Back when Kookaburra was young and out for adventure, he used to jump into a car and drive overnight to the Western District of Victoria, traversing half of New South Wales and then half of Victoria to get there. A nap at a truckstop near Tocumwal was about the only break as the miles signs (in those days) clicked by. The sun rising near Maryborough whilst the car thrust its way forward through the ranges and down to Beaufort signalled the journey was nearing its end. A quick pit stop and then out on that last stretch to Stockyard Hill and my destination – a poll Dorset sheep stud owned by some old family friends – who always managed to find a spare room for the blow-in.

Different days and different ways. Old families. Old ways. Generations of work, sacrifice, fire, flood, families, children, war service, schools, local bush fire brigade – and lots of production, joy, happiness, and unbreakable bonds as well. For me, this was the real Australia. A tough but golden place. Of majestic hills and mountains. Of vast uncluttered vistas providing a picture of endless opportunity. Of grand old homes approached by long tree-lined drives and surrounded by manicured lawns and well tendered gardens. Of clusters of cars indicating a celebration was afoot. Of standing around the toasty stove on a cold and frosty winter morning. The still and the quiet of the night.

That is no more. That time has past. That Western District is now just etched forever in my memory and that of others who were there then. It is not there for our children and grandchildren. It never will be. The old families have mostly left. The grand homes now form part of the often forgotten assets of an agribusiness managed from Melbourne, their gates locked. The tall old pines once lining their driveways proudly, a demonstration of their owners’ wealth and power,  now tumble, old and forlorn, to the ground, and lie there, not tidied-up – a symbol of the end of an era.

Now those once uncluttered vistas are a cemetery field of high steel pylons stretching into the distance like advancing, menacing giant Triffids, surmounted by massive blades which whoosh and flicker across the once rolling hilled landscape, they and their attendant transmission lines cutting brutally across the view to the bluey misty Grampians. Many of the paddocks lie unloved.

This is not the Western District I knew and loved. This is not a place to live.