Destination Australia - The Weekend Australian

James Jeffrey laps up the luxury until the cows come home at Burrawang West Station.

AS he finishes reciting a Henry Lawson poem, John Rennick takes a swig of beer and braces himself for the next round. "I'll even up the score a bit," he announces to the small but attentive crowd sitting in a tight ring around the campfire. "I've done one of Henry's, now I'll do one of Banjo's."

Better known as Tractor ("My missus says I dance like one," he says when pressed for an explanation), he launches into Clancy of the Overflow. His big, ruddy face, framed between an Akubra and a well-travelled Driza-bone, glows in the firelight as he reels off Paterson's lines about how "the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know". The full moon, which gingerly floated above the tree line earlier in the evening while an Aboriginal dance troupe was performing, is high above us, blanching the corrugated rooftops of Burrawang West Station and flooding the meadows with pearly light

Sitting here in Lachlan River country in the middle of NSW, I find it a little surreal to think this place — a resort in the heart of a 150-year-old, 4000ha cattle station — was originally designed as a retreat for the guests and stressed executives of Kajima Corporation, one of Japan's biggest construction companies. Company boss Dr Kajima obviously knew what he was doing; our party has only been here for a few hours, but we are already unwinding.

"And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him, In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars," Tractor continues over the popping of the fire, the amorous ribbeting of the frogs in the billabong and the faint squeaking of the mastiff bats that swoop through the air in pursuit of moths. Across the paddock, the silvery trees hold the promise of gliding possums. Sydney lies just 435km to the east of us, but it may as well be 1000. And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars."

There is certainly a touch of wondrous glory in this patch of sky, even as the moon does its best to drown out those everlasting stars, and Tractor — bush poet, champion yam spinner and regular visitor to Burrawang — negotiates the familiar lines with warmth and ease. Once Paterson and Lawson are dispensed with, though, it all goes merrily downhill as Tractor dips into a seemingly endless store of observations and wonky tales.

"Everything is back to front these days," he says, noting the barbecue blazing away in a converted beer keg. "You go outside to have a barbecue, and you come inside to go to the toilet" Then he launches a salvo of tongue-twisting party pieces, including a yam entitled Shoolfooting Dulf—s. There isn't a dry eye by the time he finishes.

I don't know if Kajima had Tractor on hand when he set about creating a swank slice of rural Australia to share with his executives. He briefed Australian architect Richard Johnston to come up with a retreat based on the quintessential Australian Homestead. Johnston responded with the grazier’s palace: a beautiful Georgian-style home with wrap-around verandas, high ceilings, rose garden and twin chimneys. This was complemented by a 20m swimming pool with a striking sandstone border, tennis courts, his ‘n’ hers saunas, conference facilities and four boutique lodges that look like woolsheds but between them house 12 plush suites. The squattocracy never had it this good; how any of those executives got any work done here remains a mystery.

Kajima was only able to enjoy this playground for seven years until the contracting Japanese economy obliged him to flog off a few parts of the empire in 2000, Burrawang included. These days, the chairman’s dream is open to individual guests or house parties and owners Graham and Jana Pickles are busy expanding on Kajima’s original vision.

Burrawang is a five hour drive from Sydney, but many guests prefer the option of flying in, either to Burrawang's own airstrip, which can cope with anything up to the size of a DC3, or on scheduled flights to Parkes airport 75km away.

After our arrival, I wander down towards the lodges — named Woolshed, Barn, Jackeroo and Jillaroo — and try to imagine those Japanese executives out here beneath the huge sky.

In the 13 years since they were built, the lodges' wooden exteriors have weathered into a pleasingly rustic state, though I find myself struck by their greyness — possibly exaggerated by the vivid, rain-fuelled greenness of the grass and the lemon-yellow blankets of madly blossoming cape weed — and it feels a bit like walking into a barracks. The feeling evaporates the moment I step inside. Fitted out with elegant bathrooms, fireplaces with pre-chopped wood and beds encased in the creamiest, richest linen, they feel like they would make the perfect retreat on a crisp winter night. I imagine sipping port by the crackling fire before crawling under the doona to hibernate.

The centrepiece, though, is the homestead, with its polished floorboards, grand piano, open bar, full-sized billiard table, even fuller-sized veranda and an eclectic art collection that was originally brought together by Melbourne art critic John Buckley. Colonial lithographs and Aboriginal bark paintings rub shoulders with modern sculptures and a sheet-iron kimono. A dauntingly extensive cellar ("Libations of all varieties," the Pickleses promise) provides the means of washing down the succulent helpings of Murray cod and Burrawang beef.A shot stroll from the homestead leads to a boatshed on Yarrabandai Billabong.

As tempting as it is for some leisurely messing about with oars among the reeds and ducks, my groin opts for a less laidback way of exploring the station and we zoom off on quad bikes, leaving fat, silver tracks through the grass that make it look as though a battalion of giant mails has glided through. We see mobs of kangaroos in the distance, sleek herds of cows and a flock of sheep under the protection of a pair of alpacas, which obligingly kick to death any foxes that try to bother the lambs.

Meanwhile, one of my party — let's call him Mar Chipperfield — is busy learning the pitfalls scoring the only quad bike without mudflaps By the time we get back to the homestead, he looks like he's been smote by a sweet-toothed god and turned into a pillar of chocolate; it's Only Chipperfield's eyes peering out from tee dirt cocoon that give any hint there's a man inside. The job of restoring Chipperfield to his usual state of cleanliness and godliness seems almost as ambitious as the Pickles's project of creating a wetland at Burrawang.

With the advice of scientist Dale McNeal (otherwise known as Dr D), the Pickleses have been fencing off a long section of creek, creating a cattle-free wetland reserve that's become a haven for everything from birds and native fish to at least two species of freshwater tortoise (including Australia's biggest, the enormous broadshelled tortoise) and countless invertebrates, such as freshwater mussels.

"They're good eating if you get the mud out," McNeal says, examining a mussel before casting a brief glance at station manager Bill RoyaL "And if Bill throws you one and calls out 'catch', let it go, 'cause it'll just be a stinky dead one off the bank."
"It was only one," Royal protests.
McNeal explains the roles of the various water plants in driving the ecosystem and extracting sediment from the water. When it's removed, something will eventually take its place, and that something tends to be toxic blue-green algae, more or less the ecological equivalent of having Hamas militants move into your street.

With the creek banks safe from die mud churning hoofs of Burrawang's prize winning cattle and the water plants growing unmolested, the dear waters are thriving with life.

Watching McNeal and Graham Pickles, it's hard to tell who is more excited.

Burrawang also offers cultural workshops with local Aborigines, including didgeridoo player Mark Powell, who spends time with me explaining how circular breathing works.

Not only is it an essential skill for didgeridoo players, it's a skill I wish I was in possession of almost every time I chat with my mother. I make sure to listen carefully.

Powell emerges later in the night with his troupe of young lads. Decked out in red armbands with white feathers, their skin adorned with white stripes and ghostly handprints, they dance about the fire to the pulsing, droning, barking, growling of the didgeridoo as the moon tentatively shows its face. Tractor sits to one side in his Drizabone, preparing to launch into his improbable yams.

As I drift off, lured by the siren song of the fireplace and the crisp sheets, I wonder whether Kajima pines for his old back yard.

What he would have made of Shoolfooting Dulf--s, though, is anyone's guess.