Dear reader, the following is an extract from the soon to be published ”  Tales of Tolmordia”, in which our esteemed  social historian, anthropologist and political sage Ira, (turnips) Maine recounts  three decades of bucolic adventure. And a time in which metrics, economic rationalism and jobs and growth were relegated to second and third tier positions in the greater scheme of things. He begins, somewhere between p122 and p144: 

The sex obsessed Russian

The Kingswood

Renting in Elwood in the 1980’s, with a sex-obsessed Russian upstairs whose moans and cries and exhausted sighs got the whole of Coleridge Street excited, Georgina and I stoically drank our cocoa, said our prayers and bought Christian earplugs.
Across the Brighton Road from us was the grand manor of Ripponlea to which we progressed unfailingly almost every weekend. Flowers and fountains, waterfalls and wild fowl and then creamy jam scones with English Breakfast when the feet flagged…what bliss! what joy!
Then we bought a car! A 1970 Holden HG station wagon! I felt like Toad of Toad Hall when he first bought a motorcar. The open road! Chooks and geese scattering in all directions! Passersby stunned by the speed and sophistication! They’ll never see the like again!
Oh, if only it were true…
The reality was a little more prosaic. One day, about thirty seconds out from home, a mentally deficient Nissan, driven by an accredited member of the Elwood Lunatic’s Club, emerged from its parking space and attempted to occupy the bit of Australia I was driving my car in. My battered and bruised Holden shuddered to a trembling halt. As is always the case, a self appointed, self-important expert witness was immediately on hand. He leaned in through my shattered window and informed me that I was entirely at fault. My wife, Georgina spoke to him softly, through gritted teeth. Ashen-faced, the fellow slunk away, visibly shaken.

‘You can’t miss it!’ said John Canavan, on the phone,’ just drive straight up here and I’ll meet you.’

We’d had the car fixed by now and were off to Mansfield to look at a block of land. At Marysville there was snow. Up and over the Black Spur and there was a tree across the road.

‘D’you think there’s a chance we’ll be eaten by thylacines?’ I asked, just as the blokes with the chainsaws turned up.

‘Marysville? the Black Spur? It’s not the usual route to Mansfield…not from Melbourne…no…’

‘But,’ I protested weakly, ‘but.. look at the map.. it seemed the shortest …’

The chainsaw men looked me at me askance then turned pityingly away, shaking their heads. Georgina was however, determined to see the bright side. ‘Never mind, flower ‘ she laughed, giving me a kindly hug, ‘You chose the scenic route! You chose adventure! The road less travelled!’
Gratefully I took comfort from her words, even as I detected a barely suppressed snigger from the chainsaw men.

As we left, seared into my brain forever was the image of fully grown chainsaw men rolling on the ground, helpless with laughter.

Wally Plunkett. Ira’s official Cider taster

Hours and hours later, in a Mansfield cafe we met a very young (and very patient) John Canavan who was by now on his 29th cup of tea. Despite this he good-humouredly ushered us off to Tolmie where any block we liked was available to us for a thousand dollars an acre. It was the year of Our Lord, 1982. Some of it, we were told, had been ‘Mick Walsh’s Wire Paddock’, whilst others had belonged to the Dodemaide family. ‘,Dodemaide’, I thought, now there’s a name to conjure with, redolent of Devon and Cornwall, of brandy smugglers, Daphne Du Maurier and thunderous Atlantic seas.. And the name ‘Mick Walsh’ was obviously Lithuanian.
There and then and on the spot we bought seventeen acres, a venerable old caravan and thirty years in Tolmie.

At first it seemed there was nobody here at all except for Mr.Don Swainston at the back, whose family had come to Tolmie in the 1930’s. Still, there was a little shop a mile away up the road and we were pretty sure Mr Swainston was not the only customer. Then there was the picnic ground, a short walk away, with its two timber churches, tea rooms and a football ground. Where was everybody?
And then…and then…my first ever Tolmie Picnic rolled around and there were people suddenly everywhere.There were Bronds and Fingers, Kirleys, and Kirkpatricks and a host of young people who had bought the blocks adjoining mine.There was also, memorably, our Tolmie postman, Don Haughton. Mr Haughton was from New Zealand and he and a group of us used to play pool together at Don Brond’s house once a week in the early days. The following limerick was one night, composed in his honour:

Our postman, who comes from Dunedin,
Comes flying up our hill, God, he’s speedin’…
If he tries without fail,
To deliver our mail,
How come most of it winds up in Sweden?

Ira, (second from left) enjoys a bit of a shoot with his mates Chooka, Bluey and Dingo. Tolmie Pub, circa. 1984.

Georgina taught at the Mansfield High School whilst we built our house in Tolmie (which hasn’t fallen down yet.) We fostered kids for years and ran a small business, We’ve kept pigs and chooks and cattle and grown every vegetable we could persuade to spring up out of the ground. Our apple orchard has produces, year after year, a home made cider of a quality as to bring tears to the eyes of a potato. And as for our leeks? Modesty forbids me to speak of them. (Although some of them looked like fence posts!)
All up, its been the greatest fun and we wouldn’t have missed a bloody moment of it!

Hooray for Tolmie!