No one has heard of my Brisbane suburb, but it was good enough for Elvis

March 2, 2026 — 5:59am

Our Life in the ’burbs series highlights the good, bad and beautiful of Brisbane suburbs. Writers from across the city are penning love letters (mostly) to their suburbs every week.

I’ve lived in many places across Australia and England, but only one that most people haven’t heard of.

Even Uber and taxi drivers look quizzical – until I tell them Ransome is close to the sprawling retail centre of Capalaba, prompting a wary nod of recognition.

I discovered Ransome when my partner and I were looking for a home that could accommodate both Elvis (an ex-racehorse) and a large shed to serve as an artist’s studio.

It was love at first sight when we visited the suburb one Thursday morning and found a rundown Queenslander daubed in tired heritage colours, with a sky-nudging cocos palm growing too close to the house.

I replaced the rusty barbed-wire fence harbouring bushy growth and numerous eastern brown snakes. An old tennis court with a saggy net reminiscent of Miss Havisham’s moth-eaten wedding veil in Great Expectations became a horse yard.

Ransome is quaint. Quirky too. Can’t picture it? It’s as far south-east as you can go and still be in Brisbane. Cross Tingalpa Creek (braving the bull sharks) and you’re in Thorneside or Capalaba – Redland City. Ransome touches the waters of Moreton Bay just south of Lota. Psychologically, it’s a long way from the city centre, and yet geographically, it’s a mere 19.6 kilometres.

There are new architectural homes – pretentious ones, pillared and grand-fronted extravagantly large mansions. I call them “Gone with the Wind”. The old Queenslanders are much more preferable. Each occupies a generous land parcel of 2.5 or 5 acres; our paddock is scarred by the depressions made by a market gardener in the past century. The streetscape juxtaposes new buildings with charmingly ramshackle sights, such as an abandoned tyre shop left to rot.

Ransome clings to a country sensibility. Soon after we moved here, I saw Akubra-hatted horse riders loping along grass verges. It’s green, with 11 parks covering nearly 33 per cent of its 4.7 square kilometres. Accordingly, it’s favoured by twitchers in search of rare raptors. Alpaca and goat fanciers, beekeepers, cyclists, fishing enthusiasts and recreational boaters are all to be found here.

Driving to work, I’ve been forced to brake, the road blocked by a long-horned cow staring gormlessly at my windscreen. On other occasions, I’ve pulled up for a Friesian calf, a miniature pony, and once, a snoozing, three-metre python.

I love the soundtrack. In heavy rainfall, the cicadas and tree frogs make such a din, it’s hard to hear the TV. During summer, a symphony of bird calls, from cockatoos to magpies, greets the dawn. In fine weather, ride-on mowers grumble to life in surround sound.

Did you catch Tidelands, a supernatural crime series on Netflix? It immortalised locations such as Ransome’s Moreton Bay Boatyard on Tingalpa Creek at Molle Road.

Chat to long-term residents and you’ll hear colourful and grisly tales. A burglar supposedly climbed into the roof of the local petrol station and electrocuted himself, a vile smell polluting the premises until his decaying body was found.

More recently, a multimillion-dollar stash of hard drugs and cash was found in Ransome. Alleged members of a syndicate buried their packages in the koala and frill-necked lizard reserve on Chelsea Road, oblivious to watching cameras.

Out and about with my greyhound, I used to enjoy the sight of a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Clint Eastwood brandishing a rifle in someone’s upper-storey window. In truth, some secretive and intensely private people dwell here behind high brick walls and towering fences.

Brisbane’s most ardent car lovers abide here: three in five households admit to having three or more vehicles. Nowadays, there’s an influx of young families drawn to the nearby primary school, community hall, shopping centre, leafy streets and natural bushland. They join the tradies, racing trainers, musicians, retirees, a celebrity footballer, the ultra-religious. And writers.

I was so excited by the Ransome I first encountered, despite the occasional screeching of tyres through the night, I wrote a book about it and the opinionated, saddle-phobic thoroughbred I impulsively adopted.

This place is heavy with memories of Elvis. Whenever surveillance helicopters patrolled the skies, he’d run around bucking and rearing. If I called, he’d sprint to me, nuzzle my hair, and breathe on my neck.

I have other rescue horses now, but when hanging out the washing, I imagine Elvis is still standing tall by the horse yard’s gate, his deep brown coat offset by a planting of orange nasturtiums, his white blaze gleaming in the light of a place that often seems like a dream but is most definitely real.

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