New local resident writes about escaping the city and moving to the Western District.

I SPENT six happy years in the bustling inner suburbs of Melbourne.

I loved the culture, the food and the endless amenities.

Anyone who knows will tell you, Melbourne is magic in the summer.

However, after half a decade of escalating prices and the endless, ceaseless queues, I felt ready to get out.

I wanted to see what else Australia had to offer, and when my wife was offered a position at the Hamilton Ambulance branch, it certainly had a ring of fate to it.

We embraced the opportunity, taking the job at three weeks notice, sight unseen.

When we drove up that first time, we were charmed by the statuesque mountain views and then by the towering, verdant trees lining Gray Street.

In all the time I had spent in Melbourne across four addresses, I had only ever known the name of one neighbour.

When I pulled up to our new home, Peter, a retired farmer living next door, rapped on the window to introduce himself, pass on the details of bin night and offer us any help we might need.

I began to suspect we had made the right move.

I fretted in the early days, worrying that I would struggle to meet people in town, that anyone who didn’t go to school here might flounder, but that has never once presented an issue.

The town seemed to open its arms without hesitation for two blow-ins, happy to expand the neighbourhood. At the CFA, I found intelligent, dedicated and diligent men and women, happy to sacrifice their time for their community.

In coffee shops and restaurants, I’ve met smiling locals delighted to share what they love about the town and welcome anyone who would call Hamilton home.

More than anything, I have found the community that I hadn’t realised I was missing.

I meet with a book club once a month at the commercial hotel.

The semi-ironically named Tough Guy Book Club get together to have a pint and talk about their lives, hobbies and the books they love.

The one topic of conversation that is off limits however, is work.

“Almost every conversation you have as an adult revolves around your job,” reads club president, Jack Kennedy, at the beginning of every meeting, “so for one night a month, you’re not allowed.”

Without discussing work, you avoid dredging up some of the most frustrating parts of your day and released from the obligation to tell strangers about your nine to five.

I have witnessed this single rule create a comfortable environment for conversation, free from the status of your pay cheque.

It is here I have met some of Hamilton’s most interesting residents, people I would have never crossed paths with under normal circumstances.

I have learned so much about country living, small town values and farming etiquette from them than I ever would have thought possible.

It’s always small clubs in small towns that give communities their fabric and their flavour.

I’ve been invited to bonfires at my barber’s house in Cavendish, sheep musters in Byaduk, barbecues in Dunkeld and even tried my soft, office-worker hands at shearing a sheep of my very own.

Where else could I have had these experiences?

I’m writing this now from my garden, gazing lovingly at my flourishing veggie patch and watching my kelpie sleep the day away.

My neighbour sticks his head over the fence to ask if I need anything at the shops but I’m fully stocked.

I have duck eggs from a man I met in town, honey from a farmer in the book club, wine from a local winery and leftovers from a dinner party with friends.

It’s easy to miss the bluster and spectacle of the big city but on a day like today, it’s hard to be jealous of anyone else in the world.