Country Dreaming

So, we’ve bought ourselves a block of land. We call it, rather grandiosely, the farm.

Did I mention that we’re excited?

The Great Dane with the summer-golden grass blowing against his knees.

The Great Dane with the summer-golden grass blowing against his knees.

We spent an evening out on the farm this week, wandering around the hills, wading through wind-rippled grass, hopping across rocks, watching kangaroos graze in the bottom paddock. I’m sure there’s a jab in there somewhere about roos loose in the top paddock, but let’s not do it just yet.  By the time we’re in the middle of building a new house, selling an old house and packing up eighteen years’ worth of family trash and treasure, there’ll be plenty of roos loose in the proverbial paddock.


But for now, we’re walking on air. We're daydreaming. We're skipping around with satisfied grins on our faces, already living the rural life in our hearts. 

I suspect, however, that my daydreamings are a tad different to those of the Great Dane. 


My  daydreaming involves a lot of slow-motion running through flower-filled meadows. 

I let my hair grow long and adopt a timeless country wardrobe of white muslin shifts (summer) and taupe linen tunics (winter), teamed with khaki gumboots. And I look lovely - think Scarlet Johansen meets Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman. I spend great chunks of time sitting in a wicker chair on the veranda, a crocheted granny rug on my knee, a pot of tea at my side, a book in my hand. And yet, despite the many hours I spend in leisure, my house and garden look like something straight from the pages of Australian Country Style. There is even a freshly-baked sponge cake, 30 cm tall, sitting in the pantry - although goodness knows how it got there when I have never baked one higher than a pancake. (Again, it's the daydreaming thing.) 

The Great Dane has a simpler vision. He sees a big shed. Really big. In fact, every time he mentions it, it has grown five metres longer. Perhaps he's forgotten that, in Australia, we don't bring our animals inside for the winter. But who am I to point the finger? I'm running across flower-filled meadows in a white muslin frock with a goat called Feta at my side. (Did I mention the goat ... and the goat cote?)

Of course, we both know that reality must temper the dream. There will be hiccups along the way. Like this tree that suddenly plopped across the road three weeks ago:

The sun will be hotter, the wind stronger and the frost harsher than we expect. The thistles and blackberries will run rampant. The goat will turn out to be a pea-brained whippet. And I will not look effortlessly stylish but will stumble around looking like this ...

Effortlessly frumpy.

Effortlessly frumpy.

But we don't  care! We're excited and happy and enjoying the long and wobbly road from dreams to reality. And we can always turn our blackberries into jam!  


Where are your dreams leading you?



Have a squiz at this!

I take you for a giggle down Memory lane with a snippet of Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman. Note to self: Remember to wear a corset when horse-riding through the flower-filled meadows on the farm. 



Dust off your lamingtons. The Great Dane is becoming an Australian citizen!