At first I was convinced that the collywobbles were related to a lemon cake I baked last weekend. I hadn’t cooked anything for a while and by Sunday afternoon I was pretty sure that I’d managed to poison myself. But my partner and our friends, with whom I shared the cake, didn’t suffer at all. They even enjoyed it.

Life hasn’t exactly been quiet around here lately. In fact, we’ve reached a couple of milestones (better than kidney stones I suppose) over the last few days: a new second-hand car that will reliably take us further afield on more challenging roads, and the signing of a new tenancy lease, the first during our nine years here.

So now I’m thinking that the real cause of my bellyache was the fretful exchange of a large chunk of savings in return for a hunk of metal, of which we’ve yet to take delivery. We’re hoping it’ll be spared from hail storms, forecast this weekend, as it awaits us in the dealer’s yard. (Why do cheques still take a week to clear when electronic funds transfer is so prevalent?)

Or maybe it was about the finite nature of our tenancy lease and our having to make decisions about where we’ll live once the year is up.

In a futile attempt to make up lost savings, I embarked dizzily on too many projects. That can’t have helped.

Madness is to think of too many things in succession too fast,
or of one thing too exclusively. – Voltaire.

I think my gut is telling me to slow down, to breath deeply and relax. We live in the country, after all, a supposedly stress-free zone. I’ve read that you can choose not to feel stressed. Like everything, I guess it depends on the circumstances. I plan to give it a try.

On this damp and misty day, I’m hoping that a gentle meander among the trees will inform my choice, leading my thinking, and my gut, to a less frenzied place.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my yoghurt.

So what’s the job scene like in the country? That all depends on your experience, how far you’re willing to travel or what you’re prepared to do in a (financial) crunch. If you’re lucky you can work from home; in my experience, though, that’s a fairly limited prospect.

My partner’s one of the lucky ones. In his work he uses computer-aided design software (CAD) and after his employer in Sydney relocated to another city, the company was happy for him to work from home. After he bought a whizz bang computer, we felt reasonably confident about making the leap from city to country with at least one of us assured of an income.

After a lean period last year, when my partner’s work dried up and we had to live off our meagre savings, he’s now been assured that things will improve in the months ahead. We’re now breathing heavy sighs of relief.

While I’ve had a few jobs since we moved – temporary part-time and freelance – none has supplied me with a steady income stream for more than six months. Some – such as cleaning holiday houses – have been physically exhausting.

When you’re new to country life, sometimes the best way to find work is to volunteer. It seems that a brief exposure to a PR agency in Fleet Street, followed by nearly 20 years in advertising agencies in London and Sydney, gave me ample qualifications to publicise community festivals and events on a voluntary basis.

Working with a committee of more than a dozen strongly opinionated and passionate people, who knew the regional media far better than I, the job proved more challenging than I first imagined. Nevertheless, after pitching in with locals for a couple of years, I began to feel more like a real member of the community and less like a city blow-in. And I made some life-long friends.

That voluntary work led to short-term copywriting and PR gigs for, among others, a food and wine producers’ group, a dietary supplement distributor and a business that makes unusual items out of wood. But in an area with a small population, you can only do that sort of thing for so long before you run out of clients.

Most country towns are short of doctors, dentists, nurses, teachers and motor mechanics. If you happen to be one of those, and yearn for a quieter home life among the trees (but not necessarily a slower work life), you’re in luck.

Where new housing subdivisions are planned, regional areas also need town planners and local council bureaucrats as well as architects, surveyors, builders, electricians, tilers, carpenters, plasterers, plumbers, painters and, of course, real estate agents.

Whenever there’s a surge in building activity in our town, or in one nearby, it can take up to a month before a call to an electrician, or other tradesman, will see him (and it’s always a him) at your door.

In Daylesford, we can boast tourism operators galore, retailers, restaurateurs, chefs, publicans, wedding organisers, hairdressers, cafe owners, caterers, waiters, porters, massage therapists, ‘wellness facilitators’, antique dealers, gardeners and cleaners. Across the region there are farmers, wine makers, cheese makers, chocolatiers and bakers.

Then there are all the usual facilities: a small hospital, a medical centre, a post office, childcare centres, schools, a funeral director, banks, a library, a pharmacy, supermarkets, an osteopath, an acupuncturist, a physiotherapist and a newsagent. We once had a high-end florist’s shop but it packed up and moved to a place where business is more consistent throughout the year.

The last few years have seen a resurgence in hand-crafted items in boutiques around town, most selling for premium prices. Others are available from market stalls at more realistic levels. They range from candles, soaps and preserves to children’s apparel, soft toys and accessories. If you fancy turning your hand to a craft after a move to the country, don’t rely on it to bring in much income at first, or ever.

If you move to the country and you work for local government, or you’re a medical specialist, a practitioner in the public health system, an environmental consultant, an engineer, a journalist or engaged in the law, you’ll  need to travel to a job in the nearest regional centre, or commute to the city. In that case, you’ll spend almost as much time travelling to work as you’ll spend at home in the country.

I can see much to commend Julia Gillard’s plan to transform us into a nation of telecommuters. Given the rate at which Baby Boomers are moving out of the cities, let’s hope that that happens sooner, rather than later.

When all you want to do is find a warm place, slouch around, eat chocolate, drink tea and dream of somewhere else? Or pretend to work by doing ‘research’ as, from the comfort of the sofa, you scan old magazines or plant catalogues for that elusive nugget of information for which you’ve decided to search in a rather desultory manner?

But, like women the world over, I’ve never been good at relaxing during daylight hours. Not when the garden beckons with all sorts of tasks that just can’t wait till Spring steps over the windowsill. But it’s not like real work, is it? It’s more like play, especially when it comes to dealing with the compost.

This time of year is perfect for collecting the good stuff from the bottom of the bin before adding the latest vegie scraps, a little manure, some dry leaves or straw, and giving it all a good turn. That is the right order. There’s no point in turning it before you do anything with it. You’ll just end up with bits of partially decomposed vegies and eggshells all over the garden (although the latter, crushed and scattered around plants, keeps snails and slugs at bay… but you know that already.)

I’ve taken to checking the lid of the bin, lately, for slugs. When I find them, I throw them over the fence. This isn’t as bad as it sounds. The newly-erected ‘next door’ is on a bush block and the slugs don’t get very far on the rough ground before a kookaburra or a currawong swoops on them. I see it as giving the eco system a bit of a boost.

This is an ideal time, here, to dig compost into garden beds. The moisture keeps the worms happy while they break up the soil and nourish it, preparing it for new growth in Spring. You just need to be careful when digging it in around bulbs.

Last week the compost was a little too wet after all the rain we’ve had. So I added a layer of straw and some sheep manure. Even while I was doing it I knew that the dry, warm, soft straw would attract mice. Right now I find the idea of a soft, warm bed pretty attractive, too. You’d think I hadn’t had a good ten-hour sleep last night. At any rate, the sooner I disturb the little critters by turning everything over, the sooner they’ll realise it’s not an ideal place to set up home.

Due to too much computer work followed by an excursion to the optometrist (cause and effect in a nutshell), I still haven’t finished weeding and mulching the vegie patch. My partner, who’s awaiting the arrival of another desk job, has volunteered to finish it for me today, bless him.

Folding back the bird netting, while repeatedly catching it on every button of one’s clothing (as many as a dozen today), and then crouching  beneath a wooden frame while digging in compost and spreading mulch, isn’t my idea of a pleasant outdoor pursuit. I’m more than happy to relinquish it.

Now that bulbs are springing up everywhere, the garden’s looking a little crowded. So I’ve decided to pull out a few clumps of native iris to plant in pots on the deck. Ditto a few succulents that have suffered injury during recent frosts. Placed under the shelter of the eaves, they’ll probably recover.

The ‘Heronswood Blue’ Echium has gone gangbusters since I moved it into a sheltered bed at the side of the house. After it flowers in Spring, I’ll take cuttings to plant elsewhere.

In my heavy gardening coat, layers of clothes and thickest pair of socks, I’d think Spring was a long way off… but for the bulbs bursting out of the soil everywhere and the sun that’s now peeking between the clouds. In fact, I’d be sorely tempted to hunker down near the fire, drink tea and devote myself entirely to ‘research’.

Conscious that for some time I’d been sneezing violently whenever I entered the bedroom, on Saturday afternoon I spent more time in that room than any other. I swept it and then wiped all the surfaces with a damp cloth.

I still sneezed.

On Sunday morning, as I was drawing back the curtains, I noticed a fine black film on the window pane. On closer examination I could see other patches on the glass, on the window frame, on the wall below it and – horror of horrors – a galaxy of grey spots across the curtain lining.

Keeping the door closed at night, then opening it briefly during the day, had caused condensation to form, creating ideal conditions for mildew.

Having lived in a damp house in Sydney’s Mosman, where the problem of mould is endemic, we know the toll that the spores of the silent invader can take.

In a house where shoes in the wardrobe would turn grey with mould, I regularly suffered respiratory problems and headaches. It wasn’t until we moved to another suburb that my health improved markedly.

The curtains are just a pair I found in an op shop. A little on the flimsy side when I bought them, once they were lined with an old pair of calico curtains they were fine and served us well during Summer’s heat. They also complement the colour scheme in the bedroom and, more importantly, cover a window that’s irregularly large. For that reason, alone, they’re well worth keeping.

I took them down carefully, trying not to disturb and scatter the mould spores. Then I filled the laundry tub with hot water and mild detergent, plunged the curtains into it and left them to soak. From bitter experience I’m aware that mildew will indelibly stain fabric; if left untreated, it will eat it away.

While I was doing that, my partner washed the bedroom windows, the woodwork  and the wall with a solution of hot water and vinegar. While bleach is often used to treat mould, it’s hazardous to health and it smells terrible.

If you’re living with a septic tank and you empty bleach down the drain, you’ll soon know that you’ve done the wrong thing. The bleach will kill all the microbes that have worked so diligently to break down your waste water and the tank will stink to high heaven for days, or until the  balance has been restored.

Curious to see whether there were any home remedies for removing mildew stains from fabric that weren’t toxic, I read on the internet that the best way was to soak the fabric overnight in a solution of buttermilk and cold water. Then you cold-wash it, using regular laundry detergent.

I’m sure there’s a scientific reason for buttermilk’s efficacy in removing mildew, but I’ve neither the will nor the time to delve into it now.

During a rushed visit to the supermarket yesterday, I bought two cartons of buttermilk. At home, in a calmer framer of mind, I re-read the mildew removal hint and discovered that for every bucket (about nine litres) of cold water, I’ll need two cups of buttermilk. A carton contains about two and half cups.

To completely cover the curtains, I’ll need at least 36 litres – or four buckets – of cold water. Arithmetic has never been my strong point (and feel free to correct me) but it seems that I’ll need one-and-a-bit-cartons more of buttermilk to make an effective solution. As long as MasterChef hasn’t featured a recipe for buttermilk pancakes over the last few days, I’m hoping there won’t be a run on the stuff before I can get into town.

Meanwhile, the curtains from the spare room now cover the bedroom window. We bought them nearly 20 years ago in Sydney… which is probably why I still sneeze whenever I go into the bedroom.

The vegie patch is the preserve of my partner who’s quite conscientious about its upkeep. Lately, though, the cold, wet, windy weather has kept us both from outdoor chores and we’ve both been busy with desk jobs.

This morning dawned cloudy and still and it seemed like an ideal time to see what’s happening up there. Accompanied by kookaburras chortling high in the trees, and magpies carolling their greetings, I negotiated the muddy track up the hill. It was strewn with branches and sticks, the detritus of last weekend’s gale-force winds. The bird netting over the vegies protects them from the worst of the weather.

With a good crop of grass growing among them, the vegies looked fine. Had I not had a post to write, I’d have been tempted to weed the beds. (I did pull out a few clumps of grass but stopped before I got carried away.)

After all the rain we’ve had lately, the damp soil is easier to work although it’s a little mossy and compacted. Later I’ll weed and carefully hoe, in readiness for spreading some worm-laden compost and pea straw mulch.

The sprouting broccoli is doing well and we’ve been harvesting it as needed. We’ll have to pick the rest of it soon, before it begins to flower. No hardship there.

I’m a big fan of red pak choy, especially in Asian dishes, and I was pleased that there’s still so much of it left. I could be in stir-fry heaven for weeks.

It survived the hard frost we had a couple of weeks ago, probably due to the bird netting. It’s almost ready to flower now, too, so we might have to share it with friends (yes, probably you John, if you’re good.)

It’s such a sturdy vegetable, and so decorative, that I’m almost tempted to try growing it among the ornamentals… were it not for the rabbit, kangaroo and wallaby poo littering the lawn.

Perhaps the most striking vegetable at this time of year – even prettier than the red pak choy and the flowering broad beans – is the Florence Fennel. Tall, feathery plumes waft above sturdy stems and its pale green bulbs grow fatter and whiter by the week.

A member of the parsley family, it’s susceptible to the parsley caterpillar, whatever that is. As with all vegetables, it’s a good idea to be vigilant and pick off any critters as soon as you see them.

Florence Fennel seeds are difficult to find in the shops around here. If not for a friend who gave us some earlier this year, we’d never have grown it.

According to the Australian Vegetable Gardening Encyclopedia (The Currawong Press, 1985), fennel should be harvested when the bulbous stalk is 8cm or more in diameter. But that doesn’t take into account those – like me – who enjoy young fennel’s milder flavour in soups, casseroles and stir-fries.

Maybe, in Summer, we’ll do as the French do and serve grilled fish on a dramatic bed of flaming fennel stalks. But we’ll probably just crunch on the young stalks in mild-mannered salads and gently roast the bulbs with chicken.

A friend gave me some mangel-wurzel seeds that I’m keen to plant in Spring, after the last frost. There was once snow in November in these parts so choosing the right time to sow could be a bit of a gamble. Still, it adds to the thrill.

Showing our age, we talked of how life has inexorably changed. Gone forever are the computers that occupied entire climate-controlled offices, exclusive to the likes of IBM and NASA. Once, mobile phones were ridiculous props for the antics of Maxwell Smart. Remember his shoe phone?

Long before the technological revolution, attitudes forged in the 1960s and ’70s were changing the world. Views on gender, race and religion altered radically during that time and anxiety for the health of the planet – once considered the exclusive preserve of hippies – is now of global concern.

And don’t get us started on where the nuns tried to lead us in those turbulent ’60s; they might as well have been whistling in the wind.

On our second day together, our talk turned to worries of parents. Not about their attitudes and prejudices, this time, but about their welfare.

With a mother who’s older than my friends’ parents, I’m a little ahead of them in the worry stakes. No amount of anxiety, though, could have prepared me for the onset of the Alzheimer’s disease that now sees my mother dependent on full-time care.

The other women’s anxieties are no less prominent than mine. Two of them wonder how their surviving parent will manage the care of the other parent whose health is failing. Or how that parent will react when faced with the need to place their one and only into full-time care. And what if the parent who’s the carer, and who’s older, should fall ill?

One of our group has a widowed mother. Older than her sibling, she knows that the future might hold some difficult decisions about her mother’s care.

It’s hard not to worry about what might happen. Sometimes it won’t happen at all; at least, not in the way we think it will. Mark Twain’s comment sums it up: ‘I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened.’

Sometimes they do, though. My friends and I have grieved over parents, siblings and friends. There will be more grief before our lives are over. Happiness, like life itself, is is precious and fleeting.

We feel it’s important to count our blessings, to feel grateful for all that’s good in our lives and to revel in each moment of happiness when it presents itself.

Our weekend together helped us share our burdens and lighten our loads with laughter. It brought back happy moments and gave us more to remember till the next time.