Open Writing

Once upon a time, for that is the phrase which begins all good fairy tales and legends, stories which have a vestige of truth, altered in the telling, such as Robin Hood and his merry men and Dick Whittington and his cat, once upon a time there was a man called Jock Mackenzie who had a faithful dog called Friday.

In the early settlement days of South Island, the rolling Canterbury Plains, sweeping back to the foothills of the Southern Alps, must have seemed like paradise to the new migrants from Britain. Miles and miles of good flat land, fertile land, with braided rivers, full of fresh water for irrigation, flowing down from those mighty snow-capped peaks. Picture the scene, equable climate, fertile land, fresh clean water and a panorama second to none. This was wealthy land and those early settlers wasted no time in establishing themselves.

They came mainly from England bringing with them their English customs and religion. Anglican churches built of stone with pseudo-Norman towers appeared. English manor houses, some almost Tudor, were built and small villages were called Winchester and Lincoln. The capital city of the Canterbury Plains was named Christchurch and its river the Avon. The university, boys and girls colleges and the museums and law courts resembled those found in Cambridge. The settlers had brought home with them and oak trees, elms, beech and sycamores took over from the native bush and the song thrush and blackbird soon vied with the local birds. What a delightful environment, church bells calling you to morning service, afternoon teas, choral societies and orchestras and, of course, the “right” schools. England had arrived in New Zealand.

Where did the wealth come from? The land. And what was the land used for? Obviously crops for both man and beast but its main use was for breeding sheep. Have you heard of Canterbury lamb or felt the fine wool from the cheviots? Yes, huge flocks of sheep wandered freely on the edge of the plateau rising to the Alps, just on the edge of the “High Country.”

Why bother with the High Country? What was the point of climbing into those hills, windswept and bleak with sparse tussock grazing, snowed in during the winter with blizzard after blizzard coming down from the mountains? No, better to leave that land alone, they had more than enough on the plains. Only the foolhardy would bother wandering up into that bleak and barren place. Let’s cosy down in our armchairs, brought out from England, and let the bank balance grow.

Meanwhile, further south in Otago, the settlers were not so lucky. The hills came down to reach the sea and land was not so easy to clear. There were few big fertile plains, unlike Canterbury. One had to climb into those foothills to reach the wide open spaces, the foothills the Cantabrians left alone. The hardy Scot was finding the going a bit tough, much harder than his English cousin, but that was always the way between the Scots and the English.

Enter our friend Mackenzie, a highlander, a bit of a rogue who spoke mainly Gaelic and probably liked his dram. Keeping close to his heels, with tongue lolling from his mouth and tail wagging, was his trusty friend, Friday, a kelpie or collie dog, and Friday was used to rounding things up, especially sheep.

Mackenzie paid a visit to this wealthy Canterbury area and he eyed up the huge flocks of sheep. He knew about sheep, as did Friday. Here they were, the well-dressed English with their horse and gigs, while he was clad in his tattered kilt and plaidy, and he probably thought of the bothy he lived in. Some thinsgs don’t seem fair - enter the Robin Hood scenario.

Mackenzie let his eyes stray to the hills beyond the plains, not quite as awesome to the Scotsman’s eyes as to the English. “Come on Friday, let’s take a bit of a look.” And off they went to explore the High Country. Sure the grazing wasn’t as good as the plains, but adequate, certainly by Scottish standards and you never know what might lie beyond them. I wonder how many rocky ledges those two camped under and how many meals they cooked over campfires in their bit of a “reccie” around those high areas against the Alps. “No way through there mate,” Mackenzie probably said to Friday. “Ah, but what have we here?”

Slowly the comfortable farmers down on the plain began to notice that the numbers of their sheep were dropping, not too many at first but something was not quite right. Their bank managers didn’t smile so readily and their wives pouted when they couldn’t have new dresses.

After a while folk began to notice the Scotsman and his dog wandering around the place. Harmless enough, probably an itinerant worker from that place south of them. What was it called? Otago. A load of Scots had settled there but they didn’t want much contact with them, “just little smallholders bashing away at the bush trying to make a living.” But it was a funny business about the sheep, whenever Mackenzie appeared sheep disappeared and that dog of his had a shifty look, always nosing around, especially around sheep.

Time passed until a chap called Sidebottom, the overseer for the Rhodes estate and familiar with the sheep from the Level’s flock, decided to follow our friend Jock. Meeting up with him at his campsite in the hills, Sidebottom asked Mackenzie who the sheep in the valley belonged to. Mackenzie replied that he didn’t know but Sidebottom had recognised a certain black sheep from the Level’s flat mob. His time was up; Mackenzie was arrested and sent to jail. He pleaded for his dog to be with him but was refused, then he escaped on 22nd of July 1855, only to be recaptured.

One would like to end this little story, for much of it is the stuff of fantasy, with a tale similar to that of Greyfriars Bobby but Jock was not hung neither did his dog stay by his side. Jock was transported back to Australia, from whence he had come and his dog, Friday, was seen heading for the hills to round up on his own and to father many of the kelpies whose offspring still muster sheep in the High Country today.

But what had Jock really done? He had discovered what lay in those foothills, the vast acres suited for massive sheep and cattle runs and, moreover, the way into Otago via the Lindis Pass. Jock opened up the High Country, the “Mackenzie Country,” for others to follow.

More about this next time.