In my Town and Country blog-post of
18th December 2011, I noted some of the cultural differences between
townies and country folk, from my own experience. The post was prompted by an
English newspaper report of a speed-castration contest (of lambs, of course; what
else would it be?). Two of the contestants had become sick, and I marvelled
that my father had never gotten sick whenever he pulled lambs’ balls off
with his teeth.
To put food on the table, Dad killed a
sheep every ten days, and we ate mutton three meals a day every day. I remember
the violence of the killing – SAS-style, I guess: head jerked up from behind to
expose the throat to the knife and allow the blood to gush out. The body was
hung upside-down on a hook to let the rest of the blood leak out. In town, we
bought from a butcher. Nowadays, meat is pre-packaged by supermarkets. (And sometimes
it probably isn’t meat at all!)
In towns, dogs are either house-pets or
yard-dogs; pets have no duties except to love their human gods, yard-dogs have
to keep the neighbours awake all day and as much of the night as they can
manage. Country dogs’ terms of employment require them to be slave-drivers –
the slaves being the sheep and cattle belonging to the boss. The same
distinction applies to horses. In towns, they’re pets. In the country, they’re
house-slaves, duty-bound to accompany their masters whenever called upon.
Only once in my life was I allowed to ride
my Dad’s horse. She was a huge beast, who accepted only one master. She shuddered
with shame when I hit the saddle, aged nine and small for my age. Dad held her
head and gently explained the circumstances to her. The dog and I were
deputised to escort a few hundred sheep to the railway siding a few miles away, to
be shipped off to the butcher.
The dog could have done it by itself, and
pretty much did. My control of dogs was severely handicapped by my inability to
whistle. What an embarrassment for a country boy! On this occasion I shouted
instructions, which the dog cheerfully ignored as it went about its familiar
business. I just sat and prayed that Big Bess would forget I was up
there; and maybe she did forget, at that.
If I’d been on my own horse I’d have
cantered up and down the mob pretending to know what I was doing, which would
have mucked up the dog’s agenda. I’d have been no less use if I’d galloped up
and down the road behind us.
Actually, one never did gallop much,
strange to say, because in our part of Australia the land was pock-marked with
depressions large and deep enough to be dangerous to galloping horses. Even
dingo-hunts (adults only) were done at nothing more than a fastish canter.
Occasionally, after school, some of us
would pretend we were The Man From Snowy River and charge headlong through copses
with fallen trees underfoot. That was fun, until Bryan broke his arm trying to
squeeze between two trees that were too close together. The Man From Snowy
River was the hero of our favourite action poem, a role-model for
Australia’s bush horsemen.
Through
the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And
he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
It’s an exciting description, and impossible
to recite properly without bending your body to the rhythm of the ride. My Dad
knew all the words, but would never recite it in public. It was an unrealistic
description, anyway. Galloping downhill over fallen trees would be suicide for
both man and horse, on a loose rein.
