Open Writing

How many of us dream of making a sea change, getting away from it all, dropping out or just following the road, whatever the latest popular name for it may be. Just do it, the young ones say. But if you do make the big decision, cut all your ties and go for it, does it really work out or does the reality fail to live up to expectations? I suppose, like most other things in life, it depends on your attitude.

When my husband retired a couple of years ago, we knew that we needed to do something different. By nature we are far from adventurous people, certainly not risk takers, so it took us a long time to do all the homework we felt we needed to, consider all the possible options, with their pros and cons, possible downsides as well as the obvious advantages, before we made our decision. To many, it would not seem such an extreme change.

After all, we were not deciding to sell all our possessions and live with the poor in India, or go on a 12 month study tour to Antarctica, to tour the Middle East on a motorbike, or even to run a drop-in centre for homeless kids. Our big adventure was to move from suburban life in Gosford an hour north of Sydney to the much smaller country town of Wauchope, another five hours further up the coast. One small step for many people, but certainly a giant leap for us in our sixties.

Now it is done, and we have settled into our new lives, I have no doubt it was the right thing to do. Now, instead of looking out of our lounge windows into the back-yard of the house next door, we see an expanse of grass and trees. We have neighbours, lovely neighbours, but we are not so close that we know their every move, whether they have visitors, or are having a BBQ or swimming in their pool. Their children don't annoy us with their squeals of delight or sibling rivalry, nor are their balls continually falling over our fence. Instead of Indian Myna pests squabbling on the back veranda, we can sit outside and watch honey-eaters, rosellas, magpies, kingfishers, bower-birds, and even have a family of kookaburras to share our lunch.

We are no longer woken to the drone of traffic but the chug of ride-on mowers. When we go to town, there are no parking meters, no traffic police, no long queues in the banks. The storekeepers call us by name and ask after our families. They are willing to give a discount on the price of most items, to keep our custom.

Of course there are disadvantages. The huge shopping centre complex we had been used to is no longer just round the corner, the local take-aways are a bit suspect, it's an expedition to visit the cinema or a restaurant or a medical specialist, mobile phone coverage is intermittent to say the least, and as for broadband internet, well, maybe. But we are satisfied to exchange those doubtful pleasures of the modern world for fresh air, a walk along a country lane of an evening, and a milkman who still delivers. Our neighbours are surprised when we tell them we still lock our doors when we go out, unable to quite throw off our city nervousness. The junk mail in our letter-boxes is now advertising farm machinery and sheep-drench or seminars on weed management. The local paper considers it newsworthy that "thieves stole $10 and an ashtray when they broke into a parked car."

Yes, it's hard to make a break, to start again, but actually, this is the third time in our lives that we've done it. Each time, there have been challenges, and there have been times when I've thought those challenges insurmountable, but there are also infinite rewards. Now I must go and call my kookaburras for their tea.

© Wendy Ogbourne