a hand.
Stow was sixteen when he was picking grapes for my grandfather, the same age as my son now. At the time, the young writer possibly believed he was destined to be a farmer, like almost all the men he knew.
I remember feeling pleased when I read the letter that Stow could recall my grandfatherâs hospitality and a little sad that these old-fashioned virtues â hosting and being hospitable â seemed lost to another era. In Sydney we donât host anymore, we network.
Carey turned off down a dirt road past the house of the âlegendary winemakerâ Jack Mann, and on to where we might at least glimpse the Oakover beauty that Stow remembered so well. At Oakover now, there was no hospitality on offer.
As the house came into view several large dogs ran towards us barking aggressively. The place looked deserted. The sky had turned grey and as we looked to see the overarching oak tree we drew breath. It had been cut down to a stump. Carey had kept the engine running. We wouldnât have got out of the car even if weâd been invited for a visit because the dogs were the kind you keep to scare people and we were scared.
I gazed back out the window at the stump of the oak, aghast that anyone could destroy something so beautiful. Stowâs description of the Oakover of old came to mind, and the remembrance that heâd been buried under an oak tree in an oak wood. One of his favourite poets, John Clare, had written a famous poem about a felled elm. I was glad my mother and Stow would never see the axed oak of Oakover. The entire property, once a place of âwonderful tranquillity and beautyâ in this light seemed transmuted into yet another haunted land.
*
On the luxurious grounds of the Houghton winery the final busload of visitors was just leaving. The Houghton homestead, once the home of my great-uncle, has been immaculately renovated, as offices for the winery. The rose gardens, where my mother had first learnt about gardening from her Aunt Mildred, remain beautiful.
The Houghton winery has long been a favourite destination in Swan Valley for locals as well as tourists. Carey had been there many times before, as a child, to play with his cousins, and then as an adult, to visit the cellars.
These days Houghton is a brand, transformed from a family business to a corporate enterprise. There is a car park, picnic tables, a café, tasting rooms and trophies on display. We wandered around looking at Houghton hats and aprons, pens and corkscrews.
*
Many people can recite tales of a lost family fortune, but not so many are reminded of it whenever theyâre in a bottle shop. The Houghton label always reminds me of the Ferguson family farm, the beautiful acreage that my mother grew up on, and the tradition that decreed that despite being the eldest, as a woman she would never inherit the fruits of all that Scottish Protestant industriousness.
My mother used to tell me that my great-great-grandfather Dr John Ferguson had emigrated from Scotland because the medical profession in Dundee was overcrowded. But of course the story is a lot more complicated than that and the Fergusonsâ voyage from dreary Dundee to a sun-filled Swan Valley vineyard was long and by no means direct.
My great-great-grandparents John and Isabella already had two children when they decided to emigrate. They may have been encouraged to make their decision after seeing the prospectus for the Western Australian Land Company, a private enterprise initiated by a group of London investors, which offered free passage in exchange for a commitment to stay at least eighteen months. The optimistic prospectus for Australind, south of Perth, showed a detailed plan including a town square, church, a school, stores, a mill and public hall. John Ferguson purchased a land order of one hundred acres.
When the Ferguson family arrived in 1842 there was little more than a forsaken stretch of beach. Another false utopia. They had
Stow was sixteen when he was picking grapes for my grandfather, the same age as my son now. At the time, the young writer possibly believed he was destined to be a farmer, like almost all the men he knew.
I remember feeling pleased when I read the letter that Stow could recall my grandfatherâs hospitality and a little sad that these old-fashioned virtues â hosting and being hospitable â seemed lost to another era. In Sydney we donât host anymore, we network.
Carey turned off down a dirt road past the house of the âlegendary winemakerâ Jack Mann, and on to where we might at least glimpse the Oakover beauty that Stow remembered so well. At Oakover now, there was no hospitality on offer.
As the house came into view several large dogs ran towards us barking aggressively. The place looked deserted. The sky had turned grey and as we looked to see the overarching oak tree we drew breath. It had been cut down to a stump. Carey had kept the engine running. We wouldnât have got out of the car even if weâd been invited for a visit because the dogs were the kind you keep to scare people and we were scared.
I gazed back out the window at the stump of the oak, aghast that anyone could destroy something so beautiful. Stowâs description of the Oakover of old came to mind, and the remembrance that heâd been buried under an oak tree in an oak wood. One of his favourite poets, John Clare, had written a famous poem about a felled elm. I was glad my mother and Stow would never see the axed oak of Oakover. The entire property, once a place of âwonderful tranquillity and beautyâ in this light seemed transmuted into yet another haunted land.
*
On the luxurious grounds of the Houghton winery the final busload of visitors was just leaving. The Houghton homestead, once the home of my great-uncle, has been immaculately renovated, as offices for the winery. The rose gardens, where my mother had first learnt about gardening from her Aunt Mildred, remain beautiful.
The Houghton winery has long been a favourite destination in Swan Valley for locals as well as tourists. Carey had been there many times before, as a child, to play with his cousins, and then as an adult, to visit the cellars.
These days Houghton is a brand, transformed from a family business to a corporate enterprise. There is a car park, picnic tables, a café, tasting rooms and trophies on display. We wandered around looking at Houghton hats and aprons, pens and corkscrews.
*
Many people can recite tales of a lost family fortune, but not so many are reminded of it whenever theyâre in a bottle shop. The Houghton label always reminds me of the Ferguson family farm, the beautiful acreage that my mother grew up on, and the tradition that decreed that despite being the eldest, as a woman she would never inherit the fruits of all that Scottish Protestant industriousness.
My mother used to tell me that my great-great-grandfather Dr John Ferguson had emigrated from Scotland because the medical profession in Dundee was overcrowded. But of course the story is a lot more complicated than that and the Fergusonsâ voyage from dreary Dundee to a sun-filled Swan Valley vineyard was long and by no means direct.
My great-great-grandparents John and Isabella already had two children when they decided to emigrate. They may have been encouraged to make their decision after seeing the prospectus for the Western Australian Land Company, a private enterprise initiated by a group of London investors, which offered free passage in exchange for a commitment to stay at least eighteen months. The optimistic prospectus for Australind, south of Perth, showed a detailed plan including a town square, church, a school, stores, a mill and public hall. John Ferguson purchased a land order of one hundred acres.
When the Ferguson family arrived in 1842 there was little more than a forsaken stretch of beach. Another false utopia. They had
Similar Books
