Most of us are too busy to read much at this time of the year, so here’s something I wrote last year, which is just another tale. And if you don’t read it that doesn’t matter either!

“I had only the vaguest of directions, in the form of a land survey map and some handwritten notes from the solicitors, but as I neared what I thought was about my destination, I could sense my heart beginning to beat faster, the excitement palpable; I pulled into the verge. Somewhere down this deserted country road, 100 miles in from the coast north of Sydney, was a five-barred gate. Sure enough 50 metres away there was an old wooden gate, hanging at an odd angle from a large timber post, rather unkempt and unloved; across the top bar was the name, “Standby”, burned into the wood by an untrained hand. A track led through the gums and over a small hillock; clearly no one had travelled this way for a while, so thick was the red dust and the absence of tyre tracks.

So much had happened since I had received that letter from Wilcock & Brown, a firm of solicitors in Sydney, in London two months before, informing me that a long-lost relative had left me a station in New South Wales. Being rather vague about the family tree, I had rung my grandfather, to see if he could enlighten me.

“Come down and see me, dear boy”, more an order than an invitation! A few days later we had had sat around the coffee table in his drawing room, doing a cursory search of some dusty albums and box files. He’d told me how James Ruse, his great great grand-father’s half-brother, had been one of the first European settlers and the first to be deeded land in Australia, thirty acres at Parramatta, west of Sydney. James had prospered and had bought tracts of land as future investments. One was far north of Sydney, which he had let to a fellow settler, who had gradually built up a sizeable holding. Over the years my grandfather had rather lost touch with his extended family relatives in Australia and had no clue as to how the station had come to be left to me.

Grandpa’s parting comment still rang in my ears: “Why don’t you go and have a look? You have nothing to lose, it could be a wonderful adventure and you can come back and tell me all about it.”

Certainly, I had to take a look, if only out of curiosity, but I had no experience of running anything bigger than my back garden, the size of postage stamp, in South London, so I would probably sell the station. After the long flight to Sydney and a few days to get over the jetlag, here I was, north of Newcastle. I remember smiling as I passed a sign on the road to Booti Booti, without knowing how it came to be so named and how I would become intimately involved with those words. Then I spied ‘Standby’ on that gate.

At the top of a rise in the track I caught a glimpse of buildings in the distance, half hidden by gums, with a water tower and fences that formed cattle pens. The nearer I got, details of the main house became clearer, classic colonial ranch style, with a large overhanging roof and wide verandas at both ground and first floor level. I had arranged to meet the man who had been looking after Standby since my relative had died, at noon. It was almost that time now, judging by the position of the sun, burning down from the cloudless sky, and yet there appeared to be no one around. 

I parked my car in the shade of a large barn, walked across to the main house and up the steps to the front door, which opened to my push. Inside, dust lay on everything, on the furniture, across the floors and the windows; my finger ran across the table in the dining room, underneath the dust the surface of a lovingly polished mahogany table, obviously brought out from England many years before. The interior was cool and pleasantly laid out, with the main rooms off the central corridor, and the kitchen at the far end.

I was just about to explore the first floor when steps sounded on the veranda. Framed in the doorway was the slender frame of a woman, a broad-brimmed hat on her head, bare arms and legs, and a flowing skirt; in her right hand was a basket. The strong sunlight made it difficult to see any detail of her face and I walked back to the front door to introduce myself.

“Good afternoon”, I said, “my name’s Robert Harrison; you are?”

As I came closer, I could see she was probably in her late twenties, her skin the colour of milky coffee with large soulful eyes and a broad smile.

“G’day, I’m Clarissa; I am Winston’s daughter.”

Ah! Yes. Winston was the chap who was looking after the station. She told me he’d been delayed with some cattle about an hour’s ride away.

“Would you like some lunch? I’ve got some cheese and mangoes, and a bottle of beer. Why don’t you sit on the veranda and I will get it.” Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past me and headed for the kitchen. 

I sat in the shade, tasted the most delicious goat’s cheese, slurped my way through a couple of mangoes and quenched my thirst with the beer. Winston arrived about an hour later, riding into the yard on a rather rough looking black mare, accompanied by a cloud of reddish dust. We introduced ourselves and sat on the veranda whilst Winston told me something of the ranch. A hundred thousand acres of cattle station was mine if I wanted it. He suggested that the best way to see what Standby consisted of was to ride the land. He startled me as he yelled at Clarissa to saddle up a horse, but soon we were riding out of the station yard and up the hill to the east. It was late afternoon, the heat of the sun was easier now, and the kangaroos were coming down to the water holes to take their first drink and nibble the short grass. I looked back at the house, already deciding that here was a place I could live. The comparisons with England were few, it was an exciting idea and, although I knew nothing about cattle and running a station, seemed too good to turn down.

What was the alternative?  Whilst I had no illusions about how different and physically demanding it would be, I felt a surge of excitement as I following Winston over the hill and through the gums. We crossed dried-up river beds, through gullies and around ant hills as big as my horse; the air was dry but clear and there was a wonderful smell of eucalyptus. Some three hours later we rode back into the yard in the soft light of dusk; Clarissa came running out and took the reins and led the horses back to the stables.

I gratefully accepted the offer to stay the night and later, lying in bed wide awake, I wondered what I was letting myself in for.”

(To be Continued – maybe)

Richard 26^th December 2025

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS Ideas always welcome!