Country Squire

ROB INGRAM REVEALS THERE’S PLENTY OF ROOM IN THE COUNTRY FOR STRESSED CITY FOLK — AND THEIR CARS.

YOU’VE PROBABLY NOTICED THAT the New Australian Dream has raised its tousled head again. It was on the backburner for a time while our dreams were busy coping with New Australian Election Promises. But now that they’ve been forgotten — particularly by the people who made them — we’re back musing over the likelihood of the metro-stressed crowd migrating to the serenity of small regional towns. The New Australian Dream drifts in and out of our consciousness like a spring tide, but never quite becomes the steady stream that would rescue the sorry state of regional economies. It is always vaguely attractive, but somehow lacks a convincing ‘wow’ factor. City folk often give whinge to the pressures of metropolitan living, the demands of urban existence, housing prices out of reach, the stresses of population growth, working days extended by gridlock commuting. It’s like the weather… everyone whinges, but nobody does anything about it. We’ve tried to beckon them. We’ve told them about sharing, caring community life. We’ve told them about space and quiet and freedom from pollution. We’ve told them about a more active, healthier lifestyle. Of inclusive community activities and an enjoyable social life — people talking to each other rather than to mobile phones. Of a lower cost of living. Of new technology for remote working arrangements and flexible hours. Here you can play a round of golf, knock over your work and go fishing all in the same day. Of a lower incidence of crime. They say that in small towns as well as large, good people outnumber bad by 100 to one. In big towns the 100 are nervous, but in small towns it’s the one. Then, the other day, while doing something as menial as buying a loaf of bread at our local supermarket, it came to me. The eureka moment. The epiphany. The enlightenment. The ‘wow’ factor advantage of small town living. The rural blessing the metropolitan migrant would find irresistible. Parking. How — in all the years and all the millions that have gone into promoting decentralisation — have we forgotten to tell those dithering on the precipice of rural migration about parking? I’m parked at the front door of the supermarket. We have no parking meters here. No stoplights. No time restrictions. No parking police. Okay, there are a few signs asking motorists to angle park at 45 degrees rear to kerb. In retrospect, asking them to do two things at once while parking was a bit ambitious. But we get by. The only thing worse than angle parking is witnesses. We don’t park in front of the cenotaph because that would be bad manners. We don’t park in front of the pub because that wouldn’t do our reputations any favours. We don’t park in front of the church because there’s a sign there: “Thou Shalt Not Park Here.” And we don’t park in front of the Kakkadoo Kafe because highway patrol cops drive from Mudgee, Dubbo and Coonabarabran to park there at lunchtime for the best pies on the prairie. Park too close, and they might check your car for a faulty windscreen wiper just to make it look like they’re working. But the rest of town is one big free car park. In the city, a trip to the shops is warfare. Parking is open hostility. If you have to park six blocks from where you’re going, there’ll be two fresh parking spots in front when you finally get there. Here, we park on Easy Street. At the front door. All day if you like. So come on, city folks, where are you? You know you want to be here. Maybe it’s not just the parking that they don’t know about. At the moment my coffee cup is resting on the local paper, on an ad for a house for sale. A well-presented three-bedroom cottage; modern kitchen and bathroom; established gardens on a 1118-square-metre block with an enclosed yard. Asking price $145,000. And, if you like, also buy the adjacent vacant block of 905 square metres. Fully fenced with an enclosed yard, a shed, established gardens. Asking price $39,500. That’s what keeps the New Australian Dream alive.

I’M PARKED AT THE FRONT DOOR OF THE SUPERMARET. WE HAVE NO PARKING METERS HERE. NO STOPLIGHTS.