Today I visited 'Nutcote' - the home she and her husband had built in 1925 in somewhat of a collaboration with famed architect B. J. Waterhouse.
I'd expected to see and enjoy more of her artistic and literary work - and there were plenty of lovely things there in this direction.
But what really blew me away were the interiors of the house. All rooms on a small and perfect human scale, flowing one into another through double doors, with only a small space-wasting entrance hall. Solid dark wood everywhere - doors, built-in book shelves, mantle pieces - but freshened up with cream walls, and by light flooding in through ubiquitous big windows. Every room having extraordinary views of the harbour, views almost in scale with the rooms!
Wish I'd taken more sneak photos - especially of the two cosy and perfect little bedrooms. I just wanted to crawl into bed and snooze for a bit. Or forever. Cos I attempted to do a deal with one of the volunteer guides - I'd be allowed to take over the house (by force if necessary) on the understanding that it would then be divided in two - half for her half for me. She seemed to consider the idea for an unnaturally long time, given her age and seeming respectability.
After her final and crushing retreat from our takeover bid, I slinked off to the garden in search of the totally scary banksia men from May Gibbs' books ...
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.. and there they were ...
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... with my own ...
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... just too tempting not to pillage in an act of tourist vandalism!