We’d just completed a north to south figure-eight journey through the Grampians and were having a conflab on whether to turn left or right. “What about doing the Dead Rellies Run?” said Gray. It was on our to-do list, and considering we were within striking distance, we decided why not turn westward for our first venture into South Australia. This trip may sound grim, but it’s really a celebration. My family began its Australian adventure in 1812. On  that occasion they travelled from the UK, straight to Van Diemen’s Land, without passing go. Walking in their footsteps would be for another time, however. Right now we were about to trace the Prussian branch. They began arriving in South Australia in the late 1830s, trekking straight into the Adelaide Hills and the Barossa.

Genealogy seems to be a particularly Australian preoccupation, perhaps because ‘new’ countries provide genealogists with a relatively easy headstart. Until recently, all arrivals  were recorded on ship manifests. From the First Fleet through to the 1950s (notwithstanding assumed names and simplification of surnames on arrival, a couple of which have provided me with intriguing dead ends), the names of your family members will appear on documentation somewhere. Because of this access to records, I suppose, Australians are masters of family histories. Several hefty tomes reside on my bookshelf alone, listing many thousands of potential cousins, all resulting from three  procreative couples. Given today’s overpopulated world, I’m not certain how I feel about my part in that.

My father, whose ancestors we were running to ground, had a circumspect attitude to researching the family. Perhaps it was the unearthing of the unknown thousands of cousins that preferred him to adopt a ‘let sleeping dogs lie’ attitude to delving too deeply. He was never keen on churchyards either, because who knows what might be dug up? This was a trip my mum wanted to do, and I guess I inherited her enthusiasm or curiosity.

Hahndorf Hill Winery, Hahndorf, SA

CROSSING THE BORDER

As first-timers we checked in at the Casterton Information Centre to confirm what not to take over the border in the way of fresh fruit, vegetables, plants, and flowers, and how to correctly dispose of them beforehand. “You’ll see all the signs first, along the side of the road”, said the lady at the information centre, “then you’ll see the bins, you can’t miss them.” Then she generously added, “So don’t buy anything fresh here. But please stop on your way back and stock up then.”

Alas, the thought of discarding good food that someone had taken the trouble to grow was unbearable, so just before the border we pulled into an off-road picnic area and had an extravagant salad lunch and colossal cook up. We crossed into South Australia with veggie stew and stewed fruit to form the base  of our meals for days, much to the dismay of my carnivorous husband. By the time we reached Penola we’d seen just one quarantine sign and no bins whatsoever, but our consciences were clear.

We spent our first night in South Australia at the North Rest Area, a pull-in on the A66 at Padthaway south of Keith. Gray and I are freedom campers where possible; free camping is illegal in England (though not Scotland), so we relish the experience. We are not adverse to requests for donations however, and greatly appreciate and are often amazed at the services local people provide for travellers. We find it difficult to relax at cheek-byjowl, tightly regulated campsites; instead, we prefer an unpolluted starscape and the night sounds of the natural world. And we believe in use-it-or-lose-it.

Gruenberg Church

Next we headed for Moculta, barely on the map between Angaston and Truro. Through GeoWiki we tracked down Ivor and Bernie, who live locally and have, in the past, allowed CMCA members to stay on their property for a donation. Unfortunately they no longer do this, but when I explained our mission they said come anyway, with Ivor guiding us in on the radio through a patchwork of small fields. Ivor and Bernie live on their property in their Winnebago and were packed up and ready for an excursion to the dump point when we arrived, after which they were to babysit their assorted grandchildren for a night or two.

Stephanie and Gray with their motorhome

TRACING FAMILY

Quite suddenly we found ourselves alone in the same countryside my people had cleared from the bush. It was a strange feeling, a lumpin- the-throat one, to walk along the same dirt lanes they must have done, to look around at the same surrounding hills they once did. Today every square inch is cultivated with wine grapes.

My great-grandmother was born here and married in the church, which stands on a rise not 100m from where we were staying. It was here that she caused a scandal when she appeared in this church on her wedding day in 1889 in a white dress instead of the strict Lutheran black. She had secretly sent to Sydney for it. She and my entrepreneurial great-grandfather were well-suited it transpired.

Her parents were also married here in 1860, in the original chapel that still stands alongside the church. I followed a path that led through the trees and behind the church before it opened up onto a hillside with far-reaching views and a small cemetery. And among the memorials was that of my great-great-grandparents. It was a poignant moment, but there was more to come. The grave in front was that of my great-greatgreat- grandparents who are also my great-times-four grandparents (bear with me here if I lose you), as my great-grandparents were the granddaughter and great-grandson of the couple whose grave I now stood before. These were farming people, living in modest homes and achieving a modest living, yet the memorial stones they erected to commemorate the dead are monumental.

The next day we went over to Light Pass where two churches face one another across the street,  the result of squabbling pastors. Ironic, given that it was religious persecution that caused them to leave Prussia. In the cemetery of one of the churches, a board recorded the names of those in unmarked graves - my great-timesthree grandmother (eldest child of the great-times-four grandparents at Moculta) among them. She had died during childbirth aged 28. Over the road in the cemetery of the other church was the grave and memorial of her husband.

Just along from the churches, the 1840s pug and red gum cottage of the school master has been preserved. Luhrs Cottage is open to the public (donations are requested), and exploring its rooms gave a real sense of what life was like for my forebears.

Our next major stop was to be Hahndorf, and on the way we experienced our first Member Stop Over. I’ve always felt like I’d be taking advantage of someone’s kindness by using MSOs, but freedom campsites were thin on the ground here, and what was didn’t appeal, so we decided to give it a try. Like Ivor and Bernie at Moculta, Roger Kowald at Mount Torrens couldn’t have been nicer. He rode to meet us on his farm bike and explained that he had used MSOs when he was travelling with Kerry, his wife, and their kids; they’d had a wonderful time and were now returning the favour. Roger directed us to an eyrie high on a hill overlooking his dairy farm, the surrounding hills, farms, vineyards, and farmsteads. In time he will build a house here, but for now it was our splendid, peaceful base.

Hahndorf on a public holiday weekend was akin to an overly popular German theme park. The old cemetery was now a tarmacked  car park with only a few unrelated token graves preserved. But the lady in the visitor centre and museum couldn’t have been more helpful. She showed us a board in the museum which listed all the founding families and where their homes once stood. On it was another of my great-times-four grandfathers and also his son-in-law, the father of my great-greatgrandmother whose grave I’d visited in Moculta. Back at the  information desk, the lady found and photocopied land returns listing their produce beside each name.

The Lane Vineyard

She then suggested we visit the café over the road, which had a database of Hahndorf’s pioneer inhabitants. We bought a coffee and a ‘traditional’ German pastry and I ensconced myself at the café’s computer terminal. Their database is an amazing research tool listing land transfers. I made notes  furiously, but there was simply too much history of my family’s land dealings and movements to take in over one coffee and a pastry.

Back home again I took the family tomes from the bookshelf. It wouldn’t have been feasible to take them with me, as their combined weight would have excessed our luggage allowance, and most likely our vehicle’s tare limit too! But going through them I realised how close we’d been to so much more.

Doing the ‘Dead Rellies Run’ when we did had been a last-minute decision and was very special.

The revisit however, will be properly planned, allowing time to absorb the atmosphere of where my pioneering ancestors started out; and maybe even contact some distant relations still living in these areas.

Bottom line? More than worth it, to see this country through eyes from another time.

Hahndorf Academy

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Written: Tue 01 May 2018
Printed: May, 2018
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