The PR Blog

Speckled about the steep slopes are clumps of small, fieldstone cottages. Their crumbling mortar and aging stones are victim to the ravages of time. Sprawling green meadows, vivid and fertile lay terraced and latticed-worked with pastel pinks and blues of the prolific hydrangeas which form hedgerows and borders.

Throughout the town streets are narrow, they dart willy-nilly between tall houses.  The hooves of a horse resound as it gently picks its way over dark cobblestones  polished to a sheen by countless feet before. Upon its weary back and mounted side-saddle an old man journeys.

Although late summer the air is already crisp as it transports and mingles the salty tang of sea and other heady aromas that give a hint to the freshly made cheese and bread still browning in the ovens. This, somehow, remains commonplace to the people of the Azores.

I have never been reticent in expressing my love and admiration of America. I love the Americans who call it home.

As an Australian, I admire the exploits of their armed services ( when I was a boy during WW2 )  but it was my experience of living there in 1976 that cemented the attitude I developed and still have today.

America is presently going through a very bad patch and has dragged the rest of the Western World with it.

Since the end of WW2, the only thing that has stood between Communism and the life that most of the free world enjoys is America. The untold generosity to every beleaguered nation on this planet has not been appreciated by most of them. 

Thank God for America. 

I think it’s safe to say that adventures of the more daring kind are often hatched during enthusiastic exchanges fuelled by the romantic powers of the wine bottle. This little sojourn was no different.

A drunken sailor is part of folklore and on this particular night, I was a born-again landlubber turned pirate encouraged by the delights of the fermented grape. 

Why did I say yes? You may well ask. But say Yes I did, and it began a journey that I will recount over the coming weeks. A journey that began in a conversation with a few friends.

On 14^th February, 1879 NSW and Victoria decide to act in unison. The NSW premier, Sir Henry Parkes proposes that each state put up 4,000 pounds for the capture of the gang, ie., 2,000 pounds for each member. Victoria agrees. The Ovens and Murray Advertiser describes it as the biggest reward ever offered anywhere in the world for the apprehension of any criminals.

On 23^rd April, 1879, the incarcerated sympathisers, who have spent 107 days in prison for no legal reason, are discharged. The magistrates cannot continue the abuse of process any longer.

Around the dinner table Ned describes the Stringybark Creek fight and his past life of persecution by police for things he did and things he did not do and the incarceration of his mother.

He denies murdering the police stating it was a fair stand up fight with his enemies who were out to kill him first.

All the time Joe Byrne is writing this down as a letter to be given to Superintendent Sadlier with a warning that he will continue his war against the police until his mother and her baby are released from prison.

I was just having my morning chat with Redhead and we were discussing myths, make-believe and the many wonders of the internet. How we chat online and feel we know people, despite having never met them. We both agreed that, in this locked-down world, our online friends are becoming more and more important.