Memories of Albury New Zealand

 

So many memories of Albury.  New Zealand.

 

Yes, there’s not much there now.  The transport yard where a dozen or so drivers toiled, servicing the extensive area around the village.  The post office is gone so is the telephone exchange. This was located in the railway station to begin with during the late 1800s.  Later in 1936 it moved into a new building on the corner opposite the hotel.  I think it was still operating up until the 1980’s. 

The service station down the south end is nothing more than an empty shell now. I can recall Alex Caldwell, and Laurie and Leo Rowland owners of the garage in my time.  The grocery store the hub of the village’s activity, it just tended to fall apart in the late 1900’s as more modern cars and better roads to the city came about. Yet I do recall Jack Campbell and Joe Cosgriff, owners of the store in my time.  The village proudly supported three churches, now they collect bird droppings.  We cannot forget the railway; it was a lifeline to the village during those early years.  What with stationmaster on deck every day and several gangers maintaining the railway tracks several miles either side of the village.  I seem to recall a chap by the name of Lydiard, as one of the stationmaster’s, I went to school with  his son, Dick  Lydiard.  The head ganger at that time was Cyril Morris. 

For a couple of years 1949 and 50 a couple of us, Colin Tinkler and myself rode the train to a school in Timaru each morning, returning home at night.  By the time the train arrived in Timaru, there were maybe a dozen or more students on board.

It almost makes me cry when I see the village nowadays.  You know there were about 100 kids attending   the Albury School when I started in 1942.  World War Two was in full swing then, and I can recall my first day in school.  My mother went into Timaru on the Road Services Bus to buy me a school bag and a pair of boots, before I started.  Apparently the doctor said I had weak ankles so boots were the order of the day.  Mum came home that night with a leather school bag, big enough to hold a sack of spuds and still have room for a ploughman’s sandwich and a couple of apples.  The boots, well they were two sizes too big.  “You will grow into them,” Mum said.  Grow into them!  There was about two inches of empty space from the end of my toe to the tip of my boot.  I bounced along the road like spring heel Jack. 

The school primary class block was still fairly new along with a dental clinic when I started.  I recall those classrooms being used at the end of each year for the students from the older block, like those kids in std 5 and 6, to practice our singing and sort out those with a suitable voice for a place in the school concert at the end of the school year.

I recall Mr. Robertson, the headmaster attempting to select those good sopranos, or whatever,  I took the stage after Denis O’Sullivan who could sing like a Lark.  I could sing Baa Baa Blacksheep and Hickory Dickory Dock, but they weren’t allowed.  The song I chose turned the headmaster into a raving lunatic.  Clapping his hands over his ears he ran round the room yelling Stop—Stop!  You’ve guessed it.  I never got a start that year. 

The days the whole class tramped down to the TeNgawai River for a swim on those hot days in summer.

There was the public hall, next to the Presbyterian Church, where regular dances were held on a Saturday night.

That brings me to a story I heard of one chap who turned up at each dance.  With  a bottle of whisky he had a marvelous night, couldn’t remember a thing next day.  He used to arrive in his horse and gig each time and went home as drunk as a skunk.  Apparently he relied on the horse knowing the way home.  Two or three likely lads thought they would have some fun.  They took the horse and turned it around in the shafts so it was facing the wrong way.  When our gentleman friend climbed into the gig, never noticing the horse in the shafts back to front, he clucked his horse to take him home.  Somehow, he couldn’t figure out why he was going backward, he blamed the whisky of coarse and fell asleep.  I never did hear the outcome of that little joke.  

Then there was the Domain where the crack Albury rugby team trained on cold frosty nights and where teams played the full eighty minutes without stopping for a regular suck on the water bottle.  Residents from miles around found their way to the Domain to celebrate the end of the Second World War in 1945, what a night, with a huge bonfire and all.

I am probably starting to bore readers now, so I think I will stop now and hop into the pub and have chat to Mary Gibson, the publican, maybe she’ll offer me a whisky or two.  She was the most charming lady you could have ever wished to meet.

Mrs Mary Gibson.