Abandoned
by Rebekah Day
Ellenborough
It’s a hot day and I’m watching some friends sweat over a barbeque lunch at their new holiday house, tucked away in the country side by a river.
I watch as the little kids play in a handmade sandpit, using old gumboots to carry water from the river and making castles from faded blue buckets. Looking around I can see an assortment of old shoes, bicycles, socks and toys that look far too rusted and moth eaten to have been bought here with the young family - who have owned the property for less than 3 weeks
“The bank had foreclosed this house and land on the previous family that owned it. When we arrived the house looked as though it was still lived in - kids toys, wedding albums, cups and crockery - it was all still there,” my friend explains, and intrigued I press for more information.
“We visited the tip 7 times just throwing out personal items from the previous family, all their paper documents had been wrecked by rain and mice.”
Looking at the “house” itself I can see how easily this would happen, the wooden walls filled with gaps and holes would leave the inside contents vulnerable to weather and rodents – making it feel like a not-quite-finished project, more cabin than house.
The surprises left behind by the previous family make walking through the house a treasure hunt, stumbling across books, Christmas decorations and old CD’s trigger me to imagine what the lives of these other people had been like. It left me with a disenchanted feeling to imagine them torn from their daily life and forced to leave behind all their possessions – and here I was now curiously sifting through what would have been precious belongings
“We did keep some of the photo albums in case these kids ever came back, ever wanted to know about their past. It was strange moving into a house that was full of memories… but my girls play with a lot of the toys so I guess it’s like they’re making new memories out of abandoned ones.”
Quotes from Deborah King.
It’s a hot day and I’m watching some friends sweat over a barbeque lunch at their new holiday house, tucked away in the country side by a river.
I watch as the little kids play in a handmade sandpit, using old gumboots to carry water from the river and making castles from faded blue buckets. Looking around I can see an assortment of old shoes, bicycles, socks and toys that look far too rusted and moth eaten to have been bought here with the young family - who have owned the property for less than 3 weeks
“The bank had foreclosed this house and land on the previous family that owned it. When we arrived the house looked as though it was still lived in - kids toys, wedding albums, cups and crockery - it was all still there,” my friend explains, and intrigued I press for more information.
“We visited the tip 7 times just throwing out personal items from the previous family, all their paper documents had been wrecked by rain and mice.”
Looking at the “house” itself I can see how easily this would happen, the wooden walls filled with gaps and holes would leave the inside contents vulnerable to weather and rodents – making it feel like a not-quite-finished project, more cabin than house.
The surprises left behind by the previous family make walking through the house a treasure hunt, stumbling across books, Christmas decorations and old CD’s trigger me to imagine what the lives of these other people had been like. It left me with a disenchanted feeling to imagine them torn from their daily life and forced to leave behind all their possessions – and here I was now curiously sifting through what would have been precious belongings
“We did keep some of the photo albums in case these kids ever came back, ever wanted to know about their past. It was strange moving into a house that was full of memories… but my girls play with a lot of the toys so I guess it’s like they’re making new memories out of abandoned ones.”
Quotes from Deborah King.
Putty Valley
On a quiet New Year ’s Day my father and I decide to take a drive through the area he grew up in, hidden in a valley 45 minutes from anywhere. We cruise slowly past places once familiar to us, reminiscing on the people and the memories that made the place special, though now it looked foreign enough to me to pass as another country. Stopping on the side of the road to study a map, my Dad remembers the property we have parked out the front of - “It used to be a petrol station, a popular stop for motorbikes and travellers, but when it shut down it became a well-known place for squatters to live.”
Peering through the weed entangled gate I can see a few wooden buildings, shrouded in ferns and falling apart from the roof down. With only a few “private property – stay out” signs hanging off a derelict fence and a near total lack of passing traffic, I could see the appeal the property might hold to a squatter looking to lie low.
“This one guy was a criminal, living there in hiding, I think he committed a robbery or something and the police found him hiding in the engine bay of an abandoned car on the property.”
Abandoned cars are a common sight around here; some stolen, some ruined for insurance claims, and some simply broken down, and being too far away from anywhere to get proper help, these skeletal automobiles are left to become part of the landscape.
“It’s amazing they found him at all, the place is hardly visible from the road because of overgrown scrub, you don’t know what could be hiding in there …”
Quotes from Stephen Day.
On a quiet New Year ’s Day my father and I decide to take a drive through the area he grew up in, hidden in a valley 45 minutes from anywhere. We cruise slowly past places once familiar to us, reminiscing on the people and the memories that made the place special, though now it looked foreign enough to me to pass as another country. Stopping on the side of the road to study a map, my Dad remembers the property we have parked out the front of - “It used to be a petrol station, a popular stop for motorbikes and travellers, but when it shut down it became a well-known place for squatters to live.”
Peering through the weed entangled gate I can see a few wooden buildings, shrouded in ferns and falling apart from the roof down. With only a few “private property – stay out” signs hanging off a derelict fence and a near total lack of passing traffic, I could see the appeal the property might hold to a squatter looking to lie low.
“This one guy was a criminal, living there in hiding, I think he committed a robbery or something and the police found him hiding in the engine bay of an abandoned car on the property.”
Abandoned cars are a common sight around here; some stolen, some ruined for insurance claims, and some simply broken down, and being too far away from anywhere to get proper help, these skeletal automobiles are left to become part of the landscape.
“It’s amazing they found him at all, the place is hardly visible from the road because of overgrown scrub, you don’t know what could be hiding in there …”
Quotes from Stephen Day.
Brombin
A man visiting on business is chatting casually in the kitchen and when asked how he managed to find our house so well, considering its remote rural location, he says,
“I used to holiday in that house over there,” pointing out the window.
Across the wide rolling paddocks of our neighbouring property is the rustic pink farmer’s cottage that the man speaks of. Its windows are smashed, foundations sloped and paint peeling – I know these details because it sits perched above the road I travel on every day.
“I was about 10 or 12 when I did visit my Uncle and Aunty at that house a few times.” He further explains after I probe for more information, trying to picture people living in the long abandoned building.
“Dingos came right up to the house, so I wasn’t allowed outside at night - and with the toilet a few metres from the house Uncle Des would stand outside with a gun, whilst anyone was going back and forth from the toilet…”
I recognise the “toilet” he speaks of, a crude out-house not connected to any plumbing - once a common sight for any rural Australian property. I can hardly imagine the dingoes, even though the area is rural it sees a lot more traffic than it would have 50 years ago, and that with the noisy farming machinery scares most wildlife away…
“We’d stay for the summer there, so it’s strange to imagine the place so desolate and uninhabited, when I remember it so full of life,” he says, almost as an afterthought, and I can see it is hard for him to recognise this shambling old cottage on the side of the road as the same vibrant family home from his memory.
Quotes from Paul Kiem.
A man visiting on business is chatting casually in the kitchen and when asked how he managed to find our house so well, considering its remote rural location, he says,
“I used to holiday in that house over there,” pointing out the window.
Across the wide rolling paddocks of our neighbouring property is the rustic pink farmer’s cottage that the man speaks of. Its windows are smashed, foundations sloped and paint peeling – I know these details because it sits perched above the road I travel on every day.
“I was about 10 or 12 when I did visit my Uncle and Aunty at that house a few times.” He further explains after I probe for more information, trying to picture people living in the long abandoned building.
“Dingos came right up to the house, so I wasn’t allowed outside at night - and with the toilet a few metres from the house Uncle Des would stand outside with a gun, whilst anyone was going back and forth from the toilet…”
I recognise the “toilet” he speaks of, a crude out-house not connected to any plumbing - once a common sight for any rural Australian property. I can hardly imagine the dingoes, even though the area is rural it sees a lot more traffic than it would have 50 years ago, and that with the noisy farming machinery scares most wildlife away…
“We’d stay for the summer there, so it’s strange to imagine the place so desolate and uninhabited, when I remember it so full of life,” he says, almost as an afterthought, and I can see it is hard for him to recognise this shambling old cottage on the side of the road as the same vibrant family home from his memory.
Quotes from Paul Kiem.
Photography by Bek Day.
© The Treacle Well 2013