Moments in my eBook Library — 17 — a Scottish family byway

Looks impressive, eh!

You will find that under the surname Christison.

And here as you have seen more than once before is my grandfather, Roy Hampton Christison, as a young child in the late 1880s.

My cousin Ray Hampton Christison has written an excellent history of Roy’s father, John Hampton Christison, with detailed background. I received a copy in 2020. In that book Ray mentions that the Christisons are part of Clan Farquarson.

Just the other day Ray posted on Facebook some music — a lone piper at this cairn by the River Dee, not far from Balmoral — where once, according to possible but not certain story, great-grandfather John (on the cover of Ray’s book) danced, perhaps before Queen Victoria.

According to this Farquarson site:

The Clan Farquharson existed primarily along the River Dee in the western portion of Aberdeenshire. Yet it was active in the northeast parishes of Perthshire, the Strathdee parishes of western Aberdeenshire, the Strathdon parishes of western Aberdeenshire, and the northwestern parishes of Angus. 

Throughout its history it was a fierce protector of the Stuart Dynasty in Scotland, including after it was supplanted as the royal family of Scotland and then the United Kingdom.

One of the most common question for non-native Scots is how to pronounce Farquharson. The closest way to pronounce the Clan name is “farkerson.”  

It so happens that I have an 1875 2-volume history of the clans and regiments of Scotland in my eBook Library — as you might expect!

Here is the title page — a screenshot on my laptop of it sitting over the Rampant Scotland account of the Farquarsons.

My Calibre eBook reader is of course searchable and this background to the famous Battle of Culloden (1746) says:

Each clan had a stated place of rendezvous, where they met at the call of their chief. When an emergency arose for an immediate meeting from the incursions of a hostile clan, the cross or tarie, or fiery-cross, was immediately despatched through the territories of the clan. This signal consisted of two pieces of wood placed in the form of a cross. One of the ends of the horizontal piece was either burnt or burning, and a piece of linen or white cloth stained with blood was suspended from the other end. Two men, each with a cross in his hand, were despatched by the chief in different directions, who kept running with great speed, shouting the war-cry of the tribe, and naming the place of rendezvous, if different from the usual place of meeting. The cross was delivered from hand to hand, and as each fresh bearer ran at full speed, the clan assembled with great celerity. General Stewart says, that one of the latest instances of the fiery-cross being used, was in 1745 by Lord Breadalbane, when it went round Loch Tay, a distance of thirty-two miles, in three hours, to raise his people and prevent their joining the rebels, but with less effect than in 1715 when it went the same round, and when 500 men assembled in a few hours, under the command of the Laird of Glenlyon, to join the Earl of Mar.

Every clan had its own war-cry, (called in Scottish slogan,) to which every clansman answered. It served as a watch-word in cases of sudden alarm, in the confusion of combat, or in the darkness of the night. The clans were also distinguished by a particular badge, or by the peculiar arrangements or sets of the different colours of the tartan, which will be fully noticed when we come to treat of the history of the clans.

When a clan went upon any expedition they were much influenced by omens. If they met an armed man they believed that good was portended. If they observed a deer, fox, hare, or any other four-footed beast of game, and did not succeed in killing it, they prognosticated evil. If a woman barefooted crossed the road before them, they seized her and drew blood from her forehead.

The Cuid-Oidhche, or night’s provision, was paid by many tenants to the chief; and in hunting or going on an expedition, the tenant who lived near the hill was bound to furnish the master and his followers a night’s entertainment, with brawn for his dogs.

There are no sufficient data to enable us to estimate correctly the number of fighting men which the clans could bring at any time into the field; but a general idea may be formed of their strength in 1745, from the following statement of the respective forces of the clans as taken from the memorial supposed to be drawn up by the Lord President Forbes of Culloden, for the information of government. It is to be observed, however, that besides the clans here mentioned, there were many independent gentlemen, as General Stewart observes, who had many followers, but being what were called broken names, or small tribes, are omitted.

Argyle, 3000
Breadalbane, 1000
Lochnell and other chieftains of the Campbells, 1000
Macleans, 500
Maclauchlans, 200
Stewart of Appin, 300
Macdougals, 200
Stewart of Grandtully, 300
Clan Gregor, 700
Duke of Athol, 3000
Farquarsons, 500
Duke of Gordon, 300
Grant of Grant, 850
Mackintosh, 800
Macphersons, 400
Frasers, 900
Grant of Glenmorriston, 150
Chisholms, 200
Duke of Perth, 300
Seaforth, 1000
Cromarty, Scatwell, Gairloch, and other chieftains of the Mackenzies, 1500
Laird of Menzies, 300
Munros, 300
Rosses, 500
Sutherland, 2000
Mackays, 800
Sinclairs, 1100
Macdonald of Slate, 700
Macdonald of Clanronald, 700
Macdonell of Glengary, 500
Macdonell of Keppoch, 300
Macdonald of Glencoe, 130
Robertsons, 200
Camerons, 800
M’Kinnon, 200
Macleod, 700
The Duke of Montrose, Earls of Bute and Moray, Macfarlanes, M’Neils of Barra, M’Nabs, M’Naughtons, Lamonts, &c. &c. 5600

Which is not to suggest any Christison was there…. But it is exciting stuff.

Balmoral Castle — from the 1875 clan history in my eBook Library.

Wikipedia has a Farquarson page.

Cousin Ray also posted this on his Facebook:

And on 9 July 1943

Yes — it is that time of year…

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

W B Yeats

By July 1950 I was at school — Sutherland Infants Department where allegedly I was learning to read. Except my Grandfather Roy Christison had already taught me, and however it was I could certainly read by July 1950 and I was absolutely rapt in my 7th birthday present!


I actually got it a day early and spent July 8, as I recall, hungrily devouring the contents — mostly the pictures of course but also reading quite a few of the words no doubt with varying degrees of comprehension. One picture I recall being intrigued by was of a shirtless young Native American (not called that then of course). Was that an omen?

Why did I get that present a day early? Because the rest of the family was in Wollongong on July 8 1950 attending:


My Uncle Neil Hampton Christison married Fay Bryce of Unanderra at Wollongong Presbyterian Church on that day, and I was considered too young to go I suppose. So I was back in Auburn Street with my precious book, not minding at all!

Fay and Neil made it to their 60th anniversary. Their two children, Janine and Lloyd (who incidentally turns 62 in August) survive, along with Janine’s two sons, Bryce and Harrison Cartwright.

Within the next 24 hours I begin my 80th year — and the story of my name and the Uncle from whom it came…

The Uncle Neil after whom I was named was born on 6 July 1924. In 1943 my mother promised her mother that if I was born close to that date I would be called “Neil” also.

Christisons: My mother’s siblings Uncle Neil, Aunt Beth, and Uncle Roy, taken I would guess in the early 2000s. Aunt Beth passed away in September 2007, Uncle Roy in November 2011, and Uncle Neil in May 2014.

He didn’t talk of it very much, but from age 18 he was very much in the thick of it, especially in 1943-45.

I posted a number of items on Facebook this time last year, prefacing them thus: “I have at this double birthday time — mine and Uncle Neil’s — a strong urge to share what I know of that time c.1943. Neil Christison left us six years ago. I am still here. Quite a few or my cousins, and younger relatives are here. I guess I want to pass on what I know.

“I trust this is not an ominous sign — but late 70s are late 70s after all. And I hope the relevant people enjoy it.

“That photo (colourised) is 1945 — me front left, Uncle Neil in RAAF uniform in the back. I am the only person there still living. Lest we forget.”


I was born in 1943 just three days after my Uncle Neil’s 19th birthday — but he was “somewhere up north” as the saying went in those days.  That is why I have his name: just in case he didn’t come back. He was in a rough situation then, not long after the first allied defeat of the Japanese at Milne Bay, the Battle for Australia.

Using Rabaul as their main base, in May 1942 the Japanese sought to threaten and isolate Australia by attempting a direct sea-borne landing at Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea. They were turned back by a combined Australian and American naval force in the Battle of the Coral Sea. This battle was the first naval engagement in history where the opposing fleets, using carrier borne aircraft, were never in direct sight of each other.

In their next attempt to capture Port Moresby, the Japanese made a sea-borne landing at Milne Bay on the eastern tip of Papua New Guinea in August 1942. In a fortnight’s hard fighting, the defending Australian troops, supported by RAAF fighters and American forces, inflicted the war’s first land defeat on the Japanese. During this and other campaigns, the Australians were supplied by ships of the Merchant Marine of several nations, the Dutch providing the largest number.

To assist their move against Port Moresby, the Japanese landed troops on the northern coast of Papua New Guinea and advanced over the Owen Stanley Range along the Kokoda Trail. After eight weeks of fighting (July-August 1942), with heavy casualties on both sides, the Japanese attempt was stopped by the Australians a mere 25 kilometers from Port Moresby. Over the next 18 weeks (to January 1943) the Australians began to drive the Japanese back over the Owen Stanley Range and, in conjunction with increasing American forces, to expel the enemy from their beachheads at Gona and Buna on the north coast of Papua. Throughout the battle over the Owen Stanley Range, the support of Papua New Guinea porters and stretcher-bearers, affectionately known as ‘Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels’, was invaluable.

In the last two years of the war — 1944-1945 — there was a period of “island hopping” as the Japanese were pushed out of New Guinea and back towards Japan. In the photo above Uncle Neil must have been on leave before going to such places as Morotai. In those battles he was always in one of the first landing craft ashore, as his role in the RAAF was setting up communications (he was a signaller) for the invading troops, particularly for those tasked with repairing and building airfields. He saw horrible things. His 21st birthday was in the field.

In his account (below) Uncle Neil says: “During 1944 I was a member of an Airforce Signals Unit. In April of that year my signals unit did a landing in  Aitape, New Guinea.” Looking now at the Australian War Museum, I realise for the first time that the family photo above was taken after that landing!  An American landing. He was not overfond of the Yanks, was Uncle Neil. Had a few stories about them,

The Australian portion of the Aitape-Wewak campaign took place in northern New Guinea between November 1944 and August 1945. Aitape had been occupied by the Japanese in 1942. Recaptured by an American landing on 22 April 1944, it was developed as a base area to support the continuing drive towards the Philippines. In order to free American troops for the Philippine operations, defence of the area was passed to Australian forces. Troops of the 3rd Base Sub Area and the 6th Division began progressively relieving the Americans from early October 1944.

The following wartime documentary is vague about where it actually is, but the squadron it follows, the 78th, along with the 80th, were exactly in the area Uncle Neil was, and there are graphic scenes of the kind of landing he experienced.

Uncle Neil left an account of those years — not of the horrors, which he rarely talked about, but of some lighter moments.

During 1944 I was a member of an Airforce Signals Unit. In April of that year my signals unit did a landing in  Aitape, New Guinea. We were the communication unit for the  airfield construction squadron who repaired airstrips and built new ones. The same operation occurred on Morotai Islands. On Morotai Islands I shared a tent with a Fellow NCO. His name was CPL Jim Christensen from Queensland and I was CPL Neil Christison NSW and this was somewhat of a novelty because of our surnames.

To our great joy another esteemed gentlemen by the name of L.C. Faulkner spent his time with our unit in our tent. He was a very interesting person. During 1944 censorship was very strict and as you read his article published in the local paper he could not mention my location. Because of my constant movements my parents often did not hear from me for some time but when this came out in the paper they kept the article. Also we had another distinguished guest in our tent, an official air force photographer. Early one morning he was in one of our planes, which had been shot down by the Japanese and he and the pilot were rescued by one of our PT Boats.  The Halmahbar Islands, not far from Morotai, were occupied by the Japs and they used to occasionally pay us visits with bombing raids.   When this photographer returned to our tent he was covered in dye but still smiling and he returned back to Australia shortly after.

With the passing of time over the last 66 years sadly I lost his name because since I married in 1950 we have moved several times. My darling wife is now in an aged care facility as a result of Parkinson’s disease and on the 8th of July 2010 we celebrated our 60th wedding anniversary.

By Neil Christison

Wow! Update!

NOTE: Rereading this post I suddenly realise that the story Uncle Neil tells of the visiting journalist and photographer and the story of the rescue of the downed pilot may well correspond to the video above it — that the island shown there is Morotai and this probably is the very construction group Uncle Neil was with!

June 2012 on Neil’s “Final” Decade blog — 2

So much! The second of three selections from June 2012.

Exploring my inner Scot

Posted on  by Neil

FotoSketcher - Picture0025a


There was a time in Primary School when, bored with just being an Aussie, I pretended to myself and sometimes to my classmates that I was Scottish. Well, I guess I am partly, being descended via my mother from Scottish people named Christison, voluntary boat-people from the latter 19th century. The tartan, by the way, actually came from Scotland via my Aunt Beth who visited there a number of times. It must be around 40 years old now but is still my main source of winter warmth! Highly efficient.

They’ve been around in Scotland for a while, the Christisons. On the right you can see a heap of them, including my great-great-grandfather, in the town of Brechin in Angus-shire in the 19th century.

And I recently discovered one – probably one of them – was deep in the Scottish Reformation.

…The poor, of course, only exchanged better for worse landlords, as they soon discovered.  The “Zealous Brethren”—as a rule small lairds, probably, and burgesses—were the nucleus of the Revolution.  When townsfolk and yeomen in sufficient number had joined them in arms, then nobles like Argyll, Lord James, Glencairn, Ruthven, and the rest, put themselves at the head of the movement, and won the prizes which had been offered to the “blind, crooked, widows, orphans, and all other poor.”

After Parliament was over, at the end of December 1558, the Archbishop of St. Andrews again summoned the preachers, Willock, Douglas, Harlaw, Methuen, and Friar John Christison to a “day of law” at St. Andrews, on February 2, 1559.  (This is the statement of the “Historie.”) The brethren then “caused inform the Queen Mother that the said preachers would appear with such multitude of men professing their doctrine, as was never seen before in such like cases in this country,” and kept their promise.  The system of overawing justice by such gatherings was usual, as we have already seen; Knox, Bothwell, Lethington, and the Lord James Stewart all profited by the practice on various occasions.

Mary of Guise, “fearing some uproar or sedition,” bade the bishops put off the summons, and, in fact, the preachers never were summoned, finally, for any offences prior to this date…

And earlier still:

Dabbling in family history of the Christisons — my mother’s lot. Sasine (Scots law) is the delivery of feudal property, typically land.
Country Code G[reat] B[ritain]

Rep. Code 234
Repository National Archives of Scotland
Ref. No GD198/55
Title Instrument of sasine following on precept from chancery, 26th May, (1490) following on GD198/54, reciting procuratory, 25th May, 1490, by
Alexander Setoune [Seaton] of Tulybody [Tullibody], sheriff of Strivelineshire [Stirling], in favour of John Davidsone [Davidson], one of serjeants of said sheriffdom.
Date 27th May, 1490
Description Notary: Dugald Cossour [Cossar], priest, St. Andrews diocese.
Attorney: Thomas Buchquhanane [Buchanan]. Witnesses: Robert Buchquhannane [Buchanan], Patrick Haldane, Thomas Cristisone [Christison], David Lyndesay [Lindsay], John Conysoune, Duncan Arrald [Arrol], MAURICE MAKADAME [McAdam], Patrick Malcomsoun [Malcolmson], Gilchrist Henrisone [Henderson].

Lately I have been reading quite a few Scottish things, beginning with Josephine Tey. More about her in the next post, except to say she was no fan of Scottish Nationalists. Here is her portrait of one from her novel The Singing Sands.

… They fished turn-about, in a fine male amity; Grant flicking his line with a lazy indifference, Pat with the incurable optimism of his kind. By noon they had drifted back to a point level with the little jetty, and they turned inshore to make tea on the primus in the little bothy. As Grant was paddling the last few yards he saw Pat’s eye fixed on something along the shore, and turned to see what occasioned such marked distaste. Having looked at the advancing figure with its shoggly body and inappropriate magnificence, he asked who that might be.

‘That’s Wee Archie,’ said Pat.

Wee Archie was wielding a shepherd’s crook that, as Tommy remarked later, no shepherd would be found dead with, and he was wearing a kilt that no Highlander would dream of being found alive in. The crook stood nearly two feet above his head; and the kilt hung down at the back from his non-existent hips like a draggled petticoat. But it was obvious that the wearer was conscious of no lack. The tartan of his sad little skirt screamed like a peacock, raucous and alien against the moor. His small dark eel’s head was crowned by a pale blue Balmoral with a diced band, the bonnet being pulled down sideways at such a dashing angle that the slack covered his right ear. On the upper side a large piece of vegetation sprouted from the crest on the band. The socks on the hairpin legs were a brilliant blue, and so hairy in texture that they gave the effect of some unfortunate growth. Round the meagre ankles the thongs of the brogues were cross-gartered with a verve that even Malvolio had never achieved.

‘What is he doing round here?’ Grant asked, fascinated.

‘He lives at the inn at Moymore.’

‘Oh. What does he do?’

‘He’s a revolutionary.’ …


“Josephine Tey” — Elizabeth Mackintosh – 1896-1952

You will find her books linked to the picture.

See also Elizabeth Mackintosh: woman of mystery who deserves to be rediscovered.

Last week, I went to Kevin Spacey’s Richard III at the Old Vic and came away marvelling, yet again, at the polemical and psychological brilliance of Shakespeare’s remorseless Tudor propaganda. The “bottled spider” is not just a deformed monster, an object of fear, but a strangely lovable monster, who excites our pity, too.

Afterwards, the conversation turned to the princes in the Tower. Did Richard really murder his nephews? The Daughter of Time was one of my adolescent favourites and so I referred, en passant, to Josephine Tey. Blank looks: no one had heard of this once-celebrated mystery writer from the 1940s and 50s.

That might be how Elizabeth Mackintosh, born in 1896 at Inverness, might have wished it. As well as “Josephine Tey“, she also wrote as “Gordon Daviot“, and seems to have been obsessively private. Even in death, she slipped away, unobserved, and in disguise. The Timesrecords the death of Gordon Daviot on 13 February 1952, two days before the state funeral of George VI, whose life, death and majesty had filled the newspapers that week.

Miss Mackintosh’s cremation in Streatham Vale was attended by only a handful of mourners, but they included Dame Edith Evans and John Gielgud, both friends.

So, whoever “Gordon Daviot” represented, it was someone rather unusual, a creative artist whom people cared about. Gielgud later wrote: “Her sudden death was a great surprise and shock to all her friends in London. I learned afterwards that she had known herself to be mortally ill for nearly a year, and had resolutely avoided seeing anyone she knew.”

Apart from By The Banks of the Ness by Mairi A MacDonald, there’s almost nothing biographical in print about “Bessie” Mackintosh. She grew up in Scotland, one of three sisters, trained as a PE teacher and suffered, as many young women did, a mysterious and inconsolable bereavement during the Great War. When her mother died in 1926, she was called home to nurse her invalid father. Her writing, which began as an escape from domestic routine, first appeared in The English Review in the late 1920s…

Sunday afternoon — art at the old Court House

Posted on  by Neil


More from Belmore Basin on Sunday

Posted on  by Neil

Such a beautiful winter day!


At The Steelers Club 1

Posted on  by Neil

Had a lovely lunch/afternoon at The Steelers yesterday.


It was a very significant day:


Sadly, the local team went on to lose, but everyone is happy to see the long saga of the Western Grandstand come to an end at last. See my posts for 25 August 2011 and 20 September 2011. I chatted yesterday afternoon to Phil, who had been there on that day, and quite exciting it was too. You will see if you read that post that I was almost there myself but had opted for the Hellenic Club instead.


Friendly rivals gathering before yesterday’s game.

NOTE: The Long Quan was replaced in due course by the amazing Sichuan restaurant Red Dragon — also sadly a memory! This was the Christmas special there in 2013!

Another look at my mothballed English/ESL blog

Yesterday’s post on this attracted quite a few visits. So I thought why not? This one is from near the end of its life.

A five-finger exercise

13 November 2009

I published this before the 2009 HSC on my personal blog. You can’t use it, because it’s my life, but it may give you some ideas… (2022 note: My father in fact was only overseas in 1945, but was in the RAAF from before my birth finally getting home late 1945 or early 1946.)


While my coachee slaved away on a Trial HSC English Advanced paper this morning I undertook to answer the creative writing question from our previous session: “Select one of the following quotations. Use this quotation as a catalyst for your own piece of writing on belonging.” I think I rather overdid the thematic side, but I was hoping to demonstrate how this rather artificial task may be done. It isn’t fiction, but that’s in the parameters given.

c) “My fondest childhood memories”

When you think about it there is a lot of truth in the old Catholic saying “Give me a child to the age of seven and I will show you the man.” By that age our sense of identity, which is so much shaped by our sense of belonging to family, home, town and country, are basically set – if not in stone, at least firmly enough that escape if needed is quite difficult.

In my case my grandfather rather than my father was the key influence. My father, you see, was rarely home, being overseas with the RAAF, so my family were living with my grandparents, and the one who had time for me most was my grandfather.

My grandfather was a retired teacher. I don’t know how he did it, can’t remember, but before I went to school I could already read and tell the time. This led to early alienation in Kindergarten. Invited in week one to “write” on the blackboard I wrote “Sydney Morning Herald” and the date. I gather the teacher was not amused and rang my mother to complain – strange as that may seem.

He was a mine of information, my grandfather, and I was a hyper-inquisitive child. Once he was gardening and I asked him: “What are snails for?” He stood up and took me round the garden, showing me snails, describing their life-cycle, their means of locomotion and their feeding habits and why, if we wanted our lettuces, he had to get rid of them. “Yes,” I replied with precocious analytical skills, “but what are they FOR?” Since the metaphysics of the snail was not something that had occurred to him he became uncharacteristically short with me and called out to my mother, “Get this bloody kid out of here!”

I never have found out what snails are for, but I guess they fit into the web of life. Even snails belong, don’t they?

Another thing about my grandfather was that he talked to just about everybody. He was genuinely interested in their lives and what they did. I would accompany him on his walks and get impatient as he stopped at this fence or that gate to chat to someone for what seemed like hours to me. I was not displeased though when he would climb over the railway fence to chat to the driver of the milk train when it was waiting at the siding for the express train to go through. There were steam engines in those days and I was enthralled standing on the tracks with my grandfather as the fireman and driver leaned down from the cab to share finer points of their trade.

On the other hand, so I am told, when my father at last returned from overseas my first words to him were “Get that man out of here!” (Perhaps I learned the expression from my grandfather.) To me my father was the picture on the dressing table, not this large imposter who had suddenly disrupted my life, just when I had my mother pretty much in control. What this may have done to our relationship, indeed to my father’s recovery of his belonging, I can now only guess – but it did rather colour our later lives.

You can see what a network one close relative can set up for you in those formative years. With my grandfather I explored so many aspects of my environment and he was, you could say, my map-maker. Through him were developing all those templates of background, culture and place which shape so much where “I” fits in – belongs, indeed.

There are many other stories I could tell of my grandfather. Did I mention he only had one eye? No? But that is another story.

I was 21 when my grandfather died.

In fact I was 19! — 2022 note.

He had mentored me in so many ways, easing the pain of high school maths, answering my incessant questions about other countries as we browsed the atlas together, showing by example tolerance of people from other cultures, leading me (without pressure) to emulate him in my choice of career. If he were removed from my life story I wonder if I would today have the network of belongings that I now possess, modified as they may have been by other experiences and circumstances. Nonetheless, if I look for the rock on which it all has been built I need look no further than those childhood experiences with Roy C. – my grandfather.

Screenshot (169)a
From April 2018: A post on Facebook’s Shellharbour History and Pictures has generated this wonderful war-time picture of my uncle Roy Christison Junior, my grandmother Ada Christison, and my grandfather Roy Christison Senior in Sydney. (Note the tram!)  Posted by my cousin Linda Christison.

This one is just a bit of a brag…

English/ESL nominated

30 June 2009

Last year English/ESL came in at #75 in the Top 100 Language Blogs 2008 on Lexiophiles. I have just been informed that English/ESL has been nominated for the Top 100 of 2009.

Phase 2: Public Voting (July 8 – July 27)

At the end of the nomination phase, we will prescreen every blog and put it into one of the four categories (see below). In each category 100 blogs will be included for voting. If your blog is on the list you can ask your readers, friends, family and whoever comes to mind to vote for you. We will provide a voting button for your convenience before the voting starts. Every person can only vote once the voting of the top 100 blogs for each category.


9 June 2009

According to WordPress, since this blog moved here from Tripod in December 2006 there have been 48 posts and pages read more than 1,000 times each. Here are the top five:

  1. Studying the Gothic, or Emily Bronte? 19,627 reads
  2. Physical journeys and Peter Skrzynecki’s poems 18,963
  3. How should I write up a Science experiment? 16,686
  4. Workshop 02 — NSW HSC: Area Study: Imaginative Journeys 8,609
  5. Mary Shelley, “Frankenstein” — and “Blade Runner” 5,956

Thursday, October 16, 2008 was the busiest day ever, with 1,497 views, while the total for the blog stands at 239,898 since December 2006 with 55,524 so far this year – a daily average this year of 349 (last year it was 324). At the moment there are 220 posts.

Sitemeter measures differently and has been monitoring since November 2002, thus including my earlier addresses. It tells me that there have been since 2002 206,154 visitors reading 300,816 pages.