Heavenly Beverley : The Attractions of Heavenly Beverley

This post was initiated by a lively discussion yesterday. Sitting under the shade of the huge Ficus trees opposite our house, we had been joined by the Clog and longtime friend Mufasa, who had motored up from the Big Smoke.

The Clog had questioned the validity of whether Beverley offered enough natural beauty or activities or night life to tempt potential escapees from the Big Smoke. Although he is building his own house right here on the edges of town, he appeared to be dreaming of Portugeuse beaches or the bright lights or the jostle of people. Anywhere but here.

Michael, Mufasa, his brother Simba and the Clog go way back. As teenage boys, three out of the four lived in the Perth Hills. They ran riot, caused their mothers' endless grey hairs and came to the attention of the local coppers from time to time. Nothing too serious - mainly driving around in unlicensed jalopies and motorbikes. Fun was provided by the prolific clay pits, abandoned railway reserves and numerous gravel tracks that criss-crossed the relatively sparsely populated outer metropolitan region. A Boys' Own Paradise.

School was followed by a trade or uni and the routine of employment. They all married (except for the Clog), had children and became fairly respectable pillars of suburban society (although they did have the odd moments of being pillocks, particularly the Clog). Michael and Simba have both re-married, whereas the reasonably reliable Mufasa has stayed with his original good lady wife.

For Michael and I, our move to Beverley was a bit of a punt. Back in 2010, all we knew is that we wanted a place of our own somewhere we could afford. With his physical health broken and his mental health fragile, Michael's wish was to escape the noise and chaos of the coastal plain - the Flatlanders. He craved a slower pace of life where he could recover from the years of bombardment. Beverley ticked all the boxes.

We arrived at the end of the driest year on record. The country was grey. There were rolling hills, almost no water, lots of bare earth and the dazzlingly harsh blue skies. We set about creating a garden out of a dust bowl. Within three months, we had a budding oasis of green both front and back of the House that Rocks to enjoy and nurture. Hard work and the application of water saw our fledgling garden come to life and our ancient mulberry tree producing its first mulberries for a very long time.

Then came our first autumn. The deciduous colours of the Wheatbelt took my breath away. In May, we watched the river begin to flow and fill the parched bed and surrounds. With rain and seeding, the fields changed to a gloriously chocolate brown with a green icing of the new crop. With the cooler weather, we went further afield. We discovered County Peak, a small extinct volcano with three hundred and sixty degree views from the top. And Yenyening Lakes, part of the vast Swan/Avon catchment, which changes from the blinding brilliance of salt pans to blue with the advent of enough rain. Most of all, we enjoyed our rediscovered energy and plunged into the damp undergrowth that had bolted into life on the banks of the river.

Winters here have been variable. Mild winters occur with the frequent application of rain. Cold winters are characterised by the beauty of clear skies, stunning starscapes and freezing morning temperatures. During our second winter, we wept over the corpses of those plants unable to cope with multiple coatings of ice. Our crying reappeared during the long hot summers, that even with daily watering, some of our shrubs departed with the unrelenting blasts of heat.

Yet, winter also remains a joyous time, with the first flush of the bright yellow canola crop. The previously brown hills turn a vivid green, water fills the dams and the landscape is alive with the antics of new lambs. Fires are a communal activity, hearty soups warm our insides and the rise of the morning mist and fog are always spectacular sights.

The cold weather is all about scarves and beanies and footy. And day trippers or Grey Nomads passing through the Gallery. Earlier in the year, our tourist season starts with the Easter weekend. Art, music, markets, the annual tennis tournament herald in our busy visitor times.

Spring is probably my favourite time of year. Gardens explode with new buds almost overnight. Pots which have looked tired and sad and fragile stand upright and add a blaze of instant colour. The crops reach their peak of perfection. Changeable weather means winter woollies one day and jeans and tee shirts the next. Our annual agricultural show in August has seen sunny warmth and wintry wetness.

Our local theatre begins its run of outdoor concerts and events. The Heroic, now firmly marked as one of the most splendid weekend events, occurs in October. Last year saw six hundred participants and supporters take part in our yearly enthusiastic nod for bicycles and races, both vintage and modern.

Christmas is all about local celebration. The lights go up, the hideously mesmerising emerald Christmas tree stands to attention in our Federation Park and all of us are filled with goodwill and love. December also heralds the close of harvesting and farmers their first break in twelve months. Beverley's main street becomes quiet and shimmers in the familiar summer heat.

I suppose Beverley doesn't have the drama of a raging river or a spectacular mountain or tall timbers or leafy forests.

However, we do have music and art and events and performances dotted throughout the year. We boast the second biggest Gliding Club (by kilometres flown) in the world. The sight of these completely silent circling and cruising gleaming white aircraft with their sweeping wings is jaw dropping. We have the charm of country pubs and cafes and a scrumptious bakery. When we sit outside at night, the lack of light pollutions brings a bright and clear star show that seems almost close enough to touch. There is also a well defined change of seasons, all of which bring their own special beauty.

We have made friendships that are joyous and meaningful. Away from the frantic pace of the rat race, we have discovered a population of quirky and social individuals. We all walk to the beat of our own drums and this seems better accepted than in the Big Smoke. I can answer the door in my dressing gown or walk to the Post Office wearing my plastic tiara and nobody turns a hair. We have found a community that suits us down to the ground and gives us the lifestyle that we had craved.

So, does Beverley have enough attractions to please the visitor or the resident? You bet we do.