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Daydreaming about an escape to the country is among the finest traditions of my people. By that, I mean apartment-dwelling millennials with extensive collections of hiking gear and a rainbow of ethical fleece.<\/p>\n
We stream from the cities at every opportunity in search of wild coastlines and quaint farm stays. We live long weekend to long weekend, taking big gulps of fresh air before returning to our busy lives. The Sunday afternoon drives back get a little harder every time.<\/p>\n
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Shantel Wetherall made a tree change but found it tougher than she\u2019d expected.<\/span><\/p>\n After years of short trips in which I single-handedly sustained the Australian chutney industry, it just wasn\u2019t enough anymore. I\u2019d been saving hard for my first home, and when I was faced with the choice between a tiny inner-city apartment and a fixer-upper in the outer-outer \u2019burbs, the idea of a tree change started bubbling up.<\/p>\n Then COVID came, and, like so many others, I took the plunge and said goodbye to city life. Stuff waiting, I thought. I\u2019m an independent woman. I can do it myself. But I was wrong.<\/p>\n I\u2019m not completely new to living regionally. The best bits of my childhood were spent in a tiny village in the English countryside. But there are things I wish I\u2019d known before letting fond memories and enthusiasm spur me to spend my life savings on a country pile.<\/p>\n I was sold before I\u2019d reached the end of the winding driveway. The huge manna gum at the back door and the fairy-wren hopping about with his harem were the icing on the cake. With my dog, life and all my hopes chucked in the car, I headed north to start a new life on Djaara country in central Victoria.<\/p>\n The house was a dream \u2013 until the rats came.<\/span>Credit: <\/span>Shantel Wetherall <\/cite><\/p>\n There was trouble in paradise before dawn. I woke early, made a celebratory cup of tea and headed out to take in the serenity. It was a crisp day in June, mist hovered a foot off the paddocks, and the first rays of sun sparkled on the wreckage strewn across the grass. Machinery parts, mattress guts, rusty metal and rotten wood. The contents of several sheds spewed out over my dream home in the bush. Clearing up the previous owner\u2019s liberal interpretation of \u201cvacant possession\u201d ultimately took many months, thousands of dollars and a good few neighbours with trailers. The seller was a notorious local larrikin and had run rings around me, my building inspector and the lawyer. Expensive lessons were learned.<\/p>\n Then the rodents came. They scratched their way through the cladding, into the attic, into the living room walls, into the pantry, the kitchen cabinets, the air conditioning ducts and the fuse box, chewing and pooping as they went. Mice ran across my pillows at night. Rats made direct eye contact with me and stood their ground in broad daylight. When my neighbour warned me that it could reach plague proportions, I knew I was in way over my head. Thank god for a referral to a \u201cpest-elimination specialist\u201d. Thankfully, he did his job very well.<\/p>\n Rather than spending my days sharing highlight reels of farmers markets and wicker baskets, this has been one of the hardest challenges I\u2019ve ever taken on. Yet it is still, without a doubt, the best experience I\u2019ve ever had. I fell in love with a charming house and some beautiful trees, but falling flat on my face repeatedly is what really showed me why I\u2019m here.<\/p>\n I\u2019d thought quitting the city was the peak of independence. In fact, it\u2019s quite the opposite. Away from urban conveniences, there\u2019s no amount of money or hard work that can insulate you from the reality that we need other people \u2013 and I treasure the new community I\u2019m building. Each stuff-up has forced me to swallow my pride and ask for help, and my neighbours have been incredible (even when they\u2019re popping over to commiserate or crack a joke at my expense). They\u2019ve helped me navigate the setbacks and, in exchange, I\u2019ve helped corral escaped cows, taken on duck-sitting shifts, and pitched in with the clubs and groups that knit everyone together.<\/p>\n You just can\u2019t do it all yourself, and that\u2019s the best bit. Livestock push down fences, \u2019roos jump out on the road, and bushfires don\u2019t care if you\u2019re chatting with your neighbours. There\u2019s no holding onto the modern obsession with hyper-independence if you want to live well out here. Dropping that has been so good for the soul. Most importantly, accepting that you need help from others means you have a country life, not just a country house.<\/p>\n Yes, it\u2019s an adventure. And that\u2019s before I even mention the snakes, rural Tinder or the bedroom-invading sheep.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n