The Wool Cheque

Taking the wool clip in is one of my favourite farm chores. Last week it was time to do it again.

We always sell to Saunders in Launceston. We must be amongst their smallest wool producers, but they treat us as though we were the biggest. Although our small clip is lost in a sea of wool packs and fleeces they remember us from year to year and always give us a personal welcome. Our sheep are Border Leicester, so their wool is coarse carpet quality. No Italian suit maker will be calling on us.

Each time we go I think about my dad’s family who were wheat and sheep farmers in Western Australia. One of my uncles was a wool broker. These vast wool stores must have been very familiar buildings to them, with their smell – part dust, part wool – and their dim, cool expanse, bays tumbled full of wool.

The year Dad was fifteen he spent the whole of his summer holidays collecting wool from dead sheep. It was difficult, smelly work and there were long days battling the heat and the flies. At the end of it all he earned five shillings, which was not bad money for the period.

At that time his four older brothers were in the habit of dropping by the neighbour’s watermelon patch and helping themselves to fruit. Dad loved watermelon and he thought he’d go one better, so he backed the farm ute up to the neighbour’s gate and filled the tray.

When the neighbour followed the wheel tracks to the family farm Dad’s brothers dobbed him in immediately. It cost him his entire summer earnings. They all thought it was a great joke – even Dad.

In a few weeks we'll be shearing our lambs, and the cycle will begin again.

Suffer the Little Lambs

This morning we put rings on the tails of all our new lambs. It wasn't a big job, just a matter of rounding up all the sheep, catching the lambs, vaccinating them and then slipping on the rings. But it's important because if we don't do it the lambs run the risk of fly strike, and if you've ever seen a fly blown sheep you'll want to avoid it at all costs.

After we let them go there was a cacophony of sounds from all the animals - lambs seeking their mums, ewes searching for their offspring. Just listen to the racket!

Winter Solstice

Today's the shortest day of the year, which is cause for celebration at Onemilebridge. Now the days will gradually grow longer, and the longer the day the more chance we have of absorbing enough solar energy to run our house. We've run the generator a few times already.

I haven't posted on my blog for ages because I've been writing. That's right, I've been too busy writing to write. I've moved back into the novel I completed before I started my memoir. This is actually the third draft and it's definitely improved in this version I think. In the last draft I dispensed with the first five or so chapters and started later in the action. This time around I've kept that structure. It's meant feeding in a lot of earlier events as flashbacks, and that calls for a delicate touch. I have to take care not to overload the story and not to introduce the flashbacks in a clunky fashion. It's hard work and takes a lot of concentration.

As well as that, in this draft I'm telling the story from the first person point of view. I thought I'd try it and then if it didn't work I'd revert back to third person, but in the meantime I'd have learned a lot about my character. As soon as I made the change the novel sprang to life, as though Charlotte, my heroine, had been patiently waiting for me to come and rescue her.

I'm not sure how far I'll get and even if this is the final draft, but I'm obsessed with it for now and that's a lovely feeling. I love it when my writing takes over my life - demanding time and brain room.

Nevertheless life goes on around the farm and there is always work to do there too. One of the first lessons I learned when I moved to the country was that when a tree falls it will always fall across the nearest fence.


After the recent wild weather we went searching for trees that had come down. Fortunately the driveway was clear but we found a tree had landed on the fence between a patch of bush on our land and the holding paddock. Farmdoc has taken his chainsaw in to be sharpened before he begins the repair job.

And this week we begin daily feeding out of hay to the stock. In one paddock we're experimenting with round bales that we buy from our neighbour. Each round bale is the equivalent of 15 square bales and if it works this approach will mean less hay carting in summer and less feeding out in winter.

The trouble is that goats are greedy, and rough feeders too, and so far it looks like they can eat their way through a round bale in ten days, leaving a lot of wasted hay, trampled and excreted on, in their wake. Looks like the easy way out might not work. Pity.

Rams For Sale

If you want Border Leicester rams you'd better be quick. We had six for sale but there's a shortage, ours are extremely well priced, and this year there's strong demand. We ran this advertisement in this week's Tasmanian Country and already all our boys have just about gone.

Border Leicesters are very pretty sheep, I reckon. They're the type of sheep that starred in the film, Babe. This is one who came for afternoon tea.

And these two offered a lawn mowing service.

People ask me how I can eat our own sheep. The truth is I find it hard to eat any meat whose provenance I don't know. I know where and how these sheep have lived, how they've been treated and how humanely they'll be killed.

This one's out for a stroll with Sharon, our share farmer.

Early summer, Mole Creek

This morning we walked a section of our boundary fence to check for fallen trees. (Why do trees always fall across fences no matter where they are?) We found two that we'll have to return for with a chainsaw when we have more time. It was so beautiful out there in the bush in fine drizzle. I didn't take my camera so you'll have to take my word for it, but it was one of those mornings when farm chores are just a joy.

On the subject of farm chores, yesterday afternoon we carted our second and last load of hay for the season. Fifty two bales at $3.oo a bale. Hay's cheap and plentiful this year because of all the spring rain we had. Last year we paid $5.00. It's a nice feeling to have the shed full again, though it doesn't seem so long ago that we were feeding out last year's bales.

The day before, we walked the Westmorland Falls track for the first time in years. It was closed to the public for a long time because the beginning of the track passes through privately owned land and, although the owners were apparently happy for hikers to walk there, they were concerned about liability issues.

This little gem used to be a regular on our walks programme so when we heard the track was now reopened to the public, we set off to rediscover it. It's short, easy and close to home, and extremely beautiful. The falls at the end are lovely but the walk itself is worth doing for its own sake.

Across the road from the Mole Creek supermarket we took Caveside Road for about 6 kilometres until we reached a T-junction, where we turned right onto Wet Cave Road. We turned left at the Wet Cave Reserve and continued on past the last farm on the right, a deer farm with high fences. The beginning of the track is marked with a sign saying 'Mole Creek Karst Conservation Area', and two large rocks.

The walk is just as beautiful as we remembered. It takes less than two hours to do the return trip in a leisurely fashion and it's easy except that there are two or three stream crossings that might be difficult for a small child or an elderly person. Managing those log crossings is a big part of the charm of the walk. It makes you feel a little like a jungle explorer, even though you're only fifteen minutes from an espresso machine.

There are dogwoods and tree ferns and, as you go further, rainforest trees. It's usually damp, and because of that, it's a haven for leeches. We didn't meet any this time, though on our way up to the fall we did meet one other pair of walkers on their way down.

Westmorland Falls walk is definitely back on our list and highly recommended. The visitors' book is still (or back) in its position three-quarters of the way to the falls. The last time we wrote in it was ten years ago. Here's a good website for a description of this and other Tasmanian walks.

Death In The Afternoon

Farmers say, if you've got livestock, you've got dead stock. You can't be sentimental if you farm.

I'm used to stock dying; I'm even used to killing animals for meat. But today we killed Mrs T. She was over eleven years old, and for seven of those years she lived here on our farm. She was a fine old lady who was gradually worn down by age and weather. Over the last couple of days she couldn't get up, though she ate the pellets and drank the water Farmdoc brought her. In the end we thought it would be kinder to kill her than to let her waste away in misery, lying in her own faeces.

When we first moved here, we tried tethering her along the driveway to eat down the sycamore and blackberry, but she had other ideas. She got herself in such a mess that we got sick of untangling her, and after a short time we gave up and returned her to the paddocks, where she reared a number of kids and ruled in imperious fashion, queen of the goats. She was a lady of dignity and self-possession who always did things in her own way.

Mrs T spent her last year as the matriarch of Home Paddock, living with last year's kids, looking like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians while she taught the youngsters how to behave.

Then, this afternoon as we fed out to the stock, we came across this aborted kid, abandoned near the trough next to the hay shed: a little doe.

And a little later, about 100 metres away, we saw this second miscarried foetus, this time a little buck.

Were they twins, or did two nannies miscarry today? We won't ever know, probably, but today was a very sad day here at Onemilebridge.

Sunday, Early Spring

I love days like today. The sort of day where we light the kitchen stove to make the breakfast porridge and keep it lit all day. As much for warmth and keeping the house cosy as for cooking.

I made a pot of soup and left that simmering for a few hours. I also made a lamb stew for later in the week when we have guests for dinner. And then there are the herbs - sage and rosemary - that are drying on the rack above the stove.

Farmdoc was anxious to try out a new recipe for fruit loaf. We were expecting friends for afternoon tea so it seemed like the perfect opportunity.

While the dough proved and the soup and stew simmered, we fed out hay to the stock. As soon as they heard the engine of the four-wheel drive bike the goats came running, though the sheep thought the pickings were better elsewhere.

This time of the year the hay in the hay shed is at about the halfway mark, but we have only another two or three weeks of feeding out to go before the spring growth in the paddock takes over, and we can take it a bit easier.

I don't mind feeding out, unless it's pouring. The farm is beautiful and it's nice to be out in the fresh air. This year is a good one for wattles.

Farmdoc says I look like a dinkum Aussie in my wet weather gear.

For me the best part is hanging it up

and coming inside for afternoon tea of freshly baked fruit bun.

Bridge Too Far

One of my favourite parts of our farm is the bridge over the Mole Creek that you have to cross to get to the front gate. We love it so much we even named the farm after it: Onemilebridge.

Every time I cross the bridge I enjoy its quiet beauty. We've held parties and picnics and platypus viewing sessions on its aged wooden boards and our friend Janet has even caught trout from it.



In fact Janet loves the bridge so much she gave me a painting of it for my birthday last year.


It's our only link by road to the outside world - though we can drive cross-country through our neighbour's farm and out through her front gate if we're desperate.

Yesterday, when we were returning home, we discovered that one of the four huge logs that supports the bridge had rotted so much it had fallen away. Today we cancelled our arrangements so nobody would be driving heavy vehicles across. We've often joked about hauling up the drawbridge across the moat. Today it really felt like that.

It'll be time-consuming and expensive to replace the old bridge but the worst part of it is parting with the picturesque old structure we've enjoyed for so long.

Kids Will Be Kids

Here is one little kid watching the video of another little kid from the post below:

Meanwhile, the goat kid is thriving and has been joined by several new playmates.

The cold weather doesn't seem to be bothering them at all.

Just kidding

When we fed out hay to the stock this morning

We found the kid we'd seen yesterday

plus this little brown one being guarded by its mother

Standing around in the cold we heard bleating coming from the bushes. Up amongst the rocks I found this new litttle chum:

I watched it as it struggled to its feet:

It wobbled slightly:

and then stood firm:

New Kid on the Block

Look what we found when we were feeding out hay to the goats this afternoon!

The first kid of the year!

These are not great photos but the first kid of the year is always an exciting moment. You can't tell from the picture, but she's a girl.

This is very early for us. We normally don't start kidding here until late October or early November, but this year we're trying something different. It's cold and wet in Mole Creek still so I hope this new little one does well.

Lost Goats Found

'Leave them alone and they'll come home, wagging their tails behind them.' Isn't that the advice offered to Little Bo Peep when she lost her sheep?

Well, it must work for goats too because the lost goats are now safely returned to their paddock. Our share farmer found them today at the top eastern corner of Truck Paddock. Using feed pellets, she then easily enticed them to follow her down our driveway and through the gate into Hayshed Paddock.

Just in time too, because we'll putting a billy in with the does this month. Maybe they knew. Or maybe they just missed the comforts of home. Who knows. Anyway, the lost goats are found.

For now.

In Search of Lost Goats

Goats are such escape artists. They find all the weak spots in your fences, or simply jump them, and then look surprised when they land on the other side. How did I get here? they say.

And when they've gone missing and you find them - or they find you - they look so innocent. Who me? they say.

Yesterday we went in search of a mob of fifteen that had breached the fence between our share-farmer neighbour and her neighbour, and then made their way via another neighbour's property in a long loop back into our sycamore forest.

We haven't really been panicked about them; this time of year when the leaves turn and fall there's plenty of feed in the forest for goats.

We didn't find them, but there can't be too many nicer ways to spend an autumn afternoon than tramping through paddocks, bush and forest with your fellow farmers. And we didn't come home empty handed: one of our neighbours has a laden pear tree he was happy to share with us. As for the goats, they're holidaying somewhere on our land and we'll look for them again later in the week.

The Cure

This is the time of year we here in Mole Creek suffer from an acute form of hay fever. This condition involves constant observation and discussion of the weather and an inability to make firm plans, and is only cured by a barn full of hay.

Yesterday was the day. We were on standby for the call from the baler and as soon as it came we swung into action. I was in charge of driving and ropes.

We’d discussed and planned the manoeuvre for weeks – who’d do what and what equipment we’d need. We even took torches in case we had to finish unloading in the dark.

Our team of five swarmed across the paddock, and by dark we were already inside toasting our success, the hay barn replenished and ready for winter.

We’d suffered from hay fever for weeks, but as always the cure was actually enjoyable, working together against time and the weather, and now we can relax and enjoy the summer like everyone else. Except maybe for the fire-fighters.

Hay Ho,Hay Ho