The Weekend Australian Magazine
24-25 February 2007

This story was shortlisted for the Queensland Tourism Minister's Special Award for Travel Writing, 2007.

Keen for a taste of country life, Lee Mylne saddles up with other city slickers on a cattle station farmstay.

My jeans are dirty, my hat battered, my knee sports a bruise bigger than the palm of my hand…but after a few days on a Queensland cattle station I've learned a lot about rural Australia. I've bottle-fed an orphaned kangaroo, hand-milked a cow, mustered cattle on horseback, and come to terms with what became dubbed “the frog in the bog”. And that's only half of it.

Farmstays are popular with families and international travellers, but for some the experience might not go much beyond feeding chooks, collecting eggs and watching the farmer go about the daily chores.

I've spent all my life in towns and big cities, and have never spent time on a farm at all, not even as a visitor. Above all, I wanted to get involved and get dirty…and Glassford Creek Farmstay's owner Paul Oram assured me I would. “It depends what we're doing when you come, but there's nearly always mustering to be done,” he tells me on the phone.

Akubra packed, I'm ready for anything, and he's as good as his word.

It's raining when we arrive at Glassford Creek, about an hour's drive south-west of the Central Queensland coastal town of Gladstone . But nobody's complaining, not even the guests. The 4000 acre cattle property is, like the rest of Australia , parched.

Our first task is to go with Paul while he checks the water levels on a couple of dams and pumps water for the stock. It's a good chance to get an overview of the farm and learn about what goes on.

Afterwards, settling into the guest house, I admire the large green tree frog which has made itself at home high on the cornice of my bedroom wall. “We've had 29 different nationalities to stay so far, and Australians are the only ones who don't freak out about the frogs,” says Paul's wife Kate, with a laugh.

The Orams bought Boxvale Station three years ago to establish their farmstay. However, the couple are no strangers to the business. They met when Kate, a PE teacher on a backpacking holiday from England , stayed at a farmstay where Paul was working. Her three day stay was soon extended to five, and two weeks later she persuaded her travelling companion to return with her for another week. “I went back three times,” she laughs. “I decided there was slightly more to the farmstay than horses and mountains.”

Paul had soon applied for a passport, sold his five cows and his beloved green ute and prepared to follow her back to England . A year later, they returned to buy Boxvale Station and set up Glassford Creek Farmstay, named for the now-dry watercourse which runs through the property.“We chose it for its location - 30 minutes from the Bruce Highway – and because it is physically attractive and had more than one house, as well as other buildings,” says Paul.

Communal life is in the Smoko Shed, which now has a kitchen, dining area and bar, and opens out to a campfire and barbecue area, just a stone's throw from the farmhouse. “I have a huge family - seven brothers and sisters, and their kids - and since we bought the property it has become a bit of a social hub,” says Paul.

With dogs, horses, calves and foals to exclaim over, there's still no doubt who the star of the show is. The latest addition to farm life is Poppy, a 10-month-old joey who was brought in by the local animal rescue service after her mother was hit by a car. She is bottle-fed three times a day – a chore eagerly vied for by the guests. Poppy sleeps in a sling “pouch” fashioned from an old blanket, and clearly regards Kate as her mother, hopping in and out of the Smoko Shed and following Kate's dog Bella around if there's no-one else to give her attention.

As the rain eases, we're fitted out in farm gear selected from rows of well-worn riding boots, jeans, shirts and hats for guests - after all, the intention is to muck in and get dirty – and head off to meet the horses.

Before we have even been properly introduced, Magic delivers a sharp nip to my forearm to tell me in no uncertain terms that I am in his way. As I yelp in surprise, I see Kate's horrified face and assure her I'm not hurt, but it seems an inauspicious start.

As a novice rider, I'm happy to meet 41-year-old British pro golfer Ian Williams, who has ridden for the first time the previous day and is a little jittery. At least his horse hasn't bitten him.

We spend an hour or so learning a few basics. We're disappointed at sporting compulsory helmets rather than cowboy hats, but the thrill of staying on the horse compensates.

After the rain, everything seems fresh and bright and the lemon-scent of the spotted gums hangs in the air. We ride through trees, along gullies and across open paddocks and I'm starting to feel almost like a cowgirl.

When we get back, we give the horses a wash and rub down – using minimal water - and then Kate enlists me to help her feed 10 of the station's 30 horses and the two bulls who have appeared expectantly at a fence. This takes an hour as we measure out the feed and mix it up by hand in a line of buckets.

We sit around the campfire while Paul and Kate prepare dinner. There's a small flurry when Paul's three legged stool, fashioned from a tree branch, is accidentally thrown onto the fire and has to be retrieved.

Later, having left my torch in my room, I follow the blazing Milky Way towards the lights of the guest house. The rooms are double or triple share, with comfortable beds for up to 10 people and polished hardwood floors. Double doors open on to the verandah from each room. Despite the heat, I close mine to keep out any wandering wildlife.

In the morning, the green frog is high on the wall of my bathroom. When I flush, a larger one leaps from under the rim of the toilet bowl and I try to stifle my shriek. It climbs up under the rim again and I consider if I should cross my legs for the remainder of the stay, or ask the other guests if I can use their bathroom.

After breakfast, when the others have stopped laughing at my tale of woe, it's time for milking. Paul's father Bill, who is visiting, volunteers to teach me and it turns out that I have missed my calling…I catch on quickly and am soon using two hands to squirt almost expertly into the bucket.

Boxvale Station has 250 head of Brahman cross cattle, with about 20 calves due to be sold. “We budgeted on 350 head, but we can't run them without grass or water,” Paul explains.

Our job is to muster, bring them in to the yards and separate the calves from their mothers. Saddled up, we ride out – six of us, including Paul and Bill, with Tallis the cattle dog running alongside.

Splitting into two groups, we each find a few and drive them together. It's not quite how I imagined it, but soon we come across about 25 more. As the larger group forms, it starts to feel like a real herd.

As we drive them towards the homestead we're hooting and hollering – somewhat self-consciously on the part of the city slickers. It's less daunting than I'd expected, and hugely exhilarating. Apart from a slight tangle with a tree branch - and resulting large bruise – Magic and I have managed well.

Next comes yarding. As Paul yells “cows!” or “weaners!” above the noise of the bellowing cattle, I balance above the race and operate the gate that directs each animal into the appropriate yard. There's momentary confusion when he calls “cows” for what is clearly a calf – a few are going to stay with their mothers.

Before nightfall, the cows are driven back to the other paddocks and the calves are left in the yard where they'll stay until sold. That night, I leave my doors open and listen to the pitiful sound of Georgia, Dave, Pirate and the other calves calling for their mothers, and the mothers bellowing back. A possum scratches around in the roof; I wonder if the frog is still hiding in the toilet.

On our last day, as my 48-year-old body starts to feel the effects of the unaccustomed physical work, the decidedly unglamorous side of farming kicks in. We're weighing the calves and tagging their ears, pushing them through the race and attaching the tag while their necks are caught in the “crush”. I manage one successfully, but it's a job that needs strong hands and after another two attempts give up and am content to watch.

I don't feel too hopeless; Ian also proves he is not the stuff of which farmers are made. After attaching each tag, he pats the calf's head, apologises, and tells them “well done” before they're released.

Most farmstay guests are not like Kate Oram; we will not change our lives because of our experience, but for a few days we can all play at being farmers. And a farmstay holiday is likely to give you a much deeper respect for what goes on at the end of those long country driveways.

www.glassfordcreekfarmstay.com.au