Andrew's Stories

Almost everyone in Bundanoon owns a car, which is a tad ironic given the current parking crisis. Residents grumble endlessly about the lack of parking near the shops. The influx of tourists and new locals has turned parking into an extreme sport. Finding a spot is akin to winning the lottery, but with more honking and less cash.

But I, the savvy pedestrian, am unfazed by such trivialities. I wait for the perfect moment when the nurses are not looking, then make my daring escape. The entrance to the nursing home is guarded by St Brigid’s Catholic Church, with St Brigid herself keeping a watchful eye. Some might call her the Patroness of Ireland, but to me, she’s the patron saint of successful sneaking out.

As I trot down the road, I’m greeted by the screeching of white cockatoos, who seem to cheer me on with their raucous cries. A family of kangaroos often hops by, giving me curious looks as if to say, “There goes the old man on his daily adventure.”

The walk to the shops is my little slice of heaven. I don’t need to worry about petrol prices, parking fees, or finding my car keys. Instead, I enjoy the fresh air and the camaraderie of fellow pedestrians—mainly the birds and the roos, but they count. So, while the rest of Bundanoon battles for parking supremacy, I’ll keep making my great escapes. After all, who needs a car when you’ve got legs, a sense of humour, and the occasional blessing from St Brigid?

Continuing my walk, I arrive at the fire station that is both charming and serene. This diminutive building, affectionately dubbed “The Yellow House,” boasts one impeccably maintained fire engine, polished to a shine that would make a diamond blush, it sits in majestic repose, its crimson coat gleaming in the sunlight that filters through the glass doors.

Fires in Bundanoon are as rare as a kangaroo in a tuxedo. The most frequent emergencies involve someone at the local nursing home inadvertently burning their toast and setting off the alarms. Thus, the fire station is usually unmanned, sitting quietly like a forgotten relic. The engine remains untouched, its pristine condition maintained by the occasional visit from a volunteer, who considers it his personal mission to keep it looking as if it just rolled off the factory floor.

However, when the alarm does sound, it’s as if a bomb has gone off. The tranquillity of The Little Yellow House is shattered, and what unfolds is a scene reminiscent of an FBI raid on Mar-a-Lago. Volunteers, a dedicated group of enthusiastic locals, materialise from seemingly nowhere. They scramble to the station with the urgency of headless chickens, donning gear and leaping into action with a mix of determination and mild panic. Sirens wail, lights flash, and the fire engine roars to life, finally liberated from its glass-encased slumber, and barrels out of the station. It speeds towards the source of the commotion, ready to douse the flames and restore order to Bundanoon, whether it’s a kitchen mishap or something more serious.

Come the bushfire season, though, the mood shifts dramatically. The village, normally so serene, braces for the worst. The Little Yellow House becomes a hive of activity, its previously dormant state a distant memory. The volunteers, now seasoned by necessity, stand ready to face the formidable threat of bushfires.

Tragically, this season often brings loss of life and property, a stark contrast to the usual peaceful routine. During these times, the fire station is on high alert, together with the Bundanoon Rural Fire Station, vital lifelines in the face of nature’s fury. Despite its small size and typically quiet existence, The Little Yellow House stands as a beacon of hope and resilience in Bundanoon.

Directly opposite Bundanoon’s pristine fire station, sits the imposing stone building known affectionately as “The Pill Factory.” This grand edifice, with its rich history and many quirks, is a true local landmark. Built between December 1896 and July 1898, it was the brainchild of William Augustus (Gus) Nicholas, a man whose talents and eccentricities were as vast as the Australian outback.

Originally, The Pill Factory was home to “Nicholas Golden Cross Ointment and Pill Factory,” where Gus concocted his famous “cure-all” powders and ointments. The building also housed a photographic studio, darkroom, and printing works, making it a hive of activity. Gus was not just a homeopath but a jack-of-all-trades, dabbling in veterinary matters and capturing the essence of Bundanoon through his photography.

In the 1930s, the building sprouted an extra storey and transformed into a guesthouse. Despite the changes, it retained its nickname and continued to fascinate locals and visitors alike. Today, the guesthouse is a delightful blend of old-world charm and rustic eccentricity, with creaky floors, mismatched furniture, and the occasional hidden pill bottle.

Gus Nicholas arrived in Bundanoon in the early 1870s. He was the closest thing to a doctor the village had for over 40 years. Locals referred to him as “our local medico” and “our local homeopathist.” His practice was so valued that when he announced its end in 1893, the local paper lamented the potential calamity for Bundanoon. Yet, Gus continued to assist in emergencies until his death in 1921 at 76.

Today, the Pill Factory stands as a testament to Gus Nicholas’s multifaceted legacy. Visitors to the boarding house are regaled with tales of Gus’s miraculous cures and photographic prowess, all while enjoying a stay in one of Bundanoon’s most storied buildings. The Pill Factory remains a beloved fixture in the heart of Bundanoon, a quirky charm with a fascinating history.

Taking a breather at the Nancy Kingsbury Memorial Park in Anzac Parade, I soaked up the serenity like a sponge in a bubble bath. This little slice of paradise, with its primped flower beds and whispering leaves, was the perfect spot to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. I’d already strolled past the fire station and the old Pill Factory, familiar as the back of my hand, and now I was gearing up to keep on my merry way.

Next door, the Police Station loitered quietly, like a bouncer at a party, making sure everyone played nice. Up ahead, the junction of Church Street waved me over, promising another bench with my name on it. This sunny perch offered a front-row seat to the town’s live-action drama: the bustling Post Office. As I plonked myself down, the Sun gave me a warm hug. From this prime location, I had a perfect view of the red letter box standing at attention outside the Post Office, like a lone sentinel ready to gobble up the town’s mail.

A parade of posh SUVs vied for the closest parking spots, their engines humming like contented cats, dashboards flashing with GPS maps, and video monitors showing all the goings-on behind them. Each arrival was a high-tech ballet of precision and flair. Once parked, a driver in their Sunday best would step out, march to the letter box with the solemnity of delivering a royal decree, and ceremoniously deposit a single letter.

The whole routine was more choreographed than a Broadway musical. The driver would return to their chariot, fire up the engine, and a symphony of technology would ensue: GPS systems lighting up, rear cameras zeroing in, reversing lights blinking and beeping, fuel pumps humming, and turn signals winking. Slowly, like a well-rehearsed dance, the SUV would glide back into the flow of traffic, continuing its journey down Church Street.

Despite our town’s general air of calm, we do have one thrilling spectacle: the pedestrian crossing at the railway station. It’s a veritable carnival of activity compared to our sleepy pace. When a train approaches, the warning bells start clanging, red lights flash with a fervour rarely seen, and barriers drop down with a sense of urgency that makes even Barry’s (Bazza’s) wholemeal bread adventure seem tame. The whole town gathers at the crossing as if it’s the main event of the week. Children tug at their parents’ sleeves, dogs bark excitedly, and even Doris takes a break from her stamp collection to watch. There’s something almost electric about the anticipation, the shared understanding that, for a brief moment, something out of the ordinary is happening.

As the train thunders past, there’s a collective exhale, a return to the regular rhythm of life. The barriers lift, the bells cease their clanging, and the red lights stop their frenetic flashing. People resume their activities, exchanging nods and smiles as if they’ve just shared a secret, fleeting moment of excitement. In Bundanoon, this brief burst of activity at the railway crossing is our own little piece of drama, a reminder that even in the quietest of places, there’s always a hint of excitement waiting to be found.

Bundanoon, an affluent village south of Sydney, is home to 2,700 mostly retired residents who enjoy the beautiful countryside. In this charming locale, almost everyone has at least one companion dog, with some indulging in the joy of two or even three canine friends. Though a variety of breeds roam the village, the Border Collie reigns supreme as the most popular choice. Remarkably, the number of dogs nearly matches the human population, creating a delightful dog-to-person ratio that few places can boast.

A stroll down the main street offers a whimsical sight: pampered and spoilt pooches lounging at outdoor tables in front of coffee shops, basking in the adoration of their owners. These dogs, enjoying a life of luxury and leisure, are as much a part of the community as their human counterparts. Bundanoon is a haven where dogs are cherished and coddled, making it a paradise for pet enthusiasts. Here, the dogs live the good life, ensuring that every walk through town is a parade of wagging tails and contented barks.

Andrew McKean