But she didn't die

We've been here at The Stones for a little more than 11 years now. Sometimes still I wander around with a clear memory of how it all looked that auspicious September, when we first sank a spade into the earth. It would have seemed like an almost impossible task of titanic proportions to get to where we are today, given the limited time and lack of funds in those early years.

But bit by bit, project by project, little miracles happen, meshing together like the emerald weave of an intricate cloth. The effort involved becomes lost in the process, the march of time and the burgeoning of the garden. 

Creating a garden in a place such as this is like learning a new language that changes as the seasons unfurl. You never stop learning. But there are, of course, clues to guide you. And still to this day I am fascinated by the things that thrive with no help from anyone, pruned by the rabbits and the roos, and watered only by what the sky provides – which can be nothing for two months of the year or more.

Central Victoria is a land that was turned upside-down during the gold rush. All around us here at The Stones are the relics and ruins of a promising town, mostly abandoned when the gold ran out, lost to neglect and the elements.

A multitude of old cottages and even towns long gone are pincushioned in the landscape by the crumbling remains of stone walls, sometimes whole edifices, dotted with the voids of windows and doors. But still going strong are the remains of their gardens. Sometimes the houses have vanished completely without trace, but a telltale crop of fruit trees and a drift of daffodils pinpoint where one once stood. 

One such place – a mere stone’s throw away from ours, and just metres from a cliff plummeting to the Yandoit Creek below – was occupied by a woman who had tended a semi-formal garden with all the quintessential old favourites. Lilacs, plumbagos and stoic quinces are contained within a great grey hedge of wormwood, beneath which an impressive array of bulbs and iris grow. All these plants are still going strong, even though the house was reduced to rubble many decades ago.

Local legend has it that one particular evening, after attending a local dance at the hall across the road, the owner of this house strayed from the path in tipsy immoderation and stumbled clean off the cliff, falling 40 metres to the creek bed below. As our old neighbour relayed the details of this shocking tale, she added in a voice that was sung, rather than spoken: “But she didn’t die!”

And neither, it seems, did her garden.

The point of my ramblings is that I always take note of the things that grow well, with no or little attention. Out here it’s the things in the ratty yards and the unkempt gardens of forgotten places that are the clues to success, the clues to survival in this place of frigid winters and searing summers, full of rabbits and roos.

January garden notes

• There’s been a rabbit plague these last few months, and it’s a weekly occurrence to return home to new rabbit holes throughout the property. But since a family of brown goshawks took up residence in the garden, the number of rabbits has dwindled. Nature, thankfully, is always seeking a balance.
• The long, hot and dry weather continues here, north of the ranges. We had the promise of relief by way of big, lumbering clouds and the rumble of thunder. But so far only the mere suggestion of rain. January so far has been a parched one, and the sheep are now being hand-fed lucerne.
• I have been weighing up things with an eye towards autumn. There’s nothing more romantic than the flux of the emerging autumn garden and the shambolic decay of spent summer growth. But just how much decay should be preserved? “To chop or not to chop.” That is the question!
• We have two open gardens this autumn to plan for. The Australian Landscape Convention tour in March, and Open Gardens Victoria, at the end ofApril. The garden must be as otherworldly as can be, so our planning now and for the next couple of months is paramount.
• We had a five-foot eastern brown snake in our kitchen, which Grant and I calmly ushered out with a broom. We now see the same snake every week around the house grounds and we have named her Cecelia.
• Bathroom renovations have meant a complete rebuild of the outside as well as the inside, so these next few weeks I will be building steps and walls to anchor this new end of the house to the garden. It’s opened up a whole new range of possibilities, but along with it a ripple effect of unexpected changes and alterations.
• Colombo the peacock lost his true love Kandy and four eggs to a fox. We’ve all been devastated, but the good news is there might be two or three new peahens on the horizon.

Catch up on Jeremy's previous stories here or find him on Instagram at @thestonescentralvictoria