Research trips – they’re a tough gig but someone’s gotta do it

I knew that my debut novel was going to be set in the Riverina district of NSW. But I also knew that it had to be authentic. There was only so much desk research I could do. It wasn’t enough to look at a couple of homesteads on Google Maps and do a bit of googling of plants and animals in the area. I wanted to smell the cut lucerne and the diesel.  Feel the lanolin in the crinkly wool. Prop in the local Bowlo and meet the locals.  To get up close and personal with an Angus steers. But how to do it? A friend of mine had gone to boarding school and rubbed shoulders with some girls from the land. So, I asked her if she could arrange for me to go and live for a while with a family in the Riverina. I despatched the text and returned to googling the colour of soil in the area.

The next day a text arrived: I have the perfect place for you to stay! A friend from school. Sally and her husband Mick have a working farm. Beef and grain. Located in Grenfell. Famous for bushranger and gold mining past and the birthplace of Henry Lawson. Here’s her mobile. M xx

I’d never invited myself to a complete stranger’s house before. And certainly not to stay for a week. So, it was with trepidation that I dialled the number on a Sunday night.

Me: Yes, ahem, hello, my name is Lynne. I’ve been given your number by Meredith.  I am writing a book set in the Riverina. 

Sally: Oh yes. Meredith said that you’d like to come and stay.

Me: Well, yes, if that’s not too inconvenient. I want to get a real insight into life on a working property, meet some of the people…. but I want to help out too, not just be an ornament.

Sally: Oh, don’t worry, we’ll find something for you to do. When do you want to come?

Me: Not next week, but the week after.

Sally: Oh, right. Okay, I’ll get the room ready. I’ll see you on Monday week. 

I threw my Akubra in a bag, plugged Grenfell into the satnav and waved goodbye to my husband - he thought I had more hide than Jessie, inviting myself to someone’s house to stay. 

As I rounded the corner into the main drag of Boorowa I was struck by two things. First, the golden canola. I’d seen people living their best Insta-lives knee-deep in it. But this looked like the whole world was in darkness and a searchlight had been shone on that spot only. And secondly, the luminescence. Wiradjuri Country. I’d heard others rave about it. Even the pic I took, didn’t do it justice. 

Before long, the majestic homestead of ‘Clare Park’ rose up before me. I followed the sound of a whipper-snipper. A woman in a cotton blouse in a horseshoe print and designer sunglasses was deep in concentration. 

Sally: ‘Oh sorry, if I don’t keep on to it, it gets away from me.’ 

It was the middle 2021. But it seemed that Grenfell hadn’t got the memo about the pandemic. No masks. No lockdown. No hysteria.  Before long I was seated in the side-by-side next to Sally whipping up red dirt in our wake, the smell of clover in the air, in hot pursuit of flyblown sheep. Then there was the discovery of a lamb’s foreleg left on top of a fence post. Wasn’t expecting that. 

Sally: ‘Bastards. The eagles swoop on them.’

The day closed with feeding the poddy kids and calf. I’ve never seen anyone demolish a bottle like those animals.

There was a trip to bushranger Ben Hall’s Cave (how could Hall have ever gotten his horses up there?) followed by a stroll through O’Brien’s Mine (How did Mrs O’Brien fit all those children in that tiny shack?) and crushing Cyprus Pine needles in my hands (Sally thought it smelt like Christmas.) The obligatory Thursday night at the Bowlo didn’t disappoint. Lots of ‘material’ to be had there. People with big hearts and a ready story. 

I whipped out the questions that I’d prepared beforehand: what causes sinkholes? Where are guns kept? Do people slaughter their own animals? Who inherits properties in the country: sons, daughters, or both? Where do the young poeple go when they leave school? All of these were answered patiently and in a considered way. 

Everyone went about their business in the no-fuss way that country folk do. They utilised every second. We think we work hard in the city. Yeah, nup.  These people worked six and a half days a week. And when they were harvesting – they sometimes were on the job until 3am. And nothing was wasted. What the dogs didn’t eat - the chooks did.

My husband joined us on Friday afternoon to play in the local tennis comp. A mere 100km away in West Wyalong. Distance is no object, and there’s no such thing as a stranger. In the words of Mick: ‘they are friends who we haven’t yet met.’ 

Sally was a great beta reader for my manuscript. Her brief was to check that all ‘things farming’ were portrayed accurately. Her feedback was to the point: ‘No, you wouldn’t have someone shearing in the middle of harvest. Too much going on.’ Spoken like a pro. She even picked up on some of my grammatical errors! The challenge was weaving all of this magic into The Bait Trap. I think that Sally saw herself in the Judd family matriarch, Ros. (For the record, she’s a much nicer version of Ros.) 

I’ve kept in touch with Sally and Mick. One of the collateral benefits of my research trip. So, if you’re an author and you think that you can get away with desk research and looking at Google maps. You can’t. Because there will always be someone who’ll write to you and say: ‘You wouldn’t have someone shearing in the middle of harvest.’