It is raining. Has been on and off all day, just the drizzling type the birds love and you can tell by the noise they are making, unseen whistling in the Macrocarpas.

A group of plovers stroll across the newly mown lawn looking like they are determined to be somewhere on time. Down at the front dam the frogs seem to be in paradise; at least they are saying so.

It is a sea of green hue out there. Everything you get on the Dulux colour card of green is in front — framed against the shadow of tree and bough, but moving in the breeze. I didn’t believe native green had so much potential and could turn on such a show, particularly with help from many roses bursting from thin tendrils. Roses at Stanton have always taken on a pregnant air at this time of year; November.

To my right Back River winds unseen up towards Platform Peak the biggest of the Black hills now shrouded in swirling mist making it hard to tell where cloud and sky meet. It isn’t hot, about 17 deg, more of a NSW north coast winter lurking in a Tasmanian Spring.

It is a stretch at the moment to see the verandah shaded by hops that have recently been planted, just itching to climb up the strings onto the railing outside the main room. They will do this with great gusto around February emulating their colleagues at Bushy Park. We now have to be patient.

Stanton’s hops are not Tasmanian when you get down to it. They are here because they will thrive and be loved despite coming from across the seas. Every beer drinker should have hops growing on the verandah where they sip, it is … company!

The beer of choice at Stanton is a Two Metre Tall Forester or a Boags Premium, definitely not with bottles clinking at one’s feet. As an aside to this a great beer divide exists in Tasmania, a classic tale of North and South, but that is for another time.

Hop varieties have intriguing names that suggest a sort of befuddlement from the start. Wine makers don’t seem to be as laid back as beer brewers but a cavalier attitude towards brewing won’t do, there is more to it than you think.

A wondrous hop name to me is “Fuggle”, a famous English hop. Another grown at Bushy Park is called “Jungle”.

A premier English hop is named “Golding” said to have originated in East Kent villages in the UK.

A research trip to a microbrewery or three in Kent would be a satisfactory holiday indeed. Two Metre Tall use “Hallertau” and “Pride of Ringwood” hops to make their ale. It is now available on the Gold Coast for those wanting something different.

Stanton’s international contribution to flavour consists of the following guests:

Cluster (US)
Chinook (US)
Fuggle (UK)
Golding (UK)
Mount Hood (US)
Nugget (US)
Saaz (Ger)
Northdown (UK)
Super Alpha (NZ)
Hersbrucker (Ger)

I’m sure they will be sociable types in the true beer spirit.

Stanton has had other guests over the years and one group has stayed the distance. The bees at Stanton have been here forever and have done their thing quietly and efficiently ever since. An apiarist who comes here periodically talks about them as ” the girls” with quite some affection.

We at Stanton have now converted to the faith and from now on there is no holding back. Playing with bees is entirely satisfying and what a result!

From the visor of my white astronaut suit I see the friendly smiles on their faces and I contemplate ditching the protection and going “au naturel,” showing my endearing nature so to speak.

Just Kidding!

The white suit is a uniform like no other when you look at it. If you wore it to Woolies people would associate you with great worth to the country and so look at you with admiration. Perhaps they will buy chocolate for you … or they may not.

At Stanton our honey goes lavishly on porridge next to the King Island cream and the raspberry compote.

November has been a wet part of Spring but this is beneficial. If it keeps producing fine sprays of moisture in quantity every flower, leaf, vegetable, fruit, and the hop will be ready to enjoy in the new year.

But first, starting next week, Summer will show how blue goes with the green.
Perhaps we need a painter to capture this on canvas.

It is with sadness that I announce to everyone who has stayed at Stanton the recent death of Sam the one-eyed sheepdog.

Sam was a working sheepdog at Stanton all his life (16 years) and his life here was not all that pleasant until Helen (the other Stanton legend) came along and brought him in from the cold. These two were inseparable and if they can be together now I would wish it be so.

Sam had the sort of personality many adult humans only aspire to and he will be sadly missed, but he is still here at Stanton under the potato vine near the house.

How many guests have taken photographs of Sam is not known, but I am glad you did this and keep them with my warmest regards. If you have one of Sam and wish to share it with us all then please add it to the Stanton web site

Goodbye Sam and thank you.

The house that awoke to the sound of Helen’s joyousness watched quietly as she passed into history and is not sad.

Stanton knows about time as she is one of the oldest Europeans in Australia but she thinks differently to you and I.

She has seen the laying out of life here to a daily routine, patiently and probably curiously musing over the juggling of time by convicts and modernists alike.

For nearly 200 years Stanton has watched the schedule of the earth, and strengthened the life of the spirit around her. The Stanton seasons will become a regular feature of the website as she deserves to be heard.

Often and again, through God’s grace,
Man and woman usher a child
Into the world and clothe him in gay colours;
They cherish him, and teach him as the seasons turn
Until his young bones strengthen,
His limbs lengthen …

The Fortunes of Men

By dint of its 188 years, the walls of Stanton have many stories to tell, the most dramatic probably concerning the day in 1843 when bushranger Martin Cash and friends arrived, held 16 people at gunpoint in the drawing room, relieved the house of its valuables, charmed the ladies present, and galloped off into the hills behind the house, where his hideout, ‘Cash’s Cave’ exists to this day.

We are fortunate in that the house has survived bushfires, storms, neglect and most damaging of all perhaps, ‘modernisation’, and hence retains its original simplicity and charm.

Stanton has 3 bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. The living room, dining room, extensive library, sun room, verandahs, spa house, licensed cellar, barbeque, gardens and orchards are all available to house guests.

The normal comforts of home are all here – electric heating, tea and coffee making, bar fridge, electric blanket, hair dryer, television, DVD, stereo, but also the things you go on holidays for – beautiful rooms filled with antique furniture, open fires, fresh flowers, wonderful breakfast served on lace clothes and Wedgwood china, silverware and crystal, (but most importantly, cooked by someone else and with no washing up), and all the time in the world to enjoy the pervading peace and tranquility of a time past (without the bushrangers!)

With all these ‘lists’, one could be forgiven for thinking that Stanton is merely a paradise of lost hours, lying around reading, listening to music, watching movies, smelling the flowers, munching on fresh produce.

Well, you’d be right, of course, there is an awful lot of that goes on, but this summer has been probably our busiest period since opening, and despite early mornings, late nights, copious quantities of wine consumed with guests, snowy white mountains of washing, the ache of clean shower recesses, and the complete inability to keep up with the triffid-infested expanses of garden, we’ve actually had a brilliant time.

Not only that — our guests appear to have enjoyed themselves too!

From impromptu picnics on the front terrace overlooking the dam at sunset, to intermittent giggling and splashing in the champagne-sodden spa house, to late breakfasts that threatened to continue until lunchtime, to a quiet glass of port in the library, or a quiet walk (with Sam the faithful) through the back paddocks at dawn, every visitor seems to have found something to gladden their heart or feed their soul.

Inside the CD player this month: lots of Kate Rusby (young northern English folk singer — do yourself a favour), The Waifs, Sting, Dougie Maclean (Scottish legend — 25 years ago he was responsible for me turning to the dark side — folk music …), The Wailing Jennies (Canadian group — 4 incredibly talented women with voices to die for), Red Hot Chilli Peppers (Mark’s Christmas present — don’t ask me), Albinoni Oboe Concertos, played by Anthony Camden; Jessye Norman singing Richard Strauss — yum; Carlos Santana — VERY loud it blocks out Sam’s barking when I do the vacuuming; Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos — helps with the Sudoku somehow — going to try it out on the bookkeeping …

DVD acquisitions/gifts: Richard Curtis’ Love Actually; Northern Exposure 2nd series; House of Elliot 1st series; Elizabeth (a la Cate Blanchett); Battle of Britain (oldie but a goodie with a stellar cast); Sense and Sensibility (just love costume dramas).

Okay, I know that under the ‘History’ heading you can find out all about Stanton’s beginnings and everything in between, but this photograph prompts a quick architectural/veranda explanation.

When Stanton was first built in 1817, and as evidenced by other historical photographs and paintings, she was a typical rectangular symmetrical unpainted Georgian house, built from convict bricks produced on site … and … no verandahs!

The rather wonderful sandstone steps, worn to a frazzle by 188 years of constant to-ings and fro-ings, are original, but when, around 1940, the new owners, the Cockerills, decided to graft wooden verandas to the front and two sides, the steps were fortunately moved and re-used.

Waste not, want not. In 1940, the new flooring was wooden, both top and bottom, and the only access to the upstairs veranda was via an external wooden staircase which snaked around beside the chimney breast at the rear of the house (think about it, or have a look at the floor plans we’ve included somewhere in this site).

Yep, no doorway through the now library upstairs, that was just a window. (According to my neighbour Phil, who is a past resident of Stanton, the many kids who lived here used to careen around the veranda, jumping in and out of each other’s bedrooms and generally causing utter mayhem, and scaring the living daylights out of any visitors — nice touch, I think.)

When the Rumley family bought the property in 1988, Ian Rumley set about correcting that access with the conversion of the window to French doors upstairs, and replacing the by-then rotting downstairs floorboards with the beautiful and immense sandstone blocks you see today.

A visitor to Stanton soon after we arrived asked whether we were going to be ‘Georgian purists’, and remove the verandas altogether, in addition to stripping the paint off the bricks, and return her to her ‘former glory’.

“Mmm … no”, I said. Most houses grow with their owners and their needs and budget, even the brilliant ones like Entally and Clarendon up near Launceston.

The symmetry of Stanton is not lost by their addition, and the living quality, which is after all the important thing, is enhanced. The house seems to sit comfortably with her new protuberance, and since arriving, we have replaced the rather dangerous upstairs floorboards and joists, and installed lighting both upstairs and down.

Our neighbours joke that when the lights of Stanton are a-glow, the whole valley suffers a power melt-down, but it is a magnificent sight to behold (and the pizza man can’t miss it on a dark night.)

As for removing the paint from the brickwork, I have yet to be convinced that the cure is not more dangerous than the disease, since convict bricks shatter and fall to powder much easier than their modern counterparts, but who knows, maybe one day …

Meanwhile, follow the trend of family, friends and guests alike, and take your drink/nibbles/book/crossword/newspaper/guitar/camera out to the verandahs and enjoy the view. The builders of Stanton would surely approve.

By the 1830-40s, the colonials had worked it out, but by then Stanton was well established, so north/south it is. This is not without its advantages. We face down the valley towards Mt Field in the southwest, and so are witness to the most amazing sunsets.

The only thing that could be better is sunsets over water, so some kind soul created the front dam! (At least they didn’t have to go to the lengths that some gentry did in the English counties, which involved moving whole villages which were blocking their outlook.)

The addition of willows, poplars and other deciduous trees only enhance an already spectacular view, framed as it is by the surrounding hills and mountains. We have many plans to increase the number of trees at Stanton, especially varieties like Japanese maple, silver birch, crab-apple, liquid amber, and other colourful autumnal celebrities.

The “Autumn in the Valley Festival” in April is the most important in the area, and not without cause.

The Derwent River is blessed with wonderful treed banks, craggy cliffs, energetic rapids and artistic bends, forming the backdrop to the festival which is held on the Esplanade in New Norfolk.

The river is central to the town’s existence, its importance deriving originally as a transport and logging route, but now as a recreational venue, never more in evidence than at the festival when many Hobartians and tourists alike arrive via ferries and sailing ships from Hobart.

Good music, local food and wine, produce and artworks, and a chance to spend a day ‘at play’ with the locals. Highly recommended.

Okay, so this year we’re going to both give up our jobs, sell our house in Brisbane, move to Tasmania, buy a big house in the country, spend a lot of money renovating it to become a B&B, and then we’ll think about next year. And so we came to Stanton.

We are not strangers to Tasmania, indeed we moved here directly after marrying in December 1980, and spent five happy years in Hobart, with Mark attending the University of Tasmania.

The mid 80s saw us having to reluctantly leave for employment, like so many young Tasmanians, but with a quiet vow in my heart to return. I didn’t forget that vow, but it’s strange how fate creeps up on one, and says, “Alright, you asked for it, here it is.” Kapow!

City life and its attendant stresses had wreaked havoc on our sanity and health, so a move was certainly on the cards. It wasn’t until I visited my very first psychic, Jenny Roach, in Brisbane in early 2003, that it became clear the way it might be.

“So when are you moving to Tasmania?” “I’m not really sure we’re going.” “Of course you are. Here, let me show you on a map.” And with that, she drew a quick map, pointed out where New Norfolk lay, then proceeded to draw a rough sketch of Stanton.

I recognised the house from an internet picture I had seen, but discarded since wonderful pictures plus “Price on Application” usually translate as unaffordable in my book.

Jenny insisted that the house would be ours if I came down, made an offer, and proceeded to tell me the circumstances around which the previous owners were selling, and further, the ease with which we would sell our home in Brisbane and for how much.

I still don’t know if the psychic fraternity/sorority is usually as uncannily accurate as Jenny, or whether I was led to her, but her foresight has been exact in every way. Probably the best thing she said was, “It’s going to make a great B&B!”

At which my mouth dropped open , since I hadn’t mentioned that possibility, or indeed Tasmania, to her at all. After expressing some reservations as to whether the whole idea would work. having worked with people and in hospitality, but never to this extent, she simply smiled and said, “Build it, and they will come. People will be drawn to Stanton and to you, to the point where it will become a special place to many people, who will return time and again. The house will enjoy the company and the energy, and you will both be the happiest you will ever be.”

That’s enough for me. She has been right on every count.

When our good friend and photographer, Alan Lesheim, visited to take these shots, we had trouble in moving beyond the garden after placing the cane lounge in front of the lilac tree.

I suggested bringing some glasses and a nice bottle of something as props, but Alan reckoned that we’d never get anything done if that happened (either that or the photo would have been slightly askew and with a few empties in the foreground!)

We also had trouble keeping Sam, the wonderful one-eyed white dog, out of shot, since he’s always up for a party.

Maybe a few words about Sam … we inherited this super-affectionate pooch with the house, since the previous owner couldn’t take him with her, and we didn’t have a dog at the time.

My concerns about dogs, guests and B&Bs generally were completely laid to rest when this white bundle gently turned himself inside out for a pat, and his tail became in serious danger of detaching permanently in its wild delight at attention.

At a guess, he is about nine years old, and a cross between a golden retriever and a border collie. He’d had a busy life as a working sheep dog, but is now confined to supervising when the sheep are being moved by other, non-retired dogs.

Since we came to Stanton in September 2003, a few things have changed in Sam’s life. He no longer has one of his eyes (a victim of skin cancer) or his manhood (don’t know if this is correct terminology, but you get the drift). The removal of the one has meant a cessation of a lot of pain and irritation, the removal of the other a cessation of a lot of wandering and irritation.

Either way, he has bounced back, put on weight (he is a Jenny Craig dog at the moment), and leads a “Golden Pond” type existence, only enhanced by the constant stream of adoring visitors.

“Yes, this is a photo of where we stayed in the Derwent Valley. ‘Stanton’ it’s called, and that’s Sam.” Don’t laugh, guests have returned to the house, simply because they hadn’t taken his photo!