Beyond The Hill Lies China (Dymocks, 1945) by Herbert M Moran is a thinly fictionalised memoir of Moran’s life and career as a doctor in Sydney about a century ago. It’s an obscure little gem, an interesting blend of everyday scenes with the odd quasi-mystical musing thrown in.

The title refers to one of the convict myths of place I write about in Tour To Hell, the idea that China (and freedom) could be reached by crossing the unmappped Blue Mountains near Sydney.

Herbert Moran: doctor, writer, poet, rugby international

I’d never heard of Moran, but click goes the computer and I meet the fascinating ‘Paddy’ Moran (1885-1945), a leading early Australian rugby player who captained the first Wallabies tour to England, back in 1908. He served in both world wars, and his interest in cancer treatment research led to him becoming the first doctor in Australia to use radium tube therapy. 

Moran wrote three books, all autobiographical. He was fascinated by Classical Greece and Rome, and alive to the poetic dimensions of the convict myths, divining how they tell one of the first stories of landscape evoked in the imaginations of Australia’s early settlers.

Here’s a quote from page 71 of Moran’s book:

‘But not all the convicts had submitted. He remembered the story of those who, moved by fierce nostalgia, had burst their bounds. Beyond the hill, across the Bay, lay China! Men whispered the news, their hearts excited. China! The freedom and romance of Cathay!

And so, some more daring or more desperate, had saved from their meager ration or pilfered from public stores, and then set out, with high hearts, to walk. Beyond the hill lay China! And on they went, and on, till failure of supplies or a black’s spear halted their dream. Halted their dream? No. They had but passed from physical suffering to transcendental joy. Had they not horizons beyond the fickleness of seasons or the illusion of a dawn? What if the casual drover still finds their pitted bones – resistent vertebrae and ribs that once hooped a great breath? These are but the lesser things of the flesh they shed en route.’