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Writer's pictureAnnie Kavanagh

Hello and welcome!


(This photograph was gifted to me by my eldest daughter’s friend whose great grandmother Edna Wells, above, lived there.

Introducing myself... and Roselyn.


The first thing I need to clear up is that my name is Annie, not Roselyn. Roselyn is the name of our farm (circa 1887) in the Wheatbelt of Western Australia. She is the reason for this blog and much of what I do these days.


I am not from these parts. In fact, I could not have grown up further away in damp, green middle England. Our village was surrounded by farmland stretching out along a valley to an ancient oak forest – Cannock Chase. For me, this cathedral of green was my first love.


The gnarled branches, the dense canopy, and fleeting glimpses of wild deer were the perfect breeding ground for my overactive imagination. This was the place of fairy tales, legends, and magic. Whilst I don’t visit it very often these days, it is still a magical place. The lanes and fields around our house were our playground. We built secret dens and formed gangs with our own rules and initiation ceremonies long forgotten but often involving circles of flowers, picked from the hedgerows, placed on a newcomer’s head. The only rule – "be back before dark."


I got to know the names of flowers, picked blackberries from the footpaths for endless pies, sloes for gin, got stung a million times by nettles, and searched for the elusive minute bilberries. We would sail down the back hill on our bikes, legs airborne, our breaks the hedge at the bottom or, if we were lucky, the farmer would have left the gate open, and we would fly on through into his ploughed field – a much softer landing.


This was the stuff of Enid Blyton, Swallows and Amazons, and I loved it. The freedom, the intense and intimate connection to nature – plants, animals, birds, and independence. I wanted just the same for my own children. An idyllic English country childhood.


It was not to be. After marrying ridiculously young to my soulmate at 23, having met at uni two years before, we embarked on an expat life, living in tropical rain forests and deserts for the best part of a decade. We had four children in tow and many crazy stories later we landed in Melbourne. Finally, I was able to follow my passions and enrolled in a fabulous illustrative photography course. I had always enjoyed being creative, had spent a brief but highly enjoyable stint as a journalist before touring the world, but now I found I could tell stories through the lens.


I was in heaven. A wonderful new country, great city, everyone happy, finally able to follow my passions (and lots of coffee)! I found paradise and – just like Milton – I lost it. We had to up sticks and move to the other side of the continent for work.


After all this moving around, we wanted to stay in Perth for awhile at least. One thing led to another, and I opened a gallery specialising in children’s portraits in the style of Sally Mann (look her up!). Unconventional, unguarded, unusual moments of childhood captured on film. Back then, it was all celluloid, nasty chemicals, and alchemy in a darkroom. All my photographs were black and white. I rarely shot in colour.


For many reasons, now lost in the mists of time, we bought a farm. We were meant to buy a couple of acres to plonk a horse and two ponies on for weekend rides. We had only visited the Wheatbelt once until a fatal day I found a real estate brochure in the letter box. In glorious technicolor, I met Brookside Park, as it was known back then.


Our first meeting in the flesh took place on a blistering February afternoon with the mercury nudging 40˚C. Every kilometre we drove down the valley towards Brookside, we were more and more convinced we were in the wrong place. The hills were brown and dusty, the heat unbearable, and we were miles from the ocean. As we turned up the driveway, we glimpsed the house for the first time.


There she was, looking like an old lady that life had both passed by and handed out a pummelling to at the same time. The gardens, if there had ever been any, were long gone. There were a few trees, the remains of a keyhole driveway, and a patch of wilting grass. No fabulous cutting garden, orchards or vineyards that we later learned had covered acres of ground. Just sheep, lots of sheep – 1,500 sheep!


Stepping into the hallway was an enormous relief. The cool air hit me, but so did something else. I’m not sure what you call it, but I have read many times how a building can literally take you into its bosom and you are smitten. Despite grave misgivings, I knew this was home. Roselyn, as we later learned, was her name. Built by one daughter now to be loved by another...




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