Former Balingup local Brian Moulton reflects on his childhood growing up in Birdwood Park, Balingup, in this piece written some years ago. He still visits the area to this day, and shared his reflections with the Mail after seeing the recent upgrades to the Avenue of Honour - and ahead of the upcoming Anzac Day anniversary.
AUTUMN was most memorable.
Big golden oak tree leaves floating gently to the earth. Spring brought the plump green shoots, summer the falling acorns. Winter was memorable with tall intimidating towering oaks, black wattles and conifer trees groaning and creaking with the storms.
As a child growing up in what appeared to be a huge playground, the seasons were so varied and enjoyable in the ever-changing landscape.
The strong scents of decaying leaves and acorns, the damp earth that brought winter to a close. This time of year seemed so intimidating with all the deciduous trees having lost their leaves, the animals and birds had all but disappeared.
Small tin plates with soldier’s names the size of a car number plate stood prominently amongst the fallen matter. However gradually, their little wooden posts prepared with such care rotted away, allowing the plates to cold into the fallen leaves and earth, much like our fallen men.
With spring came bright full shoots on all the oaks and wattles. Bright green tree frogs and brown lizards were to be found in numbers beneath the trees. Brush Tailed possums peeped from well-made hollows or nests. Bronze winged pigeons sped through the branches with the very regal 28 parrots looking down with some disdain.
A steam clatters across the bridge over the Balingup Brook. The postie rattles across the wooden bridge and blows his whistle at Cecil and Rae Moulton’s letter box.
The steam engine once filled with water from large overhead tanks is waved on by Station Master Bert Walton.
The boy grows older and stronger and ventures into more exciting pursuits. Building rafts to float on the rock pool at the end of Birdwood Park. Rafts that floated, but not always the right way up. Rafts built from old Golden Fleece oil drums from his father’s fuel agency. Nature is having a huge effect now on this boy. He sits crouched on the spreading branches of paperbark trees that stretch out over the clear green waters of the brook. Peeling back layers of paperbark, flicking bugs and insects down to the waiting trout and redfin perch. Large mossy black marron come out from the shadows to see what is happening or to wait for their own tasty morsel. The wonderment of Mother Nature is engraving its delight on this boy.
Standing in solitude with no noise, no inhibitions, overlooking the deep rock pool and considering the plunge. With no one looking, peeling off the black stubby shorts and tee shirt, plunging naked into the cold waters of the Birdwood Park Pool. He surfaces; the coots, swamp hens and dab chicks are indignant. A disturbance in their quite peaceful domain. The black ducks, teal and crane are not so interested.
The boy becomes a man but Birdwood Park still weaves its magic.
Working in the orchard picking Granny Smith, Cleopatra, Yates and Johnny apples. Hot dry summer days. The oaks and flowering gums offer a cool and shady reprieve from the hot, dusty work. Thermoses of black tea and homemade scones break the long hot days.
The peace is only disturbed by Squizzy Moulton’s Berkshire pigs. They have escaped and are squealing with delight as they forage through the leaf matter finding the plump acorn nuts. Shepherding them back is not possible until they have had their fill.
Autumn comes again, followed by winter storms that race up the Balingup Brook valley stripping the oaks. Big brown leaves slip slide to the ground and the cycle starts again.
The boy became a man with much more wisdom and grey hair, Birdwood Park is still one of his favourite places. The orchard has gone, the valley no longer reverberates to steam and iron. The Postie’s shrill whistle is no longer heard. The commemorative plaques with names have gone.
To the ageing man, Birdwood Park now seems so small. However the scents of the season are still so strong and sensuous. With more time to sit and ponder, Birdwood Park still weaves its magic and always will.
