1939 Revisited – David Rendle

A few of my favourite photographs hang on my hallway wall.  They’re not my most successful images, but they are the ones that have great memories associated with them.  Of course they hang to decorate, but they do much more.  Each image evokes a strong emotion which connects me to my past and reminds me of some terrific experiences.  Here’s one memory to share…

Having also served as president to his local camera club and being a life member, my grandfather, Reg, was certainly a keen photographer.  I have many photographs of his, but my favourite is a rural farming scene captured in early morning light.  As the day awakens, the sheep are penned ready for a day’s shearing; the men are stretching their legs as they have their first smoke; and the atmosphere is calming and nostalgic. 

There was no knowledge of where the photograph had been taken except for a clue written on the back of the print:  “Ohinewaira, N.Z.”

While planning a holiday to New Zealand in 1999, I decided that I would take the photo myself.  Once again I had set myself a photographic challenge which I often do when holidaying.  The first challenge was to discover the location of this place.  I was already aware that Reg had written a diary when he travelled on a working (shearing) holiday around New Zealand with a few mates in 1939.  His journal was very much a whimsical commentary from a strongly opinionated 25-year-old on a travelling adventure.  Besides learning about Ohinewairua, New Zealand and pre-war life, reading the diary was an insight  to the man himself.

Although Ohinewaire’s location was never directly revealed, through certain passages I determined that this place was the name of a property in the North Island:

            “I came to Taihape over Gentle Annie…Ruahine Range”

            “…with the boys at Moawhango Station…I went 10 miles to Ohinewairua Stn”

            “…came down to Moawhango…”

Once in New Zealand, I was able to place Taihape and Moawhango on a map, and with the knowledge that the road to Ohinewairau was uphill and probably towards “Gentle Annie”, my wife,  Lee, and I went searching for the property.  After winding our way up country that “is similiar to the Romsey and Lancefield district”  for a distance that was clearly more than ten miles, we found Ohinewairua.

Now there’s always apprehension when approaching a remote and unknown farmhouse in a different country.  At the end of a long winding driveway a lady waited for us on the homestead verandah, her body language sending out all the signals of caution and defense.  The tension was confirmed by the anxiety written all over her face as this strange male approached her.

“Hi.  I’m from Australian and I have a photo of your property from 1939.”

Firstly, a look of instant curiosity, and then…jaw-dropping delight”

It can be amazing how images can break down barriers, sometimes overcome language differences and instantly connect people.  She immediately recognised the 6 x 4 copy and was overwhelmed.  After some brief introductions and an explanation about the photo, the lady suggested that we walk through some trees to a vantage point where we could determine the location of the photo.  So we started to analyse the photo as we stood high on a ridge overlooking the shearing shed and property.

Meanwhile, Lee sat in the car.  And then, after five minutes the lady walked past our car and in to the house.  She then re-appeared with a shot gun in hand and marched back passed the car again.  Just before disappearing back through the trees, she hesitated, and thought best to turn to Lee and say, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot your husband.  There’s a possum.”

Once the threat of possum was removed, we returned our attention to the photo and pin-pointed where the photo was taken.  I was then invited to explore the area and we made our way to the photo location. 

The moment was special.  For me it was a mixture of many different feelings.  Firstly there was the importance of getting the correct camera point and having everything lined up to re-enact the 1939 photograph.  As I wandered back and forth, the left side of the brain was in top gear, well lubricated with adrenaline, and busily working through the photographic technicalities.  The right side wanted to slow things down and savour the moment.  There was a strong sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, where a challenge had led me to an obscure patch of dirt on the other side of the Tasman Sea.  And yet, 60 years earlier my grandfather had stomped the very same patch!  How cool was that!   It remains quite a profound memory for me. The experience was even more richer because I had the old photo and the shared experiences from the journal to help me imagine that earlier moment.  Both now and then it was deadly quiet and a little eerie because the scene was so different and yet unchanged.  The hills and the curves of the terrain were identical to 1939, but so much change had occurred since then.  The shearing shed and the shearer’s quarters  had been re-built but in the same location which made things a little confusing.  The sheep yards were there, just obscured by trees that had seemed to sprouted as if overnight.  In  fact, nothing had survived except the land itself.  No man made structure or tree remained.  At close inspection of the photographs, there is a stump and fallen timber where once there was a young tree… and that’s it.

We then returned to the house and shared some time with the owners, who were thrilled with our interest in their property.  We learnt that Reg’s boss from 1939 had sold the property to the current owners and so we had a direct connection to piece together some history.  It was interesting to compare the owners’ stories of an eccentric but cantankerous old gentleman to  Reg’s criticism of a miserable tyrant boss.  In fact the story continued for me because the owners gave me a copy of the old boss’ autobiography.  It was a fascinating read about the very fortunate life of a rich, well-travelled, sporting gentleman, and accompanied by the journal of young visiting observer.   I later returned the book along with a large re-print of the 1939 photograph as a way of thanks.

Both images hang within the same frame on my wall to remind me of the experience, the journey, and my grandfather.  All of my framed photographs have a special story and are therefore special to me.  Such images deserve to be on display, in our lives, rather than stacked in a cupboard or buried in a hard drive.