In 1975, we were recently married and living in Sydney. We loved the countryside and were thinking of moving. While looking through the progressive newspaper of the day, The Nation Review, I found an ad to share a small farm with two uni students, a single mum and her two year old boy, and a dog. 

Off we went the next day. After driving about an hour out of Sydney, we turned off at the Gosford exit and travelled to Forresters Beach. Eventually, we found the dirt track leading up the hill.

Near the top, amongst the trees and rolling hills, sat an old fibro cottage with lovely views of Tuggerah lakes.

We met everyone and decided to stay overnight to get a feel for the place. They showed us the room, which was just part of the veranda near the kitchen. All we needed to do was build one wall, and we could move in. Sure, we said.

No hot water, so you had to heat water on the stove to have a bath, or we could use the long black hose that got warm in the sun for a quick shower. No problem, we said. 

A small veggie patch and six chickens. Delightful, we said. 

No telephone. No worries, we said.

A diamond python snake in the ceiling, which was good because it got rid of the bush rats. Wow, we said.  

We moved in three days later and loved it there.  

After about nine months, we had to go overseas to be with my family. When we returned six months later, all had changed. We had to move out. 

Back to Sydney we went.

It took twelve years for our second move to the Coast. We are both still living here.

When we were in our twenties, everything was fun and an adventure. We are now in our seventies and life is still fun, but with a bit more comfort and convenience — and no python in the ceiling.