Tim the Yowie Man enjoys Banjo Paterson's bush poems at Coodravale Homestead

Over the decades, some of my more cynical visitors have questioned my actual intention to read them. Last year, one friend even had the audacity to insinuate I was using them as mere bookends to prop up my extensive collection of Bigfoot paraphernalia, also crammed onto the shelves. Despite these somewhat scornful suggestions, I've always genuinely planned on reading the Banjo's complete works from cover to cover. Yes, not only the 723-page first volume Singer of the Bush, which chronicles the early ballads of arguably our greatest poet, but also the even weightier second tome Song of the Pen, which features verses and lesser-known works from the latter half of Banjo's life.

However, much to my disappointment, to date I've never got around to more than flicking through a handful of pages. Heck, with more than 1500 pages of acclaimed verse, articles and short stories, it's not like you can read them in a night or two.

Indeed, after the arrival of our little yowies nine years ago, I became resigned to the fact that the twin-set were destined to be perennial dust collectors and that I'd have to wait until my long-off retirement, when I could light the fire, put my feet up, and leisurely wade through the two literary doorstops over a long Canberra winter.

However, that all changed earlier this month with news that Coodravale, the property in the Wee Jasper Valley that the Banjo called home between 1908 and 1911, had thrown its doors open for overnight stays. Although the Banjo's original house was demolished to make way for a newer house in 1923, Coodravale's gardens and rural setting are thought to have inspired a number of Banjo's poems, including The Mountain Squatter (1915).

The prospect of bunking down for a weekend, sans kids, at Coodravale was irresistible – the perfect catalyst to finally making a dent into Banjo's works, and what's more, at the very place where some were supposedly penned.

So earlier this week I clambered up the stepladder and carefully pulled the two books down from their lofty heights, and to the dulcet sounds of Slim Dusty reciting Banjo's 1892 classic, The Man from Ironbark on the yowie mobile's CD player, I motored up the Barton Highway.

En route to Wee Jasper I detour into Yass where, tucked away down a side-street, is Banjo Paterson Park, a leafy tribute to Banjo, who lived many of his formative years at nearby "Illawong". A grand archway at the park's entrance is flanked by two pillars complete with gold embossed stanzas from arguably Banjo's most iconic ballads, The Man from Snowy River (1890) and Clancy of the Overflow (1889).

In the centre of the park is a larger-than-life bust of the celebrated poet. I can't resist. I pull out Singer of the Bush and recite the first few stanzas of my favourite Banjo offering, Mulga Bill's Bicycle (1896). My rousing rendition sends the park's resident kookaburra into raucous laughter, but hey, something tells me the Banjo would approve.

Before leaving Yass, I pull into a servo to stock up with supplies and fuel. At the bowsers is a hotted-up ute towing a shiny new speedboat. The ute's tray is packed full with cases of beer. As I fill up the yowie mobile, the driver of the ute boasts that's he's off to nearby Burrinjuck Dam for a "few days' water-skiing and drinking beer" with his mates. He then asks where I'm headed to which I respond, "I'm off to Wee Jasper to read some poetry".

He shakes his head, mutters something questioning my manliness, and with AC/DC blaring through his oversized subwoofers, screeches off in a pall of burnt rubber.

Once inside paying for my fuel, the console operator asks me about the bowser-side commotion. At the first mention of poetry he seems sympathetic to his previous customer's feverish rant, but when I mention the Banjo connection, his tone changes abruptly. "Oh Banjo – he wrote Waltzing Matilda, didn't he?" he proclaims, while giving a knowing nod of approval.

And that's the great thing about Banjo. You don't have to be a latte-sipping scholar from Sydney's inner west to appreciate his legacy. He is just as loved among the boondock realm of the red-headed dinky-di Aussie bogan.

The 45-minute drive out to Wee Jasper is thankfully much less eventful than my stop in Yass. I pass the turn-off to Burrinjuck and wind down past lines of fluted limestone, once the waves of a vast inland sea, which puncture the landscape, towards the Wee Jasper valley.

Halfway down the tortuous descent is a large sign on the side of a hairpin bend. You'd expect it to warn against taking your eyes off the road. Instead, somewhat serendipitously, it's a poem. Not Banjo's, but part of The Indelible Stencil, a public art project which highlights the region's rich poetry history by displaying the works of contemporary local poets on large steel stencil plates in various outdoor locations.

Finally, just before the bridge over the Goodradigbee River, I turn down Coodravale Road and follow the gravel a few kilometres upstream to the homestead, where I'm greeted by my hosts, John Robinson and Rosemary McKenzie.

Five years ago, when Coodravale came up for sale, the married couple, who at the time were living in Aranda, jumped at the opportunity to buy a slice of history. Interestingly, Banjo's connection wasn't a key driver in their decision, rather, according to Robinson, "the chance to renovate and restore a historic homestead".

However, shortly after moving in, "we started to sense him [Banjo]", admits Robinson, adding, "but not in the ghostly sense, more an emotive thing, and our appreciation of him and his work has further grown with time".

Apart from living under the eternal gaze of Banjo, what the pair really like about their tree change is the wildlife. There's the usual suspects like kangaroos, goannas, wombats and platypus, but there are also, Robinson says, "flying goats".

"I was sitting on the verandah one afternoon and saw one [goat] fall out the sky," deadpans Robinson. "I'd heard of biblical tales of falling fish and frogs, but goats were a bit harder to comprehend," he quips, explaining that he later discovered that the goats on Coodravale "have a penchant for playing hide'n'seek in low, overhanging branches of poplar trees".

I look across to the copse of poplars, sure there are goats grazing beneath them, but no sign of goats on the branches about to make a free fall. Mmm. I wonder what Banjo would make of Robinson's flying goats.

Keen to begin my ambitious poetry-reading quest, with the twin-set firmly clutched under my arms, I walk over to the refurbished Garden Wing which, although delightfully decked-out, sports a surprising lack of Banjo memorabilia, although I suspect that will change as fellow Banjo devotees embark on pilgrimages here.

After reading the introduction of Singer of the Bush, on the western facing verandah, enticed by the sounds of the gurgling Goodradigbee, I stroll down to the river where I take up position on a log washed up by the last flood. The water is so clear you really can see the trout jump (about every minute or two if you keep still) and with majestic mountains rising on either side of the valley and the sporadic bleating of sheep in the distance, it's the perfect bush spot to channel the spirit of Banjo.

Time gets away, and before I know it I've spent three hours wading through the first 150 pages.

With afternoon light fading, I trudge back over the river flats, pock-marked with wombat burrows, and up to the homestead. Along the way, out of the corner of my eye I notice a white object plummet from the sky. Manna from heaven? Not quite, it's one of Robinson's goats jumping out of a poplar tree. But it's not just one. Like lemmings, one at a time, five goats take the leap of faith. It's mesmerising. Perhaps it's a sign from Banjo himself, whose The Billy-Goat Overland (1933) details a drover's attempts to drive a large mob of seriously unco-operative goats through the outback.

Back inside, I flick on the bedside lamp, and to the sound of the gurgling Goodradigbee, turn the pages of Singer of the Bush into the wee small hours.

Next morning, as I leave Coodravale, I lament the shortness of my visit to this idyllic country hideaway. One night isn't anywhere near enough time to read 1513 pages, especially with the intermittent distraction of flying goats.

Don't miss: Next week in this two-part series on famous poets of our region, I follow in the footsteps of Banjo's peer, Henry Lawson, who lived at Bowning, near Yass, in the early 1900s.

Coodravale Homestead: Bunk down in the self-contained Garden Wing with queen bed with en suite. Cost: from $150 a night. Guests have exclusive use of the wide western verandah with barbecue and outdoor setting. 140 Coodravale Rd, Wee Jasper. coodravalehomestead.com or ph: 6227 9631.

Tim's Tip: Lodging at Coodravale is room-only and there is no shop in Wee Jasper so take sufficient supplies with you. There is, however, the new cafe-come-restaurant at the Cooradigbee Homestead, which recently featured in this column (A serving of Rural Charm, February 20 [canberratimes.com.au/act-news/canberra-life/tim-the-yowie-man-heads-to-lake-burrinjuck-20160215-gmu4ji.html ] ) and which is only a 10-minute drive away.

CONTACT TIM: Email: timtheyowieman@bigpond.com or Twitter: @TimYowie or write c/- The Canberra Times, 9 Pirie St, Fyshwick. You can see a selection of past columns at: http://www.canberratimes.com.au/act-news/by/Tim-the-Yowie-Man-hvf8o

Cryptic Clue: 4?

Degree of difficulty: Hard

Last week: Congratulations to Greg Royle, of Red Hill, who was first to correctly identify last week's photo, by Barb Mitchell, of Ngunnawal, as a waterway just off Horse Park Drive in the new Gungahlin suburb of Moncrieff. The clue of "Australia's Queen of Song" was the moniker by which Gladys Moncrieff, an Australian singer of the 1920-30s and after whom the suburb is named, was widely known.

How to enter: Email your guess along with your name and address to timtheyowieman@bigpond.com. The first email sent after 10am, Saturday, April 30, 2016 with the correct answer wins a double pass to Dendy cinemas.