Itching to get on the phone, in Australia

One day, one of the Charolais bulls got out. We only found out that it had damaged the phone much later. It was only good for local calls, and wasn’t able to make international calls, but eventually one of us realised it was bust. I had visions of expensive engineers and large bills which always created a furore and much drinking and shouting with accompanying chest beating. Home from home really. But this time there was none, and after a couple more of days of no service and wifely nagging Paul said let’s go and find out what’s wrong. The cable was stretched across the yard on short poles, about 10 feet high, and then out to the road where it ran along the verge for miles and mile. We traced it across the property and along the scrub edging the road. And there as the problem: one of the poles had been pushed over by the escapee bull who had presumably decided to have a good scratch. At two tonnes of weight, there was little an Aussie telephone pole could do to resist.

In South Aus near Port Lincoln a bush qualifies as a tree if it reaches the heady heights of five foot. There were few Eucalyptus trees about, but most scrub was low lying. That meant a normal human bean of six foot or marginally less was able to get a good view of most of South Australia from any point. After all, on our farm the highest point was only 40 feet above the lowest. So from there I could see for miles. Not that I was much given to taking in the view. It was the same wherever you looked. Dust, sunshine and flies.

We brought the pole back up to vertical and stood looking at the two ends of wire. I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that we were into something complicated and technical. I was ready to go on into Lincoln and get an engineer or someone, anyone, who could stitch the elaborate and complicated cable together. Not a bit of it. Paul parked the Landy under the break and got a bit of fencing wire and made a new section and connected it to the old wire with two knots. They were standard fencing knots; reef knots, just like they taught me in Cubs. And when we went back in and tested the phone. It worked perfectly. But I still wasn’t able to call England and tell them that I’d had enough.

To do that I had to sneak into Lincoln on my motorbike and go to the Post Office and queue for the one international line. But first I needed to book my return flight. Problem: the motorbike engine had blown up.