Ramblings and meetings and greetings - tasting the country life

I'm excited.
Truly ruly excited.
We're escaping to the country. Or, given that we already live in a small regional town, I should say that we're escaping to the even-more-country.
I think I've mentioned it before.
Perhaps a hundred times.

But I'm mentioning it again because stuff is happening.
You see, up until now, everything has looked like organised piles  of dirt and blocks of concrete and stacks of timber with a fetching port-a-loo sitting to one side.
Now, however, it looks like someone is building a house.
A real, live, grown-up house.

There's a complete skeleton with walls and roof.
The builder calls them frames and trusses. But I always think of criminals when I hear the 'frame' and hernias when I hear the word 'truss'. 
I don't want to think about crime, unless Inspector Barnaby is nearby. 
And I certainly don't want to dwell on hernias. (Or dwell under hernias, as the case may be with roof trusses!)
I want to think of a sparkling new house with a view across the hills and the cows.
And now I can, thanks to the fully formed skeleton.

It's incredibly exciting to wander through the skeleton, naming rooms - bedroom, study, kitchen, servants' quarters...
It's even more exciting to see that  our plan is looking quite sensible. 
We have discovered only one design fault so far, and that's to do with the doggy door. It's a tad high. And when I say that it's a tad high, I really mean that our whippet, Olive, will need to take up pole vaulting if she wants to let herself in and out of the laundry. Or we could install an itty-bitty doggy escalator. Which could be quite fun. Although a little unusual.

We're getting to know the neighbourhood. We've tramped along country lanes, ogling dead trees - they might make good firewood one day soon! We've waded across grassy paddocks, spotting flame robins and pardalotes. And a few weeks ago we went for a hike around Mount Alexander. It's glorious - granite boulders, fern trees, towering gums, rock wallabies and stunning views across the central Victorian landscape.

'Spotto! There's our house!'

We're enjoying the seasonal changes - the golden-grey grass greening up as the weather cools down, the ewes giving birth to fresh white lambs, the cows growing their fluffy winter coats, the chilly days where the fog hugs the hilltops until noon,  the port-a-loo listing to one side as the winter rain turns the soil to mud.

We have a growing cache of friends in our new neighbourhood - salt of the earth locals and fellow paddock-changers like ourselves. And there are rumours of other fascinating folk dwelling amidst the granite rocks, who we will surely meet one day - the one-eyed water diviner, the fully sighted cheese-makers and the nudist.

But best of all is the aaaaah-moment that we experience every time we step out of the car and set foot on our soil.
'Aaaaah,' as in, 'Aaaaah, look at that view!'
'Aaaaah,' as in, 'Aaaaah, free from suburbia!'
'Aaaaah,' as in, 'Aaaaah, smell that fresh country air with a slight essence of manure.'
'Aaaaah,' as in, 'Aaaaah, the dream is becoming reality.'

On top of our hill, breathing in the fresh country air and looking
out for friendly cheese-makers and water diviners that might be
 scuttling between the he rocks.

Having a cuppa in the study.
Solid walls and ceiling still to come, but the floor
and the vision is there.

The Chick Pea Dream

The other night, I dreamt I was lying on a bed of chick peas. 

I know! 

It was disturbing. 

Why couldn’t I be swimming through a pool of melted chocolate, or burrowing through the middle of a giant éclair?!

Chick peas!

What does it mean?

What on earth is wrong with me?

I pondered these big questions for some time and, then, it dawned on me. 

It’s a sign. 

A sad sign. 

A sign that I’m getting old. 

Common sense is replacing passion and danger. 

Even in my dreams.

I remember the days when I used to dream that I could fly or conquer an army or save my entire family from an erupting volcano. There might even have been a cameo appearance from Tom Selleck or a hazelnut gateau. 

 

But now, my dreams have been reduced to dreary, protracted episodes where I’m running late for an appointment because I can’t put my trousers on straight. Or worse still, they’re just full of chick peas. (The dreams, not the trousers!)

Nothing says ‘old lady’ like a dream about chick peas. 

Unless it’s a dream about prunes ….

But it gets worse. A deeper look at my life revealed more tell-tale signs that I am moving further and further away from a youthful attitude to life. Here are the most troubling:

Shoes. My top priority when shopping for shoes has become comfort. Gone are the days when a fine patent leather stiletto-heeled pump will win out over a sturdy walking boot with a padded arch and good  ankle support. My current faves are brown suede and not so very different from the desert boots my brother used to wear in the ‘70s. Comfy? You bet! Stylish? Let’s just say that they’re the chickpeas of the shoe kingdom…

Coffee. I limit my coffee intake. If I don’t, I can’t sleep at night. I also have trouble sleeping if I eat dinner too late, watch something exciting on TV after 9 pm, use the wrong pillow  or have an early appointment in the morning. I have, of course, become my grandmother - by which I mean my grandmother at 90.

The Cinema. I look for early movie showings at the cinema. It’s even better if it’s one of those bargain showings that only cost $11. And I don’t like all that new-fangled CGI sci-fi stuff that youngsters are watching nowadays.

Tippling. I enjoy a tipple of sherry. Just the cheap stuff that sits at the back of the pantry in case I want to make trifle. Actually, the fact that I always have a bottle of sherry on hand for making trifle is, in itself, a bit of an old lady thing ... and, perhaps, the fact that I use the word 'tipple'.

Inspector Barnaby. I think he’s a kind and decent man and was thrilled to learn that a new season of ‘Midsomer Murders’ was beginning last Sunday - although I was careful to record it rather than watch it in real time because the excitement would have kept me awake all night!

So there you have it. 

I’m no longer a spring chicken. 

The proof is in the pudding ... or the trifle.

Although, I’m sure I had you convinced at the chickpeas.

What signs of ageing are creeping into your life?

Do share!

Take a squiz at this:
Just in case Tom Selleck has deserted your dreams, too, here's a short blast from the past.

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.

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.

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 from Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman. Note to self: Remember to wear a corset when horse-riding through the flower-filled meadows on the farm. 

NEXT WEEK:

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