I’ve never slept in a diary

I know I might be considered a bit old fashioned but that’s just me. I was up in New South Wales for Christmas visiting my sister Kitty at Bowral or as she says it, “Burradoo actually”, as if Burradoo Actually was the name of her town.

After I left Kitty’s place on Boxing Day full of Christmas pud and boring stories from her dreary husband Keith, I jumped in the old Merc and totted around the gorgeous Southern Highlands for a while before heading down that dreadful winding road through Fitzroy Falls to Kangaroo Valley near Nowra. It took me forever on that road. I hate hairpin turns and so does the old Merc I’m afraid to say. I had so many cars banked up behind me for miles going down that escarpment. I don’t think I got out of second gear for at least 30 miles.

Now, what a lovely spot Kangaroo Valley is. Pretty, pretty views, rivers, mist, mountains and green, green pastures – it reminds me a lot of England. Oh, sweet, sweet England. Such a change from brown old Victoria! I had to get my dear son Gaven to book me some accommodation on the computer internet thing – he knows how to use that. I don’t know why I can’t just pick up a brochure and ring to make a booking followed by popping a cheque in the mail any more. Everyone wants to be paid by credit card on the internet computer. I don’t have a credit card and I certainly wouldn’t know how to put it into an internet computer even if I had one, which I don’t. It’s such a fag.

Anyway, Gaven booked me three nights at a place called the dairy@cavan and after consulting the map I managed to find the place which as the name suggests, is, or once was a dairy. I was a little dubious about staying in such a place (I’ll tell you a secret here. There’s not too much that I don’t like but I have a real aversion to - how can I say this delicately - cow poo) All I could hope for was that the dairy was a dairy a long, long time ago and all traces of the offending material had long gone.

I drove up the dirt driveway past a ramshackle old building to what looked like my destination. There were several metal fence structures that looked like cattle holding pens and a new, modern building of iron and stone that, I suppose, looked quite smart in a very modern sort of way. I parked the old Merc on the paved area beside the door and let myself in – the door was unlocked. Just beside the front door was a frothy little mountain of suds, obviously where the cleaner had emptied the bucket after washing the floors. “Well” I huffed, “That’s a nice how do you do!”

Inside, thankfully, the place didn’t look like a dairy at all. In fact, I don’t really know how to describe it but I’ll have a go for you. First, I suppose it could be described as modern (and you know my thoughts on modern. Mmm) I’m not an old fogey when it comes to interior design and I’ve even read some modern architectural magazines while I’ve waited at my doctor’s surgery, but I was having difficulty trying to decide what was interior and what was exterior to this house.

The owner obviously had a limited budget when it was being renovated and couldn’t afford to replace the old timber trusses and building frame. He just painted them white and made what young people call a ‘feature’ of them. He couldn’t even afford to have the walls lined in some nice plaster board. No, they were just exposed. Painted, but exposed. The floor was dressed in a natural stone which was cut in to large square shapes and grouted like you would a nice patio. I’d prefer a nice carpet of course, but I suppose this is what I get for allowing Alan to book my accommodation on the internet computer – modern. Some of the interior walls were lined with corrugated iron. Can you imagine my disbelief. Corrugated iron! How bohemian. At least the architraves were beautifully polished pieces of wood that I suspect might have been jarrah. They looked remarkably similar to the timber they used to make Harold’s coffin – deep, rich and smooth. Nicely polished, I thought
The lounge room faced north out through large sliding glass doors to a paved patio where the views of the countryside were spectacular. I walked out but immediately returned inside as I copped a hint of a whiff of cow poo. I’ll look at the view from behind the glass I thought. There was a little tellie on a low sideboard (that will be nice to watch a Midsommer Murder tonight, I thought. I could curl up on this leather couch with a stiff G&T and sink in. Yes, very nice)

Further over towards the bedroom past the walls that were really only frames because the owner couldn’t afford the plaster, were a dining table and some more leather chairs – the type you’d see in a Freedom Furniture catalogue. Then past that was sort of dressing room that lead off to the only bedroom at the end of the building. All quite nice, but modern.

The bathroom which was near the bedroom was also modern, with stone floors and a large walk in shower and those down light things casting soft light over the surfaces. I knew I’d feel self conscious showering in such a facility without a shower curtain or door so I think I’ll opt for the bath tonight. It was one of those baths which had chrome holes placed along the sides. I’ve never been able to work out what those holes are for and I can’t understand why a bath with so many holes in it can actually hold water. Oh well, we’ll see. I’m going to be here for three nights but noticed there is only one towel for me for the whole time. That won’t do.

There was no one there to welcome me when I arrived at the diary and no one left a note saying “Welcome, we hope you have a nice stay”. Hospitality in these parts is different, I thought. The place was unlocked and who knows could have just walked in and set up camp. I couldn’t find a guest book, which is usually the first thing I consult when staying a B&B (oh, but this place is only a B – isn’t that funny? There’s no one around to cook you bacon and eggs in the morning and there are no provisions for breakfast either like there was at the last place I stayed in – you have to fend for yourself here.)

A cup of tea, that’s what I need. I walked to the kitchen which looked like something out of a very modern magazine. I opened every cupboard and drawer but not an Earl Grey tea bag in sight. No milk in the fridge, no coffee (not that I drink it anyway, but it’s always nice to know it’s there), not even a little biscuit wrapped in a plastic wrapper. Nothing. Oh, how disappointing.

And then it struck me. There is not one feminine touch in this place. No nice flowers, not enough towels, no welcome touch, no hanging space my frocks, no tea or coffee, no pillow gift and not even a Womans’ Weekly among the stack of books and magazines in the bookshelf. Oh no, there’s no woman’s touch here at all. The only sign that there’s been some human activity is the pile of suds by the front door, but would a woman do that?

I rinsed out my pantyhose and draped them over the rafter in the living room as there was no clothes rack to be found. That’s better, feels more like home now.
I spent three days on my own at thediary@cavan. I read several of the books the owner had in the bookshelf. I watched a Midsommer Murder or two and stocked up at the sweet little supermarket down the road. At the end of the road is a pie shop that boasts ‘The Best Pies in the world” on their sign. I have to say, they’re pretty good you know. All in all it was a nice couple of days and I got used to the modern accommodation - it’s quite easy to live with you know.

My Diary Notes

Some young folk describe thedairy@cavan (honestly, what sort of a name is that for a B&B?) as boutique country accommodation with an edge ( and if you can tell me just what that statement means I’d be very grateful). I know for a fact that its heritage listed because the information says so – maybe that’s why the owner didn’t fill in the interior walls with plaster. I noticed another article in a magazine there that has been cut out saying that it was an architectural masterpiece – well that’s what the writer said. Quite possibly I thought, but I’d need a few nice columns arches and timber fretwork for that to be true. And carpet of course– I love carpet. There was another article there that said it won some tourism award too, but I’ve never put much weight in tourism awards – there are so many of them. It did have a pretty little garden that I’m sure I could do a few nice things with – put in some petunias and Daphne bushes – you know, pretty things with a nice scent.

Where is it – Cavan Road Barrengarry, which is quite near Kangaroo Valley in NSW – a little bit tricky to find especially if you’re coming from Nowra but once you know where it is, it’s fine.

How much? Well, I think it’s quite expensive. Very expensive in fact when you consider that you don’t get as much as an Earl Grey thrown in and no one services the room on a daily basis. I had to write out a cheque to reimburse Gaven’s credit card for $900 for the three nights (thank goodness Harold had a nice life insurance policy)
Note to self. After three days, one becomes quite accustomed to the smell of cow poo, several pats of which I saw in the paddock which abuts the dairy. But worse than that were the flies. Oh, shocking. And no fly wire screens on the glass sliding doors either – obviously another thing the owner couldn’t afford – poor dear.