Kembla Grange - The Gong

Gringotts and Nash Rawiller conquer the Heavy 8 at Kembla Grange, carrying 61kg to claim back-to-back Gongs.

Jack Mercer

Now, I’ll be straight with you. Kembla Grange itself won’t take you long to walk. It’s really a racecourse and a railway platform sitting quietly off the Princes Highway.

But you don’t come here for the suburb.

You come here because of what’s wrapped around it.

Drop down off the Southern Freeway and the whole Illawarra opens up. That great green wall of escarpment on one side, the Pacific stretching blue on the other, and Wollongong sitting comfortably in between like it’s got nowhere else to be.

I pulled in at Bulli Lookout first, more or less by accident, and just stood there for a while. That view does something to you. The industrial heart of Wollongong in the distance, surfers scattered along the beaches below and, if you strike the right day, paragliders floating out from the escarpment as though gravity has taken the afternoon off.

Wollongong itself has that great port-town mix. Working harbour, decent coffee, blokes in high-vis sitting not far from blokes in wetsuits.

I had a counter lunch at a pub near the water and got talking to a bloke who reckoned his grandfather had worked the mines around Mount Kembla. Before I knew it, I’d been given a proper history lesson I never asked for.

That’s the Illawarra for you.

Everyone’s got a story, and they’re not particularly shy about telling it.

Horse racing has deep roots in this part of New South Wales too, and Kembla Grange has grown into one of the state’s important provincial racing centres. So when Cup day comes around, the racecourse doesn’t feel tucked away anymore.

For an afternoon, it’s exactly where you want to be.

I came down for a day at the track and ended up staying two, chasing lookouts and pub lunches I hadn’t planned on.

If you’re thinking about a Country Cup trip that doubles as a coastal escape, next time it comes around, don’t just drive down for the races.

Give the Illawarra the weekend.

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THE GONG CUP REPORT

22 November 2025

Eight days after Gundagai, the cruiser was heading east.

And it was raining.

Not polite coastal rain either.

By the time Kenny, Tommy and Finn made their way into Kembla Grange, umbrellas were fighting a losing battle and the track had been rated a Heavy 8.

Tommy looked across the course.

“Lovely day for it.”

Kenny shook the water from his jacket.

“You wanted the coast.”

“I wanted fish and chips.”

Finn wasn’t listening.

He was looking at one horse.

Gringotts. Number 1.

The defending champion of The Gong was back, but this time there was a considerable lump on his back.

Sixty-one kilos.

61 KILOS. HEAVY 8. NUMBER ONE.

Kenny looked at the weight and whistled.

“That’s plenty.”

Finn nodded.

“So is the horse.”

There were fifteen of them lining up for the million-dollar Group 3 mile, and almost everyone at Kembla knew which horse they had come to see.

Gringotts had won this race twelve months earlier.

Now he was being asked to do it again.

The gates opened and Nash Rawiller didn’t panic.

He found cover around midfield and let Gringotts travel while the rain continued to turn Kembla into something resembling a paddock.

As they approached the bend, the field began looking for better ground.

Out they went.

Rawiller didn’t.

Finn saw it first.

“He’s staying there.”

Kenny leaned forward.

“He can’t be.”

He was.

While others searched wider, Rawiller committed to the inside.

For a moment there didn’t appear to be anywhere to go.

Then there was.

THE GAP OPENED. GRINGOTTS DROVE THROUGH.

Tommy was yelling now.

“Go on, Nash!”

The big weight didn’t matter.

The mud didn’t matter.

But Estadio Mestalla did.

He was coming hard down the outside.

Gringotts had done the work.

Now he had to fight.

The margin disappeared.

A length.

Half a length.

The post.

And Gringotts had him.

BACK-TO-BACK GONGS.

Kenny looked across at Finn.

“That’s a racehorse.”

Finn smiled.

“Told you.”

“No, you said two words.”

“Good two words.”

Behind Gringotts came Estadio Mestalla, with New Endeavour taking third.

But the afternoon belonged to Ciaron Maher, Nash Rawiller and Gringotts.

Number 1.

Sixty-one kilos.

Heavy 8.

And back-to-back Gongs.

Kenny started towards the exit as the rain kept falling.

Tommy followed.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere dry.”

Finn tucked the form guide inside his jacket.

“Pub?”

Kenny stopped.

For the first time all afternoon, the three of them agreed immediately.