The owner of the house in Oatlands went by the last name Tillie, which I loved. It was my first sign that this place could be mine. My Dad, originally hailing from Lincolnshire in the UK, called his Australian wife, my mum, his Matilda, or Tillie, for short.

I drove into town, and just off the High Street sat a humble sandstone cottage. The property was decorated with kid’s toys, grandma’s caravan, and a Noah’s Ark of farm animals. The goat was particularly friendly! The owners warmly welcomed me in and showed me around a rabbit warren of extensions that had been added to the original sandstone cottage throughout the years.

Over a cup of tea, we talked about everything. Raising children, living in the country, why I was looking for a property in Tassie, and their big move to a larger property up north. They generously shared details with me about what it would take to buy the place. I felt unsure. So deeply unsure! There was a lot of work to do. A lot of things that needed fixing. Like, a lot. And the only obvious heritage element I could see was the exterior stone. In one of those moments in what I could only describe as sheer lunacy and blind hope, I made an offer on the house, and they accepted.