Cracroft Wilson

Just 4 days after my 4^th birthday, I remember standing on tiptoe peering over the fence to see the distant smoke caused by the tragic Ballantyne’s fire in central Christchurch. My sister was a tailor there but I don’t remember the hand-wringing that must have gone on until she was able to make contact.

The rubble from the building was dumped in my stamping ground, which is where the Princess Margaret Hospital now stands.

Our dairy was on Cashmere View Street, which dips down to, but not across the Heathcote River, the crossing is one street along, Fairview Street.

In those days the river was not polluted and even as I grew older, I caught fresh water crayfish, eels and the occasional trout in it.

We were not macabre, simply curious boys, but we believed that dumped with the Ballantyne’s rubble were the unidentified bodies to those who lost their lives in the fire. We searched for bones or anything that was vaguely attributable to a human body – over several years we found nothing.

Curiosity also took us around the corner to the Cracroft Wilson estate, where nobody was supposed to go! The first time we went there was after bursting the swollen paunch of a dead cow that must have died in the river – the stink drove us under the barbed-wire fence into the estate, well that was our story because we would have been seen climbing over the gate!

My Dad knew about John Cracroft Wilson, funny I always thought the name was hyphenated. And he also knew about the commandeering of the estate during WWII for the Southern Group HQ – he knew because he had the contract to deliver milk there.

Dad told us about the tunnels that were started in secret around 1942 because of the concern of a Japanese invasion - they stopped work on them in 1944 when the risk was gone. He knew the size of the spacious tunnel, 30m long, 10m wide and some 7m high!

We found the locked entrance and the excavated spoil but never saw inside. The Cracroft Caverns are now opened occasionally to the public.

I was a bit too young to chase after the fire engines but Dad went to help when the Cracroft Wilson homestead burnt down at the end of military occupation there. The rumour-mill had it that it was an intentional destruction of the building – my Dad never supported the theory.

The abandoned site was an illicit playground for us though and I’m sure our parents were unaware that we were there, I would expect some disciplining if they did!

Time is in no hurry when you are a kid, and it seemed the building and grounds were derelict for a long time before the Girl Guides took it over and we lost interest.

The man, Sir John Cracroft Wilson was a fascinating character.

My Grandfather who served in India, spoke of him with respect because of his reputation forged during Indian Mutiny.

There was a newspaper clipping that read:

Extract from a despatch of Lord Channing, the Governor-General of India, dated July 2, 1859:- “Mr. J. Cracroft Wilson, Judge of Moradabad. I name this gentleman first, because he has the enviable distinction of having, by his own obstinate courage and perseverance, saved more Christian lives than any man in India. He did this at the repeated imminent peril of his own life. He has since left the service of the Indian Government, and retired to New Zealand, whither I respectfully hope the favour of the Crown may follow him.”

Cracroft Wilson was born in India and worked his way up the ladder in the British-run Indian Civil Service distinguishing himself by supressing Thuggism, which was really all about India trying to shed the British yoke, so the Indian people would have an entirely different perspective of the man.

From the History of the Sepoy War in India: - The resolute courage which the Judge had evinced from the beginning, had made an impression on the Native soldiery, and now once more it was tested. As he rode towards the Lines he passed in front of the artillery. The Golundauze, whose treachery had been known from the first, laid their guns and lit their port-fires. Wilson’s clear blue eyes calmly confronted the murderous design. Without a sign of fear on his face he rode towards the guns, not for them, he waved his hat as a challenge to the gunners. Abashed and overawed by the bearing of the intrepid Englishman they slunk back; and Wilson was saved.

Colonialism apart, Cracroft Wilson’s experience, courage and mana allowed him to perform many good deeds in the early settlement and development of Canterbury.

Cashmere, the suburb is a lasting reflection of his influence.

Hare-brained Sheep

It is generally thought that among the animal kingdom, sheep are one of the dumbest; but any good shepherd knows that to manage sheep effectively, you have to out-think them.

A mystery of nature is that, hares are pretty stupid during their mating season - they just stand there in a stupor, waiting to be shot.

On the other hand, hares are too cunning to jump into any trap that would catch rabbits.

Anyway, back to sheep. Last autumn was a dry one and there was no growth spurt in the grass that could be saved for grazing during the winter, which was much colder than normal. My sheep quickly chewed out even the rougher pasture I had available for them.

Now in my retirement, I’m down to just seven breeding ewes, but when their lambs are born in late spring, my paddocks will have to fill maybe twenty varying sized sheep bellies, so even though the numbers are small, it is sensible to manage the feed.

Of course I could tear off to buy supplementary feed – hay, silage, barley and the like but because of the shortages, all were expensive and not so easily procurable.

We were expecting our two young English grandchildren [with their parents] to stay with us for a month and I knew they would like to experience livestock. So to tame the sheep I hand cut roadside grass and supplemented it with quality sheep nuts.

We have wide road reserves, usually as much land on each side as the carriageway itself. As well close by is the railway line also with a sizable reserve.

The wild grass isn’t much as far as stock fodder goes, but like old Captain Cook introduced citrus into the diet of his crew to prevent scurvy, I know that in late pregnancy, if ewes do not have enough green fodder, they suffer from sleeping sickness disease and often die.

With very limited forage in the paddocks, even with mineral rich nuts [a by-product of flour making], my sheep really did need some green food in their diet.

The main grasses available are cooch [twitch to some] and cocksfoot. There is also a fog-grass like grass that is not so common but actually preferred by the sheep.

It’s just a matter of cutting the grass with a sharp knife and stuffing it into fertilizer bags, the sheep are given one bag of grass in the morning with about four litres of nuts then in the evening another bag of grass. It is enough because they sit to chew their cuds soon afterwards.

But they like those sheep nuts! I think they would eat them until they burst! It is interesting to watch them, they will not eat the grass in anticipation of the nuts, but once they have vacuumed the nuts, they chew up the grass. Sheep are not silly – they know exactly what they want.

Chaffinches and hedge-sparrows [dunnock] are opportunistic and pick up the dusty bits the sheep miss.

Actually the sheep put a little bit of pressure on me. Unable to wear a wrist watch, they tell the time by the amount of daylight, so when they wake up, they think it is breakfast time! As spring springs, the days lengthen, so that now it is daylight when I’m having my coffee and my breakfast. They stand at the fence giving me ‘the eye’ through the kitchen window – watching every movement I make, bleating to encourage me to go out to make my delivery. I don’t even get to read the paper properly!

So take it from me, sheep are shrewd!

With all that in mind, it was a real joy for the kids to help feed out in the morning. Come rain, hail or sunshine they wanted to come with me. At first the lad thought it funny to throw the nuts at the sheep rather than to them, but I taught that by being quiet and not making fast movements, the sheep would become quiet. Then they would stand to be stroked. The kids quickly learned, as did the sheep and they became comfortable with the extra company. Both kids experienced the joy of watching the sheep eat the morsels they had handed out. The squeals of delight when they actually touched/stroked the wool did not upset the sheep because they had figured out that those noises posed no danger.

As for Granddad? He had pleasure watching his grandchildren moving freely among his sheep without them being spooked. He enjoyed the fact that very quickly the kids learned to respect livestock and recognise the birds that visited to partake in the meal.

Grandson may not have cut much grass, but the light-sabre brought forth the imagination and was a delight!

The Bard

When it comes to names, sometimes parents get it exactly right and by giving him ‘Porteous’ for his second name, they got it dead right – William for a Christian name didn’t do him any harm either.

I’m always impressed by people who can put poetry together and our local Bard was adept, especially when he added humour with a bit of satire having a go at bureaucrats and governments.

I have no idea what comes first, music, poetry or rhythm but they are tied together, so playing the bagpipes probably started our Bard off in becoming the wordsmith he turned out to be.

I first ran into the Bard when he played the Lament at the local ANZAC dawn services and more closely when he became a neighbour when the Forest Service bought old Bert Fraser’s block of land.

He was a little older than me and his two younger daughters were around the same age as our sons, so we met up in the role of parents supporting their kids at school and Sunday school functions.

The Bard was hugely community spirited and took roles in local government and community committees such as water, school, hall and sports.

There was a spring on the South end of Fraser’s block that was the source of a small water scheme that served several homes almost reaching down to the coast. The Bard took responsibility for the scheme, which meant that he and I cooperated to ensure the integrity of the scheme. I advised the users to be aware that the spring had a limited life because it was to be surrounded by pine forest, which meant it would eventually dry up. It was a matter of keeping of keeping the various households informed and the Bard was good at that and helpful.

I used the Bard as an example for our environmental programme with schools in Tanzania. The basis of my story was true but I embellished it to impress the students and to motivate them with the message of tree planting.

‘Porteous [I knew the name would impress] was not permitted to light fires close to the forest but burning his gorse and rough vegetation was the only method of control available to him. He asked me what he should do. My reply was that we should have a common boundary, meaning when we burn the gorse on our side, we would also burn his side. Then we should both plant our respective areas with the same species of trees. I told him that after twenty years, he could become rich! I was prepared to give him the seedlings but he must look after them. His trees grew very nicely.

Twenty five years later when I was back in New Zealand for a visit, my friend Porteous came to see me. He had heard that I was home and he had come to thank me. He had recently harvested his trees and had made a very good profit, so was grateful!

The next day he arrived in a huge lorry. On board he had a gift for me – it was a big, red bull [the audience usually gasped]. The bull‘s horns were as wide as my Landrover was long! The animal was so big [I stepped out four large paces and gestures with my hand for his shoulder height].’

Of course the kids were too intelligent to take my story as gospel and joked among themselves about the size of my mythical beast but they certainly remembered the lesson.

I hope too that they remember the name ‘Porteous’ because in my perverse way it serves as a memorial to a man whose wit, community spirit, companionship and poetry are sorely missed.