In A Sunburned Country by Bryson Bill

Author:Bryson, Bill
Language: eng
Format: epub

In A Sunburned Country

Chapter 11

carmel egan grew up on a farm in eastern Victoria on the southern edge of the Great Dividing Range, in lovely country of green fields set against a backdrop of blue hills. Howe, a lifelong city boy whose notion of the bush was of a monotonous expanse filled with deathly creatures, had gone to visit the family farm out of a sense of husbandly duty and fallen for it at onceso much so that he and Carmel had bought a parcel of land high on a neigh- boring hillside, trucked in a jaunty wooden cottage, and placed it in a lofty spot giving views over miles of hills, woods, and farms. Howe had been telling me about it with a certain repetitive rapture for years and was keen for me to see it. So the next day after load- ing up with provisions, we set off in their car for the three-​hour drive to their rural idyll.

Bush is such a vague word in Australia that I wasnt sure what to expect, but it became obvious once we had shrugged off the outer suburbs of Melbourne that eastern Victoria was a favored corner of the worldgreener than any part of Australia I had seen before and backed by mountains that attained a wholly respectable eminence. The road wound through meadowy landscapes in a charmingly indecisive manner and through a succession of small and pleasant towns. With strange, unshakable pride, Howe wore an arrestingly outsized and touchingly misguided bush hat he had lately acquired, which inclined Carmel and me, when we stopped for gas or coffee, to signal to staring strangers that he was out on a visit and wed be taking him back to the home at the end of the

week, but otherwise the journey passed without incident or embar- rassment.

Alan and Carmels house stands in glorious seclusion on the brow of a steep hill. The view, over a forgotten valley of tobacco fields and scattered vineyards, was expansive and charming in a way that brought to mind a childrens picture book. This was, I realized after a minute, the view from the top of the beanstalk.

Not bad, eh? said Howe.

Much too good for anyone in a hat like that. Whats this area called?

The King Valley. Carmels old man used to farm over there. He pointed to a rolling piece of land nestled against a neighbor- ing hill. It recalled, almost impossibly, the landscapes of Grant Woodgumdrop hills, rolling fields, plump treeswhich de- picted an idealized Iowa that never actually existed. It existed here.

Howe let us into the house and he and Carmel immediately began moving about in an impressively practiced manner, opening windows, putting on the water heater, packing away groceries. I helped carry stuff in from the car, watching for snakes with every step, and when that was finished stepped onto the broad deck to take in the view. Howe came out after a minute bearing two cold beers, one of which he passed to me.

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