THE CALLING

Ages ago, so long ago that I can't even remember which anniversary it was. My husband and I gave ourselves an anniversary present of a weekend stay on a farm in the mountains. A beautiful, tranquil place of cows and green rolling fields with an uninterrupted view of mist covered hills that slowly unravelled to expose a much wider view of the surrounding mountains and the coastline beyond. And nestled snuggly into this was our own little cabin with a wood fire to dream in front of and veranda to relax, drink wine and eat cheese on.  Just for the weekend, our own lush green slice of valley dotted with eucalypts and cow pats for exploring, walking, talking, laughing, thinking in. It's possible that the years have made my memory of this place and this weekend softer and fuzzier and have given it a dreamlike spin but I have a sense that that weekend is the pinpoint of the beginning. When that thing in my head clicked and which eventually has brought me to here.

It was not long after this weekend that my husband and I went on our own search for a slice of rural life. We talked of acres of open space, rows of crops, houses atop of hills, cupboards for a home grown produce and the thrill of owning our own stock, though it would mostly likely be chickens. But reality was something else again. We had a small child in school. Secure jobs in the city. There was no work in the country. And we were living a hand to month existence based on a similarly sized savings account. All this dictated the scale of our dream and formed the solid boundaries of our rural lifestyle reality. But we pushed and tugged and stretched as far as we could and found ourselves with a small farmlet in the bush to play with, albeit five hours drive from home.

the small child with "REX".
who provide for us warmth on cold nights in the shed,
hot water for our showers and many tasty dinners. 
but who, sadly, we had to leave behind.

 For over 20 years we struggled to keep the dream of turning our bush block into what we first experienced in the mountains, but it was not to be. Money, drought and distance all got the better of us. At first the 25 acre bush block was a novelty for us and our extended family. We regularly made the five hour pilgrimage to sleep in a shed, shower in a bush shower and cook and eat around an open fire. It was like having our own exclusive camp site. But as the years passed it became very clear to everyone and to ourselves that we did not have the money to translate the dream, build a house and live the rural lifestyle we craved. Our daughter was now a teenager and in high school, the non-existent job market in the rural sector continued relentlessly and we still had the mortgage on our home in the suburbs to contend with. All of these were the anchors that kept us from moving on.

Slowly as the dream paled and more and more stark reality settled on us, the visits to our "farmlet" dwindle, first by our family, and eventually, ourselves. Sleeping on the floor of the tin shed amongst the mice and geckos, along with the long drive to and from the property and the lack of suitable bathroom facilities, once a rich source of humour, had become an inconvenience too difficult to bear. An outdoor shower and long drop toilet can only be tolerated for so long. For most, the lure of a weekend in to country was not enough to overcome the discomfort of the long drive only to spend a weekend in some very basic living conditions. Towards the end even my husband and I were visiting the property only once a year just to check on things. The romance of place had died and it was clear that our days on our bush block were numbered. Finally, during one of these last visits we pulled out the pencils and paper, did the sums and decided it was time to let the place go. I was devastated.

The drive back to the suburbs was one of pensive reflection. Both of us lost in our own thoughts of what could have been, what was lost and what it would mean for the future. For myself I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand the thought that we had given up on what we had held onto for so long. But five hours is a long time in a car. And by the time we were two hours from home we were well into our next adventure. 

"Sell the house in the suburbs. Our daughter no longer lives at home. We don't need such a big house with no one in it. Find another smaller rural block closer to work, this time with a house. Move to a semi-rural community. Keep the dream alive but down size it. What was stopping us? Nothing." 

We hadn't lost our dream. We just had to find another way to make it work. Another way that meant we could live it 24/7. That meant we didn't have to sleep on the floor in a shed or use an outdoor bathroom. It was so simple. Why didn’t we think of it sooner?

As soon as the decision had been made it was like the universe said "well it's about time you listened to your calling" and everything started to fall into place. Within eight months we had sold both our home in the suburbs and the farmlet in the bush and moved to our own place in the mountains. And although we don't have cows of our own, our neighbour is a dairy farm and I am more than happy to borrow them for the view.

the house on the hill : the continuation of the dream

 It has now been four years since my husband and I move to our semi-rural hamlet. And the calling is stronger now than it has ever been. And this year, the Year of the Chicken, will be the year that I will give myself over to it. There will be classes in permaculture to attend, vegetable gardens to build, chickens to raise, fruit trees to tend and hopefully surplus fresh produce to preserve. I may not be a farmer. And it is likely I’ll never will be.

But I am certainly ready to give it a red hot go.