A slithering dilemma

Tasmanian tiger snake. Photo: Adam Holbrook

I saw a snake in my veggie patch yesterday. It was sunning itself next to the lettuces and sugarsnap peas.

I’d just finished watering the tomatoes in the greenhouse, and as I turned out the door, I saw a flash of black as the snake turned back on itself, and darted for the patch of weedy fat hen.

I made a noise of course; I don’t think I’ve ever responded to a snake encounter silently. It wasn’t a squeal or a scream, more of a “Waaaaah!” in various notes. Cyril had his nose in the grass near where the snake was headed, but looked more concerned about the sound from my mouth.

The first snake of the season makes your heart beat the fastest. Dane’s been tripping over them for weeks now, but Guy and I have had a slow start to the season.

There’s been one hanging around the tool shed, which is next to the washing line. One day he was stretched out straight across the doorway when Dane went looking for some pipe fittings. Another time he wriggled across the walkway and behind the compost. He scared Andrea the bookkeeper so much she believed he was in her car and had to stop part-way home and empty the contents with a hook-handled umbrella.

My mum can’t sleep with striped sheets. Back in the 1970s when Dad owned a wildlife park, he used to have a program on Tasmanian tv for kids. He’d take his snakes into the studio and let them slide around the polished floor, frightening the cameramen. Then he’d take them home to Granton in hessian sacks, get distracted and forget to unpack the car, and Mum would discover them under the seats when she left for the work the next day.

When I was growing up, long after the wildlife park, Dad would get stirred-up with people in our district who would go looking for snakes to kill. The general rule at our farm was that we’d leave the snakes alone unless we, or the dogs, were at risk. A toddler playing with a snake in the backyard was one of Mum’s big fears.

I can remember clearly the prolonged twitching of the first snake I saw killed. I can’t remember how Dad dispatched it – probably the mattock – but the image of it lying next to the rubbish bin flicking back and forth stuck.

Guy’s mum Denise ruined many wooden-handled garden tools protecting her family of five from snakes at the backdoor at Yolla. You’ll notice she now has steel handles.

The family dog Sasha was a great watchdog for snakes: she had a unique bark when she discovered one, but never touched them. Dane lost his beloved Jack Russell, Rusty, a few years ago. He came home to find a dead dog and two dead snakes on the lawn. And then Denise lost Jaffa, another Jack Russell, last season.

The fence at Guy’s Grandma’s place was speckled with holes, made with the shotgun as she blew the snakes off the lawn. She kept shooting them till she finally had to leave the farm in her 80s. There aren’t so many snakes in town, but I bet she shuts the screen door with the same care.

Since we’ve been at Mount Gnomon we’ve had two sows die from snakebite, both of them from rare genetic lines. When we found the first one frothing at the mouth and stumbling across the paddock we thought she’d contracted some sort of exotic disease. We shooed her out of the herd paddock to be quarantined and she collapsed in the laneway. She was struggling to breathe and her mouth and tongue was dark purple.

She died as the vet pulled into the driveway, and then we realised she’d been killed by a snake. The vet confirmed it.

The second one had piglets on her, and the symptoms appeared less severe. She was standing in the paddock puffing, her mouth a bit dry and bloody. The following day she was lying down, and her breathing had worsened. Because she hadn’t died quickly, I was hoping the poison was working its way through her system and she was going to fight it out. But she died, and it took hours, and it was horrible.

Occasionally cattle and horses will die from snakebite, but I think the problem with pigs is their curiosity. They’ve always got their noses to the ground, turning things over and investigating.

So we have a dilemma. We choose to live next to the bush, so we have to accept that sometimes snakes will visit our territory, just as we go exploring in theirs.

It would be impossible to call the snake remover after an encounter. We wouldn’t be able to keep track of the snake, and they’d be searching all over the yard.

It’s illegal to kill them; they’re a threatened species. But it’s a horrific death for an animal that gets bitten. And we worry about Cyril, and friends’ children, and the people who work for us.

So yesterday I put the sprinkler on the veggie patch and hoped the snake wasn’t into cold showers.

But I reckon as soon as he saw me he was gone: through the chicken wire, across the lane, and into the silage stack. Or perhaps he went across the driveway, through the orchard, over the road, and back to the bush. Let’s hope so.

Duck buddies

This is Roger, Dylan and Quack-Quack.

They live on the fringe of the flock: outcasts. They have baggage.

Every morning you'll find them under the dying blackwood tree talking quietly as they wash and forage. The other ducks chatter in the orchard, assimilated.

I raised Roger and Dylan in the bathroom of my house in town. They swam under the warmth of a desk lamp, and came out to watch the news on the couch.

When they moved outside we would play on the lawn. I'd lay on my tummy and they'd walk along my back and tinker with my earrings and tease my hair.

Their confidence grew. I'd step outside with the washing and they'd sprint to the line. Roger would aim for the skin behind my knees and latch on - so great was his affection.

I contemplated a 'Beware of the Ducks' sign.

Quack-Quack is a dumped duck. She was an only child and her owners thought she'd be better-off eating our grain.

She's of "mixed breed" and appears to cogitate a lot.

The three spend most of their days together, but the boys do need Roger and Dylan Time. They have a special bond, these two.

Roger and Quack-Quack slid under the fence into the shelter belt the other day. Dylan was beside himself, wondering what they were up to.

But when Quack-Quack goes under the conifer to lay her egg, the boys waddle and hide.

And Quack-Quack spends the afternoon by herself.

Peering over the fence

Farmers in Australia have traditionally been pretty cagey about what information they share with other farmers. Perhaps they’re worried about competition, or perhaps they lack confidence in what they’re doing.

Either way, when they don’t share they miss the chance to solve problems and, ultimately, improve their farm businesses. And the chance to inspire and energise each other is also lost.

I’ve never been one for group work – Guy will back this up – but I love it when we meet farmers who are generous and free with their knowledge and experiences. (Guy loves group work so much he used to work as a facilitator getting farmers together to share their skills.)

John and Sandra are from Swallow Valley Farm in California. I suspect part of the reason we hit it off was because of the geographical distance between us. It’s a bit like the way you can have a deep and meaningful with a stranger on a plane.

John and Sandra were doing a talk to the ag researchers at the uni, and by chance I was introduced to them as they were walking into the lecture theatre.

John’s the farm manager and Sandy works off-farm for blocks of time as a presentation graphics designer.  When she’s not tied up with that, she’s working on the farm or at the markets (they do five markets a week).

Swallow Farm’s main business is a sheep milk cheesery – they milk East Friesians. But on the 130 acres they also produce rare breed lamb (Katahdin, a shedding breed), pork, poultry, soft fruits and vegetables… and there could be more that they didn’t mention.

We were really excited to find out they’d had a Mangalitza pig – the primitive-looking, curly-haired breed that you’d definitely not want to meet on your way to lock up the chooks at night. (I say had – the Manga’s now in the freezer, but it didn’t produce much meat).

They also had a Traditional Dairy Shorthorn, the rare breed of cattle we’ve just started processing and selling at the markets. It was good to hear that their ‘Bella’ – also in the freezer – was the best beef they’d ever eaten.

Guy now wants a chook tractor. Not the rabbit hutch-sized ones you see in gardening magazines, but the ones that house 80 birds (Guy just informed me he doesn’t want one, he wants many). John and Sandy have 400 hens and each night they put themselves to bed, with a solar-powered door automatically closing behind them at dusk. If the girls feel like staying out late they’re unlikely to see the morning thanks to the local coyote population.

Interestingly, at Swallow Farm they can process up to 10,000 head of poultry each year without having to deal with painful red tape. So they kill turkeys, chickens, ducks and geese and sell them at the farmers’ markets. The exemption from the rules comes about because of the value placed on the cultural practice of killing turkeys for Thanksgiving. Perhaps we could compare it with mutton bird harvesting?

We also heard little bits about their animal welfare and bee friendly accreditation, their plans to produce biochar from their eucalypt (!) plantation, and their involvement in a new CSA – a community supported agriculture enterprise where the public subscribes to a regular delivery of produce.



Californian farmers Sandra and John

They face the same challenges as we do: reliance on outside meat processing, free range labelling inconsistencies, and trying to re-educate consumers who see the price, but not the value. 



After listening to John and Sandra’s presentation I asked them to park their camper in our yard and have dinner with us. They stayed two nights, we shared our home-grown meat and vegetables, and we said goodbye feeling so fortunate to have spent some time together.

There is so much we can learn from elsewhere in the world – why do we think we have to battle through without asking advice, or having a look at how someone else does things?

Last week I was selected for a Churchill Fellowship to spend six weeks overseas looking at farm tourism, value-adding (such as charcuterie), and how food-producing regions put themselves on the discerning tourist’s map.

I’m planning to spend time in France, Italy, Spain, and the UK – it’ll be my first time out of Australia, so I’m a little nervous, but very excited.

We think Tasmania, and the north-west especially, has amazing potential to provide visitors with genuine, earthy, and top-class experiences that combine real food with really stunning scenery.

So let’s do it!

Guy considers wife-swapping

Would you trade your sow for a wife?

The question came up this week during a farm visit from a group of Papua New Guinean farmers and researchers.

They’re in Tasmania for a pyrethrum conference, and they’ve also been touring Tasmanian farms to get ideas to improve their agricultural practices. And they wanted to see a pig farm.

Pigs are worth a lot of money in PNG; a large mature breeding will cost you about $A2,000. They’re also considered legal tender, and you can trade pretty much anything if you’ve got the right number of pigs.

Apparently several large pigs and a few thousand dollars cash will buy you a wife, and the bigger the pig the better. The sow and money goes to the wife’s family with the largest pig for your bride’s father. The better the girl, the more pigs she’s worth, too.

However, don’t give away all your pigs for wives, as you can also use them to buy land. One mature pig would allow me to get about five acres and start a farm with a new wife. And if you have an enemy, a pig as a token of peace calls off the war.

If you have a herd of pigs you can buy multiple wives. But some families don’t accept pigs, and insist on cattle instead.

I began to do the sums and worked out that with our couple of hundred pigs, 50 cattle and 60 sheep that not only would I have something that could match most PNG families’ demands, but I could potentially buy a new farm and have about 20 wives.

But my excitement and plans to ship our menagerie to PNG were short- lived, when I was told you have to ask permission from your first wife before you can gain another, and so on.

If you do decide to go ahead and get a second wife without permission, it’s common for your house to be burnt down and then you have to trade more pigs to get another house.

A look from Eliza indicated that a burnt down house would be the least of my worries.

The visiting farmers asked lots of questions about our free range pig system, with the hope of taking some different ideas home.

In PNG pigs are often kept on a lead or chain that’s moved around the farm so they can work the ground. Others are kept free range where they scrounge for sweet potatoes and edible plants.

Pig farming has come a long way in the past 20 years: pigs now have their own shelters - previously it was traditional for pigs to share a house with the farmer’s family, with the pigs getting one half and the family the other.

One of our close friends Graeme Stevenson spent time working in PNG several decades ago, and recalls using a long drop toilet and hearing the sound of pigs cleaning up the mess.

There have been close ties between Tasmanian and PNG ag scientists for decades. At the moment they’re working together to grow western vegetables to market to the expat community in PNG. It’s an interesting dilemma facing many developing countries as they are influenced by the appeal of western agriculture practices, plant varieties and livestock breeds.

The most common meat eaten by our visitors is not backyard chicken or pork, but lamb that’s been imported from Australia and New Zealand.

Western agriculture offers greater levels of productivity for farmers and could lead to improvements in nutrition, but at the same time it has the potential to displace traditional practices and culture. It can also lead to the extinction of local species and breeds.

Interestingly, the loss of cultural knowledge in PNG and the switch to western food has prompted another Tasmanian agricultural scientist, Bruce French, to develop an international database of edible plants.

Bruce and his team of volunteers are hoping that by identifying native edible plants and documenting their nutritional values, that they can assist indigenous people to overcome diet-related health issues and encourage them to continue using indigenous plants. It’s a fantastic cause and they have already successfully documented 18,000 plants.

When the farmers saw the size of our pigs their eyes lit up, “They are so much bigger and productive than our native pigs. We would love some of these pigs in PNG”.

I guess it would be hard not to be excited when large pigs like ours could give you access to virtually any woman.

While I’m sure the Wessex Saddleback would adapt to a diet of sweet potatoes and pasture, its size and productivity could quickly lead to the displacement of the indigenous local breeds.

That thought was a subtle reminder that it’s probably best to keep our pigs in Tasmania.

Falling for it

In some ways I wish we hadn’t found it. Our elusive waterfall could have remained so.

When we moved to the farm over two years ago we were told there was a waterfall somewhere over the bank in the far south-west corner.

This is our bit of rainforest. You walk across our back paddock, climb through the fence and head into some partly cleared bush. The eucalypts are huge, and the weak-rooted wattles criss-cross the path.

As the ground slopes down, the bush changes: ferns appear, and wet rotting logs. The air is colder and when you breathe in you feel it deep in your skull.

There are magnificent blackwoods and manferns blocking the sun. Fungi pushes out from the dirt that’s dark and composty.

Guy decided on Sunday we were going to go looking for the waterfall that we’d heard, but never seen.

Neighbour Tom turned up in his bushwalking boots and I stashed a packet of dates in my camera bag. Bushwalking within your own boundary – we are so very lucky.

Guy found the top of the fall pretty quickly, and before I’d even managed to get my camera out he was heading down the bank, finding a way to the base.

Guy’s a much more confident bush adventurer than I: his feet rarely slip and he never comes out with a muddy behind. But I get nervous of the steep drops and take them all sitting down. It reminds me of when my mum broke her leg and could only get up the back step this way.

By the time I got to the bottom Guy was resting on a rock looking up at the spraying water and Tom was splashing through the creek, testing his new boots for grip and waterproof-ness.

While I pottered about taking pictures, Tom and Guy went looking further down the creek.

And what did they find? Another waterfall, and the entrance to a cave.

We walked out of the bush as the sun was dipping, and we reflected on how truly magical it was to be able to sit under a waterfall one minute, and then be back among the pigs in the next.

Shopping for Shrops

“I don’t eat anything unless it’s got a black nose,” says Neil Neilson, third generation Shropshire sheep breeder from Victoria.

Neil’s in his mid-80s and still farming the unforgiving soil at Baringhup, to the north of Ballarat.

“When we have visitors and we have a roast they all say, ‘oh that’s the best roast we’ve ever had - it’s so sweet’, but it is.”

Neil’s family has had Shropshires since around 1860, when his grandfather bought 20 of the first ewes introduced to Australia from England.

Once in Australia, Shropshires took off, particularly in Tasmania. In the 1890s three ‘elite’ Shropshire breeders immigrated to Tasmania with their flocks.

The Shropshires had a big impact on the sheep meat industry. Before 1900 about 20,000 lamb carcasses left Australia each year. Ten years later there were several millions, and 70 per cent of them were sired by Shropshires.

The boom in popularity was unfortunately followed by a sharp drop after the First World War. It seems European housewives wanted smaller joints as they balanced their budgets, and the Shropshire was too big. Neil Neilson says he can also remember the Shropshire hides being unpopular because they had black skin around the head and legs.

There are now only about 10 registered flocks in Australia, and after many months of planning we have bought a little flock and reintroduced them to Tasmania.

We bought 27 ewes from the Neilsons, and we sourced a ram and another ewe from Fiona and Nicholas Chambers of Daylesford, Victoria. We carted the ram and single ewe home on our ute on the boat, and had so much pleasure telling the other passengers about our special cargo. A couple of months later a transport company brought over the rest of the flock.

Neil has been reminding us how important it is to keep the sheep pure, and cull the ones that aren’t up to standard.

“My dad always used to say to us, ‘if you want to keep something pure you’ve got a big job. You’ve only got to make one mistake and introduce one ram that’s not as good as it should be, and you start back to scratch again’.

“We’ve all been very careful with the Shrops and we’re proud of that.”

He says it’s hard to find pure flocks in Australia, and many have been crossed with other breeds. It will be a challenge for us to source rams of good type.

We feel a deep sense of responsibility now we’ve got the Shropshires. It’s raining at the moment, and the sheep are out in the paddock sheltering their young lambs. There are a couple of ewes still with bulging, low tummies waiting to give birth.

We have a responsibility both to the breed and the Neilsons. This is the first time they’ve sold a group of their ewes as a flock. It’s such a credit to them that they have kept their stud going for so long.

“They seem to have a better constitution than most sheep, and that’s really why we’ve stuck to them,” Neil says.

“They seem to be able to turn their tucker into fat and meat quicker than anything else.”

Listen to Neil tell the story of when he almost lost all his Shrops, and see the photos of our new lambs.

Chestnut crunching for guilt-free crackling

Tasmania has only one commercial chestnut orchard, and our pigs are fortunate we know the owners.

About five years ago I met chestnut growers Colleen and Daryl Dibley. Their orchard is at Preolenna, up in the hills 20km south of Wynyard.

Preolenna used to be a prime dairy farming area, but now it’s a dark monoculture landscape of tree plantations.

The Dibleys are one of the few property owners at Preolenna still trying to make a living from the land.

Unfortunately this year’s been a bit of a fizzer. Chestnuts are wind pollinated, and the rain during January weighed down the flowers and meant the pollination failed.

But the upside of that has meant there have been plenty of reject chestnuts for our pigs!

The pigs love them, so much that when I take a bucket out to the paddock I have to be quick on my gum-booted feet to avoid being knocked over. The pigs eat the chestnuts shell and all.

It’s been known for centuries that pigs fed on chestnuts taste better. And there’s plenty of science out there on the improved meat and fat qualities. Chestnut-finished pork also has high levels of unsaturated fat, including heart-healthy oleic acid.

In Europe pigs have played an important role each season by cleaning out the chestnut orchards after the main harvest, eating the diseased and over-looked fruit. Chestnut-reared pork is cherished and commands a higher price.

You probably won’t notice a huge difference in our pigs this year, since they’re only getting small quantities as part of a broader mixed diet, but it’s nice to see the pigs enjoying themselves, and making a racket, crunching on such a delicacy in Tasmania.

Personally, I like them roasted with parsnips, beetroot, pumpkin, garlic and rosemary, and doused in olive oil and golden syrup.