Where this place would be exactly was anybody’s guess. The country changes so much from the cold wind-swept 1000m high Nimmitabel to the almost coastal Bega with its rolling hills and dairy farms. Still, we followed the directions. After Nimmitabel head for Bombala and turn left onto New Line Road. The road is gravel for 22 km. Cross the Bombala River, go down a goat track 1 km further and we will be there to greet you, show you around and provide lunch.
New Line Road was scenic, no doubt, with big Manna gums, Snow gums and Peppermints and the occasional wallaby raced across the pot-holed gravel in front of the Alfa to complete the postcard. But we weren’t anywhere near Bega. Dropping down towards the river the trees became huge, a stately stand of Messmate stringy barks, so it was clear this place really could grow trees, even though they weren’t Toona. She thought it was beautiful.
Sadly, the goat track into the property was fringed not by awesome towering E. viminalis gums, holding up the sky, but by sad and scrappy Snow gums, called E. pauciflora because of their supposed pathetic flowers. The signs were bad. Then we were out into tussock grass Poa sieberiana paddocks and a gate that said “Wombalano”. She mused it might be owned by English people, homesick for the ‘wombals of wimbledon’. Anyhow, there were the beaming owners, a German couple who had emigrated to Australia to escape the cold war and bought Wombalano to be well above the waves when the ice caps melted. They had decided to sell after 6 years ownership because they wanted to join their grown up children now living in Queensland.
Strange why people buy bush places and feel they have to rationalise their actions to others. I mean who would ever believe that anyone would want to move to live near their children. So we sat in this tin garage furnished as a kitchen and bedroom and lit with an elegant glass chandelier and talked about the property. The river gurgled past just outside and the birds argued in the bushes. After Nescafe, beansprout sandwiches and yogurt and a superficial summary of the lives, accomplishments, failures and future plans of the four of us it was time to explore. I was negative but it was new country for us and we might as well make the day into a nice outing. He couldn’t walk with us because he was recovering from a recently broken ankle, snapped in a rabbit hole, and she was a naive painter, whatever that is, not a walker. Go up to the Hanging Valley, he said, and if you are energetic you could climb the hill to the Hidden Valley. He pointed the way following the Long Paddock. We were comforted to know that if we got lost, we could shelter in a gingerbread house that would rise magically out of the descending mist.
Despite its name, the Hanging Valley wasn’t, but it was magical. Tall white-stemmed E. viminalis gums stood silently like giant celery as though at a non-violent protest meeting, side by side. No foliage except a sparse green fringe right at the top of those stalks. No undergrowth to struggle through, just these white sticks. A small creek wended its way through a depression. Being keen to burn up some energy emanating from the bean sprouts, I dragged her up the steep hill above the Hanging Valley. The occasional rocks grew in number and size as we climbed, finally capping the escarpment like giant black molars known to normal people as Granite Tors. We were both having difficulty breathing so after sitting on a small tor to take in the view across the Creewah Valley we headed back. The Hidden Valley could stay that way.Torsten and Victoria told us not to hurry with a decision, but they did have other interested purchasers and so an answer within a few days would help. They would throw in the caravan at the price and everything we had seen in the dwelling and on the property. It was a walk in walk out deal, a funny term completely new to me. The idea of owning a chandelier was very inviting. And the place did have a new and enormous shed dwarfing her father’s shed 20 times over, though no tennis court views or meter maids. And the shed had housed their 150 Tukiedale sheep over a previous winter when the property was cut off by deep snow for several weeks. The imagined Toona saplings were wilting behind the first white flurry.
New Line Road was scenic, no doubt, with big Manna gums, Snow gums and Peppermints and the occasional wallaby raced across the pot-holed gravel in front of the Alfa to complete the postcard. But we weren’t anywhere near Bega. Dropping down towards the river the trees became huge, a stately stand of Messmate stringy barks, so it was clear this place really could grow trees, even though they weren’t Toona. She thought it was beautiful.
Sadly, the goat track into the property was fringed not by awesome towering E. viminalis gums, holding up the sky, but by sad and scrappy Snow gums, called E. pauciflora because of their supposed pathetic flowers. The signs were bad. Then we were out into tussock grass Poa sieberiana paddocks and a gate that said “Wombalano”. She mused it might be owned by English people, homesick for the ‘wombals of wimbledon’. Anyhow, there were the beaming owners, a German couple who had emigrated to Australia to escape the cold war and bought Wombalano to be well above the waves when the ice caps melted. They had decided to sell after 6 years ownership because they wanted to join their grown up children now living in Queensland.
Strange why people buy bush places and feel they have to rationalise their actions to others. I mean who would ever believe that anyone would want to move to live near their children. So we sat in this tin garage furnished as a kitchen and bedroom and lit with an elegant glass chandelier and talked about the property. The river gurgled past just outside and the birds argued in the bushes. After Nescafe, beansprout sandwiches and yogurt and a superficial summary of the lives, accomplishments, failures and future plans of the four of us it was time to explore. I was negative but it was new country for us and we might as well make the day into a nice outing. He couldn’t walk with us because he was recovering from a recently broken ankle, snapped in a rabbit hole, and she was a naive painter, whatever that is, not a walker. Go up to the Hanging Valley, he said, and if you are energetic you could climb the hill to the Hidden Valley. He pointed the way following the Long Paddock. We were comforted to know that if we got lost, we could shelter in a gingerbread house that would rise magically out of the descending mist.
Despite its name, the Hanging Valley wasn’t, but it was magical. Tall white-stemmed E. viminalis gums stood silently like giant celery as though at a non-violent protest meeting, side by side. No foliage except a sparse green fringe right at the top of those stalks. No undergrowth to struggle through, just these white sticks. A small creek wended its way through a depression. Being keen to burn up some energy emanating from the bean sprouts, I dragged her up the steep hill above the Hanging Valley. The occasional rocks grew in number and size as we climbed, finally capping the escarpment like giant black molars known to normal people as Granite Tors. We were both having difficulty breathing so after sitting on a small tor to take in the view across the Creewah Valley we headed back. The Hidden Valley could stay that way.Torsten and Victoria told us not to hurry with a decision, but they did have other interested purchasers and so an answer within a few days would help. They would throw in the caravan at the price and everything we had seen in the dwelling and on the property. It was a walk in walk out deal, a funny term completely new to me. The idea of owning a chandelier was very inviting. And the place did have a new and enormous shed dwarfing her father’s shed 20 times over, though no tennis court views or meter maids. And the shed had housed their 150 Tukiedale sheep over a previous winter when the property was cut off by deep snow for several weeks. The imagined Toona saplings were wilting behind the first white flurry.
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