Historic Snowy Mountains mansion Burnima Homestead sold

After 20 years at the helm as its sole custodian, Steve Rickett is about to spend his last evening at his beloved Burnima Homestead, a 32-room Victorian gothic-style mansion near Bombala.

Your akubra-clad columnist has a self-confessed soft spot for this stately home, built in the mid-1890s by Frederick Young of Queanbeyan - just after he'd completed "Yarralumla", now the Governor-General's official Canberra residence. On the promise of stepping back in time to the Victorian era, I've been known to occasionally entice wide-eyed history enthusiasts on evening excursions to shine the spotlight Burnima's sprawling gardens and antique filled rooms. And yes, also, to hopefully catch a glimpse of other worldly spectres rumoured to lurk in its many dark corridors.

And every single time Steve delivered. OK, not always on the ghosts, but definitely on the historical "wow" factor.

On these tours, as we approached the gates, like some over-dressed 19^th century undertaker, Steve would emerge from the shadows, in his three piece suit and top hat, cane in one hand, and dimly-lit lantern swinging slowly in the other.

However, today there's no formal welcome. Instead, I find Steve in civvies loading the last of his personal belongings into his trailer.

It's strange to be here in the daylight, even stranger to see Steve out of his Victorian era clobber, which he didn't just wear to impress visitors but also as a not-so-subtle nod to Miss Edith Edwards who ran the far-flung homestead as high Victorian right up until her death in 1952.

Steve gave Burnima a pulse, his eccentric nature and keen eye for antiques transforming it into a tourist icon of the Monaro, a place people would travel from far afield for a rare peek into Victorian-era life in rural Australia.

Steve revelled in showing visitors through every room which he'd restored to its former glory, right down to the antiquarian books and period animal trophies on display. If you were lucky, on some tours, he'd even belt out a tune on the pianola. The only room he didn't restore was the tiny attic, where he slept, and where often after tours he'd retreat to watch repeats of Downton Abbey. Really.

But today there's no spring in the step as he farewells each room like you would a life-long friend. It's like a funeral procession. His steps are slow and heavy. And there's certainly no impromptu performance pedalling the pianola.

We stop at the bottom of the grand staircase, from where you can usually hear all his antique clocks ticking.

But today there are no ticking clocks, no heartbeat.

Burnima has lost its soul, at least the soul I knew.

But what about the spirit of Miss Edith, his invisible companion, who Steve claimed was often looking over his shoulder, making sure he "was doing things as they should be done"?

"I feel like in leaving I've let her down but she knows that I'm sad too", he reflects, deep in thought.

At the top of the stairs we wander through the bedroom where Miss Edith's father, Henry died in 1915, and where Steve often macabrely mentioned from where he too, "would be carried out in a box".

However it's not to be. Maintaining such a large house became a bit too much for one man to manage alone, even with the help of Miss Edith's guiding presence, so Steve's moving to Yass to downsize and to be closer to family.

Gazing out over the garden Steve admits he'll miss "the garden nooks, the hedge separating the formal part of the garden from the servant's area and the old tennis court where Miss Edith planted a tree to prevent servants from playing on the court after finding them playing one day."

"But I won't miss all the mowing" he quips.

"It's time for a new era", declares Steve who "has only admiration" for the new owners who are to "collect the keys in the morning".

Before I head off into the sunset, Steve has a surprise for me. Above the mantle place in one of the many reception rooms is a water colour - a painting of Burnima. In all my visits I'd never noticed it before.

"I never hung it, it was turned around the other way so the sun wouldn't harm it" he explains, adding "it was the architect's impression of the house before it was built".

"I'd love it to keep it," he confesses, adding "but it needs to stay with the house, it belongs here, so I've left that for the new owners". So Steve, so Victorian era.

As I leave Steve alone for his last night in the attic, I ask about his plans for the morning.

"When I get to the top of the driveway, I'll stop, turn around briefly and give a little salute," he staunchly replies.

I'm not sure if it's the result of a fast descending evening mist or not, but I swear I can almost see tears welling in the corner of his eyes. I know there are in mine.

Steve Rickett, thank you for single-handedly inspiring a new generation to embrace the long forgotten past of one of our region's most treasured pastoral properties.

Miss Edith would be proud of your legacy.

Regular readers may recall the habit of early 19^th century Braidwood landholder-come-magistrate Major Elrington who sat at the head of the long dining table at his estate with a pistol at the ready.

Worried one his servants could turn on him at any time, the nervy Major ensured Richard, his son sat at the foot of the table, also with a pistol at the ready.

However, according to Antony Davies, current owner of Mount Elrington, the major's former digs, Elrington ought to have been just as wary about friendly fire as that of his assigned servants.

Antony says a quarrel about control of the estate led to Richard challenging his high-spirited father to a duel in the very same dining room.

Referring to an article penned by "a descendent of Major Elrington" in Sydney's Sunday Times of December 16, 1923, Antony reports "the Major complained of Richard's softness in dealing with offenders and called his son a coward. Incensed, the son challenged the father to a duel. Pistols were raised, and the two men stepped backwards the full length of the room."

"It was a seriously difficult thing to retract a challenge to a duel in that period. They avoided killing each other by the Major dropping his pistol at the last moment," reports Antony.

The article also highlights two gum trees from which criminals were hanged. "Local tradition asserts that four were hanged in one day", states the article. Thankfully they've since being chopped down.

The article also states that, at least in the early 1900s, the house was 'haunted'. "Strangers who have slept in the old Major's room have heard loud crashings on the roof and knockings on the wall". Mmm, what is it with these old homesteads and ghosts of the past.

Oh, and yes, nearby Majors Creek is named after Elrington.

CONTACT TIM: Email: tym@iinet.net.au or Twitter: @TimYowie or write c/- The Canberra Times, 9 Pirie St, Fyshwick

Clue: 1850s log lock-up

Degree of difficulty: Hard

Last week: Congratulations to Conrad van Hest of Holder who was first to correctly identify last week's photo as the Bega Milk Factory in Mildura St, Griffith. According to Bill Mertin, whose father was the factory's founding manager, "the facade has since been absorbed into the Capitol Chilled Foods building".

The photo was taken in August 1960 (well done to all those who estimated the date based on the VW beetle in the photo), a few weeks before the official opening of the factory which operated for about 10 years in opposition to Dairy Farmers.

How to enter: Email your guess along with your name and suburb to tym@iinet.net.au The first email sent after 10am, Saturday May 22, 2021, wins a double pass to Dendy, the Home of Quality Cinema.

Many, including your akubra-clad columnist assumed it was the Parks Service which pulled-down Bobeyan Homestead, but it turns out it was the historic homestead's last owners, the Lutons, who demolished it in 1971 due to the building's decay and vandalism.

"The Parks Service and Gudgenby Nature Reserve (Namadgi's predecessor) hadn't yet come into being," explains this column's favourite high country historian Matthew Higgins.

Each time I've been ready reveal the finder of Canberra's longest gum leaf, a new entry arrives and I have to re-write these pages. Argh! No more entries after 25 May and the judge's decision is final. Got it?