Despite being adamant we were not going to buy a run-down farm in the Wheatbelt, Roselyn would not let us go that easily. Having failed to convince us to buy one farm, the real estate agent enthusiastically called us up about many more.
Creatively describing empty, featureless paddocks as ‘having potential’ and one property as ‘having had a near-miss with the new bypass’ (if said bypass had been any closer you could have eaten your dinner off it!). Over the ensuing weeks the price being asked for Roselyn dropped and foolishly we put in an offer, which to be honest, we never thought would be accepted. Luckily or unluckily, depending on your view of what happened next, it was accepted.
I remember going to sleep the first night in the room which had been the parlour. (My ‘grave’ experience had put me off the main bedroom!). I was woken by a ghost train thundering through the countryside or at least that’s what it sounded like. It turned out to be the much more mundane freight train on its way south to Albany. I looked out of the front sash window, the garden was bathed in moonlight, it was a full moon. It was a breathtaking and magical moment. The trees and paddocks all bathed in their silver cloak. So peaceful, not a human sound to be heard. A place where dreams are made.
Dreams of course have a nasty habit of turning into nightmares. Hindsight being what it is, I am sure we would do many many things differently. It has been a ride for sure. Our initial plan was to install my photographic darkroom and studio up there (still living mainly in Perth) alongside a music studio for my husband who is full-time engineer, part-time rock God.
I am not exactly sure when creative hangout was replaced by agricultural boot camp but I think it was around the time four pigs arrived on the farm. It is worth noting we didn’t know one end of a pig from the other back then. Somehow, and I’m blaming the Rock God for it, over a couple of beers with the neighbour a deal was struck whereby we kept said four pigs on the farm; the neighbour would look after them and we would split the profits (sidebar: farming and profits are rare soulmates). So Imogen, Claudia, Madeleine, and Rebecca joined the farm. Shortly after Imogen and Claudia dropped 18 piglets between them. Claudia kindly decided to give birth in the garden after escaping from her pig paddock and firmly refused to go back. A form of organised chaos would reign for the next decade or so.
Thus Spencers Brook Farm was established (we still didn’t know Roselyn’s real name) and we began a steep learning curve. Firstly, we converted the farm to certified organic; then we replaced our initial livestock with rare and heritage breeds; Berkshire pigs, Dexter cattle and Long Horned Wiltshire sheep. After working with 31 butchers we eventually set up our own butchery making the kind of produce we loved – English and French sausages, pork pies, and pates alongside fresh meat. All sold every weekend at farmer’s markets around Perth. It was exhilarating and exhausting launching what was back then an innovative paddock to plate business. A few years ago, it all got the better of me and for my own health, we shut the meat business down.
I dabbled with photography again, started gardening in earnest and finally had the time to start renovating the house. It was a car crash in 2019 that was the catalyst to returning to photography full time. The garden became the source of my material and Roselyn my muse. It continues today and now we are all caught up, more on my work next time.
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