This is a story about a woman falling in love, falling into the wild and eventually falling into herself. Like all good romances, it begins with a little dose of heartache. Girl meets boy. Girl moves for boy. Boy changes his mind. Girl moves back home. And whilst at that very time one of Shakespeare’s most pleading of lines, “Oh teach me how I should forget to think” rang true, Amy’s propensity for spotting the light in the darkest of places, instead coerced her gently not to forget to think, but rather to explore.

Luckily for her, she could take her pick of explorations as she headed back to the Sunshine Coast hinterland, not too far from the tiny community she had grown up in, Bellthorpe. Having spent her childhood on her parent’s farm, she became a curious and creative child, who quickly learnt to use the environment around her as her greatest form of entertainment.  The great outdoors was her playground and within it, she rode her horse across the paddocks, waited eagerly to peer at full moons, and sat curled up in lantana bushes just to watch the sunset. Even her reading material favoured tales of talking animals and beautiful sanctuaries such as The Wind in the Willows, The Rats of Nimh and The Secret Garden.  Unbeknownst to her, her link to nature was already there, bubbling and budding inside her tiny heart.

An orphaned fawn, fondly named Emily, was also hand-reared by Amy’s family and unbelievably after returning to her herd as a mature doe, she magically reappeared years later when Amy turned fifteen. Often when she would return home from school she would sit upon her grassy hill that overlooked the flats, and wait for Emily. Sure enough, the animal would tentatively make her way towards her, and they’d spend the afternoons together as Amy finished homework or read books with Emily lounging close by. “Oddly enough, Emily was my greatest teacher,” Amy smiles. “I felt “seen” for the first time as a shy and awkward teenager and felt almost grateful to be me. How rare for a skittish animal to want to choose to spend its time with a human.” Her reverence for the natural world began and at a time in her life when she didn’t quite know what to do, she realised that it was time to go back to the beginning, back to her wilderness.

And so it began. Her love affair. “I wanted to fall back in love with the hinterland,” she says. “I’d been trying to leave it for so long, heading off on new adventures, but somehow it seemed to keep calling me back.” It was a slow progression, a run of small dates with nature, a dipping of toes into her natural dating pool. Some mornings were spent along the edges of creeks, waiting for a sleepy platypus to show itself. Some days were spent in the rainforest, beneath the canopies photographing an array of fungi that sprouted across lengths of timber. Some afternoons had her foraging for berries and edible weeds, tiny treasures served up to her like roses. It was a whirlwind of a romance rife with appreciation, and quicker than anticipated, nature began to move in.

It began in the smallest of ways. A fern in the bathroom, a fiddle leaf fig in the bedroom, a flourishing array of pots on her deck. British gardeners, Alys Fowler and Mary Reynolds, renewed Amy’s interest in gardening and reminded her of the importance of allowing nature the capacity to be responsible for itself. Principles of companion planting took hold and her relationship bloomed. Even her furnishings were swapped for those with natural fibres and she began growing her own “bathshrooms” as a means to bring the outside, in.

The delicate relationship also began to influence her artwork. Sketches of fairy wrens, scarlet honeyeaters, nests and plants scattered her walls and bench tops as reminders of the many faces of her new found love.

It became clear, that the wilderness had somehow managed to permeate every aspect of her life and Amy welcomed the familiarity of its warm embrace. It was a gentle companion, one that had brought her peace and taught her a humility that she felt no human possibly could. For she had received more than she sought. She had also fallen once again happily into herself, complete and full and now madly in love with the most nurturing of confidantes, nature its very self.

This is a story about a woman, a pair of hands and a sense of faith in what is to come. It began in 1979 when a pregnant Lorraine, her husband and two lively boys moved into their very first home in the hills of Maleny, on the Sunshine Coast. It was a small fibro house set on a 698 m2 block. It had no back fence, a mandarin tree, a tank stand covered in wisteria and four sturdy white azalea trees that grew out the front, like four formidable soldiers. They were the first to go; detached from the ground by the family’s green Land cruiser, loosening and preparing the soil for what she hoped was to come.

As her family quickly became seven, she found herself a busy working mother. She dedicated herself to raising her five children and even minded her friend’s children, made pottery to sell at the local arts and crafts and found herself sewing to make ends meet. As her days filled, her work also grew to include milking cows at a range of hinterland dairies, and her time dissipated, forcing her unruly garden into a jungle. While her heart sighed over what it had become, it was to her children, their very delight.

The backyard was overrun with little feet that ran and played, plucking guavas from branches, bouncing on trampolines and digging in sandpits. A chook pen was erected in the far back corner, where mean roosters would pace the fence line daring children to enter. Skateboards ruled the driveway and fingers were pricked by her increasing cacti collection. Her ever growing bush house was the perfect space for hide and seek and a burial grounds for many a matchbox car. Although it provided endless adventure and stimulation for her children, Lorraine envisioned a garden that would bloom and fill her tiny space. She needed patience and thankfully she had plenty.

As her children grew, the sandpit and trampoline disappeared, the chook pen was uprooted and replaced with a combination of leafy palms, where one can now walk serenely through. Two fishponds were dug and filled, with a leopard tree that spans above one, protecting its inhabitants below with spotted arms. There are archways swamped in flowering vines that lead to spaces bursting in colours and textures and places to get lost. For Lorraine, the vision of her garden and the constant work of chasing and bringing it to fruition, was the greatest gift to herself she could have given.

Plunging her hands in dirt, planting a seed, building a landscape design or pulling weeds gives her a sense of freedom. The soil is her retreat, a quiet time, a solitude in the chaos. And it hasn’t just been a place for her to partake in, it’s opened itself to special birthday celebrations, baby showers, family parties and even her only daughter’s wedding. “The yard blossomed as a garden when the children left,” she smiles. Now her eleven grandchildren race across its lawn and forage among the ferns and flowers like pirates privy to a special treasure.

For visitors to the hinterland, being able to experience Lorraine’s garden is also a sweetener. It has been featured in “Gardening on the Edge” and the “Festival of Colour” three times, with locals and visitors lucky enough to wander in and out of her design. “It’s always a pretty nervous time,” she says. There’s something about opening oneself creatively to the scrutiny of others, that has the potential to make even the most confident of us squirm. “In fact,” she laughs, “my youngest son often said during the “Festival of Colour” he never had a mother. I think it was an exaggeration but I guess I became a little consumed at the time.”

Audrey Hepburn once said, “To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow” and Lorraine has never stopped believing. “I only have a small space,” she says, “but I have a lot of ideas and I want people to know that this is achievable for anyone. It isn’t so much about the flowers as it is about the reward of seeing an idea take shape”. In fact, Lorraine’s impressive garden isn’t the result of excessive expense. It’s stemmed from friends supplying her with cuttings, plants being given as presents and taking her own cuttings from her mother’s garden. In this way it has given her a far greater satisfaction than if it were a large opulent landscape. Rather, hers tells a story, a tale of a space that has taken shape from a single desire and a faith in what she’s doing. The story of her garden isn’t finished just yet and like all good authors, there’s most certainly a sequel brewing in the recesses of her mind. All it needs is a pair of hands, some watering and a little faith.

This is a story about a man, the game of tennis and the joy of teaching. When speaking to this man, it’s hard not to be swept up in the immensity of his enthusiasm. For like a strong Scotch Whisky, his zest for coaching tennis is intoxicating. Some may liken Ian to the duplicity of Batman, high school physical education teacher by day, and tennis coach mentor any other spare minute he can find. Super heroes tend to know there is great return in giving, and Ian has certainly learnt this to be true in his day to day coaching.

Born and bred in Southern Scotland, Ian made Australia his home in 1986. He left his family and the wild beauty of his homeland, and eventually settled on the Sunshine Coast where he married his wife and raised two beautiful girls. While employed at a local high school his passion for tennis could not be quashed and he began his coaching business, eager to bring an element of fun back to the court. So successful was his vision that his learners now often fail to even realise the skills they’re developing, as they’re so heavily disguised with laughter and games. Ian has been coaching for fifteen years and his cheerful disposition quickly settles even the most hesitant of learners, whether they be children or adults. Often his side kick Xander (not unlike Robin), joins him in his sessions. Having just completed his traineeship with Ian, the year twelve student works alongside him with the joint aim of ensuring a focus on the individual.

Four times a week Ian leaves his Woombye home and heads along the picturesque back roads that take him to the quaint town of North Arm and the local primary school, just six and a half kilometres out of Yandina. He finds the drive to be his quiet solace and as he moves through the green and yellow cane fields and watches for inquisitive kangaroos, he feels the anticipation grow. For he knows what awaits him. His mind is clear, his plan is in place, and his car is loaded with his tennis equipment. He has a goal in mind for what he wants his tennis players to attain, and his heart wells with the joy of knowing that with this keen little group, it can most certainly be achieved.

North Arm State School feels beautiful the moment one walks into its well cared for grounds. Before long Ian’s small band of eager tennis novices, aged between five and twelve, run out onto the school’s court to greet him. Their expectant faces and halos of excitement lift his spirits even higher. As the children begin to warm up, swiping at tennis balls and playing games, Ian chats to their parents and marvels at his pupils’ eagerness to learn. Their time on the court is exuberant and Ian revels in the opportunity of “pure teaching”.

His experience coaching at North Arm is vastly different to that of his everyday job teaching high school students. Sadly, some teens are reluctant to participate in physical activity due to struggles with self-esteem and difficult backgrounds, and Ian finds it a daily challenge to encourage these students to learn and engage. Unlike some of these teenagers, his North Arm Primary school students greet him with an appetite for knowledge, skills and improvement. Their parents watch and cheer from the sidelines and sometimes even join in on the court, which Ian holds as “truly special”. The court can be a place for not only developing tennis skills, but it can be an opportunity to form relationships and build connections, and that in itself is worth Ian’s twenty minute drive.

Unless you’re a teacher or a coach, it can be difficult to really understand how the process of passing on knowledge to grateful hearts, and seeing it develop, can create such a welling of joy that it almost feels too precious to speak of out loud. For many of those in a training or educational position, there’s an understanding that the delight of teaching is strongly driven by the appreciation of the learner. For Ian, the reward of coaching tennis at North Arm State School is priceless, it is his place of passion. “When I retire, that’s where I’ll still be,” he smiles. Perhaps it’s as Batman says, “It’s not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me.”

“Nature is not a place to visit. It is home”

This is a story about a woman, a drive and a landscape filled with a thousand miracles. It is set on a stretch of road that meanders its way across a winding range from Curramore to Maleny, on the Sunshine Coast. It is here, in her old Landcruiser with its tough steering and peeling paint, the woman rattles across the familiar bitumen that she has never tired of for over fifty years.

Tracy makes her drive several times a week. Whether it be for singing practice, church, groceries or to meet up with family and friends, she has never once taken her trip to town for granted. “It makes me feel incredibly grateful. Privileged to witness all that I do”. She marvels at the smallest of things and wonders like a mesmerised child, at the workings of nature so many might often overlook.

One miracle that captures her attention is that of the old familiar dairy where many a passing involves the occasional cattle or two ambling across the path of her cruiser. The farmer in his tall rubber boots hurries them across, squinting and waving in the early morning light. Often they are being moved into a paddock privy to views of valleys submerged in rolling fog or mountain peaks glistening in fresh light. Once she even sat absorbed as two bulls tussled frantically and she smiled in the knowledge that right then, in that very moment there was no one else but her to see all that she could see.

And indeed she sees plenty. She savours the beauty of the landscape that cradles her drive. There are hues in the sky that transform morning and night, the dark silhouettes of old pines, and the camellias and aloes that burst full of colour on fence lines and cultivated garden beds. Occasionally when rainbows spread themselves across the valley, her ultimate joy is complete.

Sometimes Tracy is drawn to the architecture and warmth of an old farm house. It rests on the edge of a mountain top, protected by a huge fig tree. Its leadlight window and rustic charm take her back to her own childhood, a time of adventure, imagination and of helping her father feed the cows pollard through a barbed wire fence. Every so often the front door is left wide open and she cranes her neck, desperate for a peek inside as her ute lurches forward.

Other times it is the wildlife she looks for; a fusion of finches, wrens, eagles, snakes and owls that weave in and out of her vision. Once she spotted a flutter of movement on a fence and pulled over to find a baby feathertail glider trapped and distressed. Racing back home she fetched her husband and together the two of them carefully untangled it and snipped it free. “It was the cutest, albeit most vicious little creature we’d ever rescued.”

That little feathertail glider was not the only one to be rescued, as one day Tracy found herself donned in tiny heels standing on the side of her beloved road with a most untimely flat tyre, and desperate for help. Alone and without a mobile phone, she couldn’t believe her luck when a young lady pulled over to offer her assistance. Not only did she reassure her but she swiftly began changing the tyre for fear of Tracy damaging her pretty heels! “Sadly, I can’t remember her name,” she says, “but I’ve been looking for ways to pass on her random act of kindness. Perhaps my drive will offer me up a chance. I’ve only got to keep looking.”

Looking, she does. She often sees at dusk an elderly couple who station themselves close to their dairy cows as they graze on the edge of the road. Chewing on green grass behind a makeshift electric fence, the small herd nourish themselves. Their creamy milk is in production to make Maleny cheese. Their owners watch them proudly. If it’s hot, the couple are there. If it’s raining, the couple are there. If it’s dark or foggy or cold, the couple are always there. And as Tracy drives by, they wave and she admires their dedication to their animals, their place, and their passion.

It appears that this drive is never short of miracles. It hosts a spectacle of beauty; the fearless abandonment of nature to do and be as it pleases. Perhaps Tracy’s place of passion, this drive of delights offers her the same invitation – to take this road for its journey, to be herself and to simply forget for a while about the eventual destination that ultimately awaits her, and us all.

This story is about a woman. A woman, her dog and a beach. Well at least that’s what she thinks her story is about. In her mind her story is a simple one, perhaps not even worth a mention, not remarkable enough to be spoken about, let alone written down. But as I sat in her kitchen shovelling spoonfuls of her coconut raspberry cake into my mouth and listened to her speak, I heard something far greater. I heard a tale of a grand adventure, of a traveller who paced the sand of a stretch of beach, who met and fell in love with strangers and who grew a tiny life inside her with every step she took. It was far from simple and as I fumbled to quickly swap my spoon for a pen, I saw a little sparkle of delight in her eye, that such a humble moment in her life could be seen as something quite remarkable.

For dog lovers, “Stumers Beach” at Coolum on the Sunshine Coast, is no secret. Fido hooks and ice cream buckets half filled with water and sand, line the entry. Pet owners, keen to let their canines scurry wild and careless across an expanse of beach and water, flock to its shoreline unclipping leashes and collars the moment their dogs’ paws hit the sand. It was here that Bek found herself one sizzling summer morning, strolling this shoreline with her dog, Mack. He would dash out in front charging into rings of other dogs that sniffed and pawed and licked. Unlike other times elsewhere when she’d have yelled and clapped and called him back, here, she let him be. Instead she focussed on the soft sand pushing its way through her toes and the tiny heartbeat fluttering in her belly. This beach was her perfect answer to a hyperactive dog needing to blow off steam, and a form of exercise a pregnant woman could still do with a rapidly growing tummy.

Everyday she found herself making the same trek, barefooted with her sarong whispering around her ankles. And every day she began to see the same set of familiar faces.

“How long now?” they’d ask smiling at her ever expanding waistline.

“Can’t wait to meet the baby,” they’d cheer. She barely knew them and yet she felt she did.

“I loved seeing them each morning,” Bek said. “There was a miner called Wayne, who’d been through hell and back, who would walk his Jack Russell, Sarge. He’d stop and chat and we’d laugh.” It was these momentary chats that made her feel, “really connected to the coast.”

Except for the regular walkers and the steady ebb of inquisitive dogs, Stumers was void of the hustle and bustle of other beaches. There were no umbrellas, no colourful beach towels and the only noticeable change was the weather. When storms tore at the shoreline, stripping away sand to reveal jagged rock, Bek navigated her way around new formations. These subtle changes occurred weekly alongside her body as it adjusted to accommodate her unborn child. Some days she’d venture into the calming waters, firmly believing that the gentle rocking motion of the waves would transfer themselves into the one who lived inside her.

Her intuition was correct for she gave birth to a charming baby boy, serene and as tranquil as the sea she’d joined herself to. As her and her husband made their first trip home from the hospital with their newborn, it was only natural that they chose to stop at their place of sanctuary. Together they made their way across the sands of Stumers’ to where the waves kissed the shore and very gently sprinkled the salty water upon their son’s head. The sea and the boy had finally met, two passions; place and child.

Now with the addition of a baby girl, Bek and her little family rarely find themselves at Stumers anymore. Their connection with land and place was but for a moment, fleeting but unshakeable.

As we travel and explore it is only natural for a certain place to be needed for a certain purpose at a certain time. And Stumers was just that for Bek, her belly and her dog, their necessary journey, their grand adventure.