Then

GLEN AVON Farm was the idyllic realm of my childhood and youth. I loved living there.

I have a strong connection with the property, even though it’s nearly 11 years since I lived there.

It wasn’t my choice to leave the farm and I still miss it deeply. My father sold it because the government made farming more difficult by imposing regulations, and my brother decided not to go into farming.

Our father asked how we would feel if he sold the farm. I was not happy but said that he must do what he felt was best for him.

Before the sale I stood to inherit half the farm, the northern half including Rifle Range Paddock and the Meander River frontage. It would have given me great joy to live there, and I would have created an eco-haven with accommodation for nature retreats, art and music camps so others could also enjoy and benefit from it.

I owe my creativity to my upbringing on Glen Avon Farm, with its beautiful mountain views across the fields and peaceful environment, plus the culture of my family. It instilled in me a love of nature and the Tasmanian landscape. This environment was conducive for creativity and nurtured my artistic skills. I learnt to appreciate the beauty and significance of the little things while I also learnt to draw and paint them with great detail.

My grandfather Robert (Bob) Mitchelson and his brother Lindsay bought the farm in 1916 and began clearing land for agriculture with draught horses, and then with metal wheeled tractors

Originally the property included the whole block down to the Meander River. My grandfather donated the riverside land for access to the Egmont swimming site to the community. He also bought out Lindsay when he retired.

Our intrepid ancestors emigrated from Canada, and before that, Scotland. My grandfather chose the farm’s Scottish name. Scottish people, we know, have a long history of taking a stand for their land, and I have plenty of their DNA in me.

The 13h site the Tasmanian Government proposes for the prison is known in my family as Rifle Range and Big Flats Paddocks. Rifle Range Paddock was indeed a rifle range for an outdoor shooting club. My grandfather was once part of the club and provided land for use on weekends. They put up red flags when the range was in use so people knew to keep clear and wait to be signalled through. When no one was shooting I sometimes would look behind the targets and walk on the mounds where they shot from.

I used to love riding the farm four-wheeler bike up Rifle Range Road with my dog beside me or seeing the water birds on the nearby dam. A beautiful white gum there was one of my favourites. I used to pick the leaves and make music with them like the boy on the TV program Skippy.

Sometimes I rode my horse across there to bring in the dairy cows for Grandpa when they were grazed in the Rifle Range Paddock or Big Flats. We grazed sheep there too.

I also remember my grandfather speeding full tilt down the Rifle Range road towards home in the old Commer truck, with my brother Brian, Pepper the Kelpie and myself clinging to the back, bouncing on any bumps in the road. Poor Pepper looked very startled! We were half in fear and half amused. Something hadn’t gone right with the sheep and it had made Grandpa angry. He didn’t often get angry so we weren’t used to that.

Another time Dad (Rob Mitchelson) got me to roll a freshly drilled crop of pea seeds with the tractor and roller. He forgot to teach me how to put the clutch out to change gears or stop the tractor, so I just sat there and diligently steered it all afternoon, up and down, up and down. With sunburnt hands I kept going until I had finished the whole paddock. Then I just turned off the key, let it roll to a stop and walked home.

I knew and loved every inch of that farm. Wandering among the wattle and eucalyptus trees on the hill behind the Rifle Range and Big Flats Paddocks I discovered a great view towards Ben Lomond. On a clear day you can see St Patrick’s Head near St Mary’s. It was a favourite haven.

My grandfather named all the paddocks. Land has agricultural value – probably not the best of Glen Avon’s soils but it did quite well. In winter these paddocks can become very wet because all the water runs off the hill.

Now

WHEN I decided in January this year to paint a pair of maps of Glen Avon Farm to enter in the Glover Art Prize, it may have been a premonition that something would happen to this land.

Ten years since I left the farm, these detailed maps of the farm I knew from the 1970s to the early 90s were inspired by one I made in childhood. I found it emotional creating them, as in my mind I could see all these places as clearly as if it were yesterday.

I can tell you it’s still difficult for me not to stop the car and do a runner across the paddocks and revisit my favourite places, to just sit and meld my being with it again.

Maybe only the Indigenous people and others who have had to part with a beloved farm will understand how I feel, and understand my deep connection to this place?

I still refer to it as ‘our’ farm, and in my head it always will be. It comes frequently into my dreams and sometimes I wake in distress.

A prison could boost our local economy in some ways but undermine it in others. Our tourism industry possibly could suffer if Westbury acquires a negative stigma from having the prison nearby.

Would the lovely smalltown, friendly and historic atmosphere which we treasure be lost?

Or would it become known as the proactive town of compassion and successful rehabilitation?

Westbury is a gem. We need to weigh up every aspect and use our foresight intelligently

Joanne Mitchelson, Westbury