Dawson Bee - Snow on the Lindis: my life at Morven Hills Station

I dedicate this book

to my father
whose assessment and vision
established the dream

to my mother
who worked so hard to keep the dream alive

and to my wonderful family
who all share in it.

It was late afternoon when we drove over the Lindis. The landscape was incredibly beautiful a special part of Otago. Wind rippled the tussocks. They were a warm caramel colour with a wonderful silky sheen.

UNDULATING ACROSS THE VALLEY were a series of gentle breast-like mounds. It was as though God had reached out with a giant flour sifter and given the sides a gentle tap. Baby hills which had abandoned all hope of becoming mountains. We stopped on the top and stretched our legs. There was an eerie silence; a lone hawk drawing circles in the sky and the dominant feeling of space. We filled our lungs with the pure clean air and, after a quick kiss, marvelled at how lucky we were. A surge of honeymoon happiness welled in my heart; Morven Hills was just down the road.

Max was overflowing with impatience, he was anxious to keep moving. After all, he told me, he hadnt seen his dogs for over two weeks. On 14 March 1954, just 17 days into our marriage, I knew I had competition.

Fifteen kilometres down the pass we turned off the main road and drove through the red gates. The air was filled with white fluff, a world of candy floss. It looked like thistledown but Max told me it was cotton from the black poplars. As I shut the gate I scooped up a handful but, despite there being no wind, its gossamer fluff floated airily away.

Racing down the drive came two dogs. Theyd recognised the car, and were wildly excited. Theres Peg and Toss! Maxs voice showed his excitement. When we pulled up in front of an old white-washed house, an elderly man was leaning on the gate. He had a big felt hat down round his ears and I thought he was going to raise it, but no he was lifting his arm to yell at the animals. Bloody hell, them dogs thought yoose never coming back, he addressed Max. Peg was half in the car and Toss was christening the front tyre.

A big man, George Martin gave the impression that he somehow overflowed in several directions at once; he was 70 years old, florid, and wore a wide-brimmed hat and brown tweed trousers over the top of pink long johns. The pink was folded over five centimetres and everything was held up by sturdy braces. To complete the picture, he wore a pink short-sleeved woollen singlet. You could say he was a colourful character. As long as I knew George I never saw him dressed any other way.

Bloody hell, yoose be the new missus, he said, crunching my hand. Ive got the fire stoked up for yoose. An the kettles a-boiling if you wanna cup o tea. George followed us into the kitchen and sat on the seat under the window. There was a wooden table and four rickety chairs, but taking centre stage was a black and red Shacklock range. Bloody hell; Dirty Dora, thats what I call her. Yoose call her what you like. By this stage the well-stoked Dora was almost red hot, the kettle was jumping up and down and splattering everywhere, the overheated cistern was giving off a deep-throated rumble, the dogs were barking and George was talking non-stop. A cacophony of sound waiting on the maestro to raise his baton. With a flourish George picked up his polished walnut-coloured manuka stick, waved it baton-like in the air, and said, Ill see yoose tomorrow.

Well, I thought. Let the show begin!