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Writer's pictureAnnie Kavanagh

We are not buying a farm

The next steps…


The front door, whilst needing a good lick of paint (incidentally still does!), stood proudly with its stained glass windows and brass bell and handle.


Stepping out of the intense heat into the coolness of the hallway was a shock and awe moment. Shock because it was at least 10 degrees cooler and awe because at seven feet wide (over two metres) the hallway was clearly intended to impress visitors. Already I could feel my resolve of ‘we are not buying a farm’ shift – just a little bit.


We were shown around by the owner Margie who clearly loved the property but was moving to a larger farm nearby to accommodate all the sheep. Off the hallway was the main bedroom where I had one of those ‘someone just walked over my grave’ moments. Opposite was the parlour. Back then being used as a farm office, this room would have been where guests were entertained. A picture was slowly building that this was no ordinary place. Everything about it was meant to make an impression on a visitor.


Further on down the hallway were bedrooms and a sitting room. A simple layout of six rooms off the main spine of the hall with another impressive door at the end mirroring the front. Out the back, a badly designed extension had clumsily been tacked onto the house in the 70s. We later discovered it covered up the entrance to the cellar and will one day be replaced with something far more sympathetic (‘one day’ as you will discover, dear reader, is the motto of Roselyn!).



To the left was the original kitchen. Back in the day, it would have been a separate room evidenced by the doorway and window outlines on the wall today. On the other side were a dodgy looking bathroom and an even dodgier looking laundry.


We were refreshed with tea and cake and mango wine – the first in a very long line of oddities that have become the hallmark of living here. As the mercury was still hovering around 40 degrees, the outdoor inspection was brief. The back garden, another struggling bit of lawn, some magnificent roses (sadly in pots so went with the owner), a few trees, and not much else.


The burnt paddocks were driven over, avoiding sheep, whilst the owner repeated the real estate claims that this could be turned into any number of enterprises. Misgivings were put aside when we were taken up the granite hill at the back of the property with its commanding view of the whole valley.


We came back down, politely thanked our hosts, and drove off determined never to come back.

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