The tree-change movement still seems to have strong headwinds in Australia. People, tired of the traffic, clutter and noise of urban life, are seeking some sort of release in the countryside, of which there is much. The bucolic has often held this abiding fascination for Australians, going back as it does to the bush-centred myth-making of the 19th century. Even the Blue Mountains has city-escaping refugees, though in our case, the cheaper housing may be the biggest carrot. Sydney prices are just crazy.

Often, when I am in the city, I yearn for a small town-house to operate from. The idea of emerging first thing in the morning onto a busy city street has some appeal - the bustle, the smell of food and coffee, the cars and cyclists and the thousand little transactional scenes - all paint a momentary romantic image more Wordsworthian than Blakean. But I realise that this magic would soon wear off and I would hanker again for my shack in the mountains.

Tao Qian (or Tao Yuanming) was a 5th century Chinese poet who would later influence the great Tang dynasty poet Wang Wei. He decided to retire early from public life as an civil servant to live in the countryside, a very early kind of tree-changer, if you like. He was known as a bit of a recluse during his lifetime but it was three centuries later that he became genuinely famous. His writing was seen as more authentic in its direct, sincere and unmannered style, as opposed to the more contrived verse of the time. I reprint one example below in which he relates his decision to go bush.

Returning to Live in the South (1)

When young, I'd not enjoyed the common pleasures,
My nature's basic love was for the hills.
Mistakenly I fell into the worldly net,
And thus remained for thirteen years.
A bird once caged must yearn for its old forest,
A fish in a pond will long to return to the lake.
So now I want to head to southern lands,
Returning to my fields and orchards there.
About ten acres of land is all I have,
Just eight or nine rooms there in my thatched hut.
There's shade from elms and willows behind the eaves,
Before the hall are gathered peaches and plums.
Beyond the dark and distance lies a village,
The smoke above reluctant to depart.
A dog is barking somewhere down the lane,
And chickens sit atop the mulberry tree.
The mundane world has no place in my home,
My modest rooms are for the most part vacant.
At last I feel released from my confinement,
I set myself to rights again.