When she was nineteen, Terrie spent six months in Hobart, capital of Tasmania, Australia. Later when she was married, she visited the island with her husband for holidays. They fell in love with the place and one day, while on holiday, they decided to move there permanently.
We were high on freedom and beautiful surroundings, feeling one with one of those amazing skies you just can’t explain. As we drove around the sweeping bend, we came across a house for sale on either side of the road. Plenty of time, why not have a look. Both looked a bit derelict. One had lots of scrubby greenery hiding the house, and a rough rocky driveway. Noel pick this one first.
I waited in the car, not impressed with his choice. Soon, a crooked finger urged me to come and look. I walked down the driveway, up very rickety steps to meet a white haired old lady.
Noel asked if we could see the house. She was deaf, and Noel has a thick Irish accent, so there was a little confusion. When we went inside, we discovered a shabby, cold, house with lots of rooms and very untidy. There was no kitchen, no sink, poor light, but a warm, stuttery fire.
The house had been on the market for six years. Noel was looking at the throw-away price. It was the smell of the fire that pulled me in. The house was ours by the end of the day!
When we announced we would be moving from Sydney to Tasmania, a distance of about 1400 km and furthermore, we would be living on a broken down little farm, our children were shocked. After all, we had a good social life, good jobs and we were “getting on a bit”.
Noel drove his old truck and I drove our old Holden car. From the ferry from the mainland to Tasmania, we drove up a windy, hilly road to the house twenty kms further on. We arrived to a neighbour welcoming us with a dozen eggs welcoming us and the news that he had a gift for us, a newly slaughtered lamb. How would we would like it cut up? We had arrived in a wonderful caring community.
We had arranged to live in a caravan while we worked on the house. It turned out to be the oldest one imaginable, and tiny. The house, now uninhabited, was worse than we remembered: cold, bare boards, a few mats and thirteen windows, either broken or cracked.
The papers revealed that the house was over a hundred and forty years old. The renovation was a mammoth job. A builder replaced the slats on the verandah that were made from vegetable crates and also replaced the tree stumps that had been used for the foundations. Another builder removed the scrim and wallpaper which covered the hand hewn timber of the walls. It was a big job to paint the inside and out, replace the guttering and repair all the windows.
Building materials were stacked all up the hallway, which made it difficult to get in the front door. When we decided to sleep inside with our sleeping bags as the caravan was so cold, we had to climb in through the windows.
Slowly, it all came together. Noel’s bobcat digger had come down in a container. It was extremely handy in clearing up the many rusted water tanks, rubbish and overgrown rough plants and in digging the gardens.
During this time we lost our son suddenly to leukaemia, just after he married. We were completely heartbroken, as were our other two children. They decided to move down to our little island and within a few years we were blessed with seven grandchildren, including two sets of twins.
Noel repaired and replaced the fences which were broken and held together with binder twine, then started farming.
The first batch of cattle were delivered late one night around ten o’clock. As the fellows stood and talked, they saw their opportunity to go back out the gate and along the main road. Panic! The men brought out their torches and trucks and I was dispatched to stop any traffic on the pitch black road. The cattle went every which way. We didn’t find the last of them for several weeks.
As a city person, it was a learning period for me. Calves started arriving. One new mum didn’t know how to feed her calf, and it was getting thinner every day. Noel had the idea to drive his baby tractor out to get it away from a very cranky mother. He got it onto the trailer and I held it down while the mother ran after the tractor. I jumped off and raced to open the gate, scared of what the cow might do, but she gave up the chase and we were able to hand feed the little one. It grew up to be a lovely cow.
One of the cows craved chook (chicken) food. She broke into the barn and the chook shed, and followed me around the yard trying to get at the grain when I fed the hens. She became a big, heavy-headed pet. Annoying, as she gobbled up the expensive feed and broke things.
Twenty years later, we have things more under control. The three acre garden is full of roses, trees and exotic flowers in memory of our son and we have raised lots of money for the Leukaemia Foundation through being open to the public. We are surrounded by beautiful scenery and many birds visit and sing their little hearts out.
Being a farmer’s wife is very different and enjoyable from my life in Sydney but I have no thoughts of moving.
We were high on freedom and beautiful surroundings, feeling one with one of those amazing skies you just can’t explain. As we drove around the sweeping bend, we came across a house for sale on either side of the road. Plenty of time, why not have a look. Both looked a bit derelict. One had lots of scrubby greenery hiding the house, and a rough rocky driveway. Noel pick this one first.
I waited in the car, not impressed with his choice. Soon, a crooked finger urged me to come and look. I walked down the driveway, up very rickety steps to meet a white haired old lady.
Noel asked if we could see the house. She was deaf, and Noel has a thick Irish accent, so there was a little confusion. When we went inside, we discovered a shabby, cold, house with lots of rooms and very untidy. There was no kitchen, no sink, poor light, but a warm, stuttery fire.
The house had been on the market for six years. Noel was looking at the throw-away price. It was the smell of the fire that pulled me in. The house was ours by the end of the day!
When we announced we would be moving from Sydney to Tasmania, a distance of about 1400 km and furthermore, we would be living on a broken down little farm, our children were shocked. After all, we had a good social life, good jobs and we were “getting on a bit”.
Noel drove his old truck and I drove our old Holden car. From the ferry from the mainland to Tasmania, we drove up a windy, hilly road to the house twenty kms further on. We arrived to a neighbour welcoming us with a dozen eggs welcoming us and the news that he had a gift for us, a newly slaughtered lamb. How would we would like it cut up? We had arrived in a wonderful caring community.
We had arranged to live in a caravan while we worked on the house. It turned out to be the oldest one imaginable, and tiny. The house, now uninhabited, was worse than we remembered: cold, bare boards, a few mats and thirteen windows, either broken or cracked.
The papers revealed that the house was over a hundred and forty years old. The renovation was a mammoth job. A builder replaced the slats on the verandah that were made from vegetable crates and also replaced the tree stumps that had been used for the foundations. Another builder removed the scrim and wallpaper which covered the hand hewn timber of the walls. It was a big job to paint the inside and out, replace the guttering and repair all the windows.
Building materials were stacked all up the hallway, which made it difficult to get in the front door. When we decided to sleep inside with our sleeping bags as the caravan was so cold, we had to climb in through the windows.
Slowly, it all came together. Noel’s bobcat digger had come down in a container. It was extremely handy in clearing up the many rusted water tanks, rubbish and overgrown rough plants and in digging the gardens.
During this time we lost our son suddenly to leukaemia, just after he married. We were completely heartbroken, as were our other two children. They decided to move down to our little island and within a few years we were blessed with seven grandchildren, including two sets of twins.
Noel repaired and replaced the fences which were broken and held together with binder twine, then started farming.
The first batch of cattle were delivered late one night around ten o’clock. As the fellows stood and talked, they saw their opportunity to go back out the gate and along the main road. Panic! The men brought out their torches and trucks and I was dispatched to stop any traffic on the pitch black road. The cattle went every which way. We didn’t find the last of them for several weeks.
As a city person, it was a learning period for me. Calves started arriving. One new mum didn’t know how to feed her calf, and it was getting thinner every day. Noel had the idea to drive his baby tractor out to get it away from a very cranky mother. He got it onto the trailer and I held it down while the mother ran after the tractor. I jumped off and raced to open the gate, scared of what the cow might do, but she gave up the chase and we were able to hand feed the little one. It grew up to be a lovely cow.
One of the cows craved chook (chicken) food. She broke into the barn and the chook shed, and followed me around the yard trying to get at the grain when I fed the hens. She became a big, heavy-headed pet. Annoying, as she gobbled up the expensive feed and broke things.
Twenty years later, we have things more under control. The three acre garden is full of roses, trees and exotic flowers in memory of our son and we have raised lots of money for the Leukaemia Foundation through being open to the public. We are surrounded by beautiful scenery and many birds visit and sing their little hearts out.
Being a farmer’s wife is very different and enjoyable from my life in Sydney but I have no thoughts of moving.