Country Squire

ROB INGRAM EXPLAINS WHY WHAT YOU CHOOSE TO CALL YOUR HOME MATTERS.

THE ELMS AT THE FRONT of the house are finally looking attractive. Imposing, even, on the days when they don’t have to share the fence line with the garbage and recycling bins, or the council pick-up junk. But they pose another dilemma for us. Do we become pretentious and get one of those name signs for the house that says ‘The Elms’? Out here on the prairie, property names are serious stuff. They have a bit of social clout. If you are invited to a barbeque, check out the address. If it’s a street number or lot number, you can get away with taking a slab of stubbies. But you’ll be searching for a suitably impressive wine if the address has a whiff of old money about it like Athelhampton House, Calcott Manor or Grosvenor Hall. When we first moved to our current address, I whimsically dubbed it Handyman Hall. It seemed appropriate considering the number of repair projects awaiting the vast 120-year-old edifice… and besides, it would assure our new neighbours that we weren’t tossers. “Very whimsical,” noted The Chosen One. “Until we try to sell it. I seldom see upmarket real estate agents offering ‘one for the handyman’.” Point taken. So an alternative was always in the back of an untidy mind. But would The Elms be a bridge too far? Historically, our place had been the Cobbora Courthouse. But that wouldn’t do because courthouses are too readily associated with failed marriages and unpaid rates. Or am I being too sensitive? While the whole idea of house names was to personalise the place of residence or the family estate, too many folk now just buy the ready-made sign in weatherproof dark walnut resin frames on reflective brass or behind acrylic. I’ve never come to terms with finding — in the flat arid expanses of our sunburnt country — cheerful little abodes introducing themselves as Mountain View, Ocean Shores, or Lakeside. I’m also a bit ho-hum about the cheesy option — the Mcmansion named Costa Motza, the Paddington townhouse called Terrace Australias and the beach house wittily dubbed Sea-esta. And, to me, Tequila Sunrise has always suggested residents who start a little too early in the day. Emoh Ruo has run its course, Cazna has gone the way of the last Gallipoli veteran, and Dunroamin’ has pretty much, like its occupants, transitioned into retirement. But there’s also house-name humour that I salute. Like the modest little cottage down the road from the landmark Hydro Majestic Hotel in the Blue Mountains that defiantly calls itself the Fibro Majestic, or the weekender near Windermere named Seldomere. Country properties, especially when they can’t be seen from the gate, can put on a bit of pretence by adding grange, park, estate, lodge or downs to the selected name — especially if the prefix has a whiff of royalty about it. But more recently, with rural aid handouts up for grabs, landholders have chosen to project a more proletarian image. This can be done with a little humble-bum humour, and so we may find Carrington Downs renamed Handme Downs and Howard’s End become Wit’s End. Speaking of bush humour, there’s a sheep property out west called Ewe-topia and, anecdotally, another named Ewe Bewdy. And, of course, the legendary Almosta Ranch. Where we live, such folly is a little more restrained. My favourite newspaper correction of all time was the one that read: “In the ‘Wedding Bells’ column in our last issue, we quoted the bride as saying that after the wedding, the couple would be residing with the bride’s father. In fact they will be living at The Old Manse, next to St Stephens.” As for The Elms, I’m not sure we’re ready to cope with the gentility of the name. Plus, it evokes elements of motor inns and retirement villages. So, seeing we’re not yet ready to sell, Handyman Hall it remains.

WHEN WE FIRST MOVED TO OUR CURRENT ADDRESS, I WHIMSICALLY DUBBED IT HANDYMAN HALL.