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buying land

Once a year, or biannually, we almost buy an expansive block of land covered in trees. It’s like Christmas, a reminder of what is important. This year’s land is a magical 67 acres and stretches from a road named after the cherry farm through the bush, down a hill, along a track, into a glade of 100 chestnut trees, past a pond, through jurassic ferns springing up in coils between my feet, to a clear running river on a bed of rocks and the echoes of drops of rain from 2 hours ago finally hitting the ground. 90% of the land is inaccessible, and the bit that is lies spread naked burning in the sunshine. A bit like Tasmania. And like everything in Tasmania it’s only 30-minutes drive to the town hall, but the last 10-minutes of that are on a road sliced into bush held open by flimsy strips of folded bark. How could you not buy this fertile, sun-drenched, watered land with wind-combed grass and a fresh water spring for Jean of the Florette? We walked back to the car, with 7000 iphone steps and beating hearts unfit for purpose.

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