Bush Baby


Our co-founder Hannah shares a piece of prose, nostalgic for her country childhood. 

My childhood memories weave a rich and varied tapestry.

I grew up on a farm in the Central West of NSW and spent the majority of my time running wild in the bush with my brother, cousins and local friends. As children we were so full of wonder and curiosity. We were always on the lookout for adventure and would set off early in the morning immediately after breakfast – dirty boots and hats thrown on in a flurry – we would disappear through the long grass with the dogs in pursuit. I remember the way the sunlight would catch on a dew laden spider web, the trill of a kookaburra’s laugh and the sweet tang of gum trees in the morning air; a scent that will always mean home for me.


We were always on the
lookout for adventure

They were dry and hazy days, with an endless cacophony of cicadas to herald the arrival of summer. I remember how the dust would kick at our feet as we ran roadside. We would play by the creek, building cubbies, putting on plays and imagining what kinds of people our future selves might be. When it rained we played in muddy puddles, when it snowed we skipped school and made hot chocolate, when our legs grew long enough, we learned how to drive. 


During school holidays we went to the coast to our Nanna’s. Whiling away the days hopping between beaches and playing games of ‘Spotto’. Summers were for exploring rock pools, collecting trash treasures and swimming until our skin was pink and crinkled. We ate fresh fish, turned golden in the sun, spent our pocket money on red frogs and relished in all of the freedom, the space. The saltwater washing the thick country dust from our hair.


I loved those days on the coast but I was always pleased to return home. Back to the farm; the bush; to the open blue sky; back to the peace and quiet; back to my dirty boots waiting by the door.