Avondale Historical Journal No. 45

January—February 2009

Volume 8 Issue 45

The Avondale Historical Journal Official Publication of the Avondale-Waterview Historical Society Incorporated

Mr. Dave Raymond (the son of Merv Raymond) contacted me during the past two months, and asked if I would be interested in a photograph not only of the side of the Manual Training Block used for woodwork, but also of boys showing off their handwork, and of the famous Mr. Burgess as well? I jumped at the chance, and said yes. He came round, let me do a quick scan, and above is the result. Top right is Mr. Burgess, the teacher who seems to be so wellremembered by all who came in contact with him, and below, closeups of some of that fine woodwork (reminds me of the felt-lined wooden box I made in Avondale Intermediate, which I still have.) Thank you very much, Mr. Raymond, for sharing this wonderful photograph with us.

NOTE: NEXT MEETING ON

2ND SATURDAY IN FEBRUARY Next meeting of the Avondale-Waterview Historical Society: Saturday, 14 February 2009, 2.30 pm., Lion’s Hall, corner Blockhouse Bay Road and Great North Road Please contact the Society for details.

Volume 8 Issue 45

The Avondale Historical Journal

Page 2

Bus to Avondale By Grammaticus (Professor E. M. Blaiklock , 1903-1983) Originally published in the NZ Weekly News, 12 July 1971. Republished by permission from Peter Blaiklock. The large Auckland Regional Authority bus drew slowly up beside me as I waited at the lights, and along the road ahead I could see the railway bridge at the Avondale Station. By some odd movement of the memory, my mind flicked back half a century. 1 almost missed the green light, for I was laughing at the thought of Tommy Goulton's bus service to Blockhouse Bay and Avondale. My wife's parents lived on the site of the old blockhouse, with the eroded trenches still cutting the garden edge. She knew that amazing horse bus well, for it was her one link with the Grammar School, or at least with the suburban train from Waitakere which passed, crowded with western commuters, through Avondale Station at 8.10 every morning. That was in the days when Auckland had suburban railways. The incredible folly which placed the central railway station far down the harbour foreshore, was still some years distant in the city's long history of wrong decisions. I was on the train, and daily shared the comedy of the arrival of the horse bus from Blockhouse Bay . . . But I anticipate. Tommy Goulton was a colourful character. He could climb nimbly to a tree top and whip off the top twenty feet. He could as swiftly, said local legend, dive down by Piha's Lion Rock, knife in teeth, and deal with an octopus in the swinging weed. He was the sort of man round whom myths cohere, but his bus was no myth. It was solid history. Where that four-wheeled vehicle came from, I cannot imagine. It might have been a luxurious gipsy caravan at the end of the last century. It might have been a brougham with a caravan top; but, no, when I examine my blurred mental picture of a brougham, I find I cannot discover the likeness. Passengers ascended by steps at the back, and sat, seven, eight, ten of them on two sides, face to face. On occasion, others could find precarious laps. The seats were upholstered in venerable leather. In the second, smaller vehicle, of even more mysterious origin and history, they sported plush. The second bus took a small overflow, if demand warranted, and it was driven by a taciturn and aged assistant. Tommy's bus, if I remember rightly, had four horses, the other two, less sturdy beasts, or less expertly controlled. Tommy handled his team like the York coachman. The more splendid vehicle, in fact, was liable to pass its

fellow labouring up the hill toward Avondale, and Tommy, from his high coachman's seat, would lean to the left with his long whip, and flick the flanks of his assistant's steeds to urge them to more enthusiastic endeavour. It was more than necessary, for commonly enough the 8.10 could be seen below to the left across the clay pit, already over the Whau bridge, and pulling out from the stop at St George's Road crossing. Fortunately, the train lost momentum by that whistle stop, and the haul up to Avondale was in favour of the bus on the high road, which was timed narrowly to connect. The train would draw in to the Avondale platform and the star-board windows of the front carriages would fill with heads as the drama on the overhead bridge developed. There were no lights, and little traffic to cause delay at the New North Road crossing. There was a growing clatter of wheels on gravel, a nearer jingle of harness, an increasing thunder of galloping hooves, rising to a drumming crescendo when the wooden flooring of the bridge was reached. Steaming and heaving, the gallant team would pull up. The bus disgorged its shaken passengers from the rear. They leaped to the ground, and, not to presume too far on the patience of the train crew and the station master with his whistle in his teeth, they sped, young and old, heavy footed and light, down the ramp. With multiple clatter of feet, Blockhouse Bay and Green Bay arrived. Tommy had done it again. Those were the days that bred sturdy Aucklanders. I cannot tell you the end of the story. The Ben Hur race up the long hill came somehow to an end. Whether a wheel came off, the team died, or Tommy Goulton simply decided not to turn up one morning, I do not remember, if I ever knew. I imagine the bus was parked at last, honourably, to disintegrate beside his house. It is a pity it was not somehow preserved to grace a corner in the Museum of Transport and Technology. The few survivors of that astonishing matutinal gallop would gaze at its faded glory with affection, not quite unmixed with unbelief. The larger number who remember the scene on the over-bridge, straight out of some wild west story, would chuckle. And that remark, which slipped on to my pen nib, stirs an idea. Was Tommy's bus actually a coach from some Californian goldrush town? Was it, by some whim or freakish project, shipped to New Zealand by some Kiwi Forty-Miner, who made a fortune, and married Clementine? I should like to know.

The Avondale Historical Journal

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Sounds and Sensations of the Evening As they were in the 1950s by Ben Copedo Text from a speech presented by Ben Copedo to the West Auckland Historical Society, 16 September 2008. The time is ten minutes past six on a calm, hot autumn evening in the city of Auckland. The year is 1953. The scene is the second floor of a Customs Street East warehouse where a young man in his mid twenties works at a bench in the seed room of the company in which he is employed. His companions and work mates of the day have all left the building an hour past. Some will have nearly reached their home. One or two may be sitting down to the evening meal. Not a sound can be heard throughout the building save those that he makes himself. The window is wide open allowing the warm air and the confused chatter of the metropolis to enter and float around the room. Over the past seventy minutes since the fifth hour struck on the Ferry Building clock on the waterfront of the Waitemata Harbour the bustling activity of the city business world has slowly eased and now has almost faded away. The distinctive mechanical sounds of the tram cars that had been passing almost bumper to bumper have now been reduced to a welcoming greeting every seven to ten minutes. From the pavement below is heard the quick tip, tip, tip made by the high heeled shoes of shop and office girls as they head towards their chosen transport. Occasionally is heard the clap, clap, clap of a pair of wedge healed shoes. Remember the Wedgies? At even rarer intervals comes the firm, manly tread of solid leather on bitumen. In 1953 few shoes for men had rubber or composition soles. The Britomart Hotel, situated alongside the seed warehouse, has closed the bar room doors. Its "one for the road" patrons have been obliged to leave. On the opposite side of the street the Britomart Service Station has put up the safety gates, and the tall Arthur H. Nathan and A. J. Entrican Sims buildings show a light in one or two windows indicating that, like the young man in the seed warehouse, some one is working late.

From a distance, towards Queen Street, on the John Bums comer can be heard the cry of the "Star" boy selling the last of this evening’s Star newspaper. His distinctive cry, "Stairrr eerrr fee-nal eedittonn", carries through the air. From further afield comes the hoot of a harbour ferry or the sharp, urgent warning toot of the William C. Daldy, the harbour tug boat, as she goes about her duties. Originating far out above the harbour waters a gentle gust of clean air swirls and seeks its way between the tall buildings, pauses at the open window of the seed warehouse before it drifts cool and fresh across the face of the young man. He is tired. The breeze, soft and mysterious as a baby's breath, invigorates him. Arranged in 9 neat rows on the bench before him are the little manila satchels containing the seeds he has weighed out to the order of a nurseryman whose business is out in the suburbs. He reads the last item on the order sheet, a request for one two hundred and fifty sixth of an ounce of Eucalyptus seed. He carefully weighs out the minute quantity on a set of fine scales with part of his mind marveling at the magic of the situation. Each one of these tiny, dust-like seeds holds all that is required to grow into a mighty tree, two hundred feet high and three feet in diameter. If he now sneezed a hundred of the tiny seeds would be swished away and lost forever. The words of a faintly remembered poem come into his mind, "Here, in my hand a forest lies asleep." He smiles. Here, the big city is slowly closing its eyes. Soon it will fall into a light slumber to awake to a new dawn. The young man tidies up, switches off the lights, walks downstairs and out under the shop night light, opens the street door to the cool, fresh air of the night. He locks the street door, turns and walks diagonally across the street. He could not have done so had he ceased work at 5 o'clock. Gaining the north side of Customs Street East he walks westwards and turns up Commerce Street to the bus terminal where awaits the last vehicle but one this night, to the distant suburb where he lives.

The Avondale Historical Journal

Volume 8 Issue 45 Page 4

Draught Champions of Auckland

played draughts.)

It started with the establishment of an Auckland Draughts Club in David Grubb's bakery and store, Karangahape Road, in March 1887, when the “Auckland Draughts Club” was formed, with a Mr. H. Henderson, champion draughts player of Auckland and one of the competitors in the Australasian Draughts Championship Tourney, as President.

“CHAMPIONSHIP OF AUCKLAND. Mr.Charles Gunthorp has through the columns of the Star issued a challenge to Mr. G. Wilson, of Avondale, to play a match for a stake of £5 and the championship of Auckland. £1 has been deposited with the Draughts Editor, Star Office, by Mr. Gunthorp's backer. A meeting was held on Wednesday evening, at Mr. Grubb's, Newton, to arrange about the match for the championship of Auckland. Unfortunately it fell through. Mr. Wilson was willing to play for the deposit money, £1, but did not care to up a stake of £5. Mr. Gunthorp's backers agreed that Mr. Wilson should either play for the £5 stake or forfeit the championship. Mr. Wilson decided to adopt the latter course. This leaves Mr. Gunthorp champion of Auckland without a struggle.” (Te Aroha News, 19 June 1889)

By late 1888, an Avondale team had formed, and were taking on the likes of Avondale South (Blockhouse Bay) and Waterview. “A draughts match is to take place in Avondale, November 3rd, between 6 players from Avondale South and a like number in Avondale. It is surprising how the game of draughts has gone ahead in this district in the last six months, especially in Avondale South.” (Te Aroha News, 31 October 1888)

George Wilson simply refused to play for something as tawdry as money. He defeated Charles Gunthorp later in a private match, but as this wasn’t for a stake or in public, it didn’t count. There was considerable debate at the time, however, amongst draughts circles as to who the real champion was. I'm not sure what happened to Wilson in the end, but later, by 1900, Gunthorp ended up in business in South Africa -- where draughts wasn't such a big thing.

“AVONDALE v. WATERVIEW. The above match took place at Waterview last Saturday, between six players from Avondale (under 20 years of age), and a like number at Waterview. The spirit that Waterview showed did not meet with the success it deserved, Avondale winning somewhat easily. (Te Aroha News, 12 December 1888)

“C. Gunthorp.— We have been shown by Mr. D. A. Brodie a letter from Mr. C. Gunthorp, late of Auckland (of which province he was champion), and who is well known throughout New Zealand. His brother, Mr. H. Gunthorp, is familiar in Dunedin athletic circles, and takes some interest in draughts also. Mr C. Gunthorp wrote from Durban, and sent several mementoes of the war. At time of writing he was about to remove to Kokstad, in Cape Colony, there to open up business on his own account. He says the game of draughts in South Africa is a dead thing, and one could hardly meet a draughts player in the course of a year. He is, consequently, not in trim for a match.” (Otago Witness, 14 November 1900)

by Lisa J Truttman My mum loved a game of draughts. I still have one or two versions of the game stuck up on a shelf in the spare room. Little did I realise just how serious the game of jumping and crowning was in Auckland (and Avondale!) in the late 1880s.

The Avondale team also played Ponsonby & Newton combined in 1889, but this time lost. And then, Mr. Henderson apparently left Auckland, throwing the title of Champion out into the open. There were only two real contenders -- Charles Gunthorp of Ponsonby, versus George Wilson, from Avondale. They'd clashed, somewhat, in comments on results and guesses as to moves in international draughts games in the papers. Now, they were to meet across the chequered board. The whole of Auckland Province was enthralled (well, at least those who

From Timespanner blog: http://timespanner.blogspot.com/

The Avondale Historical Journal Published by: the Avondale-Waterview Historical Society Inc. Editor: Lisa J. Truttman Society contact: 19 Methuen Road, Avondale, Auckland 0600 Phone: (09) 828-8494, 027 4040 804 email: [email protected] Society information: Subscriptions: $10 individual $15 couple/family $30 corporate Website: www.geocities.com/avondalehistory/index

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