Harold Blanch was born near Gloucester on 7th February 1928, his father was a bullocky working in the hardwood forests in the mountainous area towards Walcha.

Harold's family moved away from Gloucester in 1933, shortly after the Great Depression of the 1930's. The family settled in the upper reaches of the Myall River at a place known as Warrah.

Growing up during those years was tough. Young Harold attended two schools each week one near Fry's Creek bridge and the other towards Gloucester. One memorable schoolteacher would give the boys a caning with a willow switch if the boys so much as failed to perform well at sport or in their academic work.  As a youngster, playing was not on Harold's programme, there were endless tasks to be done around the farm as well as the mundane job of milking the house cow before breakfast and collecting firewood for the kitchen stove.

Harold remembers that the nightly illumination in the house where he grew up was light from a kerosene lamp. The meat would be hung in a 'meat safe' outside the house, to protect it from the blowflies, milk and butter was always fresh daily from the house cow, eggs from the chickens and a well fertilized vegetable garden produced more than enough food for the family to eat. There was always ample to give to friends and neighbours.

Harold left school and academic studies very early in his life to learn the skills his father had developed in the timber industry. He was eleven years of age when he followed his father into the forests learning the art of being a bullocky that is breaking in a team of bullocks to answer his instructions. Each bullock has its own special name and place in the team. The beasts are large with long horns measuring up to 1.2 metres and generally weighing close to a tonne.

Harold married his first wife in 1953 and had three daughters, one of the daughters was tragically killed in a car accident at Raymond Terrace when she was 37 years old so also was he 14 year old son killed in a head on collision on one of the narrow sections of highway in those days. Harold doesn't like to talk about it as he still grieves for the deceased.

Harold worked in the Bulahdelah forest area for all of his working life, pulling logs from the forests to a collection area for rendezvous with the  logging trucks. His hours were long, starting before daybreak saddling up the horses in order to find where the bullocks had spent the night. Then yoking the beasts in pairs, up to ten in preparation for a day of work which by this time was after sunup and time for smoko.

In his working life Harold rarely left the Markwell Valley area. A trip to Bulahdelah or Gloucester would take a day there and a day back, by the time you said a few g'days! to the passers by en route.

Harold is now married to Betty and the couple between them have a large extended family most living in the same region. Betty is an avid producer of jams pickles and chutney, the vegetable garden that Harold tends in his retirement is so prolific that Betty has her time cut out finding markets for her home made products. All the recipes have been handed down to Betty from her forebears no doubt some dating back to a previous century.

In the June 9th 2004 issue of Nota, the Editor wrote

In a small paddock on the outskirts of Bulahdelah, 21 Devon bullocks wait placidly beneath the trees for Harold Blanch, relishing the peace and beauty of a sunshiney winter's morning.

But don't be fooled by their raking horns and their muddy hooves, for these creatures are the pride of Harold's heart and his life wouldn't be the same without them.

Although they all look identical to the untrained observer with their reddish-brown coats and big, brown eyes, Harold knows every one of their names and they all come to him when he calls.

Using just his voice, he directs the bullocks to stand in a long, pairs-of-two line and they wait quietly as he lifts the heavy wooden yokes and the rattling chains that hold them all together, nose to tail.

And when they're on the move, walking down the paddocks along the fence line, Harold's voice and the occasional cracking of his long whip keeps any horn swiping antics and ,stumbling hooves in check and in control, as the bullocks stop and back instantly at his command.

"When I was very young, about nine years old, my father was a bullocky and I learnt the skills from him, how to break in bullocks and drive them, to draw logs and to make my own bullock gear such as yokes and bows," Harold said.

"I was 22 years old when I started my own team. "I used to have a team of 16 bullocks, drawing logs to the mill for a living." 

Although Harold is now in his 70s, no one would ever guess it,  for he is incredibly lean and fit and according to his wife, Betty, still regularly works full days with his bullocks. "I think he knows them even better than he knows me!" Betty said.

Harold started working with his current team of bullocks in 1995. .Royce Dorney of Newells Corner Sawmill bought six of the bullocks, and together with Harold, they bought eight more unbroken bullocks from Durigog.

Later, when Harold had the team fully broken in and trained, he took them to the Bulahdelah Show, the first in a long line of shows and demonstrations. Because this is a special team of bullocks.

The Bullock Association; of which Harold is a member, has confirmed that they believe his team is the biggest and the best in Australia.

" A bus load of people from all the states came down to see them m 2002 and that's what they told me:' Harold said proudly. "They see a few teams about, but mostly only 10 to12 bullocks." Harold and his trusty bullocks have now demonstrated their skills at Wingham, Nabiac, Camden, Murrurundi a Timber Expo at Walcha.

"Everyone was very interested in them working," Harold said.

''But I'd love to teach someone my skills."

"The bullocks are all ready to go, but I can't get anybody to take them on."

'"t's a dying art:" Betty agreed sadly.

For now however, Harold is content to work with his team of bullocks for as long as he's able, .in the paddocks and the deep bush where his heart is.