General News
12 December, 2025
Memories of the January 1985 bushfires with Val Dwyer
We were putting down the footings and erecting the poles for my mud brick studio, two hundred yards from the mud brick house which was surrounded by tall gum trees.
As usual when Bren was bent on a building project, he was possessed.
I was hot and tired and little and kept commenting on the ominous sky. It had been an unbearably hot day with temperatures in the high 30s, scorching winds with a red haze smouldering in the heavy mass of clouds.
“Shouldn’t we clean out the gutters, fill them with water and put tennis balls in the down pipes?”
“What for? No! Let’s keep going.”
This is reminiscent of another of Bren’s building experiences, with Michael Mason, Bren and I on the roof of the main house in 1983, driving in the last nails by moonlight, as rain was impending.
Bren and I regularly made 500 mudbricks in one day with a wooden mould, until he discovered that a metal one was more efficient, then a ladder shaped mould, making six bricks at once.
I finally quit and refused to touch another mudbrick, when reaching high, to hand one to Bren, I wet my knickers.
Being Scottish born and bred, I had never experienced the danger of bushfire and was anxious that we should do something towards protecting the house, but it was late afternoon and we kept plodding on.
Bren didn’t let up until our neighbour opposite came over, crying about her horses being in danger. Her tears had the effect of slowing Bren down and when she left, Bren and I cleaned out the gutters, filled them with water and put tennis balls and oranges in the downpipes.
Two friends, one of whom was eight months pregnant were building a mud brick home at Timor, which was in a safe area, stopped by, to see how we were going. The atmosphere was unbearable, the sky smoke-filled with an ominous red glow.
As my hero charged out of the house he yelled “stay by the phone, if the fire comes do what you can!” and he ran to his car and drove off towards the Carisbrook/Craigie crossroad, to see where the fire was coming from.
I had visions of me running around, a wet sack in one hand, a branch of green leaves in the other, a water bomb in my mouth and a garden hose between my knees. We weren’t married at the time and I didn’t even live there, so was immediately in my car and off the four kms to Maryborough.
I went to my daughter’s home. She too was eight months pregnant, had a one-year-old baby and a horse that needed to be shifted to safety.
Her husband Peter took charge of the baby and Carol led the prancing, dancing horse to the Princes Park oval with me driving alongside her.
We stayed there for a while then went a further mile to my place and tethered it safely in my backyard. It was dark by this time and the whole town of Maryborough seemed to be surrounded by fire.
Carol’s family was safe and I couldn’t get Bren on the phone so decided to drive out there, but was stopped by a police block.
Going back to my home, I found a note from Bren. “I can’t find you anywhere. I saved the house, thanks for all your help (he wasn’t being sarcastic). Please come out.”
The police block had been removed so I drove out there. The bush was still alight. All the way down Majorca Road branches of fire leaned over the road and fell as I passed. I was absolutely terrified but couldn’t turn back as the road was so narrow.
I was completely disorientated driving blind, but managed to find Bren’s house. It stood hugely and eerily dark surrounded by burning trees, stumps and bushes.
I ran through the house. No lights, no Bren, the phone was dead. I was in this deserted house alone, surrounded by fire. I ran to my car trembling with terror. How could he have asked me out and not even be there? I drove back to the comparative safety of Maryborough.
Bren was in town unsuccessfully looking for me. The prospect of Maryborough township being wiped out seemed to have passed. I spent the rest of the night at my brother Michael’s place, then at daylight decided to go to Bren’s again.
The whole countryside was black with a few burning trees here and there. He was lying down with exhaustion but we were glad to see each other not knowing how the other had spent the last few hours.
He had returned from his reconnoitre and set up all the garden hoses and his two friends from Timor had come back and helped him save the house.
They were standing there as the fire front approached the house. The noise and smell was horrific, dead birds falling out of the sky ahead of the conflagration.
How that eight months pregnant girl coped was beyond me. She said later that at one stage she just got into the centre of the house and huddled there.
Bren continually described himself as Mr Indestructible and he surely was.
By his tremendous efforts and the help of his two friends he saved his house. It was amazing that the tall gum trees literally leaned over the house but the fire only skirted the place, as the three of them kept soaking down the danger areas.
They only had puny garden hoses and kept swapping these from tap to tap. There had been no bushfire danger preparation beforehand.
We went out to survey the damage. A paddock of potatoes which I had planted single handed were shrivelled scrags, 75 fruit trees burnt skeletons, the rotary hoe’s tyres melted, the mud brick pig pen demolished and all the fences gone. Amazingly the poles of my studio were untouched.
We drove around the district dropping in on friends and acquaintances to offer sympathy and support.
Bren seemed to recover quickly from the whole trauma and constantly teased me about my Scottish retreat to safety.
“Thirty five years in the country and you’re still a refugee — I put the mantle of greatness on your shoulders and you shuddered.” He had no recollection of his, “Stay by the phone, if the fire comes do what you can.”
The fire burnt out 1000 square kilometres, threatening the township on four different fronts. One person died, there were 100 casualties, 101 homes destroyed and hundreds of farms and holiday homes devastated. Some people lost everything they owned and had no insurance.
It took the Maryborough community many years to recover from January 14, 1985.