Chapter 1: Looking for Land in all the Wrong Places

The family holiday at Pottsville! (And perhaps the genesis of Henry’s aversion to anything nautical.)

I’ve always dreamed of owning a little house by the sea. I doubt I’m alone in this, and like many, the dream started whilst on a family holiday in a rental, having heaps of stress-free fun in someone else’s house. Our family’s favourite location was Northern New South Wales, in particular, the modestly named Pottsville. While waiting for our fish and chip order to be cooked, we’d press our faces to the real estate agency window, along with all the other holiday makers who were not millionaires. We knew we couldn’t afford anything, but we were on holiday, having fun, so we’d pluck out the property brochure with casual confidence and pretend we were in the market.

Usually the brochure would be chucked in the holiday house recycling bin when we left. Sometimes, it would come back with us to Brisbane and be chucked in our recycling bin a week or so later, and by then we could discuss out loud, how crazy expensive seaside real estate was. Mental! You’d have to be an idiot to spend that much on a property.

 Then around the time our youngest son finished high school, Smash put forward the idea of buying a block of land instead of a beach house, somewhere back from the coast a bit, less expensive. Apparently, it had always been his lifelong dream to own a block of land. ‘We can camp!’ He looked excited; he loves camping.

‘Mm,’ I said, without a lot of enthusiasm. In theory, I love the idea of camping but everything about it irritates me – putting up the tent, which somehow always brings out the left brain, right brain differences in our relationship, the grit in bed, the back pain from spending most of the holiday hunched over, how long it takes to make a cup of tea, the way everything is just starting to work when it’s time to leave, but mostly, the lack of comfortable sleep.

Still, the idea of buying anything by the sea was exciting, so we started looking, on-line at first, huddled together on the couch after dinner, scrolling through property after property trying to find something in our price range, moving further and further away from the coastline. All good, Smash assured me – Bryon was too crowded anyway, and the most important thing was having a view. A view that was ours, and nobody else’s.

Fairly early on in the search, we gave up on the ocean view – we were quite a way inland by then. Didn’t matter – it was just some blue stuff; trees were good too. We kept scrolling, bookmarking possible properties to have a look at on the weekend. After three hours, we called it quits for the night and decided to contact the agents during the week to arrange inspections.

‘How many have we got?’ Smash asked.

I checked. ‘Two.’

‘Two?’

‘Well there are heaps to look at, but only two we can afford…and one of them doesn’t really have a view.’ (It did have a tiny bit of a view, but there was someone else’s house in it.)

‘What about the one with the little shed in Federal?’

‘Three million.’

‘Right. What about the block near the highway at Clothiers Creek? We could plant heaps of trees to block out the traffic noise.’

‘Two and a half.’

‘Million?’

‘Mm.’

‘But it’s right next to the highway. That’s shit.’

Smash seemed to be losing interest in his lifelong dream of buying land. More pragmatic than me, perhaps he realised there was no point getting his hopes up for something unattainable. He did however agree to go for a drive the following weekend to check out the one block that was (nearly) affordable and had a view.

‘Even if it’s not what we want, it’ll be good to get a feel for the area, don’t you think?’

‘Spose.’

 So, Mr Enthusiasm and I headed off on the following Saturday morning with a thermos of coffee, directions to the block and the agent, Trevor’s phone number. The traffic flow was erratic; a lot of other Brisbanites seemed to be heading to the border. Frustratingly slow in parts, the cars would all suddenly speed up only to come to a jolting standstill again. In between bouts of whiplash, I kept up a gay monologue about what our new lives would be like once we owned a block of land in the hinterland.

‘We’ll be able to grow bananas and plant heaps of fruit and nut trees. Let’s make a pizza oven. Do you remember that dry stone wall at Sheila’s? We should totally do that.’

‘Does this block have a dwelling?’

‘Not really.’ Not at all.

‘Probably want to get that sorted before the pizza oven.’

‘You should get a tractor!’

Smash made a ‘Mm, maybe’ face, but I could tell his interest was piqued.

‘There’s a creek, apparently. Not running at the moment, but obviously, that’s because of the drought.’ (Not the block’s fault.)

We turned off the highway at Clothiers Creek Road and began the meandering drive west through lush farmland, banana plantations, charming timber homesteads. We kept driving, up hills, higher and higher we climbed; the road got narrower and windier, the bushland denser. I checked the time – in five minutes we’d be meeting Trevor and possibly, our dream block of land. I feel very excited.

Beside me, Smash clicked his jaw and yawned. ‘Any coffee left?’

I took the lid off the thermos and handed it to him. Ahead, a dog eared ‘For Sale’ sign leaned toward us. ‘There’s the sign!’

Smash thrust the thermos back at me to negotiate a parked car and a sharp turn into the near vertical entrance way to the block. Back tyres skidded on leaves and rocks then caught hold; we surged up the hill spraying gravel.

Hunched over the wheel, Smash peered up through the windscreen. ‘Bloody steep’.

‘God, imagine the view!’

‘Where’s the track gone?’

I strained forward as we neared the top. ‘I think we’re at the end of it.’

We stopped the car and got out; I grabbed the door for balance and took in our surroundings. The whole block appeared to be conical – the only spot of reasonably flat ground was covered by our car. Heavily wooded, it was impossible to see anything other than the grey, tan, olive tones of eucalypts. My high spirits slid down through the leaf litter and bumped into a figure emerging out of the jungle below waving a brochure – Trevor, I presumed. I got the distinct impression he’d been taking a leak.

‘How are we?’ he called, wheezing slightly.

‘Great!’ I said.

‘Where did you park?’ Smash asked, sounding suspicious.

Trevor gestured with his brochure. ‘Down on the road. Bit tricky turning around up here.’ He went on to list the block’s virtues: gently sloping block, an abundance of natural forest growth, a stunning view that can be ours if we destroy a large amount of the natural forest growth. ‘STCA, of course,’ he said, nodding.

Subject to council approval. I doubted we would ever see the sky, let alone the ocean. Even spotting Trevor had been tricky.

‘Where’s the creek?’ Smash asked.

‘Down there,’ Trevor said, without turning around. Then he sighed and scratched his eyebrow. He seemed resigned to showing this unusual block of land without hope of a sale. ‘Reversing is the easiest way, mate. I’ll guide you.’

In the car on the way home, we pondered the importance of ‘The View’.

‘I mean…so long as we have privacy and can’t hear neighbours…and a spot to build our dream house.’

Smash nodded. ‘Do you think Trevor was taking a piss when we pulled up?’

I sighed. ‘Probably. How ironic.’

‘Seriously. Who would buy that block? Explains why it’s so cheap.’

I turned in my seat to face him. ‘But that’s just it. It’s not cheap. It’s what we can afford if we draw down heavily on our mortgage, but it’s not cheap. It’s a bloody rip-off.’

We drove for a while in silence, hating the stupid block, and when the traffic slowed to a crawl due to roadworks, Smash let out a long, loud sigh. ‘I don’t know about this hinterland idea, honey.’

‘I don’t either.’

Back home, I made dinner and watched Grand Designs. A couple had made a tree change, wanting a more simple life. They’d set their fireplace into a crazy paved sandstone wall; it looked freaking amazing. I wanted the simple life too. Later, a celebrity chef cooked over coals, using a shovel, mopping his brow. Later still, Poldark came on and even its mud spattered, back breaking drudgery couldn’t put out the spark, the yearning – a pot of hot water on a wood stove, homemade bread pummelled on a worn timber table, the sound of wood splitting and thumping to the ground, an open fire under the stars.

Fire seemed to feature quite strongly in these new, rural daydreams – roaring, crackling and spitting replaced the sound of waves crashing; visions of leaping orange flames overtook sea spray and foam. Perhaps it was just acceptance of our financial position, but I realised, it wasn’t the beach that was important, it was having our own space where we could do whatever we wanted. A space where no one could find us, unless we wanted to be found.

Nothing like a quick and simple trip to the beach. (Pottsville 1997)