History and Heritage Archives - Page 4 of 7 - Clover Hill Diaries

From Bare Floors to Barely Affording. Why Getting Rich in 1870 Was Easier Than Buying a House Today”

In 1870, the Kiama Independent ran a piece titled How to Get Rich. The advice was breathtakingly simple:

Work hard. Spend less than you earn. Save a few hundred pounds. Buy a small farm on the edge of town. Build a modest house. Marry a prudent woman (the sexism was free). Live happily ever after.

And the best part? Don’t worry about furniture. As the newspaper sternly advised, “If the average colonist can have a carpet and fine furniture without taking another man’s money to pay for them, let him have them. But if he cannot afford it, bare floors will not hurt honest men’s feet.”

In other words: buy the farm first, worry about the carpet later.

And here’s the thing, it wasn’t a joke. Back then, this advice actually worked. You could slog for a few years and end up with a farm. Land ownership was within reach of an ordinary labourer.

Fast forward to 2025, and you’d be laughed out of the bank for suggesting such a thing. Today’s version of How to Get Rich might read something like this:

Work hard. Spend less than you earn (if that’s even possible). Save for a decade while rents chew through a third of your income. Watch house prices climb faster than your wages. Cry into your smashed avo (because it wasn’t the avocado that broke the bank). Apply for a mortgage that will consume 50% of your household income. Repeat until retirement.

Here are the hard numbers:

The house-price-to-income ratio in Australia now sits at about 8 times annual income (9.5 times if you’re in Sydney, 10-12 times if you live in Kiama). In 1870, it was closer to 1:1.
It takes the average household more than 10 years just to save a deposit—and that’s without the market leaping ahead while you save.
If you’re lucky enough to secure a mortgage, expect half your income to vanish into loan repayments. If you’re renting, a third of your income disappears into someone else’s mortgage.

In short: in 1879 “getting rich” meant a few years of thrift and sweat, and you could end up with your own patch of dirt. Today, thrift and sweat mostly buy you the right to complain about real estate agents and doom scroll Domain listings at midnight.

The truth is, our ancestors may have lived with bare floors, but at least they could afford the walls around them. Carpets were optional. Houses weren’t.

#HousingCrisis #CostOfLiving #KiamaHistory #ThenAndNow #BareFloors #HomeOwnership #AustralianDream #LocalHistory #RealEstateReality

From a Box of Hoses to One of the Best-Equipped Brigades in the State

This is a recreated image produced for this 85th anniversary blog. It is for illustrative purposes only and does not depict the actual vehicles, buildings, or equipment from the period.

Eighty five years ago, on Valentine’s Day 1940, a group of locals gathered in the Jamberoo Council Chambers, not for romance but to talk about fire. Austin Howle was elected captain, with M Boulton, A Pryor, and J Murphy as vice-captains. Each picked a team of five mates, and together they formed the very first Jamberoo Bush Fire Brigade.

The equipment was modest. It was a standpipe, a hose director, and a couple of lengths of canvas hose kept in a box at the Post Office. But it was ours, and it worked. Eventually, it was moved to the fence at the Council Chambers, which you might now know as the butcher’s shop.

Fast forward to 1958 and Kiama Council handed over our first station, an old Electricity Department building. The “tanker” at that time was a box trailer with a water tank and pump, towed by the captain’s Land Rover. Then came the brigade’s first real tanker in the early 1960s, an ex-army Ford Blitz that the members kitted out themselves.

From there, the fleet kept growing. A 1981 Toyota four-wheel drive, a 1957 Commer fire appliance rescued from Goulburn, and a Ford van turned into a forward control unit all joined the ranks. By the 1990s, we had replaced the lot with modern equipment, and the station grew too. Thanks to a lot of voluntary muscle power from brigade members who built, poured, painted, and laid bricks, we ended up with the four-bay station we know today.

We have had 14 captains over the years, from Austin Howle through to our current leader, Hannah McInerney. Along the way, many members have gone on to senior roles across the Kiama and Shellharbour fire service.

Today, Jamberoo is a village with fire-fighting equipment that consists of: Heavy tanker (Cat 1), Village protection unit (Cat 10), Striker unit (Cat 9) Personnel carrier (Cat 20)

The brigade 60 members, ready to tackle structural fires, bush and grass fires, motor vehicle accidents, rescues, searches, and even the occasional tree blocking the road. We also lend a hand across the Illawarra Zone and wider NSW whenever needed.

From that humble box of hoses to one of the best-equipped brigades in New South Wales, Jamberoo RFS’s story is about dedication, community spirit, and a willingness to muck in and get the job done.

Here’s to the next 85 years, and maybe, just maybe, fewer 5am callouts.

#JamberooRFS #RuralFireService #FireBrigadeHistory #CommunityService #VolunteerFirefighters #HistoricFireTrucks #EmergencyServices #FirefightingHeritage #LocalHistory #NSWRFS

How a Highway Bypass and a Missing Railway Line Changed Jamberoo Forever

Did you know Allowrie St Jamberoo was once called George St

Once upon a time, Jamberoo was the centre of the universe on the New South Wales South Coast. People will tell you it was the largest town between Sydney and Melbourne. Drays rattled through, pubs bustled, and blacksmiths hammered away, all thanks to the fact that Jamberoo sat squarely on the main inland route south. Travellers from Sydney would pass through Albion Park, swing into the Jamberoo Valley, then take on the steep haul up Saddleback Mountain before descending into Kiama.

It was not an easy journey, but it kept Jamberoo humming. The town was a natural stop for food, drink, repairs, and gossip. Things got even better in the late 1800s when the Pike’s Cutting was cut, giving a shorter, less back-breaking link to Kiama.

Looking west through Pike’s Cutting towards the Jamberoo Rd

The real change came earlier than many think. Before the first bridge at Minnamurra opened in 1870, the coastal route had a built-in obstacle — the punt across the river. Travellers would roll up, sometimes in carts piled high with produce, only to find a queue of buggies, wagons, and the occasional impatient rider, all waiting their turn.

The ferryman set the pace, and he was not in a hurry. A good crossing depended on the tide, the weather, and how chatty he felt. A stiff breeze might mean you waited longer. A juicy bit of local gossip could mean you waited longest of all. Farmers swapped news, children fished off the bank, and the odd traveller calculated just how much quicker it would have been to go through Jamberoo after all.

When the first Minnamurra River bridge opened in 1870, and later the second in 1890, the days of punt queues were numbered. More and more traffic flowed along the coast instead of inland through Jamberoo. What was later named the Princes Highway in 1920, rebranded to curry favour with the visiting royals. The prince in question, who later became Edward VIII, very nearly brought down the monarchy.

Of course, Jamberoo had faced other supposed threats before, like the Russians. In September 1860, The Kiama Examiner reported on fears that Russia might invade Kiama. Their verdict on Jamberoo’s fate was unforgettable:

“Jamberoo will, of course, escape, as it will be impossible for any army to come up here from the impassable state of the roads. In some future generation their fossil remains would be found imbedded in a strata of yellow clay, which would be all that would be left to tell the tale that a great and mighty army had once invaded our shores.”

In other words, Jamberoo’s best defence in 1860 was potholes and mud.

While the roads were shifting, so was the way people and goods moved between Kiama and Sydney. For decades, ships carried passengers, butter, and blue metal from Kiama Harbour to the city. The arrival of the railway in 1887 changed everything. Fresh produce could reach Sydney markets the same day, and passengers could travel in comfort without braving the sea.

The first government proposal for the rail route actually had it running through Jamberoo rather than Shellharbour. Imagine if that plan had been adopted. Jamberoo would have been on the direct Sydney to Melbourne main line. Butter factories could have sent goods by train instead of cart, pubs would have bustled with passengers stepping off the platform, and the valley would have been plugged directly into the country’s busiest rail corridor.

In the early 20th century, there was even talk of a branch line to Jamberoo when it was thought coal might be found in the valley. Nothing came of it, and the railway stuck to the coast. Jamberoo remained an inland service town, its fortunes tied to dairy farming rather than the booming railway economy.

W.A. Bayley, writing in the 1960s and 70s, told this story with the precise detail of his era, recording dates, council minutes, and route maps in the serious style of mid-20th century history writing. Dr Tony Gilmour’s Rascals and Respectables covers the same territory but with more sparkle. In Gilmour’s version, the stubborn characters, bruised egos, and colourful asides make you wish you could eavesdrop in Jamberoo’s pubs the day the first bridge at Minnamurra opened, or the moment they learned the railway would not be coming through the valley.

Dr Tony Gilmour’s Rascals and Respectables does not just tell you the history of our local pubs, it pours you a pint of it, froth and all. From the days when Jamberoo ruled the coast to the high-stakes drama of the railway line that never came, Gilmour weaves the rise and fall of our watering holes into a tapestry of hysterical anecdotes, petty rivalries, and larger-than-life publicans who could pour a beer with one hand and stir up scandal with the other. It is history with a wink, where every closing time comes with a punchline. You can buy it here: https://www.trybooking.com/events/landing/1348394

Much gratitude to Dr Tony Gilmour and Sue Eggins from Kiama District Historical Society for their anecdotes and fact checking

#JamberooHistory #CentreOfTheUniverse #HighwayBypass #MinnamurraPunt #PrincesHighway #RailwayThatNeverCame #IllawarraHistory #SouthCoastNSW #LocalLegends #ButterAndBasalt #rascalsrespectables #TonyGimour

From Cow Sheds to Start-Up Success. How Jamberoo Farmers Hacked the Dairy Game

Top photo: In the 1890s, the men who built the district’s dairy co-operatives would have looked much like this: sleeves rolled up, buckets in hand, and ready to turn milk into a thriving local industry Source . Bottom Image: Jamberoo dairy farmer Vaughn Fleming

Long before Silicon Valley had garages, Jamberoo had cow sheds and the people inside them were doing the same thing: turning a good idea into something that could change the world.

Back in the late 1800s, local farmers were the original founders. They didn’t have angel investors; they had actual angels in the paddock, Australia’s first true blue breed of dairy cattle – the Illawarra Shorthorns with glossy red coats and milk so rich it could launch a thousand scones.

Illawarra Dairy Cows at Kiama Show in 1954

But these “founders” had a problem every modern start-up would recognise: scaling. Sure, you could hand-churn your butter at home, but when Sydney wanted more, you couldn’t just “increase output”, your churn was powered by elbow grease, not electricity.

Jamberoo’s 19th-century farmers were the original start-up founders—innovators who pivoted from failed wheat “product lines” and short-lived sugar cane experiments to pool resources, embrace new technology, and scale their “product” from hand-churned butter in cow sheds to a bold, co-operative dairy industry with world-class practices that proved Australian butter could compete with Europe’s best and disrupted the dairy game.

In 1884, the Pioneer Factory near Kiama opened. It was like building the first app store, one place where everyone could bring their “product” (milk), run it through shared technology (mechanical separators), and ship it to customers far beyond the valley.

Then Jamberoo farmers said, Why should Kiama have all the fun?
In 1888, they launched the Jamberoo Co-operative Factory, pooling their cash like an early Kickstarter campaign, only their backers didn’t get T-shirts; they got dividends and better milk prices.

Jamberoo Dairy Co-op c 1950

Soon, micro-startups popped up everywhere:

Waughope Co-op – specialising in high-quality butter, tight-knit supplier network.
Woodstock Co-op – the “fast-scaler,” onboarding more than 50 suppliers in no time.
Druewalla Co-op – the hyper-local player, serving southern valley farms.

Woodstock and Waughope Butter Factories – Photo supplied by Dick Oke

Each was an MVP (Minimum Viable Plant), proving you could make dairying faster, cleaner, and more profitable if you shared tools and knowledge.

Jamberoo dairy farmer Vaughn Fleming carting milk to the factory

Before trucks and refrigeration, local “delivery systems” were powered by horsepower in the most literal sense. Every churn, every can of milk made its way to the factory on drays and carts, navigating country lanes that were often more mud than road. This wasn’t just logistics, it was a lifeline connecting small family farms to the co-operative network that kept the district’s economy thriving.

These farmers weren’t slow to innovate, they were tech-forward before the term existed. By the mid-1880s they were importing the latest De Laval cream separators from Sweden. In the 1940s they were installing milk powdering equipment – basically, creating the dairy equivalent of cloud storage: lighter, easier to move, and lasting longer.

Over time, improved transport and refrigeration meant fewer, bigger factories could handle more milk. Co-ops merged, not as hostile takeovers, but as strategic partnerships to boost market reach. By the 1960s, Jamberoo’s co-op was a serious industry leader, with 74 suppliers producing over 5 million gallons a year.

These were start-up founders with mud on their boots instead of MacBooks, but their mindset was pure innovation:

Spot the inefficiency
Build the tech
Share the risk
Scale the output

They didn’t call it “disruption,” but they did exactly that, transforming a valley of small family dairies into one of the most efficient, collaborative dairy regions in the country.

Read how Jamberoo, legends Kevin Richardson and Geoff Boxsell reshaped how Australians enjoy their morning toast. If you’ve ever spread a creamy, soft blend on your bread without tearing it to bits, you have these two, and their team to thank.

Shoutout to everyone on the Remembering Jamberoo History Facebook page for the photos extracted for this blog. Special mention to Kevin Richardson and Ron Oke

#JamberooHistory #DairyPioneers #IllawarraHeritage #AustralianFarming #CooperativeSpirit #StartupMindset #LocalLegends #FarmInnovation #HeritageFarming #RuralHistory

Leapfrogs, Lawbreakers, and the Birth of Surf Culture in Kiama

Long before the zinc cream and beach umbrellas, before lifeguard towers and bikini bans (or, more accurately, bikini approvals), Kiama’s surf and swim culture was something else entirely.

It was… illegal.

Yes, in the 1890s, going for a dip in the ocean in Kiama was a rebellious act, especially if you did it within view of a public street. In 1895, a fellow named John Holbrook dared to take a surf bath near Manning and Barney Streets at 7am. He was promptly hauled into court and fined 10 shillings under the Towns Police Act, which apparently took a dim view of early-morning enthusiasm and exposed ankles. That bold splash effectively sank surf bathing in Kiama for more than a decade.

But let’s backstroke to the beginning.

In the late 1800s, swimming wasn’t taught in schools, and most people bathed in the sea fully nude, preferably very early or very late, and never when the ladies were about. In 1891, some order was attempted: men were directed to bathe before 10am or after 5pm, while women had access to the baths in the middle of the day. Also, brace yourself, men were asked to wear trunks. A shocking concept for some.

Kiama’s Blowhole Point Baths, initially privately built, were handed over to Council and officially opened on New Year’s Day 1894 by G.W. Fuller, MLA, with 400 onlookers. W. Kelly, organiser and swim evangelist, went on to form the Kiama Swimming Club that same year. A.E. Fulton and S.S. Wells were club secretary and president, respectable positions in a sport that was only just becoming respectable.

Around the same time, a zigzag track down the cliffs to Kendall’s Beach was carved out by locals under the leadership of P. Proud. Initially called Jacob’s Ladder, it later became known as the Golden Stairs, possibly because anyone climbing back up needed the strength of a god and the patience of a monk.

By 1905, the tides were finally turning. Council rescinded the old anti-bathing laws. And in 1908, despite Alderman Hyde Marsh’s solemn warning that “surf bathing is only a craze,” Kiama gave it the green light. That same year, the Kiama Surf Bathers Club was born. Costumes were neck-to-knee, compulsory for anyone over eight. Nude swimming? Still a thing, unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your perspective, because by 1909 complaints were rolling in about young men skinny-dipping at North Kiama Beach.

And what really pushed things over the edge? Leapfrog.

In 1910, a stern council motion condemned surf bathing after complaints that men in bathing suits were “playing leapfrog” on the beach. But like any movement with good sand and better timing, surfing couldn’t be stopped.

By 1911, Surf Beach at Storm Bay was selected as the official town surf beach, two dressing sheds were built, and by 1912 the surf club boasted 45 men and 11 women. In 1913, the first major surf rescue took place. Tragically, Mr. Pollock drowned while his wife was saved and successfully resuscitated, marking the beginning of Kiama’s legacy in ocean safety and surf awareness.

By 1915, it was clear, “The baths and the surf are the greatest pleasures of a holiday in Kiama.” And while there were still complaints about the wrong people wandering into the wrong baths, and suggestions for continental bathing facilities, scandalous, the waves had won.

What began as a sneaky morning splash, a zigzag path, and a few brave souls defying the dress code became something bigger, a culture.

So next time you’re at Surf Beach, spare a thought for John Holbrook, fined for his 7am dip. He didn’t just take a swim,

He took the plunge, for all of us.

Much of this delightful detour through Kiama’s past has been made possible thanks to W.A. Bayley, whose 1959 book Blue Haven: History of Kiama Municipality remains a treasure trove of stories, facts, and fabulous detail. It’s not just a source, it’s a time capsule, capturing both the spirit of the district and the language of its era.

#KiamaHistory #SurfCulture #VintageSwimwear #KiamaBeachDays #SurfBathing #EarlySurfing #LeapfroggingLarrikins #KiamaStories #AussieHistory #RetroBeachVibes #LawbreakersAndLifesavers #BathingSuitHistory #KiamaHeritage #JamberooHistory #LocalLegends #HistoricalResearch #KiamaDistrict #AustralianHistory #DairyHeritage #ButterAndBasalt #IllawarraRailway #HistoryNerd #SmallTownStories #FamilyHistory #HeritageHunt #HistoricalHumour #LocalGovernmentDrama

Always Broke, Forever Hopeful, A Brief (and Broke) History of Kiama Council

When ratepayers gave the mayor boxing gloves in 1890, they weren’t kidding. 140 years later, council’s still trying to stop the money leaking out, one glove at a time.

If you’ve heard whispers that Kiama Council is in financial strife and thought, “Surely this is new?” — allow me to introduce you to the long and time-honoured tradition of municipal money woes. Because, dear reader, we’ve been broke since before board shorts, streetlights, or even bridges were cool.

In 1882, Kiama Council approached Parliament to borrow money for, you guessed it, a tramway. At the time, it was seen as a visionary move. The blue metal trade was booming, basalt was being hauled from the hills to the harbour by horse and dray, and the dust and mud on Kiama’s streets were choking businesses and water tanks. A tramline was proposed to streamline transport from the quarries to the port and keep Kiama competitive in the shipping trade. It might have been brilliant, had it worked.

Instead, it went over budget, underused, and over the edge of financial logic. By 1890, the council was broke. Properly broke. Ratepayers were so fed up they literally handed the mayor a pair of boxing gloves at a council meeting. (Fact, not metaphor.)

By 1894, Kiama Council was saddled with a £4,000 debt to the bank, couldn’t afford basic street repairs, and had to sweep Terralong Street with brooms while dust blew into shops and ruined water tanks. The situation was so dire that they considered lighting the streets with acetylene gas instead of paying their overdue bill to the gas company.

Electricity? That was another slow burn. While towns up and down the coast were already flicking switches, Kiama was still dithering over tenders, tariffs, and the staggering cost of poles and wires. The council’s reluctance to commit funding meant Kiama lagged behind in the electrification stakes, and when lighting finally arrived, it lit up more resentment than roadways.

Water supply? That, too, was a long and thirsty road. For decades, residents relied on rooftop tanks, wells, and carted water. By the late 1800s, a proper water scheme was desperately needed. Eventually, the solution came in the form of Fountaindale Dam,

located at the confluence of Tangalla Gully and Fountaindale Creek, approximately 10 km west of Kiama. A concrete wall was built to hold back the water, and in 1909 the dam was completed as an on-stream storage facility. It officially became part of Kiama’s water supply system in 1909 at a cost of £7,073 (roughly $1.1 million today). Pipes were laid, tanks were constructed, and water finally flowed. It was a triumph, briefly.

Fast forward to today and the irony is hard to miss. Fountaindale Dam still sits there, perched on what is now my family’s farm. It no longer supplies water to Kiama, having been decommissioned in 1977, yet the dam’s massive wall remains council’s responsibility, a costly, aging relic of early infrastructure dreams that now brings nothing but maintenance bills and engineering headaches. It is not accessible to the public.

Public buildings? Repeatedly proposed, repeatedly defeated, sometimes by referenda with fewer than 20 votes. A grand new civic hall was once declared too ambitious. Central Park was dismissed as a “disgrace to the title,” filled with weeds, quarry rubble, and good intentions.

And the consequences of all this financial floundering?
They were significant.

In 1890, after years of frustration, Gerringong and Jamberoo both seceded, forming their own municipalities and taking with them not only their rates but also a good chunk of local identity and political momentum. The split was celebrated with banquets, and the division remained in place until the mid-1950s.

Even surf culture faced municipal delay. When locals pushed for public bathing and beach access, council’s response was to fine the first man caught swimming in view of the street. It took years, and another round of public outcry, before bathing laws were finally revised and surf clubs allowed to form.

So if you’re feeling nostalgic about balanced budgets and visionary spending, maybe don’t. The truth is, we’ve always operated somewhere between ambition and overdraft.

The real question isn’t, “How did we get into debt?”
It’s more like, “Do we ever learn?”

#KiamaHistory #CouncilChaos #LocalGovernmentWoes #AlwaysBroke #MunicipalMeltdown #FountaindaleDam #BoxingGlovesAndBudgets #KiamaCouncil #TramwayTroubles #BudgetBlunders #HistoricalIrony #BlueMetalAndRedInk

Jamberoo Time Travel (Minus the Jet Lag)

You could say Jamberoo is in my blood. My family has lived here for eight generations, and while others have documented its history in great detail, I’ve recently joined the fray for a very specific reason: a book I’ve been commissioned to write about a “scandal” that rocked the village in 1910. Let’s just say the past has been more gripping than I ever expected, and I am absolutely loving the research.

With help from local legends Dr. Tony Gilmour and Sue Eggins at the Kiama District Historical Society, I’ve been digging through dusty records, unexpected side stories, and the odd political stoush that feels… well, oddly familiar.

Some people take a gap year to find themselves in Europe. I took a few weeks and found a cast of clergy, schoolteachers, butter makers, ambitious aldermen, and a council so divided they once presented the mayor with a box of boxing gloves. Yes, literally. A political stunt so deliciously dramatic, you almost expect it to show up in a Netflix period drama. The gloves were delivered to the council chambers in July 1890 at the height of the campaign to separate Kiama Town from the rural wards, and the Council’s shock was so great they attempted (and failed) to prosecute the glove sender. Some things, it seems, haven’t changed.

Turns out, council being broke isn’t exactly a modern innovation. Back in the 1880s, Kiama Council found itself mortgaged to the bank, struggling under the weight of a tramway project that was supposed to pay for itself, and spectacularly didn’t. By 1890, they were embroiled in financial drama, territorial separation movements, and public meetings where frustration boiled over into performance art (cue the boxing gloves). It’s oddly comforting to know that while the potholes and politics may change, the budget headaches remain a timeless local tradition.

Jamberoo itself, though, was already galloping along by the mid-1800s. By 1836 it boasted its own flour and timber mill (powered by waterwheel), a brewery growing its own hops, and blacksmiths pounding out the future. Church life was thriving, with four churches and a similar amount of schools at one point, and education became a passion project. By 1890 Jamberoo boasted a population of 2,235 people

Little slab schools popped up in barns, old inns, and weatherboard buildings, giving rise to figures like William Cullen, who started school at Jerrara and went on to become Chief Justice of New South Wales. He was so precociously brilliant that at just 12 years old, the school inspector recommended he be offered a job as a pupil teacher. It’s probably the only time in history a careers advisor looked at a Year 6 kid and said, “Right then, how about you teach the class?”

Then came the butter boom.

In 1884, the Pioneer Factory opened near Spring Creek—the first of its kind in Australia. Two more factories followed in Jamberoo alone, at Waughope and Woodstock. Suddenly, the quiet valley was home to piggeries, Danish separators, milk cans hand-fashioned by the local tinsmith, and grand dinners with turkeys, fowls and suckling pigs to honour the men who made it all happen. The whole region was churning with energy (and dairy), as farmers abandoned their home churns for cooperative factories and the promise of a better price.

But nothing upended daily life more than the Illawarra Railway. When it opened in 1887, quietly, under pouring rain, local papers nicknamed the new Kiama ( now Bombo) station “The Station at the Graveyard.” Still, the transformation was immediate. Milk, butter, and even newspapers began moving by train. Kiama’s coastal shipping trade faded, and the daily arrival of Sydney papers left the local press scrambling.

As I keep uncovering these stories, I’m struck by how little has really changed. People back then were organisers, agitators, dreamers, and doers. They planted trees before Arbor Day existed, debated public spending over tea meetings, and threw their hearts (and sometimes their gloves) into local politics.

So yes, I’ve lived in Jamberoo. But not just the one you drive through. I’ve walked her muddy streets in the 1850s, seen her butter factories boom in the 1880s, and shaken my head in fond disbelief at an 1890 council session where someone thought boxing gloves might get their point across.

And I am loving every minute of it.

Much of this delightful detour through Jamberoo’s past has been made possible thanks to W.A. Bayley, whose 1959 book Blue Haven: History of Kiama Municipality remains a treasure trove of stories, facts, and fabulous detail. It’s not just a source, it’s a time capsule, capturing both the spirit of the district and the language of its era. Like many works of its time, it defaults to the male gender throughout, with little thought for neutral language, but it still offers a vivid, passionate account of a community in motion.

#JamberooHistory #LocalLegends #HistoricalResearch #KiamaDistrict #AustralianHistory #DairyHeritage #ButterAndBasalt #IllawarraRailway #HistoryNerd #SmallTownStories #FamilyHistory #HeritageHunt #HistoricalHumour #LocalGovernmentDrama

The story that waited for me

I’ve been commissioned to write a book. That still feels extraordinary to say. Not because I didn’t think I had it in me – but because this book has reminded me of skill sets I had tucked away. Some I’d forgotten. Others I never knew were there.

I can’t give away the title, and I won’t walk you through the plot. But I can offer glimpses. .

A barefoot child on a dairy farm. A marriage that unsettles the whole village. A funeral, too soon. A son who breaks. A woman who does not.

The book is set in the Jamberoo of the early 1900s -back when the land ruled daily life, and community reputation could make or break you. It’s a chance for me to write about the complexity of family grief, the silence that follows a child’s death, and the way small towns handle trauma. It’s also letting me reflect on the burden of stoicism, the quiet strength of women, and the weight of religious and cultural expectations.

At its heart, this is a story about forbearance. About the kind of dignity that doesn’t ask for applause. About how people endure the unthinkable and still show up to milk the cows.

It’s personal work, but not confessional. I’m drawing on history, memory, imagination, and finding in myself a storyteller I didn’t expect to meet again.

This book is not about Jamberoo alone. It’s about what binds all of us, wherever we live. Compassion, endurance, resilience. Love that doesn’t announce itself. Grace in the everyday.

I’m grateful to be writing it. Grateful for the trust, the challenge, and the reminder that even now, especially now, I still have something to say on behalf of the people who came before me .

#TheStoryThatWaitedForMe #WritingJourney #HistoricalFiction #Jamberoo #RuralStories #CreativeProcess #Rediscovery #Forbearance #WomenInHistory #Resilience

The Power of Storytelling and Digital Legacy

Documenting history matters, not just to remember names but to honour lives fully lived and the impact they had on the world.

Have you ever stopped to think about whose story in your life deserves to be told?

Have you considered documenting your family history?

When we want to learn about something, we turn to Google, but what about the stories that are not there?

The ones that exist only in memories, passed down through conversation but never written down?

My friend Gaye Steel, former marketing manager of McDonald’s and Telstra, once said,

“If you can’t be found on Google, you don’t exist.”

Of course, we know that is not true.

Our lives, relationships, and impact are not measured by search results. But in today’s world, if a story is not documented, it can be easily forgotten. That is why storytelling matters. It ensures the people and moments that shape us are remembered.

Many people throughout history are invisible in the digital space, and I have made it my mission to change that. The National Library has archived my blogs as part of Australia’s digital history, recognising the importance of recording our experiences. But you do not need to be a writer or historian to ensure that the stories of your loved ones are preserved.

One simple step is to label your treasured photos. Add names, dates, and locations to the back of old family pictures. Tell the stories behind sentimental objects in your home. Even a short note explaining why something matters to you can turn an ordinary object into a meaningful piece of family history.

My own family’s history is deeply tied to the Illawarra. My maternal ancestors arrived in Kiama in 1831, and my paternal family settled in Dapto in 1841. The men in my family were well documented, but the women’s stories were largely missing.

My great-grandmother’s obituary, which only refers to her as “Mrs John Lindsay,” speaks volumes about the era in which she lived. It highlights how women were often defined by their husbands with their own identities overshadowed. Despite being described as an “ideal wife and mother,” her individuality, accomplishments, and personal story were left untold. It raises the question of how many other women’s legacies have been reduced to a mere mention in relation to their husbands.

When my parents passed away, I realised there was no public record of them, no trace of their lives online. Growing up, we did not even have family photos displayed in our home. I only discovered a picture of my mother through a Jamberoo Family History Facebook post.

That moment changed everything for me. My cousin, Mark Emery, has been documenting our family history for The Bugle, and through his research, I found my parents’ wedding photo and a beautiful image of my mother at 15. By writing about my parents, I have not only preserved their names but kept their stories alive, ensuring future generations can find them, remember them, and understand their lives.

My own journey has been shaped by storytelling. After leaving home and marrying young, I unexpectedly became a farmer’s wife. Later, I managed a pharmacy, but a series of armed robberies deeply affected me – an event that forced me to re-evaluate my path.

Stepping away from pharmacy, I found purpose in community engagement. I helped establish the Kiama Wine Show, promoted dairy through school programs like Picasso Cows, and was ultimately named Kiama’s first Electorate Woman of the Year. These experiences reinforced something crucial.

For years, agriculture faced negative press, and a friend in marketing gave me invaluable advice. “If you don’t tell your story, others will tell it for you.”

Recognising the need to change this, I was established a charity to support young agricultural advocates in developing their storytelling skills. Over two decades, the charity worked with top journalists to train young people in crafting compelling narratives, ensuring that their voices were heard and their contributions to agriculture were recognised.

If we do not tell our own stories, others will tell them for us, or worse, they will not be told at all.

More recently, I made the difficult decision to close the charity I had been running. The challenges of working with schools post-COVID, combined with my growing passion for local storytelling, led me to refocus my energy on my own community.

The Bugle covered some of my community talks, and before long, they invited me to write for them. What started as pro bono work turned into a contract role covering council and feature stories.

The most rewarding part of this work is meeting and interviewing fascinating people, uncovering stories that would otherwise go untold.

Throughout my career, I have learned that awards and recognition are not about personal validation. They are about elevating a cause. Every time I won an award, I nominated someone else the following year, and I encouraged them to do the same. I am particularly passionate about the Hidden Treasures Honour Roll for regional women. Last year, I nominated three local women. They were honoured to be included, and now they are eager to nominate others in turn.

We all have stories worth telling, whether they are our own or those of people we admire. So, I leave you with a few questions.

Who in your life has a story that should be shared?
Have you considered documenting your family’s history?
Would you like to learn how to record these stories?

Let’s make sure the voices of those we love are not lost to time. Whether it is writing a blog, labelling old photos, or simply sharing memories with the next generation, every story we tell adds to the rich tapestry of history.

#Storytelling #DigitalLegacy #FamilyHistory #PreservingMemories #LocalHistory #Kiama #TheBugle #CommunityStories #DocumentYourStory #HistoricalRecords

The Day I Beat an Olympian

Kevin and Chichester at the 1976 Montreal Olympics. Photo Credit: Hugo Czerny.

It’s not every day you get to say, “I beat an Olympian.” But here I am, telling you about the time I somehow managed to outdo Kevin Bacon in a bending race. Yes, that Kevin Bacon—three Olympics, countless showjumping victories, and the legendary partnership with Chichester.

Was it skill? Not a chance. This was pure luck, the kind of moment that makes you feel like you’ve won the lottery by picking random numbers. Kevin’s horse was having the day off—not exactly in top form—and decided that knocking over the bending posts was far more entertaining than actually weaving through them. Meanwhile, my pony, against all odds, played it cool.

By the end of the race, there I was, declared the winner, looking around like someone had made a mistake. Kevin? He laughed. He was gracious enough to act like this wasn’t a total fluke. That’s what made him an Olympian—not just the skill, but the class.

To this day, I dine out on that story. “Did you know I once beat Kevin Bacon?” I’ll say, letting the suspense hang for a moment before admitting it was a bending race where his horse knocked over almost every post in sight.

But you know what? A win is a win. And I’ll never forget the smile and good humour of the man I got to “beat.” Thanks, Kevin, for letting me have my moment—even if it was one for the comedy reel.