Looking at the serene waters of Merimbula today, it is hard to imagine the industrial smoke and bustle that once defined the shoreline. Yet, in the late 19th century, this quiet coastal village was the beating heart of an empire built on cornflour and pigs.
This is the story of Matthew Munn, the man who turned a derelict mill into a thriving industry.
From Paisley to the Pastoral
Matthew Munn did not start life as a miller. He was originally a shawl maker from Paisley, Scotland, who arrived in Melbourne in 1856. His pivot to agriculture came while working for Brown & Polson, where he acquired the specific knowledge needed for making cornflour.
His eyes turned to Merimbula when he heard of an unused flour mill sitting idle in the village. The location was perfect for one specific reason:
Why Merimbula?While wheat was susceptible to disease in the region, white maize grew exceptionally well in the area.
Building the "Maizena" Empire
Munn was a man of action. Backed by the Twofold Bay Pastoral Association and prominent figures like Thomas Mort and James Manning, he set about transforming the old mill.
He returned to Scotland to purchase special grinding stones and new machinery to retrofit the site for cornflour production. By 1866, he moved his family to Merimbula, living in a small cottage originally built for the Pastoral Association.
Production of the "Maizena" (a brand name for cornflour) officially began in 1867.
The Operation by the Numbers
The mill wasn't just a small local project; it was a significant industrial operation for its time.
Weekly Output: The mill churned out approximately 3 tons of cornflour every week.
Livestock: The waste product, known as 'corn bran', was not discarded. instead, it was fed to 500 pigs penned in a yard behind the mill.
By-products: These pigs were fattened for bacon and ham, which were then shipped up the coast to Sydney.
A Lasting Legacy: "Courunga"
As the business flourished, Munn bought out local maize-growing farmers to secure his supply chain. In 1873, he cemented his status in the town by building a grand home as a wedding present for his son, Armstrong.
He named the house 'Courunga'. Today, it remains standing as a private residence known as the Tower House.
Historical views of the Maizena mill (top) and the original cottage (bottom).
The End of an Era
Tragically, Matthew Munn did not live long to enjoy the empire he built. He died later in 1873 following a recurring illness.
He left the "Munn's Maizena & Starch Company" to his son Armstrong, who inherited a sprawling estate that included the mill, shops, employee housing, and five surrounding farms. While the smoke no longer rises from the old mill, the Tower House stands as a reminder of the Scottish shawl maker who saw potential in the white maize of Merimbula.
The Ballad of Maizena Munn
To go with this story there is now a original song, “The Ballad of Maizena Munn,” recorded with a live pub feel using Suno. The track follows Matthew Munn from Paisley to Melbourne, then on to the Maizena mill on Merimbula Lake, tying the grinding stones, the pigs in the yard and the Courunga tower into one narrative.
You will hear:
• The weaver from Paisley turning miller on the Sapphire Coast
• The mill wheel starting up on the edge of Merimbula Lake
• Bran feeding hundreds of pigs and bacon leaving by steamer
• Courunga looking down over the inlet and the working yards
• A chorus built around “great southern land” for listeners to sing with
Listen to the song here and picture the mill yard, the tower and the lake as you read:
From the looms of Paisley town, with shawl dust in his clothes
To a hard bright sun in Melbourne streets, where the Yarra river flows
Matthew Munn with weaver’s hands, learned to grind the corn
Far from Clyde and winter rain, a new trade there was born
Word rode down the coastal track, past Eden’s rolling sand
Of a tired old mill at Merimbula, in this great southern land
Wheat lay thin and seasons failed, yet white maize loved that ground
He smiled and saw the mill wheel turn, before it made a sound
So light that fire, stoke that flame
Raise your glass and call his name
Ho, ho, stamp your feet, clap your hands in time
White gold grinding on the Merimbula line
Load that dray for Twofold Bay, hear the old steam roar
In this great southern land by the Maizena shore
Ho, ho, hear the wheel, feel the timbers hum
Whole bay singing for Maizena Munn
From the mill yard mud to the Sydney store
In this great southern land they called for more
Back across the water wide, the heavy stones set sail
Deep in the hold with rope and tar, through salt and southern gale
Kennedy from Carriage Hill, followed Munn down here
Iron teeth and belts and shafts, the grinding song grew near
Engines blew their warming breath, smoke over lake and town
New sheds rose and cogs lined up, the old wheel turned around
Three tons rolling every week, bright starch like river sand
Maizena in the baker’s hands across the hungry land
Feel that floor begin to shake
Hear that grinding song awake
Ho, ho, stamp your feet, clap your hands in time
White gold grinding on the Merimbula line
Load that dray for Twofold Bay, hear the old steam roar
In this great southern land by the Maizena shore
Ho, ho, hear the wheel, feel the timbers hum
Whole bay singing for Maizena Munn
From the mill yard mud to the Sydney store
In this great southern land they called for more
Bran poured down the timber chute for five tall hundreds strong
Every yard a squealing choir, a low and muddy song
Smoke curled up from boiling vats, bacon on the rack
Steamers at the wooden wharf took half those carcasses back
Deckhands joked at Merimbula, in shirts all stained and worn
“Pig and Whistle” on their lips from dusk to early morn
Barrels rolled and hams were swung, bound for city trade
While the mill stones dreamed of corn by the river where they stayed
On the hill above the inlet, tower house of stone
Courunga watched the inlet lights and all the works below
A wedding gift for Armstrong there, a father’s rising pride
Bay breeze moved through every room, slow and full and wide
But the body tires before the dream, and breath runs thin and slow
Company seals and paper shares, a last long evening glow
Some nights that tower holds a sound no doctor understands
Old Munn hearing his mill roll on in this great southern land
Ho, ho, stamp your feet, clap your hands in time
White gold grinding on the Merimbula line
Load that dray for Twofold Bay, hear the old steam roar
In this great southern land by the Maizena shore
Ho, ho, raise your voice, let the rafters ring
Great southern land, hear the harbour sing
From the weaver’s cloth to the miller’s stone
To the tower on the hill where the lights still shone
Ho, ho, one more round for the working crew
For the pigs and the smoke and the starch they drew
For the mill yard ghosts and the shifting sand
In this great southern land, in this great southern land
