Roland Reid -- the bush poet!

A Tribute to Roland – The Poet, the Prankster, the Heart of the Campfire

Roland was born in Sydney in 1955 to David Willoughby Reid and Joyce Gosling. From the earliest days—at least according to family legend—he was a “right little bugger.” Mischievous,

cheeky, and armed with a wicked sense of humour, Roland had a talent for stirring the pot. With a strict father (as many were in those days), he spent more time than most in the naughty corner—though it never seemed to dampen his spirit.

Throughout his life, Roland had a magnetic personality and loved being the centre of attention. He was especially well-known for his bush poetry recitals, which captured the quirks of everyday life with uncanny charm. His poems made people laugh—loudly and often. Whether poking fun at family antics or highlighting the hilarity of a roadside mishap, Roland had a gift for turning the ordinary into something unforgettable.

He recited at the Tamworth Music Festival on more than one occasion, earning the coveted “Audience Participation Award.” At Dorrigo, he famously won three pumpkins—an honour he proudly recalled! His collection of trophies lined the shelves, but it was never about accolades; it was about connection. Sharing his words. Making people laugh.

These trophies were won over the years at Coomba Park Poetry Competition 

Even during his long and courageous 7 year battle with Multiple Myeloma, Roland’s love for poetry—and his equally passionate love for jigsaw puzzles—kept his spirits high. They gave him focus, purpose, and joy.

No matter where we went, someone would ask Roland to “do a poem.” And he never disappointed. Around the campfire in the outback, aboard a paddle steamer on the Murray, or on a train rumbling from Cairns to Brisbane—Roland’s verses brought people together. His caravan adventures through Central Australia became impromptu poetry tours, full of laughter and applause at every stop.

Many of his poems were dedicated to friends and family—their mishaps, their personalities, their lives. One of his final pieces was about his grandchildren, a deeply heartfelt poem. As his health declined, he often asked for reassurance that they would always remember how much he loved them.

One poem that stood out during his journey with cancer was dedicated to the nurse who supported him so tirelessly. It’s a perfect example of Roland’s warmth, humour, and deep appreciation for those around him:

---

The King of Nurses

by Roland Reid

Myeloma is a cancer

Most people think a curse

But if I hadn’t got the bloody thing

I wouldn’t have met my nurse.

She’s an inspiration to us
Her knowledge is so vast
And the way she imparts it
Well … it really is first class!

She is witty, she’s compassionate
She can put our mind at ease
When we ring her with a problem
About this horrible disease.

There’s many times we’ve needed her
Many e-mails have been sent
And she answers ere so promptly
Even when she’s tired and spent.

When living in a unit
Down from the RPA
She would bring a wheelchair for me
And push me for no pay.

When feeling ill and fairly low
There really is a need
To have a friend to call on
And she is a friend indeed.

As nurses go she is the best
But you see here is the thing
From where I’m looking she’s the “Queen.
And her name is Tracy King.                            Roland Reid 2012

---

Through his poetry, Roland captured life—its absurdities, its joys, its trials—with heart and humour. And in doing so, he left us something lasting. His words remind us to laugh, to connect, and to never miss a chance to say thank you and "I love you". 

With the assistance of AI.

 

Never Step On the Swan - June 1993

 Barefoot but healthy - by Patricia J. Romeril

"The ancient furniture van shuddered to the stop at the old wooden bridge which spanned the beaufiful clear water of the Narrabeen Lakes.

Children peered from every hole amongst the furniture, staring in amusement at the wide expanse of the lake.  Mum and Dad smiled as they continued down the rough gravel road to the thick bush that nestled at the foot of the hill.

It was 1928 and we were ready to set up house on virgin land Dad had bought from Arthur Rickard.  It was the beginning of an exciting pioneer life. With great anticipation we set about building our temporary home.  Dad was a builder and with children whose ages ranged from one to eleven he had plenty of labourers.  He erected a large tent and Mum divided it into rooms with white-washed hessian bags.  Lean-tos for the kitchen and bathroom were build from sheets of iron supplied by our neighbour, Mr McPherson.  Over all this we grew Passiofruit vines and chokos.  Insects were discouraged by large pots of mint and parsley and other herbs around the entrances.  In the summer pots of smouldering manure confused the mosquitoes.

Jack and Kate with 8 of their children on arrival at 57 Rickard Road, Narrabeen

Dad and the boys cleared the land for vegetables and flowers.  Through the bush one day came Daddy Moore with a chook in one hand and a rooster crowing in the other.  "Here," he said, "Give your kids eggs from these."  The pair went squarking and flapping into the bush.  These were the nucleus of many a meal to come.  Mum looked after the poultry and treated them like royalty.  They all had names and, when an egg was laid, we wrote the chook's name on it and the date.  Woe betide us if we forgot and she didn't know which egg belonged to which chook.

It didn't worry us that the world was in depression.  Barefoot, but healthy, we had the lake, sea, creeks and surrounding bush for our adventures.  Dad dug two deep wells, so cool, and fresh water was always available.   We acquired a cow, a calf and a horse, Tommy, by the barter system.  To procure a cart for Tommy Dad build a garage for a neighbour.

Every morning as the sun crept over the horizon Dad took off down the bumpy road in the cart laden with vegetables and flowers.  In no time he became quite famous for his vegetables, sweer peas and carnations.  Mrs Playfair, who lived at Elanora, bought all her flowers from us.  Every Friday she would give us small white bags of lollies;  it was a treat indeed.  As the boys grew they supplemented income by caddying at the old Elancora Gold Links.

My brother Bernard was born at a cottage hospital at Collaroy and, being premature, the first few weeks of his life were spent snug between heated house bricks.

Pat is front left

Mum and Dad helped form a swimming club at the lake, corner of Wimbledon Avenue and Pittwater Road.  Many a child learned to swim there and quite a few of us were good enough to participate in the New South Wales championships. One year when I contested the breaststroke one of my opponents was Margaret Whitlam—she won!

Our entertainment was simple but rewarding.  Our parents were accomplished musicians, so many an evening was spent around the piano.

On the walk to Narrabeen School we paddled through swamp in Windsor Parade, ran through acres of wild mushrooms, then waded along the lake to school.   We swam daily either in the lake or the ocean.  We knew where every deep hold or sandbank was.  Weekends we watched the sixteen-footers racing, then raced our own home-made boats.  During the war all the craft over 1.82 metres were confiscated.

We attended church in a small wooden hall at St Joseph's, but in the summer months we walked to Collaroy to a larger place in Alexander Street.  Saturday evening the whole family would walk to the Welfare Hall in Garden Street to frolic to Matty Greenfield's band.  Every year we had a fancy-dress ball and parents' imagination ran riot.  One year after dressing his nine children, Dad ran out of ideas.  So he put a white sheet around his shoulders and wore a placard saying "Thank God I'm Pure."  He won!

Two events in 1939 affected our lives tremendously. Our horizons were widened with the coming of the double-decker buses, and dark clouds gathering over Europe threatened our peaceful life.  Soon all the young boys were leaving school, falsifying their ages, and enlisting in the forces.  Fathers boot-polished their greying hair to join their sons in another war, but for the first time in twenty years they were receiving regular wages.

"Dark clouds gathering over Europe threatened our peaceful life." Monica Wilson with her mother (with shovel) digging an air raid shelter at Narrabeen 1942. Photo courtest of Northern Beaches Council Library Local Studies

In 1880 travellers up Sheep Station Hill had helped push their carts.  Now sixty years later, we pushed our friends' old cars on the way to the dances at Mona Vale where we girls fought over the few male partners left, or danced with each other.

We had left our childhood behind"

The above article was featured in "Never step on the swan and other stories - Glimpses of Warringah's past".  There is a link to an interview Pat did with Northern Beaches recollects in 2000 and the family's journey and life in Narrabeen. Here