Bittner and Twisted

We are a few years on from the pandemic of 2020.  The government has started to listen to the health professionals that guided it through that time.  These professionals realize the knowledge they held and have started to flex that power. They knew how much food affects mood, that non-communicable diseases (NCD) were directly linked to the poor quality food people are eating.  And that the NCD of diabetes, obesity, and many cancers were causing the healthcare system to fall apart at the seams.  And to top it all off, that the poor quality of the food we were eating was impacting our mental health.  And when our mental health declined, so did our physical health. It was rural communities that were taking the lead on the change.  They were the ones that just couldn’t get on a train to go to the specialist for the day or seek the advice they needed.  The blackspots in internet coverage became green spots.  If you didn’t have the internet and you surv...

Manu takes me to his house.  A small rural block on the edge of town.  An oasis really.  Brown paddocks all around and green starting from the fence line told you that was his border. No town water, just his roofs.  He thinks he doesn’t need much water. We ride down his driveway of fruit and nut trees, naming them as we go. Five avocados, feijoas, guavas, loquats down one side and citrus down the other. Cumquats, mandarins- and early and a late, a tangelo, grapefruit, limes, and oranges - is that a blood orange too?  Stepping back a row sees the covered soft fruit orchard, apricots, peaches, and plums.  Not to mention the olive grove in the distance.  All healthy and picture-perfect - no disease insight.  Grasses of all types just going brown and knee-deep. In the west I see a couple of pines - no Manu corrects me - Bunya pines - the reason he bought the property - they shade the house from the setting southwesterly sun in summer. “Remember Eric” ...

I was relying on the sun to wake me. But it was my internal work clock that pushed me out of my sleeping bag for my first day of WOOFing.  I’d packed my bike the night before with water bottles and snacks, sun hat and gardening gloves. Some gaiters and strong work boots.  Things go to plan.  The short cycle via the back roads loosen my body and prepare my aging muscles for the work ahead. Riding to the organic farm got me thinking. Really it is not a farm as such, calling it a farm is a simplification of what is going on. Reading the definition of a farm last night as “ an area of land and its buildings, used for growing crops and rearing animals ” just didn’t help define where I was working for the next four weeks.  I had a go at dreaming up what you could call this place I was going to.  Yes it was organic, but not registered, yes they practice permaculture, yes they grew crops and reared animals, they produced milk, and made cheese, preserved produce, recycle...

Our resources were restricted so holidays this year were going to look different.  No matter.  There’s an opportunity in adversity.  I booked a few different campsites around the state in my favorite towns where food, sustainability, and farming were passions.  Courses were booked with sustainable foodies, garden tours arranged and the piece de resistance booked. Four weeks WOOFing on a market garden. You are going to work on your holiday Eric?  Hell yes.  You know I can’t sit still.  It would give me more grief and stress to make me sit at a campsite reading a book than it would be working during holidays. We start our holidays with five days camping in a bushfire affected community.  We are self-sufficient with our popup camper so we are able to get closer to the farmers that need a hand without drawing resources from them at a time when they have little to spare.  We all pitch in and help rebuild fences.  It’s hard work.  No doub...

Getting up before sunrise, sneaking out of the house is what most 50-year-olds do.  I jump on my bike and ride to meet up with a couple of friends, Fin and Tad, who are farming Silver Peach and Tilapia, with some Barramundi in the summer.  I don’t understand why such an early start, but go along with the plan. We scooted off the bike paths onto a cross country MTB trail that takes us behind a grove of trees where we stash our bikes.  Bending down to duck under bushes, then on all fours  to a cyclone fence.  A short commando crawl gets us through a cut in the fence. Cleverly disguised as a join.  I look up and release we are at the back of the old Olympic pool, abandoned a few years ago because it leaked like a sieve.  The grass had grown and trees had sprouted on the disused land.  The path became obvious when we stood up.  The grass made way for familiar sights. Borage and chicory, wild rocket, and perpetual spring onions.  The trees he...