The Little Lap

I FLEE THE CITY in the morning and, by the late afternoon, I wind up the Gibraltar Range, a lush, Gondwana rainforest portal to the Northern Tablelands. Arriving at Waterloo Station, just outside of Glen Innes, I swing open the farm gate, judder across the cattle grid and close it, as per bush custom.

Porchlight beckons me inside the Shearers Lodgings. I yank the old-school cord, which sheds light onto last century: a wicker trunk, wood-panel walls and ceiling, nails hammered in lifetimes ago. Yesteryear’s shearers probably wouldn’t have got much work done if their digs were this good, with an electric blankie on the opulently adorned bed; rainforest shower; and Glow Lab lotions to lather away the work day.

A peachy New England dawn paints the bush. Currawongs warble and sheep bleat yawning bleats. A no-compromise country brekkie is devoured in the separate kitchen, a personality-filled space replete with cooking-show-quality gadgets and bucolic