1922
13 July 1922
Rising a steep hill one descends into the valley of Carwell, one of the most picturesque and fertile valleys I had yet dropped across. This splendid property, among the first settlements of the district, had been the home of the Nevell's. It has now been sold to the Government for returned soldiers and some of it is now under settlement by them. In days gone by, the homestead must have been a very fine building, built of freestone with its old fashioned windows and doors and wainscottings, a good deal of it has began to decay, and its sheds and outhouses have outlived their usefulness. By the way it is said that the Nevell family, trace their generations back to the time when Nevell, Earl of Warwick, was called the King Maker. In a private cemetery near the road lie the bones of the original holders of Carwell, but the old home knows them no more. It must, however, be some satisfaction to those hardy pioneers to know that the land is held by men who fought for the nation. I do not know why, but I stopped half way up the hill that leads out of the grand valley, and the rays of a setting sun were lying across it and it seemed as if each foot step awoke the voice of a bygone past. I do not know if the brush of any artist has attempted to place on canvas the Valley of Carwell. If not, there is a landscape awaiting the fortunate one second to none in the state1
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