MY ROSEDALE – David Stirling
My uncle, Milton Sebbens, forwarded the last Rosedale newsletter to me, as it contained my old mate Colin Enright's story of his early Rosedale experiences. I enjoyed reading it, as I still keep in contact with a few of the old Rosedale crew and I make an effort to visit Rosedale every time I go down south (I now live up near Bangalow). It will always have a place in my heart, as it was such a big part of my growing up. Here is a snapshot of some of my memories.
In the late 1950s our extended family built a few dwellings on a sizeable block, later known as 16 Rosedale Parade. There were uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers, sisters, parents and grandparents - 15 of us in all - and only one outback toilet! (How we managed I'll never know.)
One highlight for us kids was when we got to ride around on the back of dairy farmer’s ute, while Ian delivered fresh milk by
ladling it out of a large milk churn into billy cans. We travelled all over Rosedale and on an old goat track to Guerilla Bay, bouncing around in the back as he negotiated the dirt road gouged out by the rains. Ian had the dairy just to the west of the Rosedale turnoff and I believe it is he and his wife, Beverley, who Bevian Road was named after.
Blackberry bushes were thick along the old road leading into Rosedale and we gorged ourselves on these delicious fruits every
summer. One of my uncles, Bert, showed us how to set snares to catch rabbits, where they had made tunnels through these blackberry thickets.
When the adults were off doing some serious beach fishing, our Granny, Ina, a spritely little Scottish lady, took us kids 'fishing'. We used a stick tied with a small length of string and a jellybean secured at the other end. We dangled the apparatus in the big rock pools around towards Smelly Beach in vain hope. We were old enough to know that this was complete folly, but we just humoured old Granny along. Looking back, she must have thought she had a bunch of half-witted grandkids, who would fall for
anything!
Rosedale was different in that it had no shops, so in order to spend any 'pocket money' we might have had, we walked around to Malua Bay. This involved negotiating the 'blowhole', which was sometimes tricky in heavy seas. I'm fairly certain we never lost anyone down it. The other hazard was that we were convinced that Brigadier Mackenzie reckoned he owned that beach
and we would get shot if he caught us on it. I feel I must now apologise retrospectively for that absurd notion, but it did add a certain spice to our adventures. Even now, if it rains while I'm on any beach, the smell and feel of it transports me back in time to those walks around the rocks and through the bush at Rosedale.
David Sterling
April 2014
My uncle, Milton Sebbens, forwarded the last Rosedale newsletter to me, as it contained my old mate Colin Enright's story of his early Rosedale experiences. I enjoyed reading it, as I still keep in contact with a few of the old Rosedale crew and I make an effort to visit Rosedale every time I go down south (I now live up near Bangalow). It will always have a place in my heart, as it was such a big part of my growing up. Here is a snapshot of some of my memories.
In the late 1950s our extended family built a few dwellings on a sizeable block, later known as 16 Rosedale Parade. There were uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers, sisters, parents and grandparents - 15 of us in all - and only one outback toilet! (How we managed I'll never know.)
One highlight for us kids was when we got to ride around on the back of dairy farmer’s ute, while Ian delivered fresh milk by
ladling it out of a large milk churn into billy cans. We travelled all over Rosedale and on an old goat track to Guerilla Bay, bouncing around in the back as he negotiated the dirt road gouged out by the rains. Ian had the dairy just to the west of the Rosedale turnoff and I believe it is he and his wife, Beverley, who Bevian Road was named after.
Blackberry bushes were thick along the old road leading into Rosedale and we gorged ourselves on these delicious fruits every
summer. One of my uncles, Bert, showed us how to set snares to catch rabbits, where they had made tunnels through these blackberry thickets.
When the adults were off doing some serious beach fishing, our Granny, Ina, a spritely little Scottish lady, took us kids 'fishing'. We used a stick tied with a small length of string and a jellybean secured at the other end. We dangled the apparatus in the big rock pools around towards Smelly Beach in vain hope. We were old enough to know that this was complete folly, but we just humoured old Granny along. Looking back, she must have thought she had a bunch of half-witted grandkids, who would fall for
anything!
Rosedale was different in that it had no shops, so in order to spend any 'pocket money' we might have had, we walked around to Malua Bay. This involved negotiating the 'blowhole', which was sometimes tricky in heavy seas. I'm fairly certain we never lost anyone down it. The other hazard was that we were convinced that Brigadier Mackenzie reckoned he owned that beach
and we would get shot if he caught us on it. I feel I must now apologise retrospectively for that absurd notion, but it did add a certain spice to our adventures. Even now, if it rains while I'm on any beach, the smell and feel of it transports me back in time to those walks around the rocks and through the bush at Rosedale.
David Sterling
April 2014