14
Rex It was a Spotted Pardalote (Pardalotus punctatus) – I didn’t know that then, but I do now. A tiny fellow of barely ten centimetres long, grey-brown upper-parts, a black crown, yellow breeches, a red tail and lovely white spots. Seeing this most handsome tiny be-spotted fellow, at arms length, is enough to make any day special - but this day was to be so much more. I’d been looking for a bush property since forever. Somewhere to tap into my inner Thoreau, commune with nature, preferably close to the coast, and as Anna Karenina desired – ‘blow the dust from my soul’. I loved the city life of Melbourne with its great art, music, food and culture but I needed the stillness of the bush and somewhere to escape. I dreamed of having somewhere where I could unspool and let the surrounding nature seep into me, somewhere not too far from a nice longboard friendly wave, somewhere that my wife could engage in her hobbies and share my nature immersion, and where my two teenage daughters could relax, find quiet time and have space to do their own thing. It was April 2013 and today was the day of final inspection of 25 acres of rare acaridan beauty in the Pennyroyal valley. The day I was to sign on the dotted line and handed over the deposit. As I drove down the driveway, I felt a sense of nervous wonderment and an overwhelming responsibility, to both my family and myself. There was a clearing of two acres or so with a small orchard, a bright northerly aspect, all cradled to the southerly points by dry forest with mature trees and falling away to the north into a treed gully. As I parked the car and looked around, a spritely old gent ambled over to me and introduced himself as ‘Rex’ – the owner. Rex was barely five and half feet tall, with a firm and wiry build and the slow deliberate stride of a country gentleman. He had a thick cloud of grey hair with a matching beard, dark eyes and a possum-like gentle face. A flannelette shirt, tucked in to jeans, with a trusty old belt and well-worn boots. Rex was a picture of rude rural health, fit as the proverbial fiddle. It seemed quite possible that he came from this land. He had seen 82 summers on this earth and it was as if you could plant him, stand him in some compost and horse manure and he’d see another 82
summers. He had been clearing a few trees and chopping some firewood. He was, it seems, how I imagined an older version of myself. For several hours he spoke and I listened carefully, in a dreamlike state. He had planned to build and live here after establishing the Berry Farm next door back in 1980. But life and time just ran away from him and it was now sadly too late. He told me all about the history of the property; the making of the old wood shed that was cut and milled onsite, how and when to control various invasive weed species, the structure of the dams, the enormous variety of flora and fauna, the seasonal creeks in the gullies. He took me through the orchard, “The Mariposa plums have been prolific and delicious. And the Beurre Bosc Pears are sweet and juicy but no luck with the apples this year” he said. He explained the conservation covenant that he arranged to be placed on the land by Trust for Nature and the ensuing audit performed by their Ecologists which yielded a delightfully varied list of wonder - the Sugar Gliders, the Echidnas, the stand of rare Brooker Gums (E.Brookiana) in the south east corner (generally only found in Tasmania) and the jewel in the crown - the 25 acres of old growth Messmate (E.Obliqua). He had a white binder in his tree root like hands - full of contacts for local tradesmen, hardware stores, local Landcare newsletters, contact details for the guy who owned the bee hives by the front dam - all carefully filed along other bits and pieces of useful information; “Call Simon if you need any fencing done” he said. As we stood there admiring the property, we both agreed that the land needed more of a custodian than an owner. I shook Rex’s hand and thanked him. I was about to set off to see the Real Estate agent. “You will always be welcome here Rex”, I said and with a tear in his eye, Rex gave me his blessing to become that custodian. As we spoke, a little bird, a Spotted Pardalote, flitted down from a nearby Messmate branch a little above head height and seemed to be feeding on the ground at our feet. We were both quiet – just watching – admiring the beauty of it all. Maurice Clark A bird watching, book reading, guitar playing, motorcycling, bush walking, surfing nature lover - who bounces between Brunswick and his 25 acre hideaway in the Otways on a very regular basis
