The creek runs fast down the steep, forested hills that pass for mountains, clumps up into waterholes across the plains where sheep line the banks, and continues on through the bush towards the sea. On the town’s naming day the community gathers behind the hall to grill their black wattle-seed sausages over rusted barbecue plates, the younger children kick footballs that lodge themselves in the high forks of scribbly-gums, and the rest join the throng of revellers down by the creek where an ancient log, nearly petrified, hangs across the water suspended on forked plinths.