Location, Location, Location

So the first thing was to choose a site.  On 550 acres it was always going to be a challenge, but the majority of the land is steep.

Really steep.  (Somewhere in here is where the forever boy will explain something about gradients and 5:1 or 3:1 – but I don’t know much about that).  And then there is the rain forest, the lack of road etc etc.

We did choose a house site that will be for the next ‘proper house’.  I have a vision of a Glenn Murcott house, and it will probably have to be flown in by chopper, with access points by funicular railway. 


But until I get a much fancier job, we win the lotto or they discover gas on our place, we can’t really build there.


So we decided to err on the side of easiest to access.  At the moment the easiest site still involves a 2.8 km drive across country with no real road, and with a bridge that used to be there before the floods.  Yes both of them.  The crossing now looks like this:

And needs a sign that says this:

Which is of course ALL OF THE TIME!

We decided to put the shelter in the location of the original hut.  The land has been selectively logged since the white man has been in the area – and more often than not the camp would be in this little ‘dell’.


It is near the creek, quite flat, and warmer and less windy than the majority of the easily accessible sites.  It will be quite dark quite early in the winter time, but the soil is good and should be able to grow herbs and some food as long as the wallabies don’t eat it all.


There was of course – some heated “discussion”  between the trainee engineer and the creative marketer as to the best situation within that location.


It went something like this:


Marketer:  *sweeps back hair and stares into the middle distance*  I NEED the verandah to be here.  Otherwise there is no point even building anything! *stamps foot*


Trainee Engineer:  *looks around at topography, scouts foundation area, licks finger and sticks it up in the wind* That presents some construction challenges that will incur financial and timeline penalties.


Marketer: *pouts* Oh what is the point then!  We might as well just go home!


Trainee Engineer:  Don’t be ridiculous.  We can still put it here, we just need to have it somewhere that is relatively flat so we don’t have to do too much earthworks.  We can’t have more than a 17mm fall over the site or it will be more expensive and more difficult.


Marketer:  But I NEED the view... *tears*


Trainee Engineer:  (sees this is going downhill quick)  Don’t worry.  Let’s build it, and I will GET you the view.


(The creative marketer in no way condes the use of emotional blackmail to get what you want) (This may or may not be a true representation of what actually occurred)


So in the showery easterly weather, we peg out our new home.  With a northerly aspect, and with a view of Mt Superbus that we will ‘get’.

When we rebuild the bridge it will be easy to get to, it will be warm and it will be safe.  And unless the north branch of the river suddenly changes its thousand year behaviour, very dry as well.

Once upon a time, not so very long ago...

I grew up in a small town.  And not just "one high school and know people at the supermarket, 10,000 people" small - but small.  A village really.


You know the kind - not a one horse town, but certainly a one pub town. Which in Australia is the more important measure.


In my town – there is a mountain and a road named after my family.  I can trace my ancestors back to the founding of the town, my parents were foundation members of the local financial institution, my sister is on the board for the local hospital.


Not the type of place I could be anonymous.


So like many middle class rural kids, I got out of town, I did my time at boarding school, on cattle stations and cotton farms,  went overseas, spent 7 years away, went to uni, finally got a real job, and met the forever boy.


Then my Dad died.  And I inherited the farm.  Not just any piece of land that you could just trade away, or forget about.  But a farm that has been in my family for generations.


A place that had been selectively logged by my Dad, grazed by my uncle, owned by my great uncle and worked by another one. Land that sustained families in the depression, and in the worst drought in white history.   A section of Queensland where cedar trees were procured from – cedar that was sent back to England for parlour furniture and ladies dressing tables.  Land that sits up underneath a mountain that forms part of the Great Dividing Range, a small area where a microcosm of ecodiversity exists unlike any other in Australia.  Country that is millions of years old, that we are now custodians of.


Time to be responsible. 


Inheriting the  farm is full of challenges and great opportunity.  The country is so amazing, but needs constant attention.  Gum trees never sleep, and the land is only useful if it is producing.  So we really need to be there. 


On the farm there are fences, and yards and trees (and blackberries, tobacco bush, fireweed) and Pat’s cattle.  No where to sleep, or cook or wash.


I reckon we are going to need a house.