There’s much to admire in the Harrison Roach
oeuvre. A logger of global repute, but much more than just that, he’s also outstanding as a roaring tubesmith, an all around performer on shorties, mids, or fibreglass of any denomination.
His refined touch and waterpersonship is matched by a trim and tidy aesthetic. Bright-eyed and sharp, his diction is relatively rapid for an Antipode. His coiffe, cheekbones and stature somehow recall a cross between a dashing WW2 fighter pilot and his elfin schoolboy son, the grey flannel-shorted youngster running joyously out into the playground to cheer skyward at Rolls Royce Merlin engines roaring through pillows of fluffy cumulus overhead.