Distinguishing Boundaries

The strong wind swept across the undulating hills, driving before it a misty rain. The grey sky heralded further rain for the afternoon. From above, this zone seemed like a giant green field, cut into neat squares and rectangles bordered by one hundred year old cypresses in sentinel lines in a determined dark green shade that served as wind-breaks and cover for the cattle.

This was a dairy-farming district, like most of Gippsland, but being only one and a half hours out of Melbourne made it commutable. Walvern had once been a thriving, late nineteenth century town that somehow remained old-fashioned, but in the 1980s the whole town was bypassed by a freeway that connected Melbourne right through the whole of the Latrobe Valley. So this town, which had pulled itself up to the head of an important commercial agricultural town little by little slipped back as a result of no through traffic entering its determined but sleepy existence. It was not a huge town, but with the suburban sprawl it went ever outward and whatever type of nondescript modern houses were required or demanded, they were available.

The older part of the town was Victorian, but as the land undulated the houses were depending on the layout of the land; either the front or the back of each residence was considerably elevated. As a result of the very high rainfall and the acid soil, rhododendrons and camellias flourished, as did all types of evergreen trees and those planted a century ago were now in a mature state that gave the whole town an anchor into the ground. The trees that lined the street in the older part of Walvern were plane trees, with trunks of enormous girth. Unfortunately these street trees were cruelly pollarded, so they never had the opportunity to show their true splendour.

Outside Walvern the countryside rolled away and each little zone had had its own character. It was now almost invisible, but in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries these areas had developed their own personalities, and this was obviously determined by money. The properties around the town had never been very large, its being a dairy-farming area. Originally, large areas were no required. The land was hard won originally, but won it was. The clearing of trees, planting of fields and the development of a rich diary industry was established. But with time, with milk quotas, the farms that had done well before found themselves in financial difficulties due to the fact that the hectares were not sufficient, so cut-backs had to be made. Near Walvern, the people who owned the properties worked the land. There were very few who held the land and had share-farmers running their properties, simply because the hectares were not sufficient to allow this. But one or two properties did have this luxury, though it was relatively rare.

North of Walvern was a tiny hamlet called Aspel. At its height it had boasted a railway station, a general store, a local hall, Church of England and Methodist churches, a series of houses and a jewel of a state primary school of considerable architectural merit. That was it. In the mid-sixties, the railway was closed, a survey having decided it was uneconomical to keep it open. So the hamlet slowly slipped back into its own dream world. The general store closed, due to the supermarket in Walvern offering the same products at lower prices, as well as a greater choice. In time, both churches were physically removed to areas where the population was prepared to use them: the church-going population had fallen to basically nil, so it was not worthwhile to keep them open. There had never been a Catholic church in Aspel: all the Catholics were obliged to make the journey to Walvern to St Joseph's and still d0. The houses in and around Aspel were average Victorian and later houses that held families and the numerous outbuildings all served to support their domestic and economic survival. Not all were aesthetically pleasing. But Aspel, although forgotten, boasted, several miles apart, three houses that were different from the rest. Two of them were much larger and the third a fine house but smaller.

The first house we shall glance at was called Rosebae. If one left Walvern and continued for eight kilometres, it stood on a high embankment. The main road had been cut below and a high cypress hedge – or to be honest a row of unkempt cypress trees – masked the front and side of the house as well as serving as a wind-break from the strong winds that swept across the neighbouring valley and upwards toward Rosebae. Sheltering behind was a very large, weatherboard, late-Victorian house that was the home to Terry Williams and Simon Osler. The large house was not pretentious: it had a veranda across the front, with a central passage and was completely symmetrical. But one rarely used the front door, as, when they had re-developed the road system and cut the embankment into the side of the hill directly under the cypress hedge, it made access to the house from the front impossible. So one entered from the side road that was gravel and continued in a straight line down to the bridge and then up again to the crossroads. From there, if one went on, it left one finished up in the forgotten hamlet of Aspel: if one went straight ahead, one finished up at a little farm property: if one went right, the first house one saw was Killpara, a modest Victorian home, and then on to a 1960s modern home, and a little further on, behind a huge barrier of pine trees, the largest of these three homes, Houghton Hall.

Rosebae had been in Simon Osler's family since the lad was selected and at 37 he continued in the family tradition of dairy farming. He had met Terry Williams seven or possibly eight years before, and they had decided that they were well suited to one another, so Terry moved in and began an amazing transformation of the house and its surroundings. Terry was thin, blonde and with a sharp face. His arms, which in summer were always exposed, were so thin that they looked like two lengths of thick, pink rope, but he, for some odd reason, was very proud of them, always exclaiming that he was fortunate to have such elegant arms. He was tolerant until tackled and then if he felt insecure he attacked viciously; his rapier tongue was well-known among his small group of friends. Simon was exactly the opposite in character and appearance. He was much taller, dark and extremely well built, with thick dark brown, unruly hair and almost black eyes with bushy eyebrows and a full mouth and a strong nose. He had an obvious beardline and was very much the man of the country. He was extremely popular with everyone, kindness itself, and it was said that he did not have a cruel bone in his entire body.

The same could not be said for Terry. When he moved into Rosebae, the property was a little run down and, as he saw it, completely in disorder. This he set about rectifying at once. He began with the house. Simon's parents had been dead for some years and he had lived by himself for a period; housework was obviously not his forte. So Terry found the house to be in the most forlorn condition. As all entry to the house was through the back door, it most certainly did not give one a sense of grandeur and that is what Terry set about changing. He had a new veranda built, right across the back of the house, and transferred the front door with its leaded side light to the back and had a window fitted in place of the front door, allowing more light into the house. A great...