Tomorrow it will be two weeks since we moved to the farm. The last thirteen days have not exactly been a slow-paced start to country life. We’ve been completely frantic arranging drinking water (a long story deserving a post all to itself – will put a link here soon!), flooring to replace the twenty six year old carpet in the farmhouse, fencing to keep in the future livestock, screens to keep in the toddler, unpacking boxes, and giving the longstanding mice population their marching orders (again, a story in and of itself).
But alongside the busyness, it’s been great getting to know the little nooks and crannies of the farm – the ancient chicken coop hiding in amongst a copse of trees, the pair of curlews that haunt a stand of bamboo, the five guinea fowl that march in every evening around sunset chasing each other and pecking at grass seeds and invisible insects, the tumbledown vegetable garden with kale peeking out beneath a sea of weeds, a pumpkin vine rambling over a dead tree. All relics of the time spent here by the people who lived here before us – twenty-six years of their memories and projects. They were about our age when they moved here and I wonder if they felt the same sense of anticipation mixed with that funny feeling that you’re completely out of your depth.
It feels strange that this place is now ours. We’ve never had a proper home of our own without the spectre of a landlord hovering over us. I keep expecting someone to turn up and demand the place back. It’s a very odd sensation to stand on the deck and know that wherever you look, whichever paddock you can see, you’re responsible for that land. I hope we can do it justice.