THE FAMILY FARM

Alex Hotchin is a cartographer, illustrator and storyteller. She seeks to explore the world by foot and bicycle and never leaves home without her sketchbook. To see more of her artwork, visit alexhotchin.com

Our family farm lies among the foothills of the Great Dividing Range. We had just met, this farm and I, when I created this map. The compact undulations of hill, valley and meandering creek were thrilling, and I set out to get to know them all over many days— exploring, recording and drawing.

I traced the pathways: creek, gully, animal track, road and fence. A hidden fern valley and a tiny waterfall appear at the western corner of the page. Caves, big enough to crouch in, punctuate a hill—there is evidence that they are favourite siesta spots for roos and wallabies. As I surveyed the stands of trees, I recorded their scatterings, lingering longer at the older sentinels. Laid over the rooted and eroded are the transient parts—paw prints, the homes of water dragons, goannas and eagles. Significant personal stories make up the final layer: where Buzz is buried, or the place where Snuffy the possum sleeps in his paint tin full of nails.

It is an interwoven story of the world that is alive on our family farm. It pays respect to all things: the plants and animals that inhabit it and the events that have occurred here. Strangely, it is not a place where any of us live, but it’s where we all gather to be together. We have always been country people and this place retains that connection to soil, sky and freedom of movement. It’s a place to belong.

Years have passed since the making of this drawing. I have explored much more, and an updated map would be bigger, packed full of many more observations and events. My visits over the years have given me the delight found in returning to the same patch of soil many times over. To see flood and drought; the water dragons disappear and then return; the grasses take hold and seed. Last year we made the discovery of a patch of wild orange trees at the base of a lantana hill, in a cloud of caper white butterflies, with the superb fairy-wrens visiting for a butterfly feast. The fruit tasted like passionfruit with a bitter aftertaste.

I continue to store in my memory the new discoveries and adventures and, as the farm and I become more familiar with each other, I wonder how different the new map will look. n