Michelle Crawford - A Table in the Orchard

Tasmania. An apple-shaped island at the bottom of the world, filled with dense forests, rugged coastlines and lush green valleys. Physically dazzling and a little bit wild. When you land here, by boat or by plane, there is an uncanny sense that you are stepping back in time. The air is cleaner, the sunlight brighter and you cant help but feel a pervading sense of calm. Somehow everything is right with the world.

Theres something about Tasmania that creeps under your skin and bewitches you with its beauty. The longer you stay, the more you discover and the harder you fall, until there is nothing left for it but to give up everything you know, surrender to its charms and move here. Make this island your home.

It had called to me like a siren across the Bass Strait for years, but it was a visit in October 2004 that sealed my fate. Standing on top of a snow-covered Mount Wellington with my husband, Leo, I took in the breathtaking view and the sight of our two-year-old daughter Elsa delighting in her first snow. I felt the first stirring of butterflies in my stomach.

As we sat outside a waterfront pub watching dolphins swim just metres away in the steely, cool waters, I couldnt help imagining what it would be like to see this every day.

Then there was the long country drive, through dense forest and over a steep pass that descended into a gorgeous valley where the air was damp and smelled of wood smoke. By the time I caught sight of the glorious Huon Valley, dotted with apple orchards, rustic sheds and dirt roads that snake along the mighty Huon River, I was well and truly smitten.

Walking down Crown Street in Sydney a few days later, there was a bounce in my step. I felt deliriously happy. Id just quit my job, given notice on our rented house and booked a one-way ticket to Tasmania.

Michelle! You look great! You must be in love! a friend remarked when I bumped into her on the busy street.

I am! I said. I had fallen in love. With Tasmania.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifelong yearning to move to the country, my dream was about to come true. We had no jobs, no house and no idea. We couldnt wait to get there.

When I was living in the city, I used to daydream about a classic cast-iron wood stove in a weatherboard farmhouse, smoke curling from the chimney, a home surrounded by a kitchen garden nestled into the rolling green countryside.

There would be piles of muddy gumboots by the back door and children, dogs and chickens running around a country garden at the end of a quiet dirt road.

I dreamed about sleepy-eyed trips in the morning to collect still-warm eggs from my chooks, before breaking them into a chipped vintage ceramic bowl to cook pancakes for my kids.

When our new baby girl came along, the dream of finding a home in the country became much stronger. I wanted Elsa to have the type of freedom I enjoyed as a child: one spent outdoors with scabby knees, riding bikes and horses. An Enid Blyton-style childhood filled with outdoor adventures, wholesome things to eat and lashings of ginger beer.

Being a mother also gave me the headspace to think about what I wanted out of life. At work in the city, I was constantly reading and dreaming about food, hoarding clippings and newspaper articles under my desk about boutique country farmers, growers of exquisite figs, organic artichokes and free-range eggs produce that Sydney chefs and food writers cooed over.

A big part of my job at the Sydney Symphony Orchestra was organising fundraising events, working with the teams behind celebrated chefs like Luke Mangan, Tetsuya and Neil Perry. Instead of making sure the oboists were mingling with important donor guests, Id sneak away to discreetly watch the chefs at work in the kitchen. I was fascinated watching them work with exotic ingredients that Id only ever read about: squab pigeons, morel mushrooms and cases of that divine French wine, Chateau dYquem. I secretly wished it was me alongside them, dressed in a crisp white apron and black clogs, intently plating up a hundred puddings, or even just washing the dishes.

What I really wanted was to get as close as possible to the source of this deliciousness, to have a crack at making a living from it. It dawned on me that Id spent a large proportion of my life thinking about food and that it was finally time to act on it.

I wanted to slow down and learn more about organic farming: how to plant a vegetable garden, chop wood, bake bread, make jam and preserve peaches. I wanted to wear gumboots. Every day.

Last but not least, I was hungry for adventure.

And I was certainly in for one.

It started as a whisper. But I wasnt really listening. Something in my heart quietly said Youre home, but I sure didnt hear it.

I had baby Hugo on my hip and Elsa at my knee and all I wanted was to find an old farmhouse to buy and move into by Christmas. Until we found that house, I felt like our dreams of an idyllic country life in Tasmania, living off the land, would never come true.

After two years of living like gypsies, now that we were at last in a position to buy a house we were struggling to find the right one. I was getting desperate. After months of false leads, I was far too distracted to stop and listen to a quiet inner voice when we finally did stumble upon the one.

The only thing I was sure of was that the Huon Valley was where we wanted to live. Lush and beautiful, it offered the best of everything we wanted on a platter a temperate climate, a moody, reflective river, apple orchards dotted throughout the hills and beautiful produce like cherries, mushrooms, cheese and peaches right at your fingertips. All set against a backdrop of rolling green pastures, charming old farmhouses and winding dirt roads that led you to wild white-sand beaches or pristine rainforest wilderness.

When we finally made our way up that dusty dirt road and long, gravelly driveway, the house that came into view had an imposing facade but was essentially a modest home. Welcoming and friendly, yet proud and a little bit fancy, the circa 1902 farmhouse stood on generous sandstone foundations and was one of the few houses we had seen that was still in pretty good shape for its age.

A rustic set of wooden stairs led up to the front door, which was flanked by a welcoming verandah where a rickety old bench invited us to take a seat. From there we could see the front garden with a few nondescript bushes, a couple of mature conifers and an overgrown lawn. Its saving grace was a magnificent stand of mature birch trees that created a shady little glade, and a virgilia tree in full blossom, its fallen petals making a purple patchwork on the grass