treat
with skilful use of leather whips, his tricks were rather neat.
Then those who had a need to spend a penny, did their deed,
before we bid young Jill farewell and thanked her for the feed.

The desert country we were in, was high upon a range,
which made Tom's tale of one day dams seem very, very, strange.
Though nature with its quirky ways, had trapped beneath a flow
of clear spring water not far down; in fact three feet below.

"We put a dozer in," Tom said, "and pushed a six foot hole,
but through the arvo on a break, may God strike my poor soul,
no word of a lie we went back down and found the thing was full
which to this day has stayed that way and that folks, is no bull."

Our short drive past some ironbarks revealed another spring,
where local Aborigines apparently would bring,
explorers like old Paraway to help them on their way,
while Gracevale cattle drink their fill from that same spring today.

A jumpup’s crest was our next stop, a rough and rocky mound,
an obstacle to pioneers and dray wheels turning 'round.
Persistent and determined hearts though forged a cutting through;
a monument preserved in time to folk who were true blue.

Tom's endless swag of tall bush tales, sure kept our spirits high,
ensuring we were never bored as our day rolled on by.
We reached the edge of Mailman's Gorge, where pioneers penned their stock;
a na'tral amphitheater with its walls of rich, red rock.

Tom warned us all to watch our step, as blowholes ringed the wall.
"It’s goodnight folks to anyone, if they should slip and fall."
He dropped his old Akubra hat, which disappeared below,
and all of us we watched in awe and wondered - where'd it go?

We headed down to Gordon's cave, where back in days gone by,
a tribe of Murri fugitives were sadly known to die.
They'd killed some white surveyor bloke, then fled down here to hide,
though fell beneath the Whiteman's guns - some forty of them died.

Tom had us fooled about his hat - we thought he'd done it in,
but that blowhole was up above and there it was within.
There was a certain eeriness about that rocky room,
though after all I guess it was a monumental tomb.

Then as the coaster turned for home, we noticed something strange,
an outline which appeared to us to be a distant range.
"Mirage" said Tom, "you're seeing things. There are no hills out there"
and stone the crows the man was right, just grass and plains and air.

We soon were back in Aramac and last call for the day
was visiting the old museum, where they had on display,
old photos, books and household goods and how our minds were cast,
back to the days when times were tough, but things were made to last.

The Homestead was a sight to see and back in time to share,
some billy tea and damper with the folk all gathered there.
Corn beef was on the menu too and then to top the day
an hour or so of verse and yarns with Christine and The Grey.

So let me give you folk the drum if you are heading west,
old Barcy is the place to go; it’s got to be the best.
See Tom and his artesian tour it’s something of a must.
Matilda Highway here we come - it's Barcy folks, or bust!

An extract from the magazine, Caravan World November 99, summed up the reason why I wrote this poem. "Dear Ed, On our recent trip to the Outback of Queensland we stayed at the Homestead Caravan Park at Barcaldine. We were made very welcome with a happy greeting, and escorted to our caravan site (some park owners only take your money and say your site’s down there.) With Outback hospitality, we were also invited to join the hosts, Kingsley and Dawn Head and family, for billy tea and damper which they provide each night for all guests. A delicious meal is served each night for a small fee, and on our visit a bush poet was present - very entertaining, with something for all. Tom Lockie from ‘Artesian Country Tours’ comes along most nights to let people know how Barcaldine is growing in tourism and to give us information on the ‘Outback Heritage Trail’. Tom’s knowledge of the history of this area and the presentation of this tour is something not to be missed. On leaving Barcaldine we feel we had made some true friends.” I hope the new owners do it justice.

© Merv Webster

From the book You're Joking! Milk in Bill Tea!
Some days your the pidgeon and other days the statue.

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