With the tops of eucalyptus trees swaying in a gentle breeze and a perimeter fence of rusty tin panels, the first farm I found could have been straight out of an Australian farming magazine. It had been difficult to locate. The address from a local farming directory was slightly off, so I drove around in circles for a while ending up at several farms, none of which had quail. Ultimately, it was the quail that gave away its location.
The song of the quail is both beautiful and unique. It’s said to sound a bit like someone quickly and repeatedly saying ‘wet-my-lips’. You can hear one bird from a fair distance, but it was the sound of maybe ten thousand quail singing in unison that I heard as I drove by.
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