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!

Journalist packs in job to go pig farming

“Your dad would be proud you’ve become a farmer’s wife,” the man said in the post office.

The day had been going well: the weight of full-time work had been knocked from my shoulders, and I was enjoying pottering around town ticking off jobs.

But now my cheeks were hot.

I rocked forward on my toes and looked at him.

“We’re not married,” I said.

Generally, the reaction to me leaving the ABC to go farming has been encouraging.

Mum, obviously, was upset she wouldn’t be able to listen to me in the mornings anymore. I told her she could ring me from time to time, just to hear my voice.

Guy’s upset I can no longer be quietened with the volume control, or silenced with the snooze button.

I’ve noticed some discomfort in people when they ask about my plans for the future.

“So you’re going to be a farmer?” they’ll say.

“Just farming?”

And then I feel I have to justify it by telling them about the part time job I’ve picked up at the uni.

“Oh that’ll be interesting.” They look relieved.

No wonder farmers are becoming a rare breed, especially young ones.

It was a big decision for us when Guy decided to stop full-time work, but his heart and head was always with the pigs.

It was an even bigger move for me. I’d been a rural reporter with the ABC for six-and-a-half years. The pay and conditions were good, and the job itself was fantastic. I felt like I sort-of knew what I was doing each day.

I started there where I was 21, and until the last year or so I always thought of myself as ‘Eliza Wood from the ABC’, not just, ‘Eliza Wood’. My identity was completely wrapped around my job.

But you can only survive on adrenalin and mid-morning powernaps for so long. I was tired, and the personal compromises I made in order to work for the ABC had become too much, and I felt my real passion being quashed.

I can now put ‘pig farmer’ [pronounced pug FAAR-mer] on my business card – and proudly.

I have not stepped down the ladder to become a farmer’s partner*.

Dad would be proud of me – not because I’ve paired up with a good-looking bloke who loves animals as much as he did - but because I’m having a go at being Eliza Wood: pig farmer, writer, composter, supreme carrot grower– whoever I want to be.  

*(Guy, I really don’t like that term, can we fix that?)

To be confronted is to learn

When I walked into the restaurant cuddling a piglet, it didn't occur to me it could put people off their pork belly.

Despite the trend towards knowing where your food comes from, it seems not everyone is happy to share a dining room with a future meal.

Last night we devoured five courses of Mount Gnomon pork at Drift's Pig Out dinner. Chef Tom Dicker took us around the world with dishes inspired by France, Asia, the United States, and Italy.

We had pork hock terrines, rillettes, spicy salads, pulled pork burgers and dagwood dogs, cheek ragu, and of course, rich pork belly. Dessert was an heirloom apple and cinnamon tart - and the pastry was made with our lard.

We set up a piglet pen at the entrance of the restaurant. The piglets were clean, silky, and well-behaved. They snuggled into their straw while we tucked into our meal.

After the fourth course I thought it was time to introduce one of them to our table of friends.

But from the horrified looks darting across the room, apparently piglet patting at a pig out is not the done thing.

I think it's curious that it's quite acceptable to be in the same room as a dead pig, but not a grunting, chubby live pig.

Maybe not everyone is as enthusiastic about paddock-to-plate experiences as I am - but I stand firm in my belief that if we want to eat meat, we stop telling ourselves porkies, and accept where it comes from.

I am heartened though in knowing that the 70 people at last night's dinner are now fully aware that pork = pigs.

Our Rare Day Out farm open day on April 1 demonstrated there are many people in our community willing to learn about how we raise our pigs, sheep, and cattle, and that they want a grass roots experience.

We had 650 people visit us - that's right! 650! I can't think of a bigger farm field day in Tasmania other than Agfest (and I think it will be a while before we aim to attract 80,000 people).

The weather was stunning, the atmosphere relaxed. While Guy and I took groups around the farm our guests munched on pulled pork tortillas, sausages in sourdough, and slurped local beer and cider, and ethical coffee.

Kids spent hours cuddling (and squeezing) piglets and went home with animals painted on their faces.

Despite exhaustion, Guy and I couldn't sleep that night. Instead, we got up and read the blogs our visitors had already posted, and looked at the incredible number of photos on facebook and twitter.

The energy and inspiration generated on that day is still brightening our eyes and hearts.

Our thanks goes to: Guy's brother Dane for getting the farm into shape for our visitors; to Drift for crafting and serving the food; to Seven Sheds and Ritual Coffee for the drinks; to our neighbours, friends, and family who volunteered on the day; and to you - who supported us and enabled us to donate $3,000 to our causes. Thank you.

*Our causes were: Landcare Tasmania, the Rare Breeds Trust of Australia, Learn <> Grown, and Lucy's Holiday.

Taking responsibility

It’s unfortunate that the biggest agricultural news to make the mainstream media lately has been the finding that three-quarters of Australian grade six students think cotton socks come from animals.

And while the image of a sheep (sizes 5 - 7) or a cow (sizes 8 - 10) rolling its socks off at harvest time is rather sweet, it’s all a bit of a worry.

Only half the kids surveyed recognised the bread, cheese and banana in their lunch boxes as farm products. I’ll give them a bit of slack - because mould-resistant bread, un-meltable cheese and banana dried and covered in sugar are pretty unrecognisable as hearty farm fare.

The farm lobby groups were outraged by the survey, of course. There were the expected reactions: “we must educate people where their food comes from”, “we must bridge the gap”, “primary industries must be taught in schools”, “teachers need to learn more about farming”…

Really? Teachers? Are they the ones responsible for bridging the gap?

When will the farmers who constantly complain about the disconnection between consumers and food producers actually take some responsibility?

(Maybe there could have been another survey of farmers asking, “what are you doing to ‘educate’ consumers?”, “when did you last visit your local school to talk farming?”)

At Mount Gnomon Farm, in an effort to show that bacon really does come from Canada – oops, PIGS – we’re having an open day!

It’s on April 1 and we’d love you all to come.

We’ve been putting it off, because as a perfectionist I hate people seeing things half done. But after three years of non-stop work, I’ve realised the farm will never be done: there will always be fences to mend and trees to plant.

We’re bearing-all for a number of reasons:

1. We really love showing-off our animals and we think we live in one of the most beautiful places on earth
2. We want our customers to see that yes, our pigs really are happy and live outside with mountain and sea views
3. Children should have the chance to spend time cuddling piglets, hearing a turkey gobble, and then eat ham for lunch and know exactly who it came from
4. And because we want consumers and farmers alike to understand that we are part of a community chain supporting each other – we do not work in isolation.

So, if you’d like to come for a Rare Day Out, let us know by ringing (03) 6437 1106 or emailing by March 25.

What: Farm open day, Mount Gnomon Farm. Farm tours, gourmet porky lunch by Drift’s Tom Dicker, Seven Sheds brewery, Ritual Coffee, kids’ traditional games and face painting. We’ll be talking about rare breeds (not just pigs!), farm biodiversity, and our farming philosophy.
Where: 886 Ironcliffe Rd, Penguin, Tasmania.
When: 11am – 2pm Sunday April 1, 2012.
Admission: $5 adults, U16 free. Gate fees and profits from the food stall to local charities.

We look forward to seeing you!

* Want to read more about how yoghurt grows on trees? Head to the Primary Industries Education Foundation.

* And while we're talking about communication - have you 'liked' us on facebook, or do you 'follow' us on twitter? Please do!

Sanity saver

I remember being disappointed a few years ago when I went to visit a local organic guru’s garden.

I had imagined a potager with beans climbing up wrought iron teepees, tomatoes tumbling onto a gravel path and garden edges as straight as a draftsman’s ruler.

It was smaller than I expected, and the tomatoes were restrained behind recycled tree guards. There was no sparkling gravel, but a weedy lawn, and something had been nibbling the silverbeet.

I kick myself now that I’d been so silly. A love of gardening doesn’t simply translate into a picture-perfect patch. This was a garden that was real: squeezed on a suburban block, weeded hastily at the end of the working day, and at the mercy of blackbirds, slugs, and the neighbour’s cat.

Gardens are incredibly personal. They’re like a teenage poem that you’re secretly proud of - but if you showed anyone you’d die of embarrassment. You’d make excuses about the messy writing, the misplaced apostrophes, and the lazy grammar… how it’s only the draft, something you just scribbled down in the night.

And even if you are proud of your garden, other people often don’t share your excitement. When I lived in town before the farm, I would drag my visiting mum into the backyard every second day to tour the garden.

“But I looked at it on Monday,” she’d say.

“Yes, I know; but you didn’t see the flowers on the tomatoes then, and I’ve put in some carrot seed too. And the beans have grown at least an inch.”

In the current patch I’m battling wild radish and clover. I reckon the neighbours who walk their dogs past our place wouldn’t even know I had vegetables in there, but for me startling them with a fork and a wave.

The rows of onions aren’t straight and the snow peas have chosen to sprawl along the ground rather than climb my artistic tea tree support.

We’ve been so incredibly busy with Christmas hams, farmers’ markets, shearing, water problems, and shorting electric fences (oh, and the day job too… almost forgot), but I’ve still been out there on dark pulling weeds and picking peas.

And while some people would say I’m a glutton for punishment (‘why don’t you just BUY your veggies for once’…) they don’t understand what I’m like when I don’t spend time in the garden.

My head gets sore from too many things to remember, I feel anxious when I see my piles of gardening books, knowing that I’m not keeping up with Peter Cundall’s planting list. Stress chemicals circulate through my body, caught in a maze with no gate.

All I have to do is pull a few of weeds and I’m fine again. My mind suddenly empties and I start reflecting on conversations I’ve had, things I’ve heard on the radio, and my creativity returns.

And I love looking at my hands: nails ripped, skin scratched, and deep parallel lines along my fingers that hold on to the red dirt, however hard I scrub.

Summer garden from Eliza Wood on Vimeo.