Move to the Country?

People talk about living in the country as though it is like relocating to another planet inhabited by super humans. Everyone is soooo nice and friendly.

They aren’t.

This is a myth created by city people. Or the media. Or bloggers.

Why? No idea.

I can tell you this, in my experience, people are people. Doesn’t matter where you live. They can still be unwelcoming and judgmental. Or friendly and caring. It is the same planet.

When I moved to the country I discovered that I was now what some called “a blockie”. I understand this to be a derogatory term meaning ‘someone who has moved from the city to the country and doesn’t have a clue but probably thinks they do’. More than this it also refers to a person who has purchased rural land at the expense of the good country folk who live around that parcel of land. And paid way too much. And is most likely going to try and farm Alpacas or coloured sheep.

I loved being called a blockie. I knew that I was special when I got that title. I had arrived!

I love that I survived the first 15 years of having that label. Not only did I survive but I thrived. Not only did I thrive but my intelligence and research skills allowed me to learn what I needed to know and my bank account allowed me to buy whatever I wanted to support my new hobby farm - tractors and fencing materials and semi trailer loads of hay and horse floats and ‘liquorice allsort cows’ and 100,000 litre drought proofing water tanks. No way would I go down without a damn good go.

It was about week 3 of my life on the farm when one of the primary members of the squattocracy dropped by. Looked me up and down. Glanced around the place. Told me that I was “brave” to farm cattle. Friendly enough but firmly pointing out the pecking order.

I was bemused rather than intimidated. He had no idea who I was. No idea that I had been successfully traversing the working world of ‘men’ for years. He and his big green tractor were not going to intimidate me. To this day he continues to converse with me as though I am a tourist in his world.

I didnt really have a plan when I first started out as a hobby farmer/tree changer. I had 40 acres and wanted some animals.

Chooks were the first to arrive. Friendly little girls of all descriptions. And a chook house that would keep the foxes out.

Then came the cattle. Bought about 8. Later they ‘moved to Queensland’ I told people after I sold them. I know this is what cattle farmers do but I didnt like it. I am not that person. I am the ‘NO DEAD ANIMALS PLEASE!!’ person.

The next batch of cows were, and some still are, beautiful and never to be sold nor given away. Black and white belted galloways. Stumpy fluffy fat friendly cattle that do well on poor pasture, in cold temperatures and give birth easily with few problems. I started with 5 old girls and grew the mob to 15 and there I stopped. They were labeled as ‘pets’ and they would all just live a life of luxury and die of old age.

Green tractor still teases me about my cattle policy. “When are you going to sell those cows?” he would jibe knowing full well.

Beginnings (I will one day be a farmer)

My father loved the country. It was in his genes. It is in mine. I am driven to be outside and to be with nature. I am consumed with it. It is life to me.

Most of my life I lived in big cities in Australia - Melbourne and Sydney. In Sydney, as a child, I was lucky enough to live at Bondi, by the beach. Hours spent in the sea. We paddled around rock pools and rode our bogie boards in the waves. Dreadfully sunburnt every weekend. Covered in sand. Hair blonded by the salt and the sun. It was freedom.

Later, as a teenager, I was part of a little surfie tribe. We spent as much time as possible in the water. Beach, boards, wetsuits, bikinis, strawberry thick shakes and always the waves.

In the city there had to be an escape from people and buildings and cars and noise. The beach was it in Sydney. The leader of our pack would organise the gang and off we would go. A few carloads with boards on top. He would decide where the best waves were. Check the wind direction. Make sure it wasn’t too packed with other surfers. Everyone out. Wax on. Wettie on. Surf.

This was in the days before girls and women surfed. I would be the only girl out there. Hanging out the back with the boys. I rarely did anything of note - couldn’t actually stand on the board - but I had a board and I could paddle out the back and I could balance sitting on the board and that was something. Never got monstered by the surfies. I was no threat. A novelty perhaps. Something to look at. I didnt care I just wanted to be in the water.

Summer holidays meant a migration, usually north. Camping on the beach. Surfing all day. Campfires at night. Cheap tents and crappy air mattresses. God-awful sleeping conditions. One morning I awoke and my air mattress was floating. It had rained during the night and the tent flooded. Always fitful sleeps with morning back ache. None of us drank much or used drugs. It was good, clean and healthy. And we were fit. Beautiful young people enjoying ourselves. For me it was the first real indicator of my need for space and immersion in nature.