Learning ‘the ways of a place’ is a gardener’s eternal duty and pleasure, writes Jeremy Valentine.
Words Jeremy Valentine
SLEEPING isn’t my strong point, that’s for certain, and on top of that I’m a compulsive worrier. So, at the witching hour, it’s not uncommon for me to be bolt awake with my mind teetering on the edge of the proverbial rabbit hole.
One thing I learned about 10 years ago, when our garden here at The Stones in central Victoria was in its infancy, was that laying out garden plans in the sketchbook of my mind (or in this case, the ceiling above the bed) recalibrated my thoughts and shuttled them to a much happier and more peaceful place.
Looking back now, some of my best ideas have been hatched this way.
Grant and I are blessed here on these 16 pastoral acres just north of the ranges with a collection of historic farm buildings around a humble stone house of Cornish heritage, built in 1857.
The land is naturally fascinating, full of curious nooks and crannies, each spot so different from the other. There are craggy rocks, cliffs and meadows, and two creeks either side, each with its own mysterious ways. One is seasonal; the other is reliable year-round, full of redfin and the odd platypus, and gilded by a row of titanic Lombardy poplars.
The garden (pictured left), which is three acres around the house grounds, is governed by a ridge of basalt at the end of an ancient lava flow. It’s shaped by the land, but also by the climate of searing summer heat and savage winter frosts, and sometimes weeks without a drop of rain.
Creating a garden here in a place of such extremes is a lovely conundrum, and had us hooked from the beginning. We are seemingly forever locked in a happy suspense of dreaming up the next part of a jigsaw puzzle, whose pieces are as elusive as the wind, and as peculiar as the landscape around us.
People more “spooky-minded” than me often talk about the mysteries of the waters here, just north of the spa town of Daylesford. It’s a land rich in magnetic, geological bounty and set upon ley lines, the mystical energy paths thought to encircle the globe. According to local lore, this mysterious force can accept you in the fold, or block you out like the great “door-bitch” of the universe.
Funny, perhaps, but it seems to be true.
There are some city-dwellers (such as Grant and I, once) who think that a pair of RM Williams will buy them passage to the “romantic” life of a farmer. More often than not, they end up scuttling back to the big smoke with their tails between their legs and their pashminas trailing behind them.
But truly understand the earth and the ways of the place – as a gardener inadvertently does, with grit under your nails and your head in the clouds – and it’s a gold pass and red-carpet welcome all the way.
A strong connection to the environment is everything out here. It is, after all, the thing that unites us all. There’s a melody to the landscape that is restorative and joyfully felt. Birdsong and the insistent thrum of cicadas on a hot summer’s day are the perfect soundtrack for fossicking about in the weeds, in the shadows of the garden. And the placement of ancient stones in a new wall project is a mindful meditation like no other.
It’s the sheer joy of creative expression in the process of building something solid and true. How amazing the elements are when your hands are wrangling the very rocks of the earth you stand upon.
These are the simple moments that don’t cost a cent, which I reckon are the most enjoyable and memorable of all.
Grant and I were sitting on the verandah one afternoon in late March 2016 (I think it was), watching inky storm clouds gather. It was particularly dry that year. The sheep had been sent to the neighbours, where there were still skerricks of feed. The whole valley was reduced to dust. The trees were screaming for water, as was the brown, barren ground. How desperately we all wanted rain.
And then it came.
First a few drops staining the flags on the verandah and speckling the roof with a pattering on the tin – one of my all-time favourite sounds. Then it poured for hours.
You could almost feel the landscape shift and revive. Everything smelled incredible with the baritone scent of wet earth and dampened chaff. And the air was electric with relief.
These are the simple pleasures of a paradise found – for me, at least – on our historic little farm on the esoteric ley lines of heaven.
