I went to a wedding down by the river the other day. It was the first wedding I had been to in a long time and we were delighted to be invited.
It’s quite the in thing to avoid churches and have a very simple, very pared back wedding. This wedding was held at an old station (in Australia our farms, for want of a better word, are called stations) that was one of the first properties in European settlement around here. The property sports a large country home, lots and lots of acres to run sheep on, and of course – the woolshed.
A wool shed is the place where the sheep are shorn. They march them up a ramp, the shearers do their work, take the fleece off and the sheep are marched out the other side, naked.
As time has gone on, the nature of this station has changed. It’s more difficult to run sheep here nowadays, and in this case they have made way for tourism. Now, the woolshed has been converted into a micro brewery and instead of sheep being shorn, we are offered home brewed beer. I’m not a beer lover but I was told it was delicious. And it was a hot day, so much beer was consumed.
But when I walked into this woolshed, despite all the years it has been since it was used for stock, it still smells like sheep – lanolin and dust and fleece.
The wedding was held overlooking the river:
The bride carried a very simple bouquet of native flowers, and we listened to them take their vows, with a backdrop of birds chirping and fish jumping in the river.
I’m so lucky, living here.