I’m a real beach girl at heart. Always have been. But when I was a kid, I was ‘lucky’ enough to grow up with a farm about an hour and a half out of the city. I wish I could tell you that I loved it. That I grew up rolling around in the big green paddocks, that I enjoyed the peace and quiet that came with having no television or internet, just a landline. But in truth, as a kid, I found being at the farm for any more than 24 hours isolating and with a little too much room for introspection. As certainly not the least anxious child, it also didn’t help that you had to watch for leeches on long walks and snakes in the summer.

My cousins had grown up on a farm too, outside of Adelaide, but with four children in the house, it always felt a little more like the Weasleys to me – sliding down the bannisters and hand-me-down clothes. Our farm, outside of Sydney, was needed by my parents for the relief it provided from city life, for the quiet it possessed. Think less Weasleys, more 90s chic meets Dad’s farm roots. 

Growing up, I was often told how much I’d value it as I grew older. Boy, did this sentence piss me off. How did they know what I’d value? Or who I’d be when I was older? But of course, in hindsight, that exclamation wasn’t really ever specific to me. It was specific to ageing. And though we no longer own that house, I think about it often now as an adult. All the stars you could see in the smog-free nights. The warmth of the reliable stone fireplace. The option to step out of the online society for a day or two. The vast expanse of space. 

This last week, I was craving exactly that.

I wanted fields of green. Animals to pet. Quiet time. I wanted my day’s view to be less ‘inner city streets’ and more like a ‘Country Living’ magazine.

In short, I just wanted to get away. I think deep down, I’ve been missing the European countryside where we’ve spent the last few summers. I’ve been missing our second home (trust ME to get a second citizenship just at the time the world shuts down and I can’t make any use of it).

We packed up the car and with two nights to spare, headed north. Just over 3 hours north, to be exact, to the town of Scone. Famous for horses and the sport of Polo. A friend’s parents had kindly offered to have us for the night at their home where they, in fact, breed Polo horses. Cresting the hill on the driveway, looking out over the property, I clasped my hands to my face. It might be the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. In fact, it might classify as more of an estate than a house. With horse stables, high ceilings, a cream rendered wash and a kitchen fireplace, I was immediately in love. The memo I had given Evan for the week was green fields and horses and he had over-delivered. 

We bring our bags in and the house opens up to have the most beautiful, lived-in nooks and crannies. Paintings I can’t take my eyes off of. Big tall cupboards. An antique writer’s desk. We sit on the patio with deep mugs of coffee as Evan and our hosts catchup on their latest news. He’s known them for years and years and the familiarity is warm and welcoming. We thank them for having us and I compliment the house, possibly in a way that I imagine becomes slightly overwhelming. We are told dinner is at 7 and to make ourselves at home so we head down to the stables and find ourselves a quad bike. We head out across the property and onto the top of one of the ridges to watch the light fade for the evening. We rev our way across much-welcome puddles on the land and I have memories of opening and closing farm gates as a kid. For the last three years, this land has been almost bone-dry. We ask what the area is like now that rains have come and are told that you can feel the difference every time you interact with the community now. The rains have brought a new lease on the land and life to the farmers. We are told of the frosts that have been arriving on these past few winters’ mornings, slowly melting and watering the grass.

We head up to another field and find the young horses, waiting for us like expectant puppies. They are only a few years old and still a little cheeky.  They bound up to us and demand scratches. As I walk across the field, it appears I have become a favourite to one beautiful rich earth-brown mare. If I stop for too long, I feel her nose in the middle of my back pushing me onward. If I stop nuzzling for too long, I get a little nip on my sleeve. They are forward and fearless, the way I guess they need to be to play a role on the polo field. More than anything they are magnificent to take in, up on this hilltop slope. Sturdy and feisty and a little bossy and my time with them is exactly what I was after, albeit a little wilder than I’d expected. 

We head back to the house and settle in for the night in front of the fire. The crackling of an all-day fire as the night cools is such a simple luxury. We drink red wine, eat delicious roast chicken, crispy potatoes, fresh salad and creamy fennel. We play cards and put the world to rights with talk of boats, new loves, birthdays, the current global situation and recipes. I win the first hand of cards and spend the rest of the night fruitlessly defending my title. And then we retire, a few wines deep.

In the morning, I step into the bathroom onto the heated tiles and let out a pleasant sigh. I wash my face, throw my jeans and jumper on and make my way to the kitchen. The house is peacefully quiet so I make a jug of coffee, place myself in an armchair in front of the still burning fire and pick up ‘My Life on the Road’ to read with the morning. It’s not long before others enter the kitchen and we make toast with local honey, boiled eggs and another jug of coffee for good measure. We could sit and chat in front of the fire for hours but by mid-morning, it’s time to make tracks. It feels both like we’ve been in this dream home for 5 days and 5 minutes and I’m sad to leave. We farewell our generous hosts and head off for Barrington Tops. We are told the drive is beautiful and so with a little petrol in our tank, we turn left at the interchange.

Barrington Tops is the ridgeway that makes up the World Heritage Listed National Park. The winding road ascending the ridge does make me a little nervy, I admit. The road is unpaved, and the recent weather has left a fair number of grooves and holes around but when we reach the ‘top’, the view is breath-taking. Field after field of varying greens, as far as the eye can see. Dusty oatmeal-coloured roads wind through the landscape. It looks like a painting. We get out of the car and try to take it all in. We pass only one other car on the whole drive. It’s another couple who offer to close the gates behind us. 

As we climb further across the ridge top, we are met by a real surprise. Snow! At first, it’s just little handfuls of snow on the ground amongst the grass but as we climb higher, the snow begins the cover all you can see. We stop the car in the middle of the deserted road and get out. It’s obviously not long before snowballs are being hurled. We climb up the sides of the road, shoes slippery on the fresh ground and take too many photos. With winter fading behind us and warm weather already on its way, it seems so strange to see snow here. It’s been so long, I had almost forgotten what childlike enthusiasm snow inspires.

Back in the car, we continue marvelling at the view until we come out the other side a few hours later. Stopping by the grocery store, we pick up some provisions for the night and some picnic staples. We drive a few minutes out of town and turn off the ‘main’ road before pulling over in front of a farm field, drawing down the back of the car and seating ourselves on the lip of the boot, making makeshift sandwiches for lunch. 

Not long after, we reach familiar roads and take a right turn into our little Farm Stay for the night. We are in Millers Forest, a tiny area neither of us had heard of until yesterday when we booked the Airbnb. It’s a little old converted farm shed on a homestead with all the regulars – cows, chickens, pigs, goats and a beautiful black farm cat named Simon, who immediately captures our hearts.

It’s not far off sunset and we settle ourselves in. It’s small and cosy and perfect for the night. I pull out my camera and open the blinds in the kitchen to find a collection of big cow eyes staring straight at me through the window. It might be the best thing I’ve ever seen out of a window frame. We step outside and find a wheelie bin filled with food for us to feed them. They are certainly more like pets than livestock, their long blue tongues curling around the food in our hands. Heads nuzzle against our legs while others lean against our hands for pats. They are smoochy and ready for food and any scraps that get dropped are immediately picked up by little fearless Simon. As the night starts to cool, the sky turns all shades of pinks and purples and we open a bottle of wine and sit out on the perfectly positioned, lone wooden bench to watch the sun go down. It becomes clear very quickly that Simon is ours for the night. He makes himself at home, prodding the cushions to make himself a bed and quickly falls asleep curled in a ball. He’s clearly still a kitten and with his piercing citrus eyes, there is no way either of us are taking any issue with sharing our home for the night with this furry feline. 

With dinner made a few hours later, we sit on the couch and read quietly. I can’t remember how long it’s been that we’ve had a night without Wi-Fi but the hush is a welcome addition to our stay. I turn my pages, trying not to disturb Simon who has curled his way onto my lap. It’s an early night and we crawl into bed and turn the TV on, flicking between the brilliant British ‘Would I Lie to You” and the beautiful film ‘The Intern’. I’m asleep before either of them are finished. I wake during the night with Simon sleeping between us and as I roll over, he finds his way into the nook of my arm. It’s such a sweet feeling, that an animal would feel so comfortable here. We keep each other warm for the night and I don’t even mind that his midnight witching hour means I am awoken a few times to his meowing chatter. 

In the morning, we sit in the sun with coffees and last night’s potatoes fried for breakfast. I roll out my yoga mat and stretch my kinks and aches out from so long in the car. We pack up our bags and take the morning slow. It’s hot. Properly hot. And we soak in the sun. It’s a quick shower and then off we go.

We spend the day meandering home through wineries and cellar doors. We make friends with the French couple who own the beautiful Black Creek Farm Winery, we take in the 360 views from Audrey Wilkinson vineyards and share truly delicious wood-fired pizzas in the Tuscan-style garden of Bimbadgen estate. It’s nice to see these areas starting to get whispers of tourists. They must need it.

We arrive back home in the city after a fair drive and make poor excuses for dinner before crawling into bed with hot teas. I’m asleep before 10pm, grateful for my bed but wishing we could have stayed away a little longer. It feels like we fit 7 days into 3 and the long car rides were full of James Taylor albums and long talks. I didn’t truly think I’d ever crave ‘the farm’ the way everyone said I would, but it turns out, I do. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve really become an outdoor cat. My paws with little hardened pads, like Simon’s. With winter ending and circumstances changing and months going by, it does feel like a little period of time is closing out. A new phase coming. September just around the corner. I don’t know what’s in store next, but I don’t see myself needing any less space any time soon. In the words of the great James Taylor, “I guess my feet know where they want me to go, walking on a country road”.