Section: Features Edition: 1 - All-round Country
Emotional salvation is there for the taking, far from the city's madding crowd, says John Stapleton
ALL my life I've wanted somewhere to escape: somewhere I could be secure. Finally I've found it: Tambar Springs, a village in the middle of nowhere between Gunnedah and Coonabarabran in northern NSW.
How corny to have become a tree-changer; to fit into a recognisable demographic, baby boomers searching for sanctuary a half century after they were young. Its claimed population of 103 is probably an exaggeration. ``This could be the beginning of a very happy life,'' said the real estate blurb. Clever.
My teenage children shriek in horror at the mere thought I might take them there, into a primitive place without computers, parties, movies or mobile phones. I usually go alone.
The last time there was any real money in Tambar was last century during the wool boom. Now, everything is in flux; much of it is decaying, paint peeling off the walls. A few of the worker's cottages have been renovated. The bowling club, with views across the Liverpool Plains, one of Australia's richest agricultural areas, is long abandoned along with the crumbling tennis court next to myhouse.
My children are used to the consumer luxuries of the age. They argue over which is the best of the half dozen Thai restaurants in walking distance of home and pester for chocolate gelato from Bar Italia in Leichhardt, which they maintain is the best in Sydney.
To them the idea that their grandparents may not have worn shoes to school is nothing but a rustic fantasy. But in Tambar Springs, echoes of tougher times are everywhere, in humble houses and sensible vegetable gardens; in simple tastes and low expectations.
Sometimes, in the sparse few streets that constitute the village, people just stand in their front yards, beers planted in stubbie holders, staring at the distant hills, listening as if there were a message in the wind. If you ask what they're looking at, they reply truthfully enough: ``Nothing.''
With a certain reputation in the area for being a bit feral, the centre of all life in Tambar is its legendary pub. Certainly the town has its share of heavy drinkers.
It is something of a ritual to gather on the veranda and watch the sunset; the ribbons of pastel orange, pink and mauve across the plains and the distant hills. I love it there.
In Sydney, 10,000 people walk past my inner-city home every day and the street outside is packed with cars. I have begun to wonder if it's worthwhile. The population is preyed upon by parasites, politicians and parking cops, their daily working lives an unending grind.
Sometimes I fantasise that one day the whole city will stop; that the government will impose one more toll or tax and everyone, sitting in those endless traffic jams, will step out of their cars, throw up their hands and yell: ``It's not worth it any more.''
Then the exodus begins, and they all go to find their own Tambar Springs, their own piece of the world, without deranged street alcoholics driven mad on ice shouting as you walk past. Where you can leave your front door open and think nothing of it.
As I have grown older I have become disgusted with blithering incompetence and over-regulation. My taxes are spent on numerous things I simply don't agree with: the war in Iraq, bumbling state governments, dysfunctional and ineffective bureaucracies, farcical courts and lazy politicians.
The country has gone to the dogs, as my peers are apt to say, escape is the only solution. Find a place of your own far away, and stay there.
And so it was, in this curmudgeonly state of mind, that I came to Tambar Springs, a place on the planet where my efforts are rewarded, my achievements my own. In Tambar Springs, I climb up on the roof, painting, and looked at the humble 1 1/2 hectares around me. It's all mine.
For years I surfed the net, setting the parameters for under $100,000. Even now you can buy a slice of Australia in that price range. I don't know why everyone doesn't do it. There are always little houses in the middle of nowhere, shacks on lonely stretches near Ivanhoe, timbered hectares in the Snowy Mountains, ideal for that getaway you have always desired.
And thus began my slow efforts to fix the house, to make a place where people would be happy to come. When I first arrived, it was in the middle of the drought. The ground was parched and bare, and I looked across the desolate scene and thought: ``What have I done now?''
But as time has passed, there's been no buyer regret. The rains have come; the grass is thick and green. I've finished painting the interior; and am now working on the outside. Next comes floor sanding.
I sometimes think there's a ghost in the place. Her name's Marge. She's a little like my grandmother, who was never happier than when she was cooking, pulling scones and cakes out of the oven, loading up the dray to visit relatives on outlying farms. Marge, I imagine, was a product of her times, decent, hardworking, proud of her garden and her independence. She is pleased I've started work on the place. She wants to get back her status of having the best house in the village. I've just planted 15 climbing roses around the place. She particularly likes roses.
Sometimes I write about her:
``There had been no children, after Frank had left for the Great War and never come home. She longed for children all her life, but instead she became the village's most popular aunt, her house a place where children were always clambering around looking for a biscuit. What made her most proud was the way some of the young men would visit after moving into town, the way they would sit on her veranda, drink cold cordial and talk about their hopes and dreams.
``They reminded her of Frank, although they mustn't know that. She made a natural grandmotherly figure, and she didn't disillusion them. It would never occur to any of these young men to think of her in any other way, as they poured out their stories.''
The dreams of today's locals are not grand. They just want to be settling far away from trouble, enjoy the smell of lavender, roses in bloom, chokos growing in profusion over the water tank.
Each time I go back to the city I shudder at the pressure of it all, our stressful lives, the snail trails we make through the urban jungle. Once again, near work, I spot the dismal ice addicts skulking around the doctor's surgery.
Once again I watch the chained office workers, those modern slaves, heading for the overcrowded trains.
Why do people do it to themselves? No wonder so many are leaving Sydney, going bush and staying there; living out their days amid the sleepy drone of bees and insects adrift on the summer air, in their own secret bolt-hole, their own piece of heaven.
ALL my life I've wanted somewhere to escape: somewhere I could be secure. Finally I've found it: Tambar Springs, a village in the middle of nowhere between Gunnedah and Coonabarabran in northern NSW.
How corny to have become a tree-changer; to fit into a recognisable demographic, baby boomers searching for sanctuary a half century after they were young. Its claimed population of 103 is probably an exaggeration. ``This could be the beginning of a very happy life,'' said the real estate blurb. Clever.
My teenage children shriek in horror at the mere thought I might take them there, into a primitive place without computers, parties, movies or mobile phones. I usually go alone.
The last time there was any real money in Tambar was last century during the wool boom. Now, everything is in flux; much of it is decaying, paint peeling off the walls. A few of the worker's cottages have been renovated. The bowling club, with views across the Liverpool Plains, one of Australia's richest agricultural areas, is long abandoned along with the crumbling tennis court next to myhouse.
My children are used to the consumer luxuries of the age. They argue over which is the best of the half dozen Thai restaurants in walking distance of home and pester for chocolate gelato from Bar Italia in Leichhardt, which they maintain is the best in Sydney.
To them the idea that their grandparents may not have worn shoes to school is nothing but a rustic fantasy. But in Tambar Springs, echoes of tougher times are everywhere, in humble houses and sensible vegetable gardens; in simple tastes and low expectations.
Sometimes, in the sparse few streets that constitute the village, people just stand in their front yards, beers planted in stubbie holders, staring at the distant hills, listening as if there were a message in the wind. If you ask what they're looking at, they reply truthfully enough: ``Nothing.''
With a certain reputation in the area for being a bit feral, the centre of all life in Tambar is its legendary pub. Certainly the town has its share of heavy drinkers.
It is something of a ritual to gather on the veranda and watch the sunset; the ribbons of pastel orange, pink and mauve across the plains and the distant hills. I love it there.
In Sydney, 10,000 people walk past my inner-city home every day and the street outside is packed with cars. I have begun to wonder if it's worthwhile. The population is preyed upon by parasites, politicians and parking cops, their daily working lives an unending grind.
Sometimes I fantasise that one day the whole city will stop; that the government will impose one more toll or tax and everyone, sitting in those endless traffic jams, will step out of their cars, throw up their hands and yell: ``It's not worth it any more.''
Then the exodus begins, and they all go to find their own Tambar Springs, their own piece of the world, without deranged street alcoholics driven mad on ice shouting as you walk past. Where you can leave your front door open and think nothing of it.
As I have grown older I have become disgusted with blithering incompetence and over-regulation. My taxes are spent on numerous things I simply don't agree with: the war in Iraq, bumbling state governments, dysfunctional and ineffective bureaucracies, farcical courts and lazy politicians.
The country has gone to the dogs, as my peers are apt to say, escape is the only solution. Find a place of your own far away, and stay there.
And so it was, in this curmudgeonly state of mind, that I came to Tambar Springs, a place on the planet where my efforts are rewarded, my achievements my own. In Tambar Springs, I climb up on the roof, painting, and looked at the humble 1 1/2 hectares around me. It's all mine.
For years I surfed the net, setting the parameters for under $100,000. Even now you can buy a slice of Australia in that price range. I don't know why everyone doesn't do it. There are always little houses in the middle of nowhere, shacks on lonely stretches near Ivanhoe, timbered hectares in the Snowy Mountains, ideal for that getaway you have always desired.
And thus began my slow efforts to fix the house, to make a place where people would be happy to come. When I first arrived, it was in the middle of the drought. The ground was parched and bare, and I looked across the desolate scene and thought: ``What have I done now?''
But as time has passed, there's been no buyer regret. The rains have come; the grass is thick and green. I've finished painting the interior; and am now working on the outside. Next comes floor sanding.
I sometimes think there's a ghost in the place. Her name's Marge. She's a little like my grandmother, who was never happier than when she was cooking, pulling scones and cakes out of the oven, loading up the dray to visit relatives on outlying farms. Marge, I imagine, was a product of her times, decent, hardworking, proud of her garden and her independence. She is pleased I've started work on the place. She wants to get back her status of having the best house in the village. I've just planted 15 climbing roses around the place. She particularly likes roses.
Sometimes I write about her:
``There had been no children, after Frank had left for the Great War and never come home. She longed for children all her life, but instead she became the village's most popular aunt, her house a place where children were always clambering around looking for a biscuit. What made her most proud was the way some of the young men would visit after moving into town, the way they would sit on her veranda, drink cold cordial and talk about their hopes and dreams.
``They reminded her of Frank, although they mustn't know that. She made a natural grandmotherly figure, and she didn't disillusion them. It would never occur to any of these young men to think of her in any other way, as they poured out their stories.''
The dreams of today's locals are not grand. They just want to be settling far away from trouble, enjoy the smell of lavender, roses in bloom, chokos growing in profusion over the water tank.
Each time I go back to the city I shudder at the pressure of it all, our stressful lives, the snail trails we make through the urban jungle. Once again, near work, I spot the dismal ice addicts skulking around the doctor's surgery.
Once again I watch the chained office workers, those modern slaves, heading for the overcrowded trains.
Why do people do it to themselves? No wonder so many are leaving Sydney, going bush and staying there; living out their days amid the sleepy drone of bees and insects adrift on the summer air, in their own secret bolt-hole, their own piece of heaven.
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