Here are some quirky and fascinating general knowledge facts to entertain you for the hazy period where you don't know what day and time it is:Snails have between 1,000 and 12,000 teeth, though they aren't like human teeth but are found all over their file-like tongue. A chicken once lived for 18 months without a head back in the 1940s in the USA, surviving because his jugular vein and most of his brainstem were left mostly intact. A shrimp's heart is in its head, and it's physically impossible for pigs to look up into the sky.Octopuses don't have tentacles, their eight limbs are actually considered arms. A horse can produce maximum power of 18,000 watts, which equals around 24 horsepower. Flamingos are born with grey or white feathers and develop pink feathers from eating shrimp and algae, and what looks like their knees bending are actually their ankles.When you wake up in the morning, you're about one centimetre taller because at night when you're lying down, the spine stretches and decompresses. Wearing a necktie can reduce blood flow to your brain by up to 7.5 per cent, which can make you feel dizzy, nauseous and cause headaches. Wearing headphones for just an hour could increase the bacteria in your ears by 700 times.Humans can distinguish approximately 10 million colours thanks to the cone cells in the retina. If you've ever felt like you think better in a warm shower, you're probably right because the warm water increases the flow of dopamine and makes us more creative.Botanically, bananas are classified as berries, while strawberries aren't because strawberries are actually aggregate fruits that form from multiple ovaries of a single flower. There's a fruit called black sapote that tastes like chocolate pudding and sweet custard, native to Central and South America. About four per cent of the world's cheese ends up stolen, with retailers considering it a "high-risk" food.Google Images was created after Jennifer Lopez wore her infamous dress at the 2000 Grammys because so many people were searching for her outfit that the search engine added an image function. The small dollop of toothpaste you see in advertisements is called a nurdle.A cloud typically weighs around a million tonnes, with a volume of around one cubic kilometre. Sound can be minus decibels, with the quietest place on Earth being Microsoft's anechoic chamber in Redmond, Washington, at -20.6 decibels. Venus takes longer to rotate once on its axis (about 243 Earth days) than it does to orbit the Sun (around 225 Earth days).

In the heart of Hay, New South Wales, stands a building that has witnessed nearly 150 years of Australian social history. The Hay Gaol, constructed in 1878, has lived through more incarnations than most buildings could dream of, serving as a prison, a maternity hospital, an institution for girls, and finally a museum. Each transformation tells a story not just of changing architecture, but of evolving social attitudes, community needs, and both the best and worst aspects of institutional care in Australia.When Hay Gaol was completed in 1878, it represented the arm of colonial law extending into the remote Riverina district. The building was constructed during a period when the Australian frontier was still being defined, and institutions of law and order were essential symbols of civilisation's advance into what Europeans considered the wilderness.The gaol was built using local materials and labour, reflecting the practical approach that characterised much of colonial Australian construction. Its thick stone walls and small, barred windows were designed not just for security, but to withstand the harsh climate of the inland—scorching summers and bitter winters that could test both buildings and the people within them.The original design followed standard colonial prison architecture: a central corridor with cells branching off either side, administrative areas at the front, and exercise yards at the rear. The building incorporated the latest theories in prison design of the era, which emphasised isolation, routine, and moral reformation through hard work and religious instruction.The early years of Hay Gaol saw it house a variety of offenders, from petty thieves to violent criminals, reflecting the rough-and-tumble nature of frontier life. The prisoners included bushrangers, cattle thieves, drunk and disorderly individuals, and those who had run afoul of the complex web of colonial regulations that governed everything from land use to licensing laws.Prison records from the period reveal the harsh realities of life in colonial Australia. Many inmates were there for crimes of desperation—stealing food during hard times, vagrancy during economic downturns, or infractions of the complex laws that governed the movement and employment of workers in the pastoral industry.The gaol also served as a temporary holding facility for prisoners awaiting trial or transport to larger institutions. Its location made it a crucial link in the colonial justice system, serving communities across a vast area of the Riverina where the nearest alternatives might be hundreds of kilometres away.By the early 20th century, changing attitudes towards crime and punishment, combined with improved transportation links that made it easier to transfer prisoners to larger facilities, had reduced the need for small regional gaols. Rather than abandon the substantial building, the community found a new use that would serve a very different but equally vital function.The transformation of Hay Gaol into a maternity hospital represented a remarkable shift from a place associated with society's failures to one celebrating its future. The solid construction that had once contained criminals now provided security and shelter for mothers and newborns. The small, individual rooms that had been cells became private recovery rooms, and the exercise yards became areas where new mothers could recuperate in the fresh air.This transformation reflected the growing recognition in early 20th-century Australia of the need for proper medical facilities in rural areas. Childbirth, which had previously been handled by local midwives or family members, was increasingly seen as requiring professional medical supervision. The gaol's conversion addressed this need in a practical, cost-effective manner that exemplified rural Australian ingenuity.The conversion to a maternity hospital required significant modifications to the building's interior. Former cells were opened up and refurbished to create comfortable rooms for patients. New plumbing and electrical systems were installed to meet medical standards. The former prison kitchen was expanded to provide meals for patients and staff, and areas that had once housed prison workshops were converted into medical facilities.Despite its origins, the building proved well-suited to its new role. The thick walls provided excellent insulation, keeping the interior cool in summer and warm in winter. The solid construction minimised noise between rooms, providing the quiet environment essential for recovery. The central corridor design, originally intended for surveillance of prisoners, now allowed medical staff to efficiently monitor patients.As medical facilities in the region improved and purpose-built hospitals became available, Hay Gaol underwent another transformation in 1961. This time, it became the Hay Institution for Girls, a maximum-security facility that would become synonymous with some of the worst abuses in Australia's child welfare history.The institution was opened as "a place of punishment for girls who would not comply with the strict regime" of Parramatta Girls Home, effectively serving as a prison for girls aged 15 to 18. Many were Indigenous children, and many had long been state wards from poor socio-economic backgrounds.What was presented as rehabilitation was, in reality, a regime of systematic abuse, cruelty, and punishment that went far beyond anything authorised by law. The Royal Commission's report highlighted that, although it was operating under the Child Welfare Act 1939, evidence from former residents suggests they were treated severely and received punishment well beyond what the Act allowed.The girls imprisoned at Hay were subjected to horrific physical, sexual, and verbal abuse. They were forced into gruelling labour, including scrubbing floors daily and undertaking pointless, demoralising tasks such as paving footpaths only to be forced to rip them up and repave them again—a cruel form of psychological torture designed to break their spirits.The thick stone walls that had once contained colonial criminals now trapped vulnerable young women in a cycle of abuse and degradation. The isolation of the rural location meant that the cruelty inflicted within those walls went largely unnoticed by the outside world for years.Life at the institution was characterised by extreme control and punishment. Girls were subjected to solitary confinement, physical violence, and sexual abuse by staff members who were meant to care for them. The regime was designed not to rehabilitate, but to break down any resistance or independence these young women might possess.The very architecture that had served the building well as a gaol and hospital became a tool of oppression in this context. The solid construction that had once provided security for new mothers now trapped young women in conditions that would not have been tolerated in adult prisons.Both Parramatta Girls and the Hay Institution were closed in 1974 after a public outcry about conditions. The closure came after years of advocacy by former inmates and their supporters, who fought to expose the systematic abuse that had been hidden behind the respectable facade of "child welfare."The Royal Commission heard evidence from 16 former inmates of Parramatta Girls, four of whom also spent time at the Hay Institution. Their testimonies revealed a pattern of abuse that shocked the nation and led to significant reforms in how Australia approached juvenile justice and child welfare.From Darkness to Light: The Museum YearsToday, the building serves as a museum, where visitors can learn about its complex history. The transformation from a place of punishment and abuse to one of education and remembrance represents both Australia's capacity for change and the importance of acknowledging difficult truths about our past.The museum doesn't shy away from the darker chapters of the building's history. Instead, it serves as a reminder of the importance of oversight, accountability, and the protection of vulnerable people in institutional care. The stories of the young women who suffered within these walls are finally being told, their experiences acknowledged, and their courage in speaking out honoured.The story of Hay Gaol is more than just the tale of a building's changing uses. It's a reflection of Australia's evolving approach to justice, healthcare, and child welfare. From colonial punishment to medical care, from systematic abuse to historical education, each chapter reveals something about the society that shaped its use.The building stands today as both a monument to human adaptability and a warning about the abuse of power. Its thick walls have seen the best and worst of human nature, witnessed both birth and trauma, contained both criminals and innocents. In its current incarnation as a museum, it serves perhaps its most important function: ensuring that the stories within its walls—particularly those of the young women who suffered there—are never forgotten.The transformation of Hay Gaol from lockup to lifeline is incomplete. True redemption lies not just in preserving the building, but in ensuring that the lessons learned from its darkest period continue to inform how we protect the most vulnerable members of our society. The voices of those who suffered within these walls must continue to be heard, their experiences a constant reminder of our collective responsibility to do better.

On a windswept day in 1974, geologist Dr Jim Bowler was walking across the ancient, dried lake bed of Lake Mungo in far western New South Wales. The erosion patterns in the sandy soil had caught his scientific eye – but what he discovered protruding from the weathered earth would revolutionise our understanding of human history in Australia and challenge every assumption about the antiquity and sophistication of Aboriginal culture.Lake Mungo, located near the town of Balranald in the Willandra Lakes region, sits in what was once a chain of freshwater lakes fed by the Lachlan River system. During the Pleistocene era, these lakes supported abundant wildlife and, as Dr Bowler's discovery would prove, sustained human communities for tens of thousands of years. The area today presents a stark landscape of salt pans, sand dunes, and distinctive erosion formations known as the "Walls of China" – but this apparent desolation conceals one of the world's most significant archaeological sites.Mungo Man was first discovered in 1974 by Geologist Dr Jim Bowler at Lake Mungo, and the subsequent research changed our understanding of human occupation in Australia. The remains, initially estimated to be around 30,000 years old, were later determined through advanced dating techniques to be even older – potentially up to 42,000 years old, making them among the oldest known human remains in Australia.But Mungo Man was not an isolated discovery. Three years earlier, in 1971, Dr Bowler had found the remains of a young woman, later known as Mungo Lady, whose bones showed evidence of ritual cremation. This earlier find had already begun to challenge archaeological assumptions, but the discovery of Mungo Man provided even more dramatic evidence of ancient human sophistication.The significance of these discoveries extended far beyond their age. The burial practices evident at Lake Mungo demonstrated that Aboriginal Australians 40,000 years ago had developed complex spiritual beliefs and ceremonial traditions. Mungo Lady's remains showed evidence of careful cremation followed by the grinding and scattering of bones – a sophisticated mortuary practice that indicated abstract thinking and spiritual beliefs about death and the afterlife.Mungo Man's burial was equally remarkable. The body had been placed in a shallow grave with hands positioned over the pelvic area, and the entire body had been covered with red ochre – a pigment that had to be transported from sources hundreds of kilometres away. This use of ochre in burial ceremonies suggested not only spiritual beliefs but also extensive trade networks and cultural exchange across vast distances.The implications for Australian prehistory were profound. The discoveries at Lake Mungo pushed back the timeline of human occupation in Australia by thousands of years and provided the first concrete evidence of sophisticated cultural practices among the continent's earliest inhabitants. The findings challenged European assumptions about Aboriginal society and provided scientific validation for Aboriginal oral traditions that spoke of ancient connections to the land.For the local Aboriginal communities – particularly the Paakantyi, Mutthi Mutthi, and Ngiyampaa peoples – the discoveries confirmed what their oral traditions had always maintained: that their ancestors had been custodians of this land since time immemorial. The scientific evidence provided by archaeology aligned perfectly with traditional knowledge passed down through countless generations.The research at Lake Mungo also revealed remarkable details about ancient life in the region. Analysis of middens (ancient refuse heaps) showed that the lake's Aboriginal inhabitants had enjoyed a varied diet including fish, freshwater mussels, small mammals, birds, and plant foods. Stone tools found at the site demonstrated sophisticated manufacturing techniques and showed that the toolmakers had access to high-quality stone sources from distant locations.Environmental reconstruction of the ancient lake system painted a picture of a landscape dramatically different from today's arid conditions. Forty thousand years ago, Lake Mungo was a large freshwater lake surrounded by woodlands and grasslands teeming with wildlife. Temperatures were cooler, rainfall was higher, and the entire region supported much denser populations of both animals and humans than it does today.The climate record preserved in the lake sediments also revealed the environmental challenges faced by ancient Aboriginal communities. The lakes began to dry up around 15,000 years ago as the climate became increasingly arid. Rather than abandoning the region, Aboriginal people adapted their lifestyle to the changing conditions, demonstrating remarkable resilience and flexibility in the face of dramatic environmental change.Archaeological techniques developed at Lake Mungo have since been applied to sites across Australia, leading to a revolution in understanding of Aboriginal prehistory. The site became a testing ground for new dating methods, including optically stimulated luminescence (OSL) dating, which measures when sand grains were last exposed to sunlight. These techniques have been crucial in establishing accurate chronologies for Australian prehistory.The discoveries also contributed to broader debates about human evolution and migration. The presence of fully modern humans in Australia 40,000 years ago provided important evidence for theories about human dispersal from Africa and the peopling of the Pacific region. The sophistication of Australian Aboriginal culture at such an early date challenged ideas about cultural evolution and the development of human societies.Recognition of the site's global significance led to its inscription on the World Heritage List in 1981. The Willandra Lakes Region, including Lake Mungo, was recognised for both its outstanding universal value as an archaeological site and its importance as a natural landscape preserving the interaction between humans and the environment over tens of thousands of years.Today, Lake Mungo is managed as a national park, with interpretation facilities that help visitors understand the significance of the discoveries. The site attracts researchers from around the world and has become an important location for training archaeologists and environmental scientists. However, management of the site also involves complex negotiations between scientific interests, tourism, and Aboriginal cultural protocols.The ongoing research at Lake Mungo continues to yield new insights. Recent studies have focused on ancient DNA analysis, environmental reconstruction, and the relationship between climate change and human adaptation. Each new discovery adds another piece to the puzzle of Australia's human past and helps to build a more complete picture of one of the world's oldest continuous cultures.The impact of the Lake Mungo discoveries extends far beyond academic archaeology. The findings have influenced government policies on Aboriginal land rights, cultural heritage protection, and the management of archaeological sites. They have also played a crucial role in public education about Aboriginal history and have helped to foster greater appreciation for the depth and complexity of Aboriginal culture.Dr Bowler's chance discovery in 1974 opened a window into Australia's deep past that continues to reshape our understanding of human history. The ancient shores of Lake Mungo, where Aboriginal people lived, loved, died, and were buried with ceremony 40,000 years ago, stand as testament to the antiquity and sophistication of Australia's first peoples.The story of Lake Mungo reminds us that the most significant discoveries often come from the most unexpected places. A dried lake bed in one of Australia's most remote regions has provided insights that have rewritten textbooks and challenged assumptions about human capability and cultural development. It demonstrates the importance of scientific research in revealing hidden histories and the value of preserving archaeological sites for future generations.Most importantly, Lake Mungo serves as a bridge between Aboriginal traditional knowledge and Western science, showing how these different ways of understanding the past can complement and validate each other. The ancient bones found by Dr Bowler near Balranald speak not just of death, but of life – of a rich, complex, and enduring culture that has survived ice ages, climate change, and colonisation to remain a living part of contemporary Australia.

The town of Menindee sits like a lonely outpost beside the meandering Darling River in far western New South Wales. For thousands of years, this waterway sustained the Barkindji people and countless generations of native wildlife. Today, it has become synonymous with environmental apocalypse—a stretch of water that regularly transforms into a graveyard for millions of creatures.In January 2019, residents of Menindee woke to a scene from a nightmare. Along a 40-kilometre stretch of the Darling River, up to one million native fish floated belly-up in the murky water. Murray cod—some weighing over 100 kilograms and decades old—bobbed alongside golden perch and silver perch in what authorities called the largest fish kill in Australian history. The sight was so overwhelming that locals described the smell as unbearable for weeks afterwards.The immediate cause was a sudden temperature drop that triggered the collapse of massive blue-green algae blooms, sucking oxygen from the water and suffocating everything that lived beneath the surface. But this was no natural disaster—it was the culmination of decades of river mismanagement, drought, and human interference with one of Australia's most significant waterways.What makes Menindee's environmental catastrophe particularly eerie is its repetitive nature. Between 2018 and 2023, at least five mass fish death events were recorded along this stretch of the Darling River. Each time, the pattern was the same: algae blooms fed by agricultural runoff and stagnant water would flourish in the heat, then suddenly collapse, creating an aquatic killing field that stretched for kilometres.The scale of these disasters defies comprehension. During the worst events, dead fish carpeted the riverbanks in layers several feet deep. The stench was so overpowering that it could be detected from kilometres away, and locals reported that the smell penetrated clothing and homes, lingering for weeks after the dead fish were removed. Emergency services had to use bulldozers to collect the rotting carcasses, which were then buried in mass graves in the desert.The river that once ran clear and supported thriving ecosystems has become a toxic soup of agricultural chemicals, urban runoff, and over-extracted water. Native species that survived ice ages and countless droughts have been wiped out in a matter of days by human-induced environmental collapse. The critically endangered Murray cod, some of which were older than European settlement in the area, have been particularly hard hit.Scientific analysis of the dead fish revealed the brutal efficiency of environmental collapse. Many of the Murray cod found floating in 2019 were over 50 years old—living libraries of river ecology that had survived multiple droughts, floods, and previous fish kills. Their deaths represented not just individual tragedies but the erasure of genetic diversity that had taken decades to develop.The toxicity of the algae blooms poses dangers beyond fish mortality. Blue-green algae, technically cyanobacteria, produce neurotoxins and liver toxins that can kill livestock, pets, and even humans who come into contact with contaminated water. During the worst blooms, the river water resembled green paint, and the mere act of touching it could cause severe skin irritation and illness.Local Aboriginal elders describe the fish kills as a spiritual catastrophe as much as an environmental one. The Barkindji people have maintained their connection to this country for over 40,000 years, and the river was central to their cultural and spiritual life. Traditional fishing practices, passed down through countless generations, became impossible when the river turned toxic. Sacred sites along the riverbank were contaminated with rotting fish, making cultural ceremonies dangerous or impossible to perform.The economic impact on Menindee has been devastating. Commercial fishing, once a significant industry in the region, has been virtually eliminated. Tourism, already limited in this remote area, disappeared entirely during the worst of the fish kills. Property values plummeted as potential buyers were deterred by the smell and health risks associated with living near a contaminated river.The town of Menindee itself has become a symbol of environmental injustice. Once a thriving river port with a population of over 2,000, it now struggles to maintain 500 residents. The river that gave the town life has become unreliable and unsafe. During the worst of the fish kills, locals were advised not to swim in or draw water from a river their grandparents had depended on for everything.Meteorological records reveal the perfect storm of conditions that create these disasters. Extended periods of drought reduce river flow to a trickle, concentrating nutrients and pollutants. When temperatures soar above 40 degrees Celsius, as they regularly do in western NSW, the stagnant water becomes a breeding ground for toxic algae. The algae multiply exponentially, creating blooms visible from space, before suddenly collapsing when temperatures drop or nutrients are exhausted.The Murray-Darling Basin, of which the Darling River is a crucial component, has been described by scientists as one of the world's most over-allocated river systems. Water extraction for irrigation and urban use has reduced natural flows to levels that cannot sustain healthy ecosystems. Cotton farming upstream has been particularly controversial, with critics arguing that water-intensive crops should not be grown in one of Australia's driest regions.Historical records reveal that the relationship between European settlers and the Barkindji people was so violent that prospective pastoralists avoided the region for years. In 1853, police were brought in to forcibly relocate Aboriginal people to government missions, beginning a pattern of displacement and environmental exploitation that continues today. The current ecological crisis can be seen as the culmination of 170 years of treating the landscape as something to be conquered rather than sustained.The science behind the fish kills reads like a horror story. Blue-green algae produce toxins with names like microcystin and cylindrospermopsin—compounds so potent that a few drops can kill a large dog. When these blooms collapse, they create what scientists call "blackwater events"—stretches of river so depleted of oxygen that nothing can survive. The water turns the colour of black tea and carries the stench of death for hundreds of kilometres downstream.Government responses to the crisis have been widely criticised as inadequate and reactive. Emergency water supplies have been trucked to Menindee at enormous cost, while long-term solutions remain mired in political disputes between state and federal governments. The town's main water treatment plant was overwhelmed during the worst algae blooms, leaving residents dependent on bottled water for months at a time.Satellite images of the Darling River during fish kill events reveal the scale of the catastrophe. Dark plumes of dead water can be seen snaking across the landscape like veins of poison, carrying destruction far beyond Menindee itself. The river system that once supported one of Australia's most diverse freshwater ecosystems has become a conveyor belt of environmental death.Climate change projections suggest that conditions conducive to fish kills will become more frequent and severe. Higher temperatures, more extreme weather events, and altered rainfall patterns are expected to increase the likelihood of toxic algae blooms. Scientists warn that without dramatic changes to water management, the Darling River could become permanently toxic.Perhaps most disturbing is how routine these disasters have become. Local newspapers that once treated fish kills as front-page emergencies now report them with the weary resignation of communities that have witnessed too much destruction. Children growing up in Menindee today have never seen the river run clear or tasted fresh-caught fish—environmental catastrophe has become their normal.The psychological impact on remaining residents cannot be understated. Many describe a sense of grief that goes beyond sadness—a deep mourning for a way of life that has been lost forever. The river that once provided recreation, food, and spiritual connection has become a source of anxiety and despair.The Darling River's transformation into a serial killer of aquatic life represents more than environmental mismanagement—it's a microcosm of how human activity can turn life-giving systems into instruments of death. In the red dirt country around Menindee, the apocalypse doesn't come with fire and brimstone, but with the quiet floating of a million fish and the silence of a river that has forgotten how to sustain life.

In 1869 George Brown Williamson, the postmaster and a storekeeper at Booligal, purchased 40 acres (16 hectares) from the "Waiko" pastoral run at the site which was to become the township of Ivanhoe. It is believed the new township was named by Williamson after Sir Walter Scott's work of historical fiction, ‘Ivanhoe’. Williamson selected the location as a business opportunity, being the junction of two roads from Booligal and Balranald leading to Wilcannia on the Darling River. Williamson began operating a branch store at the loca tion under the charge of his employee Charles Hiller. Initially the nearest water supply to Ivanhoe was at Kilfera Lake, 25 kilometres away, from which drinking water had to be carted by dray. A hotel was built at Ivanhoe in 1871 (the Ivanhoe Hotel); the licensee was James Eade, who remained publican until 1875 (apart from during 1873 when Joshua Smith held the license). A post office opened at Ivanhoe on 1 January 1874 at Williamson's store (renamed ‘The Post Office Store’), with Charles Hiller in charge (though Williamson was the designat ed Postmaster). On 1 February 1876, after a ten-year stint at Booligal, George Williamson moved to Ivanhoe. In 1876 two new hotels opened at Ivanhoe: The Horse and Jockey (licensee, Duncan McGregor) and Mac's Ivanhoe Hotel (licensee, Henry Gayson). The licensee of the Ivanhoe Hotel in 1876 was Roderick MacKenzie. In 1879 a police presence was maintained at Ivanhoe to pro tect local residents from the Hatfield Bushrangers. The Ivanhoe Hotel ceased operating from 1882, leaving two hotels in the township. During 1882 work commenced on the erection of a tele graph line from Booligal to Wilcannia. A telegraph station was opened at Ivanhoe on 5 February 1883 under the charge of Alfred Webber Rice, who had been promoted from his posi tion at Campbelltown. The township was described in 1883 as having about 50 res idents, a blacksmith's shop, two hotels, two stores (Williamson's and Stewart's), and "a few cottages". By 1884 Ivanhoe was a major change-station for Cobb & Co's horses on the coach routes to and from the Darling River. In 1884 businesses in the township included the Cobb & Co Chaff House and Millie's Stable and Yards (Henry Thomas Millie was the licensee of Mac's Ivanhoe Hotel at that time). The mounted police were established at Ivanhoe in 1885 and the Ivanhoe Jockey Club held its first race meeting in May 1885. From 1887 race meetings were held twice a year (until the late 1930s) on a course which formed part of the town common. In 1889 a school opened in the township. The summer heat was a significant problem for the school. Refrigerating paint and a veranda were used to ward off the sun but the school was closed during the extended drought of 1904 to 1907. Ivanhoe was officially proclaimed a township in 1890. A new Post Office building was constructed, which opened in January 1898. The Ivanhoe Post Office building, though it has been renovated in recent years, still stands adjacent to its original site. In 1925 Ivanhoe was linked by the Broken Hill railway line to Sydney via Parkes. Two years later the extension to Broken Hill was completed. The line through Ivanhoe later became part of the transcontinental east-west rail corridor connecting Sydney to Perth.

Murray MP Helen Dalton has escalated her criticism of the Murray-Darling Basin Plan, demanding the state withdraw entirely unless federal water buybacks cease, claiming infrastructure to deliver environmental water simply cannot function as promised.Dalton alleges the Murray-Darling Basin Authority recently acknowledged longstanding problems with constraint projects in private discussions, though her specific claims about a closed-door admission could not be independently verified through public MDBA communications."For twelve years, farmers in Murray have been warning anyone who would listen: the Murray-Darling Basin Plan's constraint projects cannot deliver the promised 450 gigalitres to South Australia," Dalton said. "Last week, the Murray-Darling Basin Authority finally admitted it in a closed-door meeting, the infrastructure needed to move environmental water downstream doesn't exist and won't work."According to the December 2025 Murray-Darling Basin Ministerial Council Communique, ministers noted an estimated shortfall range of 255 to 355 gigalitres in delivering Sustainable Diversion Limit Adjustment Mechanism projects, and acknowledged the need for strategic approaches to further water recovery given that some projects will not be completed by the December 2026 deadline.Dalton directed her criticism at Federal Water Minister Murray Watt, who announced plans in November 2025 to recover an additional 130 gigalitres through voluntary purchases. "Yet Federal Water Minister Murray Watt keeps spending billions buying back water that his own agency confirms cannot be delivered," she said. "This water sits uselessly in upstream storages, turning our communities into flood zones while achieving nothing for the environment. Meanwhile, the MDBA refuses to publicly state what they've privately conceded, protecting political careers over our livelihoods."The constraints issue centres on physical limitations preventing environmental water from reaching floodplains and wetlands as intended. Challenges include bottlenecks like the Barmah Choke in the Goulburn system, which restrict water flow even when substantial environmental allocations are available.Dalton emphasized the food security implications of continued water recovery. "Here in Murray, we're not just talking about water—we're talking about the food bowl of Australia," she said. "As irrigation water gets stripped from productive use without functioning delivery systems, our dairy, grain, rice and horticulture production contracts. That flows directly to your checkout. Higher grocery prices. More imported food. Less resilience when drought or global supply shocks hit."She described a policy disconnect between population growth and agricultural capacity. "Our population is growing rapidly, yet we're deliberately shrinking domestic food production based on a plan the government now admits doesn't work," Dalton said.Regional councils have echoed concerns about the economic impact. Greater Shepparton City Council warned in November that the additional 130 gigalitre purchase "poses a serious threat to the future of agriculture, horticulture, and food security," with Mayor Shane Sali noting that "every litre of water removed from productive use means fewer crops, less milk, and reduced output from our orchards and processing plants."Dairy industry representatives warned the purchases could push water prices up between 17 and 40 percent in dry years, affecting a region that produces one fifth of Australia's milk supply.Dalton issued an ultimatum to the state government. "I'm demanding Premier Minns withdraw NSW entirely from the Murray-Darling Basin Plan unless Federal buybacks stop immediately," she said. "The MDBA has admitted the delivery system has failed. Every dollar spent on buybacks is taxpayer money wasted, destroying regional communities, undermining our food security, and driving up the cost of living for every Australian family."The federal government maintains environmental restoration remains essential. Minister Watt has stated that failing to act would condemn the Basin to environmental decline that would "gradually strangle the industries and communities that rely on that environment for their livelihoods."The government's 2024 Strategic Water Purchasing Tender closed in November 2024, with successful tenderers expected to receive offers between December 2025 and March 2026. As of December 1, 2025, the Aboriginal Water Entitlements Program had made 35 purchases contributing 15.68 gigalitres to First Nations ownership.A comprehensive Basin Plan review is scheduled for 2026, with public consultation commencing in February. The review will examine climate change impacts, sustainable water limits, First Nations interests and regulatory design, potentially reshaping water management arrangements across Australia's most significant river system.

Isabella Bain has been announced as the Balranald Shire Australia Day Ambassador for 2026, bringing her expertise in design innovation, technology and community leadership to the regional community.Bain brings an impressive portfolio to the role. Named the 2025 NSW/ACT Young Achiever of the Year, she has built her reputation on a core philosophy; that creativity, design and technology can drive meaningful social change when paired with empathy and understanding.Her professional journey includes senior design roles at major organisations like the Macquarie Group and IBM, where she championed inclusive, human centred approaches. But it's her belief in design's transformative potential, particularly for young Australians, that defines her work.During the COVID-19 crisis, Bain collaborated with the Critical Care Consortium to develop tools supporting ICU clinicians globally. The experience deepened her commitment to collaboration and reinforced her view that Australia excels when innovation meets purpose.As a University of Sydney graduate and ambassador, Bain advocates passionately for education that blends creativity with STEM disciplines. She particularly encourages young Australians, especially girls, to see themselves as designers, problem solvers and future leaders, championing pathways that build both confidence and meaningful contribution.Her co-founding of Ambient & Co has shaped Australia's creative landscape through award winning light installations at festivals including Vivid Sydney and Singapore's iLight Marina Bay. Meanwhile, her achievements as a five time World Champion athlete in Dragon Boating have taught her invaluable lessons about teamwork, discipline and community spirit.In recent years, Bain has navigated life with multiple sclerosis, using her journey to advocate for accessibility and challenge stigma. She emphasises that strength manifests quietly and steadily in deeply human ways, an approach that informs all her work.Recognised as one of the University of Sydney's International Women's Day "Women to Watch", Bain continues championing inclusion in STEM fields, equitable access to education, and nurturing creativity as an essential life skill. Her appointment as Australia Day Ambassador reflects the shire's commitment to celebrating leadership and positive community impact.

Angel Cupcakes aka Jamie Weir, is one of the most phenomenal drag artists, and will be once again performing at the Rainbow on the Plains Festival this November in Hay. If you have never been or it’s been a while, you need to seriously consider going. The artistry, effort, talent and entertainment value are second to none. The aims and thought processes behind the Rainbow on the Plains Festival are inclusivity, and making everyone welcome, which is everything I hold dear about the world. At 11 years old, Jamie discovered something magical on television that would change his life forever. Watching the first season of RuPaul’s Drag Race, he was captivated by a contestant named Shannel, a fabulous Las Vegas showgirl whose transformative artistry sparked a passion that would define his future. “I found out that they were all men and I was like, seriously?” recalls the 29-year-old Newcastle native, now known to audiences as Angel Cupcakes. “I think it was the transformation aspect about it that really gravitated to me.” For a young boy who loved performing but struggled with insecurity, drag offered something profound: permission to be himself. As a child, Jamie performed through music and piano, but always felt held back by his insecurities. “Drag kind of helped me have that performance mask,” Jamie explained. “It gave me the confidence to actually show an extension of who I really was.” It's not about hiding, he emphasises, but rather about the physicality of transformation, changing your face so you don't look like yourself, allowing you to present the world with a more complete version of who you truly are. “It gives you freedom,” he said simply. What makes Jamie's story particularly heartwarming is the unwavering support from an unexpected source. While his mother initially worried about his safety, her concerns shaped by memories of the AIDS pandemic and violence against LGBTQ+ people in the 1980s, his father became his biggest champion. “Dad has been a bricklayer for almost 40 years,” Jamie shared with evident affection. “He was absolutely supportive of it. At the beginning of my drag career, he actually helped me get into drag, physically helped me do up my corset, drove me to all my gigs.” His father’s simple philosophy helped the entire family embrace Jamie’s passion “Why should we be worried about him doing this? "He’s not hurting anyone. It makes him happy. It’s bringing joy to other people as well.” his reversal of typical family dynamics, where fathers often struggle whilst mothers readily accept their children's drag careers, has given Jamie a unique appreciation for his family’s support. Today, his mother delights in sharing her wardrobe with him (they’re the same clothing size, though Jamie’s size 10 women’s shoes are several sizes too large for her). Both sisters proudly show off the difference between their brother and their ‘drag sister,’ playfully jealous that he looks better in makeup and walks better in heels than they do. Jamie’s creative instincts emerged early. “I was a very artsy fartsy type of kid. I love drawing, painting, being very creative with my hands,” he recalled. When he saw people doing makeup, watching brushes being used like painting tools, he was instantly hooked, though he didn't initially realise these were makeup products rather than face paints. His early experimentation involved sneaking into his mum and sister’s makeup collections, perhaps borrowing a few products along the way. When he discovered at 15 that makeup artistry was an actual paying profession, his path became clear. Jamie enrolled at TAFE to study beauty therapy during his HSC, dreaming of doing makeup on cruise ships. However, being the only male not just in his class but in the entire beauty therapy department proved challenging. “There was a lot of drama and mentally I couldn’t take it anymore. So I dropped out,” he admitted. Despite leaving before completing his diploma, he earned his certificate and considers it a valuable foundation. Within a year, he secured his first job with an Australian cosmetics brand, followed by a remarkable seven-and-a-half-year journey with Napoleon Perdis. His work expanded far beyond counter makeovers, he styled clients for formals, weddings, fundraising balls, Halloween, Christmas parties, and New Year’s Eve. He worked backstage at fashion shows, conducted product launches with influencers, and eventually taught master classes at the academy, helping develop coursework for aspiring makeup artists. “There’s a lot of years of skills behind these hands,” he said with justified pride. “I have 11 years now.” Through his extensive experience, Jamie has developed insights into why makeup can feel so intimidating, particularly for women who didn't grow up in the age of beauty tutorials. He’s observed a common mentality: because they’re not professionals, many women believe their makeup will never look professional, so they don't invest the time in practice or skill development. “It is a skill. It takes time,” Jamie explains patiently. “Sometimes it will take people a shorter time to learn how to do their own makeup. Some will take a couple of months, even a year. But it’s something that you do need to put in time if you want to get better at it.” He notes that younger generations have a distinct advantage. “Since my generation, the transition between millennials and Gen Z, we’ve had YouTube beauty gurus, then Instagram, then TikTok. They have a lot of exposure to sources to learn makeup and product knowledge, which is amazing. “But it also makes it harder for older generations to get that motivation to actually learn the skill.” For those feeling overwhelmed, Jamie suggests taking a few paid lessons from a professional, an investment that can build both skill and confidence. Today, Jamie runs his own wig business as a sole trader, styling custom pieces for performers across Australia, from drag queens to pinup girls and burlesque dancers seeking vintage styles for the stage. He takes commissions, maintains a small collection of colours in stock, and revamps wigs sent to him by clients. Combined with photo shoots, event makeup, and drag performances, his entire professional life orbits the art form that captured his imagination as a child. Currently, he’s preparing for his upcoming appearance at the Rainbow on the Plains Festival, organising costumes and perfecting his routine. The financial reality of drag is substantial. “Most of us have custom style hair, costumes, not to mention all the layers of tights, padding, the makeup itself,” Jamie explained. “We wear a month’s worth of makeup in one bloody night, let's be honest. And then if we have any props, it all adds up.” In Newcastle, finding appropriately paid gigs can be challenging, with some venues trying to undercharge performers. Jamie often works with the burlesque scene instead, f inding it refreshingly different from the mainstream gay scene. As a ‘palette cleanser’ in burlesque shows, he performs fully clothed, “otherwise I'm going to take up all the time in the show,” he jokes about the ordeal of removing a corset, providing variety for audiences between the more revealing acts. Despite years of experience, Jamie still gets nervous before every show, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. His friend JoJo Zaho, who competed on RuPaul’s Drag Race Down Under, articulated what Jamie feels. “If I’m not getting nervous before a show, that tells me that I need to stop and move on. “If I’m not nervous, I’m not caring about it,” Jamie explained. “I need to care about this for me to have a passion and deliver my best.” Next month Jamie returns to the Rainbow on the Plains Festival in Hay for his third consecutive year. It all began when festival chairman Will Miller discovered Jamie’s Tina Turner transformation video on TikTok during the COVID lockdowns. Though they lost contact before that first festival, Will reached out again immediately afterwards. “Hey, can we have you next year?” The trek from Newcastle is substantial, two and a half hours by train to Sydney, an hour and a half flight to Griffith, then an hour and a half drive to Hay with committee member Brandon Burns. It’s a long day of travelling, but Jamie finds it worthwhile for what he considers such a beautiful event, a beautiful weekend. He appreciates that flying allows him to multitask, handling admin, reading, listening to music, rather than arriving exhausted from driving. And exhaustion is the last thing he needs, as he launches straight into performing on Friday after arriving Thursday night, attending the cheerleaders event at South Hay to catch up with the committee before the chaos begins. In previous years, the festival requested celebrity impersonations; Tina Turner and Shania Twain his first year, Dolly Parton the second. This year is different, they’ve requested a very special type of performance, inspired by an old American pageant queen’s YouTube video. “It’s going to be tricky to pull off,” Jamie admitted, “but I do have my ways of executing it.” The performance will blend old school with new school music, requiring perfect timing to succeed. While he’s keeping the details under wraps, one thing is certain, Jamie will bring the same dedication and joy that has defined his journey from insecure child to confident artist. “I just want to be fabulous, bring a good vibe,” he said. But those who know Angel Cupcakes understand that fabulous isn’t something Jamie needs to strive for, it’s simply who he is, and who he’s always been, waiting for the right moment to shine. Angel Cupcakes will perform at the Rainbow on the Plains Festival in Hay this November. For more information about the festival, visit their website or social media pages.

Just for fun, here are a few facts about the town of Balranald.Balranald was named by Commissioner George James MacDonald, a Scotsman born at Balranald on North Uist in the Outer Hebrides, who chose the name of his birthplace for the new settlement in 1849 Crown Lands.There are twenty frog sculptures around town including a pole dancing frog and a frog waiting for a bus Nsw. Two lumberjack frog sculptures can be found sawing a large log at the end of River Street on the edge of the river Discoverbalranald. The sculptures celebrate the endangered Southern Bell Frog, also known as the Growling Grass Frog, which inhabits the local wetlands. A children's climbing frame in the shape of a Southern Bell Frog called "Swampy" is located in the main street in front of the Senior Citizens Centre Nsw.The Burke and Wills expedition crossed the Murrumbidgee River at Balranald on their journey to cross Australia from Melbourne to the Gulf of Carpentaria, with the camels and two wagons crossing on the Mayall Street punt on Saturday, 15 September 1860 Crown Lands.Their twentieth camp since leaving Melbourne, was set up on the outskirts of town.In August 1858, a correspondent described Balranald as "this obscure and miserable township, situated on the Lower Murrumbidgee" and noted it was attracting attention "as being one of those rowdy places for which the Australian bush in the interior has become so famous" Crown Lands.There is a long established local pattern of building relocation in Balranald, with local examples including the Wintong homestead and Norwood at Kyalite Nsw. According to local oral history, at Clare the sheep station owner was having difficulty getting his contract shearers to work because the local pub was nearby Nsw, presumably leading to a building being moved. Despite Being in NSW Although part of New South Wales, Balranald receives Victorian television stations, with a range of Sydney and Melbourne newspapers available Crown Lands. The town is closer to Victoria than to much of NSW and was even served by Victorian railways.If you have any other facts you would like to share, email me at [email protected]

Five regional Independent MPs stood together to make a final appeal to reject the NSW government's firearms laws, which passed Parliament at 3am on Christmas Eve.The Terrorism and Other Legislation Amendment Bill 2025 has sparked fierce opposition from regional representatives who say their communities were left out of the consultation process.Barwon MP Roy Butler, who coordinated the opposition effort alongside Orange MP Phil Donato, Murray MP Helen Dalton, Wagga Wagga MP Dr Joe McGirr and Wollondilly MP Judy Hannan, said they were "calling for consultation and consideration, not a knee-jerk reaction."The legislation imposes a cap of four firearms per individual, with exemptions for primary producers and sports shooters who may hold a maximum of 10 NSW Government. It also reclassifies straight-pull, pump-action and button/lever release firearms into Category C, limiting their access primarily to primary producers NSW Government, and reduces magazine capacity for Category A and B firearms to between five and ten rounds.Murray MP Helen Dalton argued the changes ignore practical realities facing regional communities. "There's a dangerous oversimplification creeping into this debate, and it ignores reality on the ground," she said. "People ask, 'How many firearms does someone really need?' The answer isn't a number pulled out of thin air, it depends on what that person does."Dalton emphasised the role licensed shooters play in pest management. "Shooting is an Olympic sport. Different disciplines require different firearms. And in Murray, licensed shooters, including people who travel from the city, play a critical role in helping control feral pigs, goats, foxes and cats that are destroying landscapes and livelihoods," she said.She described the scale of the problem confronting farmers. "Right now, we are dealing with plagues of feral animals. They're eating lambs, tearing up paddocks, damaging fences, and flowing straight out of nearby national parks where control is inadequate. Without responsible, licensed shooters doing the work, the situation would be far worse."Dalton stressed the credentials of those affected. "These are law-abiding people. They are trained, licensed and professional. Farmers rely on them because we're not getting the help we need elsewhere."This isn't about recklessness. It's about reality. And if decisions like this had been properly examined, through a committee process instead of rushed assumptions, we might actually get sensible outcomes. Instead, people who are part of the solution are being treated as the problem."Butler said the timing raised questions about the government's priorities."Now, don't get me wrong, we all want to keep people safe, but these laws? They're rushed, they don't fix the real problems behind that attack, and they hit regional people the hardest," he said. "Here's the kicker, these firearm licensing changes are complicated and won't even start for months. Passing it now or next year makes no difference. So why the rush?"He outlined multiple concerns with the legislation. "The firearms industry hasn't been consulted, regional voices are ignored, and now we've got laws that could backfire, exposing criminal intel, weakening control of hearings, and piling more work on already stretched police," Butler said, arguing the laws failed to address "the rising antisemitism, operational failures in the current licensing system, and poor intel sharing" that contributed to the Bondi attack.Orange MP Phil Donato described the process as "by far and away the poorest governance I've seen in my 9 years of representing the Orange electorate", calling it "deeply undemocratic" and criticising what he termed "socialist ideology, and ignorance of Aussie tradition and culture, especially for people of Regional NSW."The government defended its approach. Premier Chris Minns said the laws "got the balance right between providing police with the tools they need to calm a combustible situation, while also restricting access to dangerous weapons". He acknowledged the significance of the changes. "I acknowledge that these are very significant changes that not everyone will agree with, but our state has changed following the horrific antisemitic attack on Bondi Beach and our laws must change too."Attorney General Michael Daley said the NSW government would take "whatever measures needed" to keep the community safe.The reforms include additional measures beyond firearm caps. Gun club membership will be mandatory for all firearms licence holders, standard firearms licence terms will reduce from five years to two years, and the NSW Civil and Administrative Tribunal review pathway for licence decisions will be removed. Safe storage inspections will become mandatory before permits are issued.A firearm buyback scheme, established in partnership with the federal government, will allow owners to surrender firearms that were made illegal or restricted by the new legislation and receive compensation. Regional areas hold substantial numbers of registered firearms, with Bathurst recording 17,026, Dubbo 15,591, Orange 13,224 and Mudgee 12,895.The new laws are expected to come into effect in the new year when the buyback scheme begins.

A moment of reckless driving on a regional New South Wales highway has cost a young motorist dearly, both financially and legally.Highway patrol officers conducting routine speed enforcement near Ardlethan on Saturday afternoon clocked a white Holden Commodore travelling at an eye-watering 175 kilometres per hour. The road's posted limit? Just 100km/h.When officers pulled over the vehicle on Burley Griffin Way around midday, they were met with an unusually candid response. The 20-year-old P2 licence holder, when questioned about his dangerous speed, simply admitted: "Just being an idiot."The Costly ConsequencesThat moment of honesty couldn't save the young driver from severe penalties. Operating under the double demerit holiday period, the provisional driver faced an immediate six-month licence suspension and hefty fines totalling $3,384.The penalties stem from two separate offences: exceeding the speed limit by more than 45km/h while on a provisional licence, and failing to display the required P plates. Together, these violations stripped him of 14 demerit points—magnified by the holiday period enforcement measures.Police refrained from sanctioning the vehicle itself, as the driver wasn't the registered owner.A Stark ReminderGriffith Highway Patrol used the incident to reinforce a sobering statistic: speeding contributes to approximately 42 per cent of road fatalities across the state.

In the vast expanse of the NSW Riverina, where golden wheat fields stretch to the horizon and the Murray and Murrumbidgee rivers carve their ancient paths through red earth, lies a town that history has largely forgotten. Yet Moulamein, now home to fewer than 600 residents, holds one of the most remarkable distinctions in Australian colonial history.It is the oldest European settlement in the entire Riverina region, predating even Deniliquin by several crucial years.The story of Moulamein begins in the 1830s, when the first Europeans arrived in what was then uncharted wilderness. Europeans arrived in the Moulamein district as early as 1830, making it the oldest town in the Riverina, establishing pastoral runs and trading posts along the Edward River. In about 1842 Augustus Morris came to the Riverina seeking grazing land in association with the entrepreneur and speculator Benjamin Boyd. Morris took up pastoral runs on the Edward River and explored the country surrounding the site of present-day Moulamein.The town's unusual name has sparked considerable debate among historians. Some think that it's an Aboriginal word that means the meeting of the water. The general consensus is that in 1842 the town was named by Augustus Morris after the Burmese seaport that shares the name. This exotic naming choice reflected the global outlook of early Australian settlers, who often drew inspiration from far-flung corners of the British Empire.By the 1840s, Moulamein had established itself as more than just another pastoral outpost. There was a time when this tiny town was more important than Albury. It boasted a police court (records go back to 1845) and the town's chief constable was paid £105 a year – a substantial salary that reflected the settlement's importance as an administrative centre for the vast surrounding district.The early decades of European settlement were marked by rapid growth and increasing significance. Before Deniliquin was even proclaimed a township, prisoners were being brought to Moulamein for trial, establishing it as the region's first centre of colonial justice and administration. The courthouse, built in the 1840s, became a symbol of European law and order extending into the Australian frontier.During the wool boom of the 1870s and 1880s, Moulamein reached its peak. The town's position on the Edward River made it a crucial port for the thriving pastoral industry. Wool bales from vast sheep stations across the western Riverina were brought to Moulamein's wharves, where they were loaded onto riverboats bound for Adelaide and the international markets beyond. The streets bustled with drovers, merchants, publicans, and government officials. Hotels did roaring trade, and the town's business district expanded to serve not just local residents but visitors from across the region.The riverboat trade was the lifeblood of early Moulamein. Paddle steamers regularly navigated the Edward River, connecting the town to the Murray River system and from there to the port of Adelaide. These vessels carried more than just cargo – they brought news, mail, passengers, and manufactured goods to communities that would otherwise have remained isolated from the broader world. The sound of a steamer's whistle echoing across the red gum flats was the sound of connection to civilisation.Yet even as Moulamein prospered, the seeds of its eventual decline were being sown. The development of railway networks in the late 19th century began to change the economics of transport and trade. Towns with railway connections gained significant advantages over those dependent on river transport, which was subject to droughts, floods, and seasonal variations in water levels.More importantly, Moulamein's neighbours were beginning to outpace it in development and population. Deniliquin, proclaimed as a town in 1856, capitalised on its strategic position and better transport links to become the major centre of the central Riverina. Hay, further north, developed into a crucial railway junction. Balranald, to the west, secured its own railway connection in 1926. Even distant Wagga Wagga, initially much smaller than Moulamein, grew to become one of NSW's major inland cities.As the decades passed, Moulamein watched its younger neighbours surge ahead in terms of development, population, and economic importance. What was once the Riverina's administrative and commercial heart gradually became a quiet backwater. The courthouse that had once been the centre of justice for hundreds of square kilometres began handling fewer and fewer cases. The wharves that had once groaned under the weight of wool bales fell silent as trade moved to rail and road.The transformation was not immediate but rather a slow fade from prominence. Government offices relocated to larger centres. Banks closed their branches. The steamboat trade dwindled and eventually ceased altogether. Young people left for opportunities in bigger towns and cities, leaving behind an aging population and a diminishing economic base.By the mid-20th century, Moulamein had become something of a historical curiosity – a town whose greatest days lay firmly in the past. The grand buildings of its heyday began to show their age, and the bustling commercial district contracted to serve only local needs. Yet this decline preserved something valuable: Moulamein became a living museum of 19th-century Riverina life, its heritage buildings and quiet streets telling the story of Australia's rural development more clearly than any textbook.Today, visitors to Moulamein can still see evidence of its former importance. The old courthouse, carefully restored, stands as a reminder of the town's role as the Riverina's first centre of colonial administration. Historic buildings line the main street, their facades speaking of more prosperous times. The Edward River still flows past the town, though no steamboats disturb its waters now.The story of Moulamein is not merely one of decline, however. It is a fascinating case study in how geography, transport technology, and economic forces can transform a region's hierarchy of settlements. It demonstrates how quickly fortunes can change in rural Australia, and how towns that seem permanent and essential can be left behind by the march of progress.Local historians and community groups have worked hard to preserve Moulamein's unique heritage and to tell its story to a broader audience. They argue that the town's pioneering status deserves greater recognition, not just as a historical curiosity but as a reminder of the courage and enterprise of Australia's early settlers.Moulamein's legacy extends beyond its own boundaries. As the first European settlement in the Riverina, it was the seed from which the region's entire network of towns and cities eventually grew. Its early establishment of law courts, administrative offices, and commercial enterprises provided the template that other settlements would follow. In many ways, the success of later Riverina centres can be traced back to the foundations laid in this quiet town on the Edward River.For contemporary Australians, Moulamein offers valuable lessons about the nature of regional development and the importance of transport infrastructure. Its rise and relative decline illustrate how technological changes – from riverboats to railways to roads – can reshape entire regions. The town's story also highlights the resilience of rural communities, which continue to find ways to survive and maintain their identity even as their economic circumstances change.Perhaps most importantly, Moulamein reminds us that history is not always made in capital cities or major centres. Sometimes, the most significant developments occur in quiet places that few people have heard of – places where pioneers first established European settlement, where legal systems first took root, and where the patterns of Australian rural life were first established.The town that was first to rise was also first to experience the cycles of boom and bust that would characterise much of rural Australia. In that sense, Moulamein's story is not just the story of one forgotten town, but a preview of challenges and changes that many Australian communities would later face. Its pioneering status extends beyond chronology to encompass the entire experience of European settlement in the Australian interior.

How a remote NSW town became famous for living beneath the earthIn the harsh, unforgiving landscape of far western New South Wales, where summer temperatures routinely soar above 45 degrees Celsius and the red earth stretches endlessly toward distant horizons, the residents of White Cliffs found an ingenious solution to one of Australia's most challenging environments, they moved underground. What began as a practical response to extreme weather became one of the most unique communities in Australian history, earning White Cliffs its reputation as the continent's underground city.White Cliffs was established in the late 19th century when opal was discovered, and opal has been mined ever since. The town's story begins in 1884, when opal was first discovered in the area by kangaroo shooters who noticed the brilliant flashes of color in the sandstone outcrops. Word of the discovery spread quickly through the mining communities of NSW, and within months, prospectors were arriving from across Australia and beyond.The early years of White Cliffs were typical of Australian mining settlements, a rough, transient community of men seeking their fortunes in harsh conditions. What made White Cliffs different was not just the precious stones hidden in its hills, but the way its residents adapted to the extreme climate that made surface life almost unbearable for much of the year.The solution lay literally beneath their feet. The same soft sandstone that contained the opal deposits could be easily excavated to create cool, comfortable living spaces. The underground temperature remained constant at around 23 degrees Celsius year-round, regardless of the scorching heat or bitter cold on the surface. What began as temporary shelter for miners gradually evolved into permanent underground homes, creating a subterranean community unlike anywhere else in Australia.By 1901, the population was officially recorded at 1,500 people, though estimates suggested closer to 3,000 as many locals weren't keen for their whereabouts to be known. This discrepancy in population figures reflects the frontier character of early White Cliffs, where many residents preferred to remain anonymous to avoid unwanted attention from tax collectors, creditors, or law enforcement officials from more settled areas.The underground architecture of White Cliffs was remarkable for its sophistication and comfort. Unlike crude dugouts or temporary shelters, many of the underground homes were carefully planned and constructed with multiple rooms, proper ventilation systems, and even elaborate decorative features. Residents carved bedrooms, kitchens, living areas, and storage spaces directly into the hillsides, creating homes that were not only comfortable but often luxurious by mining camp standards.The underground lifestyle extended beyond individual homes to encompass entire commercial districts. Hotels were carved into rock faces, offering visitors the unique experience of sleeping in rooms that never saw direct sunlight. Underground restaurants served meals in dining rooms hewn from sandstone, while shops and services operated in subterranean spaces that maintained perfect temperatures regardless of surface conditions.The most famous of these underground establishments was the White Cliffs Hotel, a multi-story underground complex that became legendary throughout the mining districts of NSW. The hotel's underground bar and dining rooms could accommodate hundreds of guests, while its underground accommodation provided respite from the surface heat for travellers crossing the outback. The hotel's guest register included mining magnates, government officials, and international visitors drawn by curiosity about Australia's underground town.The engineering challenges of underground construction at White Cliffs were considerable but were met with remarkable ingenuity. Ventilation was achieved through carefully designed air shafts and cross-ventilation systems that drew cool air through the underground spaces. Drainage systems prevented flooding during the rare but intense rainfall events that could overwhelm the arid landscape. Structural integrity was maintained through the careful design of pillars and supports that prevented collapse while maximising living space.The opal mining that sustained White Cliffs was itself a remarkable industry. Unlike the large-scale industrial mining operations of gold or coal, opal mining remained largely a small-scale, individual enterprise. Miners worked alone or in small partnerships, following opal-bearing seams through the sandstone using hand tools and explosives. The work was dangerous and often unrewarding, but the possibility of discovering a valuable opal seam kept miners working in conditions that would have defeated less determined prospectors.The quality of opals found at White Cliffs was exceptional. The town produced some of Australia's finest white opals, prized for their brilliant play of color and clarity. These opals found their way to jewelry markets in Sydney, Melbourne, and eventually to international buyers in London, Paris, and New York. The reputation of White Cliffs opals helped establish Australia's position as the world's leading producer of precious opals.The social life of underground White Cliffs was as vibrant as any Australian mining town. The underground hotels and bars provided venues for entertainment, gambling, and socialising. Travelling performers and musicians found appreciative audiences in the underground venues, while local residents organised their own entertainment including underground dances, concerts, and theatrical performances. The constant temperature and acoustic properties of the underground spaces made them ideal venues for musical performances.The town's isolation contributed to its unique character. Located hundreds of kilometres from the nearest major settlement, White Cliffs developed its own social codes and customs. Law enforcement was minimal, and disputes were often settled according to the informal justice systems common in frontier communities. This independence from outside authority contributed to the town's appeal for individuals seeking to escape their pasts or avoid unwanted attention.Women played important roles in White Cliffs society, often as hotel keepers, storekeepers, and providers of essential services. The underground environment offered greater security and comfort for women than typical mining camps, and several women became successful business operators in their own right. The town's underground laundries, bakeries, and boarding houses were often run by women who recognised the commercial opportunities offered by the unique environment.The peak years of White Cliffs coincided with the broader Australian gold rush era, when mining towns across the continent were experiencing rapid growth and prosperity. However, White Cliffs' focus on opal mining rather than gold gave it a different character from other mining settlements. Opal mining required different skills and attracted a different type of prospector – often more patient and persistent than the get-rich-quick seekers drawn to gold rushes.The decline of White Cliffs began in the early decades of the 20th century, as easier opal deposits were exhausted and new discoveries elsewhere drew miners away. The town's remote location, which had initially protected it from outside interference, became a liability as transport and communication networks improved and more accessible mining opportunities became available.World War I marked a significant turning point, as many of the town's younger residents enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force. Those who survived the war often chose not to return to the isolation and hardship of outback mining, seeking instead the opportunities offered by Australia's growing cities and towns. The town's population began a steady decline that continued through the 1920s and 1930s.Despite its declining population, White Cliffs maintained its reputation for opal production. The remaining miners continued to work the deeper and more difficult deposits, often achieving remarkable success. Some of Australia's most famous opals were discovered at White Cliffs during these later years, including specimens that found their way into museum collections and royal jewelry.The Great Depression of the 1930s brought a temporary revival to White Cliffs, as unemployed men from cities and towns sought opportunities in the opal fields. The underground accommodation provided cheap shelter for these depression-era miners, and several significant opal discoveries were made during this period. However, this revival was temporary, and the town's population continued to decline through the mid-20th century.Today, White Cliffs exists as a fascinating relic of Australia's mining heritage. Many of the underground homes and businesses remain intact, preserved by the dry climate and stable underground environment. Some are still occupied by opal miners and their families, maintaining the town's connection to its mining origins. Others have been converted to tourist accommodation, allowing visitors to experience the unique sensation of living underground in the Australian outback.The town's underground infrastructure represents one of Australia's most remarkable examples of environmental adaptation. The residents of White Cliffs demonstrated that with ingenuity and determination, even the most challenging environments could be made habitable and comfortable. Their underground city stands as a testament to the resourcefulness and adaptability that characterised Australia's mining frontier.Contemporary White Cliffs continues to attract opal miners, though modern techniques and equipment have changed the nature of the work. Small-scale mining operations still discover valuable opals in the area, maintaining the town's reputation as one of Australia's premier opal-producing regions. The combination of ongoing mining activity and heritage tourism provides a modest economic base for the community that remains.For visitors to White Cliffs, the experience of staying in underground accommodation provides a unique perspective on Australian mining history and environmental adaptation. The constant temperature, acoustic properties, and visual impact of the underground spaces offer insights into a way of life that developed nowhere else in Australia. The town's story demonstrates how necessity can drive innovation and how isolation can foster unique community development.The legacy of White Cliffs extends beyond its contribution to Australia's opal industry. The town represents a unique solution to environmental challenges and demonstrates the lengths to which people will go to extract valuable resources from difficult terrain. Its underground architecture influenced other mining settlements and continues to inspire contemporary discussions about sustainable building and environmental adaptation.White Cliffs remains one of Australia's most extraordinary communities; a place where the search for precious opals led to architectural innovation, where the harsh outback environment was conquered by moving beneath it, and where a unique way of life developed in response to the challenges of one of the continent's most demanding landscapes.

Teenage bushranger, William Brookman was born at Tumut, New South Wales, in 1851. Brookman was not a prolific bushranger, nor is he particularly noted in most history books. He was a member of the gang of Jerry Duce, real name Williams, former lieutenant of Robert Cottrell aka Bluecap. Duce had formed his own gang after Bluecap was captured and they were high end bushrangers worthy of being counted alongside the Ben Hall Gang – at least for a while. Brookman is believed to have come from a respective family but on November 24, 1867, he in the company of John Payne, John Williams (Jerry Duce) and Edward Kelly (no relation to Ned), held up a race meeting at William Whittacker's store, Mossgiel Station, near Willandra. They took a considerable amount from about fifty spectators and while Payne and Kelly left, Brookman and Williams went over to the store. Constable McNamara, who was stationed at Booligal, was on the verandah and when the two men bailed him up he made a rush at Brookman. As they struggled Brookman's revolver went off, shat tering the constable’s wrist while another shot hit him in the back of the head. But two men, Peerman, the Mossgiel overseer, and Edward Crombie came to the constable's assis tance and helped overpower the two bushrangers. Placing them in a hut under guard, the police went into pursuit of Kelly and Payne. Payne was soon located and he led the police to Kelly's camp where he lay wounded from an earlier encounter with the law. Brookman was only seventeen years of age when he was charged on January 6, 1868, with wounding with intent to murder. He was convicted and sen tenced to death, but his sentence was commuted to fifteen years' penal servitude. It was said to have been his first and only attempt at highway robbery, and he had never previously been arrested or charged with any offence against the law. On January 16, 1868, the four men were tried at Deniliquin Court, whereupon Payne received twenty years gaol, Kelly thirty years, and Brookman and Williams were sentenced to death. The death penalty was later remitted to fifteen years on the road. Brookman served his prison sentence in Darlinghusrt Gaol, working alongside more notori ous Bushranger Frank Gardiner in the mat-making factory. On July 3, 1874, the Legislative Assembly of New South Wales carried out a lengthy debate on bushrangers, and it was recommended that Brookman be released on July 8, 1874. But his prison record shows that he received remittance of sentence on March 8, 1875.

A woman faced court on Boxing Day after police discovered her driving an unregistered vehicle while disqualified and subsequently refusing drug testing.The incident unfolded on Friday afternoon when Barrier Highway Patrol officers spotted a red Holden Commodore travelling north along Sulphide Street near Blende Street in Broken Hill. Officers recognised the vehicle from earlier in the day when they had seen it parked outside a nearby restaurant, and checks revealed its registration had been cancelled since October 2025.When police stopped the vehicle around 1:30pm, the driver was unable to produce a licence. She told officers she was disqualified from holding one. Further questioning established the vehicle was not being driven for any purpose that would exempt it from registration requirements.Police administered a breath test which returned a negative result for alcohol. However, when officers attempted to conduct a roadside drug test, the woman refused to comply. Despite being clearly warned that refusal constituted an offence, she maintained her position and was placed under arrest.The situation escalated at Broken Hill police station where the driver was required to provide an oral fluid sample for laboratory analysis. Once again, she refused to comply with the testing requirements.The woman now faces seven charges including driving while disqualified, two counts of refusing drug tests, using an unregistered and uninsured vehicle on the road, failing to return number plates after registration cancellation, and allowing an unregistered vehicle to stand.She was refused bail and appeared before court the following day on Saturday 27th December. The case highlights the serious consequences that can flow from compounding traffic offences, particularly when combined with refusing lawful police testing requirements.

In the far north-west corner of New South Wales, where the red dirt stretches endlessly towards South Australia and Queensland, sits Tibooburra, a town so remote that it exists more as an idea than a destination. With a population that rarely exceeds 200, it might seem unremarkable. But this tiny outpost has witnessed some of Australia's most harrowing tales of human endurance, cultural destruction, and colonial madness.The name Tibooburra comes from an Aboriginal word meaning "heap of rocks," but the town could just as easily be called "the place where dreams died." It has served as the backdrop for some of Australia's most tragic exploration stories, most notably Charles Sturt's nightmarish 1844 expedition in search of the mythical inland sea.Sturt and his 16-man expedition became trapped at Depot Glen, south of present-day Tibooburra, for six gruelling months during one of Australia's worst droughts. What was meant to be a glorious journey of discovery became a slow-motion disaster of starvation, dehydration, and psychological breakdown. Temperatures soared above 50 degrees Celsius, the wheels fell off their drays, and their livestock began dying one by one—11 horses and 30 bullocks perishing in the furnace-like heat.The expedition's survival depended on a single waterhole that gradually diminished as the drought continued. Men took turns standing guard over their precious water supply, knowing that its loss would mean certain death for all. They rationed water so strictly that each man was allowed only a small cup per day, forcing them to watch helplessly as their animals died of thirst around them.The men's journals from this period read like accounts from hell. They describe metal too hot to touch, water that evaporated before it could be drunk, and a landscape so hostile that it seemed designed to kill anything that dared cross it. Sturt himself suffered partial blindness from the glare and heat, while his second-in-command, John McDouall Stuart, was so affected by scurvy and exposure that he would bear the physical and psychological scars for the rest of his life.The psychological deterioration of the expedition members was documented in horrifying detail. Men began hallucinating, seeing lakes and rivers where none existed. Some became convinced they could hear the sound of flowing water, leading to desperate searches that ended in disappointment and further exhaustion. The constant heat and isolation drove several men to the brink of madness, with reports of violent outbursts and attempts at suicide.What makes their ordeal particularly haunting is the delusion that drove them there. Sturt was convinced that somewhere in the heart of Australia lay a vast inland sea—a geographical fantasy that had captured the imagination of colonial Australia. The expedition pushed deeper and deeper into the desert, chasing mirages both literal and metaphorical, until they found themselves trapped in a landscape that offered nothing but death.The myth of the inland sea was based on Aboriginal stories that European explorers had fundamentally misunderstood. Traditional accounts of seasonal lakes and wetlands had been transformed in the colonial imagination into permanent bodies of water that would unlock the agricultural potential of the interior. This cultural misinterpretation would cost lives and sanity for generations of explorers.The daily routine at Depot Glen became a ritual of survival. Men would dig frantically in dry creek beds, hoping to find underground water. They ate their leather boots and equipment when food ran out. Some tried to sustain themselves on native plants, often with disastrous results as they lacked knowledge of which species were safe to consume. The Aboriginal people of the area could have saved them, but the expedition members were too blinded by racial prejudice to seek help from those who understood the country.Equipment failure compounded their misery. The extreme heat caused their wagon wheels to split and fall apart, leaving them stranded with no means of transport. Their scientific instruments became useless as metal parts expanded and cracked in the heat. Even their compasses became unreliable as the heat affected the magnetic components, adding navigation errors to their mounting list of problems.Tibooburra also sits on the route of the Burke and Wills expedition, another tale of colonial hubris that ended in death and disaster. The town has become an unwitting monument to the deadly consequences of European attempts to master the Australian interior—a graveyard of expeditions that pushed too far into country they didn't understand.The Burke and Wills expedition passed through the Tibooburra region in 1860, leaving behind a trail of abandoned equipment and dead animals. Their story parallels Sturt's experience—European explorers convinced they could conquer the desert through willpower and superior technology, only to discover that the landscape recognised no such claims to superiority.But perhaps the most haunting chapter in Tibooburra's history occurred in 1938, when almost the entire remaining Aboriginal population was forcibly relocated by the Aborigines Protection Board. In a single bureaucratic stroke, thousands of years of continuous cultural connection to country were severed. Families were torn apart and sent to distant places like Brewarrina and Menindee, effectively erasing an ancient culture from its homeland overnight.The forced relocations were carried out with military efficiency. Aboriginal people were given no choice and no notice, government officials simply arrived one day and loaded entire families onto trucks. Children were separated from parents, elders were removed from the sacred sites they were responsible for maintaining, and traditional knowledge holders were scattered across the state like seeds on barren ground.The cultural impact of these relocations cannot be overstated. The Aboriginal people of the Tibooburra region were the custodians of songlines that stretched across vast distances, connecting sacred sites and maintaining spiritual connections between widely separated communities. When the people were removed, these ancient highways of meaning became abandoned, their songs forgotten and their significance lost to future generations.Government records from the time reveal the callous efficiency of the removal process. Officials described Aboriginal people as "assets" to be relocated for their own good, showing complete ignorance of the spiritual and cultural connections that bound them to specific places. The same bureaucratic mentality that treated European explorers as heroes treated Aboriginal people as inconvenient obstacles to progress.The forced relocations represent a form of cultural murder that is difficult to comprehend. The Aboriginal people of the Tibooburra region had survived ice ages, droughts, and the initial waves of European settlement. They had maintained their connection to country through ceremonies, songlines, and traditional knowledge that stretched back over 40,000 years. The Protection Board destroyed this in a matter of months, using the same brutal efficiency that characterised Aboriginal policy across Australia.Traditional ecological knowledge was lost forever when the people were removed. The Aboriginal inhabitants of the Tibooburra region possessed detailed understanding of seasonal patterns, water sources, and food availability that had been refined over millennia. This knowledge could have prevented the disasters that befell European explorers, but it was dismissed as primitive superstition and systematically destroyed through forced removal and cultural suppression.Today, visitors to Tibooburra might see it as a quaint outback town with a historic pub and a few tourist attractions. But the landscape holds memory in ways that European minds struggle to comprehend. Every rock formation, every waterhole, every ridge was once part of a living cultural map that connected people to country across vast distances. The silence that now characterises much of the region is not natural—it's the silence left behind when cultures are destroyed and people are removed from the landscapes that gave their lives meaning.The town's museum displays artefacts from failed expeditions alongside Aboriginal tools and weapons, creating an inadvertent monument to the collision between European ambition and Indigenous wisdom. The contrast is stark—sophisticated traditional implements designed for survival in harsh conditions displayed next to the broken remnants of European technology that failed catastrophically in the same environment.Modern Tibooburra continues to challenge visitors with its remoteness and harsh conditions. The town regularly experiences temperatures above 45 degrees Celsius, and the nearest major centre is hundreds of kilometres away. Mobile phone coverage is non-existent in many areas, and mechanical breakdowns can quickly become life-threatening emergencies. The landscape that defeated 19th-century explorers continues to demand respect from modern travellers.The irony of Tibooburra is that the same remoteness that made it attractive to colonial authorities as a place to dump unwanted people also made it impossible for those people to maintain their cultural connections. Aboriginal families relocated to Tibooburra from other regions found themselves culturally adrift, cut off from their traditional countries and unable to properly care for the sacred sites around their new home.The town's tiny population today reflects its role as a place where people come to disappear, sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not. It sits in country that has claimed explorers, displaced cultures, and swallowed dreams with equal efficiency. The red dirt around Tibooburra is more than soil—it's a repository of Australian stories too dark and complex for most history books.In the harsh mathematics of the outback, Tibooburra represents a simple equation: isolation plus hubris equals tragedy. Whether applied to delusional explorers searching for inland seas or government officials destroying ancient cultures, the result is always the same—suffering amplified by distance from help, witnesses, or accountability.The heap of rocks that gave Tibooburra its name has become a metaphor for the town itself, a pile of broken dreams, shattered cultures, and failed expeditions, sitting alone under the vast indifferent sky of the Australian interior.

The first mail between Deniliquin and Lang’s Crossing left for the Murrumbidgee on August 14, 1859. The contractors were Marshall and Waring, storekeepers of Deniliquin. Their rumble was a sort of cross between a bullock wagon and a spring cart, was an excellent set up, but proved equal to the requirements of the mail service even if it was a little rough on the occasional passenger who was compelled to use it. Residents at Lang’s Crossing were overjoyed when the mail service first came into play.The mail delivery had covered the distance in about 30 hours, impressive for the times. Previously, mail arrived weekly by horseback from Wagga. This was a significant advance, meaning that Lang’s Crossing could get communications to with Deniliquin twice a week, which in turn had communication with Melbourne twice weekly. Marshall and Waring seem to have disposed of the mail contract to Richard Hill, who is recorded as running a conveyance to Hay. On 12 October 1860, Thomas Grace placed a coach in opposition on the Hay and Lachlan run, starting at 5am every Monday, to which Hill replied by buying Bevan’s Deniliquin-Moama run and extending an improved new service to Hay. In March 1862, Cobb bought Hill’s interests and maintained the line for the next 38 years. Crossing the Murrumbidgee in 1859 was affected by means of Leonard’s punt, and it was not until March 1863 that a pontoon bridge was erected. This was used for eleven years until a permanent bridge was opened on August 29 1874. Hay was considered the Riverina headquarters of Cobb & Co in the 1860’s through its geographical position. It radiated lines to Deniliquin, Narrandera, Wagga Wagga, Lake Cargelligo, Gunbar, Booligal. Hillston, Ivanhoe, Balranald, Wilcannia, Mossgiel and Moulamein. For the 76-mile stretch between Deniliquin and Hay, apart from starting and stopping places, there were five changing stations, one every 17 miles. These were located at Pretty Pine, Boree, the Black Swamp, Booroorban, and the 16-Mile Gums. When Cobb took the mail contract over from Richard Hill, their reputation made it a lot harder for themselves. Hill had been given fourteen hours for the trip, but Cobb was immediately placed on a twelve-hour time limit, with heavy penalties for time overdue. In the winter, Cobb protested that the roads were poor and the penalties were costing them £15 to £20 per week. In poor weather it sometimes took sixteen to twenty hours for the trip. At one time Cobb had suspended running the coach altogether. A local committee, comprising Henry Shiell, Thomas Darchy, and eighteen other gentlemen, wrote to Cobb insisting on the twelvehour limit and pointing out that the horses were regularly stable-fed and the run could be reduced to ten hours.Autumn of 1878 was very wet, with Hay receiving upwards of seven inches of rain. First Mail arrives at Lang’s Crossing From the “Pastoral Times” Deniliquin, in a Cobb & Co Special Edition, 10 September 1963 Deniliquin, a raft had been constructed to ferry over the travellers. A squatter residing forty miles north of Deniliquin, took two days to ride into our town from his station. He left one horse (he was riding one and leading another) stuck in a bog, the water coming over the horse’s back, the rider being obliged to wade through the water which was chest high. Cobb’s coach between Deniliquin and Hay had for the present ceased to run. One of Cobb’s vehicles was stuck on the Old Man Plain, where it remained until the waters subsided. Deniliquin rainfall for February was 739 points, whilst a further 888 points in March gave a good start for a record 28 inches for that year. Mail contracts for 1869 were announced as follows: Wagga Deniliquin 180 miles, four times weekly, horseback, £1195, R Powell and T Beveridge. Moulamein Balranald via Wakool, 110 miles twice weekly, horseback, £400 – R Smith. Hay-Deniliquin 80 miles, three times weekly, £1000 – Cobb & Co.Deniliquin-Echuca, 50 miles, six times weekly, £1000 – Cobb & Co. In 1914, the Hay mail contract was announced in November as follows: “Mr Jas. Robinson, proprietor of the Finley, Jerilderie and Moulamein mail coaches, was the successful tenderer for the £1250 for the Hay-Deniliquin mail service for a period of five years. The contract provides for a motor and coach service.” In March 1914, a news item announced that James Robinson, mail contractor, had purchased a new chain-driven Fiat motor bus in Melbourne for use in connection with his mail service. The new bus was to arrive in about a fortnight, and Mr Robinson would then have two motor cars (a Talbot and Flanders) and two motor buses (Commer and Fiat) besides coaches and horses available for his coach services and for hire. Although the records state that the drought was the cause of the transition to motor transport in 1914, ‘oldtimers’ give the cause as shortage of manpower. Bert Smith, of Hay, who was running the Deniliquin-Hay line at the time had to drive the coaches himself, and as some of the changing stations were unmanned, was obliged to roundup and harness the new horses himself. It was usual, he stated, to run cars in the dry weather, but revert to horses in the winter. By 1916 the Model T Ford was being used on the Hay run. Up to 1918 Bert Smith was operating from the Hay depot, and Gus Pollard from Deniliquin. At this time Pollard won the contract from Smith Simpson and Smith retired as a driver. Cars did not finally supersede horses until 1918.’ The article is associated with this well-known (below) photograph from The Riverine Grazier archives, and has the following caption. “The Hay mail coach in 1908. From left – Tom Skene (driver), Vic Heinz (gate opener), and standing, JC Smith (owner) and H Proctor (coach builder).” The driver of the right-hand coach in the picture is Andrew “The Whip” Pedrana, grandfather of Lorraine Silvester, who returned to Hay with her husband to live in the old Pedrana home in Moppett Street, after her father, Bill, passed away. Not only that, Lorraine identified the boy on the coach next to her grandfather, as Hughie Cook, the gate-opener on that particular occasion. Lorraine also reported that Andrew Pedrana, during a trip from White Cliffs to Wilcannia, was held up by a bike-riding bushranger! MAIL COACH STUCK UP AND ROBBED A Bushranger on a Bicycle From the ‘Town and Country Journal’, September 1901. A bushranger of up-to-date ideas stuck up a mail coach five miles from White Cliffs on Sunday night. His novelty consisted in the using a bicycle for his departure. The robber stood at a gate on the road, and on Kanter, a photographer, beginning to open the gate, shot him through the arm. He then rifled mail, and opened the baskets containing opal, and made up a parcel, and rode away towards White Cliffs. One bag, containing valuable opal, and one mail bag, containing a large amount of money for the savings bank, were missed by him, being in the boot of the coach. There were two male passengers and a woman. One passenger had £120, and the others smaller amounts, but they were not interfered with. The man wounded is not seriously hurt. On the arrival of the coach at Wilcannia, the driver, Pedrana, and Mr Kanter were interviewed. Andrew Pedrana, the driver, said, “We reached the Five-mile gate without incident. Mr Kanter got down to open the gate. I heard a shot, and Mr Kanter called out, ‘My God, I’m shot.’ “A man in an overcoat, a cap, and a mask then came forward, presenting a revolver. “I said, ‘Don’t shoot me’. He said ‘I won’t shoot you, but I want the brass’. “I said, ‘I’m not going on’, and tied the reins to the brake, and got down. “Miss Addy Ortloff, a passenger, was on the box seat beside me, and remained there all the time. Mr Rosanove got out, and stood next to Mr Kanter and me. “I started cutting up tobacco, but the man quickly demanded my knife. He then ripped open the bags and baskets, tearing open letters and packets, and strewing the contents on the road. “This took more than an hour. He then made up a bag, and put in it some of the contents of the mail. “This seemed pretty heavy, and, I think, contained a lot of packets of opal. Having done this, he said, ‘You can go now’. “I said, ‘Can I take these things?’ He said, ‘Do as you like with them.’ He took his bike and started off in the direction of White Cliffs.“The passengers resumed their places, and we drove on, leaving the mails and bags on the road. We reached Tarella about half-past three, and informed the owner, Mr Edward Cato who undertook to communicate at once with the Police at the Cliffs and gather up the remnants of the mail.” Mr Gustav Kanter, who is an assayer and photographer, at White Cliffs gave a similar account of the affair with fuller details as to the shooting, which he thus described – “When I got close to the gate I was fired at by a tall masked man who sprang from behind a gate post. He gave no warning. The shot struck me in the right forearm. “When shot I ran behind the leaders, calling out to the driver, ‘I am shot through the arm’, so as to warn him. “The man then went to the opposite side of the horses, and covered the driver with his revolver.” The robber is described as a strongly built man between 5’10” and 6’ high.” The report in the Adelaide Chronicle of 2 September 1901, has more details. “Calling at the Tarella homestead, the manager, Mr EP Quinn, was informed of the occurrence, and he thereupon rode back to White Cliffs, reaching that place at 4.30 this morning. Sergeant Nolan and Trooper Perry at once proceeded to the scene of the sticking-up, which is a spot lying between two low ranges and within half a mile of a large garden kept by a firm of Chinese. About 20 yards from the gate the ground was strewn with opened letters and packets, the contents of the crates. About £4000 worth of crossed cheques was in transit to different banks. Numbers of these cheques were scattered in all directions. Parcels were also flung away off the road, as if in disgust. The boot of the coach contained sealed and insured boxes of opal going home, but these the robber overlooked in his hurry. When the Police received the first information of the crime, in going back over the road, discovered the tracks of a bicycle only recently ridden from the scene of the robbery. A shower of rain falling through the night obscured all the former tracks, and it was therefore assumed that the highwayman came back to White Cliffs after perpetrating his daring crime. A man named Pyne, aged 20, has been arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the robbery. Pyne left White Cliffs, riding a bicycle, about 4pm on Sunday, and is said to have camped in the vicinity of the place where the robbery occurred, but went back again to the town. He was seen at White Cliffs at 8 o’clock, and returned later to his camp. He missed his way, and arrived at the gates at the time when the highwayman had the coach bailed up. He was ordered to stand along with the others. Pyne was taken on to Tarella with the others, and came back with Mr Quinn to the gate, remaining with the bags until the arrival of the Police. It is doubtful, therefore, if he was connected with the sticking up.It is estimated that there was £8000 worth of treasure on the coach at the time of the robbery. It is not known how much opal was taken, but £1400 in notes was taken. Many of the registered letters containing money were missed by the robber in his hurry. Amongst the articles stolen was a valuable opal brooch, intended as a wedding present, sent by an opal buyer. The robber did not ask the passengers to turn out their pockets. Mr Kanter had £120 in a handbag. This he deftly hung on the names of the horse after being shot. The townspeople of White Cliffs are not surprised at the robbery, as they have long marvelled that coaches carrying so much treasure were allowed to travel the long journey unmolested. Sub-Inspector Hojel, with a posse of police and a black tracker, arrived in White Cliffs last night, and is acting in conjunction with Sergeant Nolan and the local police, in scouring the surrounding country in search of the highwayman. Fred Pyne, the young man who was arrested, was brought before the court this morning and remanded for seven days. It is expected that further arrests of a sensational nature will be made, but so far, no clue to the actual robber has been found, owing to his having successfully covered up his tracks by returning to the town. Mr EP Quinn states that he followed the Bicycle track all the way from the gate to Opal Street. The tracks turned off in front of the Royal Hotel, went down Opal Lane, passed the Working Men’s Club and onto Miller and Byers’ veranda, where the rider got on dry ground, and evidently carried his bike to his camp and planted the spoil. The shower of rain which fell soon after the robbery made the tracks distinct, and they were easily followed. FOLLOWING IN FATHER’S DUST. (from the Rockhampton Morning Bulletin December 1947) Where 60 years ago, a Cobb and Co driver, the late Andy Pedrana, was raising the dust on the Hay-Deniliquin Road, his son now drives the mail. As driver of one of the famous Cobb and Co’s mail coaches, Andy’s timing was considered brilliant. It took seven changes of a six-horse team to get the coach over 80 miles in twelve hours. Today his son, Bill Pedrana, is carrying on the good work as mail coach driver, but six times faster.

They come from one of Hay's success stories - Bob Biggs senior who started off delivering newspapers and ended up the proprietor of the Ampol complex in Macauley Street (now Caltex) and a school bus company before retiring to the NSW north coast in 1979. But it was a long road to success. Long hard work, and little pay. Bob was born in Church Street, East Hay on September 1, 1915. “My first job - I was a little bloke then - was as a paper boy for A.O. Best Newsagents. “When I was nine, I progressed to delivering milk for Fred Tapscott after school. I left school when I was 13. I was ready to go to high school but my mother couldn’t afford the clothes.“So I went to Yeadon Station and worked there for around ten months earning seventeen shillings and sixpence a week. It was the depression years and work became very scarce. My brother Jack and I were forced to "go on the dole. “My mother was laundress at the hospital for 24 years and a very proud woman. She didn’t want anyone in town to know her sons were getting the dole, so Jack and I took our push bikes and swags and headed for Griffith where we went on the dole. Every Thursday we would go to the Police Station and be given three tickets with a total value of six shillings and eight pence. They were for the baker, butcher, and grocer. We managed by cutting bindis and raking up the yard for the baker in exchange for yesterday’s cakes. And the butcher never refused us an extra sausage for a bit" "of cleaning up.”"Bob was away for a year when he decided to return to Hay.The first few nights he got out of bed to sleep on the floor, not being used to sleeping in a bed. He then worked for the Naughton family at ‘Booligal’ Station for a while and later at ‘Freshwater’.“I then returned to Booligal where I helped dipping sheep and learned to drive a one-ton Chevrolet truck. That was my first taste of trucking, and something which I loved for the rest of my life. “There was a Mounted Police officer stationed at Booligal, Constable Beach. One of my jobs was to dress a sheep and take it into the Police station to hang in the meathouse. One day the Constable asked me how old I was. “When I told him I was 16, he said ‘You’d better be 17. Come in and I’ll give you your driving licence’. That is how I got my licence! “I also used to drive A Model Ford utility for Arch Hennessy, a store keeper from Booligal, going to Hay three times each week to get bread from Beissel’s Bakery in Alma street. These were kept in three chaff bags. "The bread was red-hot and the bags had to sit on special racks so the bread didn’t get squashed.” Bob was witness to the de-licensing of the One Tree Hotel, some sixty years ago. “Frank McQuade senior was the licensee. “His clients had to use the wagon as a toilet, and when the inspector came around one day and told himto build proper toilets, ‘Stick it’. Frank lost his license."Bob also worked with O J Smith, the well-known shearing contractor; with Jim Calderwood’s horse team forming the Balranald road and with Jim White and his son ‘Sharper’ on building the Mulwala Canal at Berrigan. “We used a three-quarter yard scoop behind eight horses abreast,” he remembers. “At Christmas we all came home and I got a job at Ashley’s Motors as a grease boy. I loved it but earned only £1-10-0 a week while I was getting £1-10-0 at the canal. My father tried to talk me into staying where the bigger money was, but I wanted to go into motors. So he told me I could stay at home, provided I paid my mother £1 per week, leaving me with 10/-. “ Through his work at the garage, Bob came to work with Col Greaves who operated a transport business, carting wool to Melbourne. “They were short of a driver one day and borrowed me. I loved it and never went back into the garage. I stayed on the trucks.”"When Bob married Mavis Pocock in 1937, he was working at ‘Boonoke’ with Col Greaves, carting fodder to ‘Moonbria’ for the late Mac Falkiner. “I went to Mr. Mac and told him I loved my work but wanted to be with my family in Hay. He told me that he couldn’t build another home on the property as he had just built one for Col. In the end, he told me he could quite understand my situation. He wished me luck and gave me a cheque for £100 - a lot of money in those days. He was a good man to work for, but my home was in Hay.” Bob was set up for business when he returned to Hay with his £100 cheque. He had also been given an old semi-trailer by Mr. Mac as well as an old prime mover by Col Greaves. “Over the years I missed quite a few dinners, but never booked anything up,” he said. “We built a small house where Caltex stands today, and gradually added to the complex. When the aerodrome was pulled down in West Hay and the hangar was shifted to Lachlan street to become the Memorial Hall, I got hold of the two bearers and used them to make my own wool dump. “The bearers and decking for the drum shed were part of the police horse stables. And when the Memorial Hall burnt down, I bought the remains for £5. “With the help of my father, it took a bit of cleaning, but we were able to use the outside stairs and some of the iron. “The water tanks I sold for £15 each. “My dump held all the wool we carted as well as anything that came up from Melbourne. I loved life as a truckie.” A big break came Bob’s way when Alf Ashley senior wanted petrol carted from Melbourne. He helped Bob buy a new Fargo truck, to which was added a tray. When sheep were carted, Bob hired a wooden crate from Hay Motor Company. “I got a lot of help, mainly from station people and we were doing quite well until petrol rationing came in. I was told I was limited to 44 gallons each month (had been going through 500 a month) and that I must fix a charcoal burner to my truck as well. They were terribly dirty things and I wouldn’t fit one on my new truck. “So I decided to enlist in the Army. That was 1941 and Arthur Squires was my recruiting officer. So myself and several others went down to Sydney to enlist. We all passed medical except Harry Cox and Snow Marr. I had one month’s leave to wind up my business.” Bob became an Army driving instructor, teaching others to drive heavy vehicles and machinery at West Maitland. "The next three years were spent in Western Australia waiting for the Japanese to land. “They didn’t. So we were brought back in 1945. When I returned home, I got the truck out and started my transport all over again. Over time, we added to our complex and finished building it up to what it is today. In 1954 I became an agent for Ampol.” Bob’s trucks were also used to transport foot- ball teams and groups of people such as the Hay Band. “I will never forget the day we took the Band to the Narrandera Band Sunday, all the local players and 38 instruments. Mr. Constantine was the Band Master. He was music-mad and he used to live at Bishop’s Lodge. On this day Hay won the competition outright and Finley came second. There were bands from everywhere. “On the way back, it started to rain. It rained two inches and there was no bitumen between Hay and Narrandera. It was a mud track all the way. We had chains on the back wheels and at Darlington Point we stopped in front of the hotel and slept on the verandah. Some slept under the bridge. “I gave old Mr. Constantine my bed in the truck. “The next day we were given a bucket of tea and some toast by the publican. “That was all the food they had as many others had camped there the night too. “In return, the band got out their instruments and played some music on the verandah of the hotel. I can remember Ronnie Wall playing the cornet. “Darlington Point had never seen anything like it. It was wonderful.”Bob sold his Ampol business to Michael Bradley in June 1973 who subsequently sold it to Reg O’Brien. His house and school bus business was sold to the Derrig family. “When we decided to leave town we had a send-off every night for two weeks. “I still return to Hay to visit my son Bob and family. “This is where I worked hard to enjoy a good retirement. “But home today is Forster, where I still have the Cup won for kicking the most goals (35) in the Wednesday afternoon half-holiday com-petition." "Work bloody hard and lay off the grog and drugs. Those are the words of wisdom for today’s youth who want to make a success of their lives."

The information used to create this recount of murder on Wyndowinal Station, and the resultant detaining of the suspect at Balranald lock up, was published in the Pastoral Times, Deniliquin Newspaper on Saturday July 10, 1875.The headline read, SUPPOSED MURDER (FROM OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT.)It details depositions taken at a magisterial inquiry held by R.B. Mitchell, Esq., P.M. at Wyndowinal Station, on Sunday, June 27 1875, concerning the death of George Adams, who died at that station the night before. Phillip Bennett MoonPhillip Bennett Moon, superintendent of Wyndowinal Station, was the first of three people to make a statement under oath.“I recognise the body to be that of a man called George Adams, who was a cook in my employ.,” Moon said.“I last saw him alive yesterday morning, 26 June instant. The man was then to all appearance in robust health. “He was a man about forty years of age, and, so far as I am aware, of sober habits. I never knew him to be subject to fits of any description. As a rule, the man is known to be quarrelsome with other men in the kitchen. He was not a man that made friends.” “A Chinaman, known by the name of Charley, has been messing in the kitchen with the cook for the last three days; both of them used to have their meals together, and he has been the only one during this time messing with the cook.”Moon had discovered the death of Adams when he received a letter while he was at Waldaira Station, sent by William O’Hara, along with allegations detailed in the letter, that the ‘Chinaman Charley’, had poisoned him. The Police Magistrate for the district was at Waldaira at the time, Moon shared the news with him, and the pair immediately left for Wyndowinal. William James O’HaraWilliam James O'Hara, 21, lived at the station, and was engaged as a youth learning colonial experience. His testimony was quite lengthy, having had the most interaction that evening with Adams, before and after he exhibited signs of illness.As O’Hara was suffering from a headache on June 26, he was at the station all that day. “I was not out on the run, and I had frequent opportunities of seeing the cook during the day,” he said in his testimony.“The cook was busily employed all day scrubbing rooms in the house. He gave me my dinner as usual about one o'clock, and at about a quarter past six o'clock he brought me in my supper.  “At that time, nor during any part of the day, the cook did not complain of any illness. A little after seven o'clock the cook cleared the things from my table.”After Adams had taken away O’Hara’s supper dishes, O’Hara laid on the sofa for fifteen minutes. The cook came back in, and asked the younger man if he was going to sleep there all night. O’Hara said no, and then noticed that Adams had a plate in his hand. “He came over to me, and, pushing the plate right under my nose, said with great excitement, "The bastard Chinaman has poisoned me!" I jumped up and advised the cook to swallow an emetic at once,” O’Hara reported in his deposition.“The cook put the plate into the cupboard, and said, “Keep this and get it analysed, for I will be dead in the morning.” Adams went back to the kitchen, and came back in five minutes yelling to O’Hara to get him an emetic, and that his legs were failing him. He then collapsed, saying that he had been poisoned.“I asked him what proof had he that the Chinaman had poisoned him,” O’Hara said.“He said that when he left the kitchen the first time to clear away the things his turnip-tops were all right, but that upon his return they were as bitter as gall.”O’Hara then carried Adams into the kitchen, undressed him, and put him to bed. At this time, Adams was still conscious, and accusing the Chinaman of poisoning him.“I did not see the Chinaman during all this time — he seemed to keep out of the way,” O’Hara said.“I gave Adams two emetics; he swallowed both of them, each one consisted of a small cup full of warm water, with a teaspoonful of mustard therein mixed. “The man vomited some turnips, and also, I think, what appeared like sauce (tomato sauce is in the kitchen); he told me while lying on his bed that the Chinaman dished the turnips for the kitchen, and pressed the water from them with the lid of the saucepan; he did not tell me whether the Chinaman had eaten any of them likewise.”Adams died in the presence of O’Hara, beginning to suffer from strong convulsive fits, drawing his body up to his head, and vomiting at the same time, with hard spasmodic breathings at intervals. “The poor man died at last seemingly from exhaustion,” O’Hara said.“A few minutes before his death he asked me to turn him round, and in the act of doing so he died. The saucepan that the turnip-tops were boiled in was made of iron, and not of copper. I made a hearty meal of the turnip-tops at supper.”O’Hara reported in his testimony that Adams died an hour and a half from the time he brought O’Hara the plate of the turnip-tops, and first said the Chinaman had poisoned him. “I heard the Chinaman and the cook talking together in an angry tone on Friday night, the night before the cook suddenly died,” O’Hara said.O’Hara was the second person to report that Adams was of a ‘quarrelsome disposition’, and had fought with two men on the station, besides the Chinaman, and that Nobody, with the exception of the Chinaman, messed (worked) with the cook for three days up to his death. “After Adams died, I brought the Chinaman into the kitchen, and showed him the dead body of his recent messmate. The Chinaman cried very much. “Whilst the cook was dying. I heard the Chinaman make a noise as if trying to vomit. He was in a hut about ten yards from the kitchen, and the dying man made a remark that it was the Chinaman's cunningness. “The Chinaman did not come to see the cook whilst he was dying. Stewart also made the name remark when he heard the Chinaman attempting to vomit, that it was cunningness that prompted him to do so.”The Chinaman goes by the name of Charley, has only been three days on the station, and is employed as gardener. I have never heard Adams complain that he was ever subject to fits. He has told me that he has been a great drunkard in his time, but he could obtain no liquor on the station. William StewartBy the time that William Stewart, a carpenter residing on Wyndowinal station, came across the incident, Adams had already been put to bed by Mr O’Hara, and this is, where Stewart’s testimony began.Adams, Stewart claimed, had said to Stewart that he was very ill, and told him the Chinaman had poisoned him.“I asked him how, and he said, I had some cabbage, and whilst I was out with Mr. O’Hara, I believe be (alluding to the Chinaman) put some poison into it,” Stewart said.“I then went and had a cup of tea, and on my return, I found Adams very sick and throwing up. “When I went into the hut where the Chinaman was, I saw the Chinaman pretending to be sick.”Stewart is allowed to make his own conclusions in the statement, as he claims to have searched for evidence of the Chinaman vomiting, and found none. Stewart reported that Adams remained quite sensible up to his death, and more than half-a-dozen times said to him that he had been poisoned by the Chinaman. “I went to bring the Chinaman face to face with Adams, but upon my return with the Chinaman Adams was dead,” Stewart said.“As he lay dead, I said to the Chinaman " What have you been giving that man?" and he replied that cabbage made him sick, that he (the Chinaman) also ate a little of it, but found it very bitter, and threw it out of his mouth." “The Chinaman cried very much, and wanted to explain that he did not do it, but the Chinaman cannot speak English so as to be understood.”The Pastoral Times article said that the Police Magistrate decided that his opinion was that Mr George Adams died from murder by poison, administered to him by one Charley, a Chinaman, and he ordered Charley, the Chinaman into custody upon suspicion of murder by poison.Due to the isolation of Windowinal, an immediate post mortem examination was not possible. The Police Magistrate ordered the plate of turnip tops to be sealed up in his presence, all of the vomit from the victim be scraped up and collected, and the deceased to be temporarily buried, with an exhumation being conducted at a later date if required.‘Chinaman Charley’ committed suicide in the Balranald lock up before any formal investigations could be made, and concrete conclusions drawn in the case. Was it guilt or despair that drove him to commit that act. Mr Adams was, according to the depositions of all witnesses, a quarrelsome man who was not well liked, and had altercations with at least two other people on the property. Adams and Charley were heard by O’Hara, the 21-year-old, arguing Friday, the night before the murder.Chinaman Charley was on the property a short time, three days, according to the testimony of Mr O’Hara. Nobody saw Charley committing the act, it was an assumption made by Adams, who did not elaborate on the reasons why he would assume it was indeed Charley. Is three days a long enough time for a grudge or quarrel to drive a man to murder, or did someone see the opportune circumstances and decide to take action, and blame it on ‘Chinaman Charley?’ A mystery which, unfortunately, will never be solved.