Because our lives were so flat out and everything seemed to be on deadlines we hadn’t even properly explored the farm. It was so much more than the paddocks. There were the precipitous hills that were covered in bush and remained unknown.
We set off to discover following a small creek that passed the remains of the superphosphate pile. It cut through a dead sphagnum moss bed up into the lower part of the Hanging Valley where it trickled through a gulley. There was a huge wombat hole in the gully. Outside the hole two babies were chasing each other while the parent nibbled the grass nearby. They saw us, stopped activities, stared, focused and decided it was home time.
A bit further up the creek started to climb. Tree ferns (Dicksonia antarctica) sat in and shaded the creek cutting. Manna gum trees fallen many years ago had to be climbed over. The atmosphere was still and prehistoric.
Large overhanging granite rocks dominated the area like they had owned it for millennia. We sat down by the creek now easing its way through the rocks and making a small pool at our feet. It was breathtaking when five white-naped honeyeaters appeared to forage busily in the ferns. They are small, brilliant-white breasted birds with dark backs and sharp red eyes, but not the menacing witch-like red eyes used by white-winged choughs. Two green birds with loud voices joined; white- cheeked honeyeaters. Not being bird watchers, we had never seen these things before. A little further up the creek stopped. It was just a spring appearing from under large rocks.
Fern Creek was now named, so it came into reality. No longer was it a prehistoric nothing, but a walk, a destination. Relatives and visitors had something to do when they visited. They could go on the Fern Creek walk. The property suddenly had a new perspective.
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