Konongwootong has always been close to my heart as we raised our 4 children in the old WW1 returned Soldier Settlement Konongwootong North Primary School No 4362, which is still owned by my daughter.

The Konongwootong district, located in the Western District of Victoria on Gunditjmara Country, occupies a significant and difficult place in the history of the Australian frontier. It is a landscape where violence is not only plausible but consistent with broader regional patterns, and where memory, material recognition, and fragmentary documentation intersect. The site now associated with the Konongwootong Reservoir, formally recognised for its Aboriginal cultural heritage values and recorded on the Victorian Aboriginal Heritage Register, stands as a focal point for this intersection.¹

Long before the arrival of Europeans, Konongwootong formed part of a managed and inhabited cultural landscape. For thousands of years, the area functioned as a seasonal wetland system, with winter pools and more permanent water sources sustained by springs and soaks during drier months.² These conditions supported a stable and productive environment, providing food, water, fibres, medicinal resources, and shelter. The Konongwootong Gunditj people lived within this system, maintaining cultural practices tied to the rhythms of the landscape.³ As elsewhere in the Budj Bim region, this was not wilderness but country structured through long-term use and knowledge.

This continuity was disrupted in the late 1830s with the arrival of European pastoralists seeking to establish large sheep runs across the Western District. Their occupation of land was not neutral. It involved the assertion of control over water, pasture, and movement, and in practice required the removal or suppression of Aboriginal presence.⁴ Conflict emerged quickly and took on a recognisable form across the district: livestock spearing by Aboriginal groups as an assertion of economic resistance, followed by organised settler reprisals.

One such reprisal occurred in March 1840 in the area known as the Fighting Hills, near present-day Casterton. Settlers, armed with firearms, pursued Gunditjmara men following the taking of sheep. The resulting encounter was profoundly unequal. Contemporary and later accounts suggest that several dozen Aboriginal men and boys were killed, while settler losses were minimal.⁵ This episode is among the clearer examples of organised lethal force applied under the language of retribution.

Within a short period—traditionally understood as occurring within weeks—violence extended to Konongwootong itself. The event now commonly referred to as the Fighting Waterholes massacre is associated with the wetland system that once occupied the site of the present reservoir. Local historical accounts and interpretive material indicate that a group of Gunditjmara people, including men, women, and children, were surrounded and killed in a location where the terrain formed a natural enclosure.⁶ The amphitheatre-like character of the ground is repeatedly noted, suggesting that the physical environment constrained movement and contributed to the outcome.

Estimates of those killed vary, but commonly refer to several dozen individuals. The absence of precise numbers reflects the broader problem of documentation. No definitive contemporary report has been identified that records the event in detail, names participants, or establishes an exact date. Instead, the evidence is cumulative: oral tradition, local historical reconstruction, and later commemorative recognition.

The question of burial further illustrates the fragmentary nature of the record. The location of those killed was not formally documented at the time. However, accounts from the mid-twentieth century refer to the exposure of human remains following significant flooding in 1946.⁷ These remains were reportedly collected and reinterred by a local resident, indicating both the persistence of physical traces and the absence of earlier formal recognition.

Despite this evidentiary uncertainty, the Konongwootong site has undergone a process of historical acknowledgement. In 2014, a commemorative area, referred to as a Quiet Place, was established at the reservoir.⁸ This landscape intervention was designed not as a monument in the traditional sense, but as a site for reflection. It incorporates a walking path, interpretive signage, and seating positioned to overlook the wetland area. The design draws attention to the natural amphitheatre associated with the historical account, allowing visitors to engage with the spatial dimensions of the event.

Joining the Winda Mara dancers are (from left) Wannon Water chairman John Vogels, Southern Grampians Shire mayor Albert Calvano, Minister for Aboriginal Affairs Tim Bull, and Nationals Candidate for Lowan Emma Kealy. The memorial was established in 2014 by Wannon Water in collaboration with the Gunditj Mirring Aboriginal Corporation to commemorate the Konongwootong Gunditj people and the massacres that occurred there in 1840. Photo Courtesy of the Warrnambool Standard.

The creation of this site was the result of collaboration between Gunditjmara Elders and organisations, including Gunditj Mirring Traditional Owners Aboriginal Corporation, alongside state agencies and regional authorities.⁹ This partnership is significant. It situates the Konongwootong narrative within both Indigenous knowledge and contemporary heritage practice, reinforcing its status as a recognised historical site rather than an unverified tradition.

The Konongwootong material therefore rests on a layered evidentiary base. Oral histories preserve the memory of violence and its location. Local research has assembled these accounts alongside fragmentary documentary references. Material commemoration, through plaques, signage, and the Quiet Place, anchors this understanding in the landscape itself. What remains limited is the formal colonial archive, which is consistent with the broader pattern of frontier violence in the Western District.

Historians of the frontier have long noted that such violence was frequently obscured in contemporary records. Terms such as “dispersal” masked lethal outcomes, while incidents occurring beyond administrative centres were often underreported or omitted entirely.¹⁰ In this context, the absence of a detailed primary account at Konongwootong is not anomalous. Rather, it reflects the conditions under which violence was enacted and recorded.

Environmental factors further support the plausibility of the event as described. The Western District landscape, characterised by broken basalt, wetlands, and confined approaches, favoured ambush and limited avenues of escape.¹¹ Water sites in particular acted as focal points for movement and encounter. A wetland basin enclosed by rising ground, as described at Konongwootong, would have presented both a resource and a risk, particularly under conditions of pursuit.

The central issue is therefore not whether violence occurred, but how it should be represented. The convergence of oral tradition, physical evidence, and formal commemoration places Konongwootong on firmer ground than unsubstantiated rumour. At the same time, the lack of a definitive contemporary account requires caution. The most defensible interpretation is to treat the Fighting Waterholes event as a probable massacre grounded in strong local evidence and recognised through collaborative heritage practice, while acknowledging the limits imposed by the surviving archive.¹²

In this sense, Konongwootong is both specific and representative. It marks a particular place where violence is understood to have occurred, and it illustrates a broader historical condition in which many acts of frontier violence remain only partially recoverable. The Quiet Place established at the reservoir does not resolve the historical record, but it ensures that the event is neither forgotten nor reduced to silence. It stands as an acknowledgement that the landscape itself retains memory, even where the archive does not.¹³

FOOTNOTES

1. Victorian Aboriginal Heritage Register, entry for Konongwootong cultural heritage place.
2. Environmental and cultural description of Konongwootong wetland system, interpretive material, Konongwootong Reservoir site.
3. Richard Broome, Aboriginal Victorians: A History Since 1800 (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2005), 28–35.
4. Henry Reynolds, The Other Side of the Frontier (Sydney: UNSW Press, 2006), 86–90.
5. Jan Critchett, A Distant Field of Murder: Western District Frontiers 1834–1848 (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1990), 120–125.
6. Local interpretive signage, Konongwootong Reservoir; regional historical accounts of the Fighting Waterholes incident.
7. Coleraine district historical accounts of 1946 flooding and recovery of human remains; local records relating to T. J. Fitzgerald.
8. Interpretive material, “Quiet Place,” Konongwootong Reservoir, established 2014.
9. Gunditj Mirring Traditional Owners Aboriginal Corporation et al., project collaboration records for Konongwootong commemorative site.
10. Reynolds, The Other Side of the Frontier, 121–125; Critchett, A Distant Field of Murder, 114–118.
11. Bill Gammage, The Biggest Estate on Earth (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2011), 241–260.
12. Bain Attwood, Telling the Truth about Aboriginal History (Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin, 2005), 67–72.
13. Ian D. Clark, Scars in the Landscape: A Register of Massacre Sites in Western Victoria, 1803–1859 (Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 1995), 1–5.

This book comes out of a long engagement with the Western District of Victoria, and in particular with Gunditjmara Country around Budj Bim and the Eumeralla River. It has taken nearly ten years to finish and has been a labour of love whose focus has changed and be rewritten many times over that period of time.

What I have tried to do here is to understand the conflict that took place in this landscape on its own terms, rather than treating it as a series of isolated incidents or as a simple story of expansion and resistance.

The starting point is the Country itself. The basalt flows, wetlands, and broken ground of the district are not just background. They shape how people move, where they can go, and what they can do. Long before pastoral settlement, this was a structured and managed landscape, with systems of water, stone, and resource use that reflect deep knowledge and continuity. When that structure was disrupted, the conflict that followed was shaped by the same features.

The violence that developed across the district was rarely concentrated or decisive in a single moment. It unfolded over time, in small actions that accumulated. Livestock spearing, reprisals, patrols, and attacks took place across a wide area, often with limited visibility and uncertain outcomes. Pursuit was difficult, coordination was uneven, and both sides operated under constraint. The result was a pattern of conflict that was dispersed, adaptive, and persistent.

Much of the evidence comes from colonial records and settler accounts. These sources are uneven and often use language that obscures as much as it reveals. Terms like “dispersal” appear frequently, and part of the task here has been to consider what lies behind them. The aim has not been to resolve every uncertainty, but to place events within a clearer structure and to examine how they relate to one another across time and space.

I have also approached the material with an awareness that this is not only a question of what happened, but how it can be understood. Ideas drawn from “just war theory” are used at points to frame questions about violence, authority, and conduct, but they do not sit comfortably within a frontier setting where recognition and legitimacy are contested. Rather than forcing the material into those categories, I have used them to test where they hold and where they do not.

What emerges is a picture of sustained conflict shaped by environment, organisation, and pressure. It is not a story of single battles or decisive moments, but of actions that build, constrain, and influence what follows. The intention throughout has been to keep the focus on how the conflict worked, how it was experienced in place, and how it developed over time.

The book is now available on Amazon here.

John D. Grainger’s The Battle for Palestine 1917 is a really solid, down-to-earth look at a part of World War I that usually gets ignored in favour of the trenches in France. Most people only think of Lawrence of Arabia when they picture this part of the world, but Grainger looks past the Hollywood version of things. He focuses on the actual nuts and bolts of the campaign, showing how the British military dealt with massive supply problems and a very tough Ottoman army.

The way he explains the change in leadership is one of the best parts. He doesn’t just act like General Allenby showed up and saved the day with his personality. Instead, he explains how the British finally got organized by fixing their supply lines and bringing in the right gear. He makes you realize that the biggest enemy in the desert wasn’t always the other army, but often the lack of water and the insane heat. You get a real sense of why the first few tries at breaking through at Gaza failed and what actually changed to make the later attacks work.

Grainger is also great at highlighting the Australian Light Horse and the New Zealand Mounted Rifles. While most people just talk about the charge at Beersheba like it was a scene from a movie, this book explains why they actually had to do it. Basically, they were desperate for water and had to take a huge gamble to get around the Ottoman defenses. He captures the grit of these guys without making them sound like superheroes, showing how their ability to move fast gave the British an edge they never had in Europe.

What makes the book feel fair is that Grainger gives the Ottoman forces their due. He describes them as capable, stubborn fighters rather than just an empire on its last legs. He also goes into the drama between the Turkish commanders and their German advisors, which made their defense even harder. By the end, you see how these battles weren’t just about winning a few miles of sand, but about setting the stage for all the political chaos that hit the Middle East after the war ended.

The last few chapters do a great job of connecting those old victories to the world we live in now. Grainger doesn’t just stop when the fighting ends; he looks at how taking Jerusalem and pushing toward Damascus basically redrew the map. He explains the tension between British military goals and the promises they made to local groups, showing that the seeds for future conflicts were being planted even while the British were celebrating.

Even though it’s a detailed history book, it doesn’t read like a dry textbook. Grainger keeps things moving and focuses on what was at stake. It’s a great choice if you want to understand how modern warfare started to take shape or if you just want a clear story of how the British eventually took Jerusalem.

It’s definitely worth a read for anyone who wants to see the bigger picture of the Great War beyond the Western Front.

Thomas James Rogers’ The Civilisation of Port Phillip (2018) offers a rigorous and unsettling examination of the gap between the “civilised” rhetoric of the British Empire and the brutal reality of the frontier in what is now Victoria. Focusing on the pivotal years between 1835 and 1850, Rogers dissects how the Port Phillip District was established not just through physical occupation, but through a sophisticated linguistic and ideological framework designed to legitimise the displacement of Indigenous people. Unlike other Australian colonies that began as penal outposts, Port Phillip was touted as a refined venture from its inception. Rogers explores how settlers and administrators used the concept of civilisation as both a goal and a shield, framing themselves as agents of progress and morality so that the erasure of Aboriginal society appeared as an inevitable byproduct of enlightenment rather than a series of violent choices.

One of the most compelling arguments in the work is the idea of rhetorical possession. Rogers demonstrates how the British used legal documents, diaries, and official reports to effectively write Indigenous people out of the landscape. By describing the land as underutilised or vacant, settlers mentally cleared the ground for sheep and fences long before the first shot was fired. This extended to the passive language used in official records, where the deaths of Aboriginal people were framed as mere disturbances or clashes, masking what was often state-sanctioned or settler-led violence.

While the rhetoric remained polished, the reality was visceral, and Rogers does not shy away from the bloodier aspects of the settlement. He meticulously tracks the escalation of violence, showing how even the Protectorate system, intended to shield Aboriginal people, facilitated dispossession by confining them to specific areas and undermining traditional life.

The book argues that violence was not an aberration of the process but a foundational component. Even the most humanitarian officials were often complicit because their ultimate goal remained the absolute establishment of British sovereignty and private property.

Ultimately, Rogers’ work is a vital contribution to Australian historiography because it moves beyond a simple narrative of victims and villains to examine the intellectual machinery of colonialism. The research is impeccably detailed, drawing on a wealth of archival material to bridge the gap between cultural and political history. It challenges the reader to consider how the language of the 19th century still influences modern identity and politics, serving as a sobering reminder that the pen was often just as destructive as the sword. This is essential reading for anyone looking to understand the sophisticated justifications buried beneath the foundations of modern Victoria.

A truly disturbing read which is a must have for anyone interested in the period.

I have had this one for so long I am not sure where it came from or who produced it,

Despite this it is a nice little kit.

Very simple to put together and enough detail for a dry brush and wash painting atyle.

I have already used it in yesterdays post!

Another one ticked off the mountain of plastic shame!

I have been writing this set of rules for over five years. It was both frustrating and a labour of love as my ideas, motivations and game mechanics changed over that time. Well it is finally out on Amazon and I am quite chuffed with the result. The mechanics are totally different than any you would have seen.

The mechanics in Conflict Under Constraint are deliberately built to reject the assumptions that underpin most tabletop systems. Instead of modelling combat as a sequence of efficient actions leading toward resolution, the rules focus on the instability of action itself. Every mechanic asks the same underlying question: can a force still act coherently under pressure, uncertainty, and constraint?

Indigenous sheep raid

At the centre of this approach is the Pressure system, which replaces conventional morale and casualty-driven logic. Pressure is not a reaction to loss, but a measure of accumulated strain. It rises through exposure, failed actions, and the inability to disengage cleanly, gradually narrowing what a force can do.

Indigenous leaders and warriors

At high levels, forces do not break because they are destroyed, but because they can no longer act with coherence. This shifts the focus of play away from killing power and toward managing tempo, risk, and withdrawal.

Indigenous raid on a settler Homestead

Equally significant is the Reaction Flow system, which replaces fixed turns with contested tempo. There is no guaranteed sequence of play. Control passes back and forth depending on proximity, visibility, and the ability to respond in the moment. This creates an environment where hesitation, positioning, and even inaction matter as much as decisive moves. It also means that time itself becomes uneven, experienced differently by each player depending on their level of control.

Indigenous raid on a shearing shed

The rules also redefine how terrain, or Country, functions. Rather than acting as a set of modifiers, terrain constrains decision-making. It narrows options instead of blocking movement outright. Players are not solving terrain, but operating within it. Visibility is partial, movement is risky, and no position is entirely secure. This makes the table an active participant in the game, shaping outcomes before any dice are rolled.

Police raid on an Indigenous camp

Another key departure is the abstraction of weaponry and capability. Weapons are not differentiated through detailed statistics. All groups possess the ability to act at range, engage in close combat, and withstand contact. What matters is not what is carried, but when and how it is used. This removes optimisation and redirects attention toward timing, positioning, and the conditions of action.

Hunting Ground

The system of State (Hidden, Revealed, Suppressed) further reinforces this emphasis. Power is not tied to firepower or numbers, but to visibility and control. A Hidden group may exert influence without being targeted, while a Revealed group becomes vulnerable simply by acting. Suppression does not remove units from play but disrupts their ability to respond at critical moments.

Settlers

The result is a constant negotiation between acting and remaining unseen. Taken together, these mechanics produce a fundamentally different experience. The game is not about winning through destruction, but about managing conditions that are always slipping out of control. Success lies in timing, restraint, and knowing when to disengage. In this sense, the mechanics do not simulate battle as a contest of strength, but as a condition to be navigated—one in which control is always partial, and resolution is never complete.

Attack on an Indigenous sacred site (a Bora ring)

I hope you enjoy it.