When you think about it, a little cottage with a white picket fence is the epitome of cosy, homy prosperity and orderliness. In fact, it’s almost a cliché — the shorthand proof-point of buttoned-down conformity and rigid domestic propriety. Yet pickets, derived from the French piquet (meaning ‘pointed stick or board’) have a grim military origin as the sharpened logs used to protect archers from cavalry attacks in days of yore.

We haven’t had to repel much in the way of cavalry attacks here at Corner Cottage of late, but even so, our white picket fence has been showing signs of wear and tear — the kind of peeling, bubbling and flaking of paint which, once noticed, cannot be unseen. And worse than that, the charming finials atop the posts of our front gate have long since split, crumbled, and fallen entirely off. This will not stand!

Clearly, it’s time something was done. Yet you can’t expect one such as I, a procrastinator given to perfectionism and unrealistic expectations, to just dive in and mindlessly . . . paint the fence — do you?

There is precedent for this situation. Take for example literary whippersnapper and pre-pubescent smart-arse Tom Sawyer. When delegated the task of painting a fence, did he just knuckle down and set to with the whitewash?

Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden.

I can relate, believe you me. Yet our Tom not only proves to be a masterful reverse psychologist by persuading his friends that the task is such fun that they will trade their small treasures to do it for him, but thereby also turns the whole enterprise into fun. There’s certainly something to be said for that — but somehow I can’t see myself persuading the children wending their way to Braidwood Central School to stop off for a spot of super-enjoyable fence-painting. These modern kids are too sharp for that — I blame social media.

While pondering such literary diversions, I set about affixing two new store-bought finials employing the advanced engineering techniques I perfected some years ago. At this juncture, so pleased were we with the new additions that we decided to place them on various other prominences about the place, and the order went in for four more.

Then, as I went on to finally apply my sandpaper to the ancient and friable remains of paint on the gate, I found that old zen-like state descend, which comes when tedious and repetitious labour is in full swing. Indeed, when you do this, you realise — as of course I did — that a fence is not just a fence (we alluded to this in our opening remarks). It is a symbol, a thing of deep significance worthy of pondering, research, and prognostication. And, possibly, procrastination. In this spirit, I unearthed from the deepest recesses of the alcohol-dimmed memory a wonderful poem by Robert Frost. He’s the kind of poet that would generally suit a place like Braidwood, what with his ruminations on which road he should take through the woods and stopping to ponder said woods and such.

This one’s called “Mending Wall” — and yes, a wall is not a fence, but as usual I must ask you to bear with me while I make my way to the point. Here, Frost describes an annual ritual he carries out with his neighbour, where they fix the damage winter has done to the dry stone wall between their properties.

I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

Unlike the young scam artist Sawyer, each bends himself willingly to his share of the work in an egalitarian kind of way. The annual ritual ensures the neighbours’ relationship is also maintained: it is quite literally an acknowledgement of boundaries. There is no ambiguity, each knows where he stands, and each acknowledges the other’s property. It’s all summed up in the neighbour’s workaday maxim, “good fences make good neighbours.”

But as the origin of the term ‘picket’ indicates, not all fences are so benign in intent or effect. They are there to keep things out, or keep them in. They assert territorial ownership, or claims to ownership. They protect against invaders — and invasive species.

Australia is no stranger to such fences. Pretty soon after introducing themselves to the ecology, western settlers introduced both pests and domesticated animals that threatened to make meals of each other and of the native sward. In 1859, a very misguided Victoria landowner, Thomas Austin, introduced 24 English wild rabbits into the area for hunting (he also imported hares, partridges and blackbirds).

By 1901 this small community, by dint of doing what rabbits do, was causing so much damage that construction began on a rabbit-proof fence to keep the bunnies out of the west of the continent. Today this barrier comprises three different parts and stretches 3,256 km. And to keep dingoes from coming the other way and running amok among the sheep and cattle of Victoria and parts of South Australia, a 5,614 km Dingo fence has been added.

But here’s the thing: even while the rabbit fence was being built, there was evidence that the bunnies were making their way round the uncompleted end and venturing into forbidden territory. This points to the obvious shortcoming of any barrier: it’s only as good as its weakest point. Think of the impregnable Maginot Line, built by France in the ’30s to secure its border against German invasion. Come the 1940s, our Teutonic adversaries merely outflanked it by dint of invading the Netherlands first.

The solution would have been to just keep on building that line of fortifications, forever extending the ends until they reached the sea. Like, say, the Great Wall of China, which was constructed in fits and starts from the 7th Century BC until the mid-1600s and ended up stretching 21,196 km. Take that, Dingo Fence! I’m reliably informed that this edifice was not only created to keep undesirables out, but to exert a measure of control on imports, exports, taxes and suchlike — far more mundane purposes than repelling invading hordes, or even maintaining civil relations with a similarly-minded neighbour, like Mr Frost.

Meanwhile, progress on our own fence has been . . . measured. While sanding off all the flaky old paint and carefully applying a coat of weatherproof white to each picket of the gate, I realised that there are very many more surfaces, corners, hidden angles and interstices on your average white pointy palisade than you might think. Every one of which must be evenly coated in fresh white paint. This means time . . . lots of time is needed to do the job right. And as Tom Sawyer knew, this can become tedious — I may need to investigate some sort of spraypainting gizmo.

Yet, unsurprisingly, the satisfaction gained from imposing this little measure of order on the world is surprisingly profound. Like Frost and his neighbour, reiterating the marker between our small corner of the universe and the rest of chaotic creation seems to cement that relationship in the mind. This piece of the planet, for all its faults and frustrations, is markedly and indisputably ours, at least for now. Those who enter do so with our consent, even if our pickets are only symbolic. Those bearing wine or freshly baked comestibles may even be greeted with enthusiasm and the offer of a comfy chair.

So there we have it. Boundaries can be good for parties both within and without, but have some limitations. This is why we come together on these pages, dear readers — to ponder such illuminating insights. Were it not for our ban on religion, you’d soon be able to tune in for the latest on the question: the Pope — Catholic or no?

Just as we were about to go to press, I noted with horror that one of the finials gracing the lofty heights of Corner Cottage’s imposing frontage was gone! It must have succumbed to the gales that buffeted us last month, leaving the stately dwelling looking strangely bereft. Without that simple vertical spiracle to lead the eye up and heavenwards, we are left with a sad, dumpy little hovel — a situation that must be rectified post-haste. Five finials to fit — a task befitting Hercules himself.