When immoveable object meets irresistable force..

There is something quite special about the language of the country; the mournful 'Maaaa" of sheep joined with the variable sounds the cows make depending on what they want, and of course the never-ending clucking, clacking of the chickens. Even the sound of the new fan-dangled Power Pony which we use for feeding out and fencing.
We have, in the past three weeks, added to our block by way of four Hummels - a Scottish Highland breed of hornless wonders. Two mothers, hopefully in calf and each with an eight month old calf at foot, both of which need separating from their mothers.

They are a noisy bunch, quite happy to bellow out just to say hello as much as they will if they see me with the two big plastic salad bowls in which they know perfectly well I put the molasses-based Moozli they so love. So much so that I am glad they do not have horns; the crunch sounds their heads make with each other and their calves as they battle for the best spot to eat the stuff ensures I stay on the other side of the fence when I feed them! Having said that, it is a good time to do anything with them - Mamie even let the vet push her belly around the other day to see if she was pregnant. As long as she has her Moozli, it appears she'll let you do anything.
These cows are different from our 'normal' beef cattle, with their long hair which they developed as a way to protect themselves from the icy conditions of the Scottish Highlands. While this means that their meat content is a great deal leaner than our average beef cattle and therefore healthier overall to eat, it also means that they get itchy.
In our front paddock, it isn't a problem, as we have an old iron bath tub for a water trough and they learned in five minutes flat that the corners were really excellent for a decent scratch around the head and neck.
But in the far front paddock is the home of Lala's apple tree, a 50-plus year old Albany Beauty heirloom tree. I saw what this quartet were able to do to a willow tree in their previous environment in terms of debarking it, and this was something I didn't want to see happen to this wonderful old tree.
"You need to put a fence up around that tree," I said to Ken, "and I need it done by the end of the week as I'll want to change them into that paddock then."
Off he went to inspect what he had in the way of fencing supplies and I heard the tractor beetling off down the driveway.
He came back about two hours later and told me he had put in the fence. From the deck, a distance of about 150 metres away, it looked sturdy enough with posts and chainlink fence.

So when the the time came to put them all into the next paddock, I was shocked to see the fence sadly sagging within an hour.
"Er... how far did those posts go into the ground?" I asked the fencer of the family.
"Well I couldn't go too far in," he said reasonably "The roots of the apple tree were in the way."
Right. So when a 400kg animal decides she wants to scratch an itch, of course the posts are going to fall over if not properly in the ground.
So he decided that he'd put in steel waratahs as well. Off he went and did that and straightened the posts. All good, as far as he was concerned.
We woke up the next morning and what did we see? That's right, bent waratahs and posts once again sagging inwards.
With a little steam coming out of his ears, back into the paddock went Ken, this time armed with old electric fence tape. The one, in fact, on which he learned that knotted tape won't hold a charge. He knew though that these old girls knew what electric fences were and they didn't touch the ones I put up for strip feeding.
So he straightened the posts and the waratahs and threaded the tape through both.
Cows 2, Ken 1, he thought.
Wrong.
Those old girls obviously know when a fence is charging because next morning, down was the tape, bent were the waratahs and sagged were the posts.
I forebear to say anything at this point because I know, being a mere female, that as it is females who are causing the problem, one more adding her two cents worth isn't going to help matters at all.

Each morning, I hear the Power Pony chugging away as he goes to feed the hay out. Then I hear it beetling off down the driveway and along the road frontage and there is peace and quiet for about half an hour as he sorts out the fence again. He is determined they are not going to beat him, even though the scoreboard looks a little like this: cows 5, Ken 0.
And I now have to add a much more colourful language to that we hear each day. Ken not known for his lack of volubility when things aren't going his way!

Catch of the day...

Ken loves fishing and while his forte is surfcasting from the beach, living as we do just 100 yards away  from a good trout river in the Rangiteiki, which is open all year round, as opposed to the Whirinaki, which is not, means he'll be just as likely to be out angling there as anywhere. I will often see him poring over what flies to take, which spinner might work this time and of course, the prerequisite rod and landing net. The net is relatively new, as he accidentally left his old one under the bridge of a favourite fishing spot and when he went back to retrieve it, naturally it was nowhere to be seen. He is gently ribbed by family and friends bout the amount of bait he uses which never seems to catch anywhere near the equivalent weight of fish.
And so, on that note, it was understandable that prior to today, it hadn't caught much.
But I'll guarantee no other net of this type will catch as many, or as heavy per catch, as it did in the last hour.
It was a lovely sunny afternoon and I thought I'd let the chooks out in the orchard for the first time. The 20 shavers and 10 plymouth barred rocks needed some extra greens and I had depleted much of the silverbeet and lettuce stocks in recent weeks.
So, out they went  in late afternoon, the reasoning being that they could get themselves back into their roosts easily enough. But it soon became obvious that the little fluffbags were not happy just being in the orchard, they thought it was a free ticket to explore the rest of the farm - and the neighbour's - as well. This we couldn't have, so after just half an hour, we began the time-honoured tradition between free-range chooks and their owners of taking a pan of feed, rattling it against the sides and calling out, 'Here, chook, chook, chook - here chook, chook, chook" and waiting for our precious feathered friends to come racing back to the henhouse.
Well, it started off fine, the shavers knew what those words were.

They were, for the most, happy to run like miniature lopsided lorries back into the big  run our chooks call home. But the 10 pbr's were having a whale of a time thank you very much and going back in for their night time feed, just was not on the agenda.
So, Ken, myself and Ken's sister Bev stepped in as wanna-be shepherds and started trying to herd the avian monsters (yes, they are big!) back into the run, whilst at the same time keeping the shavers, who are naturally nosey, from getting back out. Talk about the chicken cha-cha.

Much, much easier said that done. We cajoled, threatened, bribed and otherwise did everything else we could think of to get the grey striped stinkers back into the run. But no. It was not happening. One would go round the apple tree, two around the pear tree and another two would skedaddle off towards the containers, which represented massive freedom - it was where the driveway ends.

Then the lightbulb went on over Ken's head and off he strode around the corner, coming back just a minute later with the big landing net.
"Think you can outwit me?" I heard him snarl under his breath as he marched on past.
At six foot tall, he has long legs. Much longer than those of the chooks who were also using their wings as airpaddles, if not actually lifting off the ground. Not that I would think they could - these are extremely well fed hens!
So, with four strides to her 25, whomph, down went the net and up came the first hen. The look on her face when he opened the gate and released her was hilarious - she  had no idea how she had managed to make that transition in 10 seconds flat!
I was keeping them together in a pack by feeding tiny minute pieces of bread, which they love above almost anything else. So the next four were despatched with the same blistering speed.
By this time, the remainder had worked out that their number was being decimated by an airborne menace and they weren't that keen on having any part of it.
It was absolutely hilarious watching Ken race around (running by this time - the hens had figured out how to (barely) fly above the grass blades) chasing after hens who were squawking their heads off. One even managed to squeeze herself through a square of hurricane fencing into the sheep paddock and look  surprised when ken walked on over that too. Having a metre or so of leg helps...

But eventually, even the last defiant one had been netted and deposited back into run.
"Do not," said my darling through gritted teeth, "Let them out again!"
I thought it best not to mention how crushed I was that no-one had had a camera handy..

A quietly expanding community

"I've noticed a trend," said the land valuer, "of people moving from as far afield as Auckland out here to Murupara or Galatea; cashing up their $700,000 plus homes and buying the same vintage weatherboard homes on quarter acre sections for literally peanuts."
Which leaves them with some serious money in the bank, the ability to semi or fully retire and a great lifestyle, he went on to say.
And let's face it, he would know because quite often, his company in Whakatane is being asked to value those homes in much the same way - and for the same reasons - that we had him coming out to value ours.
And we knew this also because quite a few of our egg customers are exactly that - people who have arrived in town to live a much quieter lifestyle in a very beautiful spot for an absolute song and have asked Ken to quote on the do-ups they have purchased. And of course, we also have done just this.
I mean, we bought Mum's house for $35,000, which was, we were told, $10,000 too much, given that the GV was $26,000. A 112sqm two bedroom home with a carport next to the motel, on the main road.

Unfortunately, the Auckland-based Indian owner whom I had chased down through the council rating department also had us over a financial barrel. He knew we wanted it; it was only one of two homes that were on our lifestyle block boundary and the other had only just been bought in recent times; the owner was going nowhere. Yes, it was a cosmetically diabolical mess when we bought it and so we spent another $7500 on it. But the transformation on what always had great bones, was well worth it - and according to the new insurance building calculators, we could not have built it for under $300,000. So the warm little cottage with its happy ambience was definitely a win-win situation for us all.

All of our neighbours bar one are not locals. From the lovely eccentric antique dealer on the corner (who has since purchased two more homes) to the ex-Auckland based motelier, a classical-music loving cafe-owner to my mother, all have come from a variety of backgrounds that didn't include growing up in the district.
And it seems to be a catching phenomenon. Last week we attended the local country fair at Galatea, more as an exercise of letting locals know we were there and would be open in spring with the nursery. Being the middle of winter in a place that has four frosty mornings in a row as a matter of course, having plants wasn't the right idea, so Ken ran a sausage sizzle and I put together jams and my own specific herbs and spice mixes for roasts to meatloaf, as well as our eggs.
I was amazed at the amount of people who came up and told us they were not from the area, but had fallen in love with it as they had come through on a tourist or hunting trip to Waikeremoana or the Ureweras; even just visiting places like the amazing Mangamate Falls

or Lake Aniwhenua. Some had simply bought off the internet, sight physically unseen because the prices paid meant they couldn't possibly make a mistake. The tranquility; the slower pace of life was the biggest drawcard, followed closely by the clean air and living as close to nature as it is likely to get and still be part of a thriving country community. And of course, being roughly half an hour from a city in one direction, or the coast in the other.
"I'm here," one woman said, "Because it allowed me to stop and take a deep breath and actually enjoy what is going on around me - the frenetic pace of Auckland was killing me." Like many others, she now works from home with a small cottage industry.
"You don't need to go into the city," said another. "Everything you need is right here."
And as of last week, when the local pub reintroduced its three night a week meals, so it is. It's not surprising they have done that - the population is gradually expanding as people come from all over the North Island, ignoring (thankfully) the media even from the main papers and TV channels who simply never look past their own noses at what they think such country towns as ours should be and are portrayed as they wants them to be, not what they are in reality. Badly trained journalists who simply do not do their jobs properly. "Drugs and gangs," they piously tell everyone. And while it's true we do have two gangs here, they don't mention that one of them belongs to Destiny Church and the other has been here since the 1970's. That they'll do a toy run most years for charity. And that the local iwi, which is strong here, have their own ways of ensuring there is no trouble in our town anymore. Drugs are the same anywhere; every city, every town, every village has them. Same with gangs. They are a fact of life and they are no worse here than they are anywhere else on a per capita basis. Burglaries? Lol, four reported in the past 12 months.

Our little town has its own radio station, a small hospital, a thriving medical and physio centre. It has a superette and a dairy, two good cafes, an award winning butcher, a chemist and a wonderful general store that sells everything from shoes to lounge suites, electronics to hardware. A community hub is there as well as a support service network for a variety of different community-based services the town and district's inhabitants may need. There is a WINZ and a police station - which looks after Kaingaroa, Minginui and Reporoa as well as Murupara and Galatea. The pub, the RSA are busy as is the second hand shop. The satellite council building has a library and a free wi-fi hotspot, as well as computers for locals to use. While it is true the Whakatane District Council which is 87kms away, doesn't care for its long-distance ratepayers as well as it could and should and this is reflected in the fact the town centre does indeed look rundown, the locals do care and are often to be seen sweeping the wide frontage of  the shopping centre of the leaves of autumn and winter.
In addition to the motel, there  is the local holiday park where travellers often stay and this is backed up with the camping facilities at Lake Aniwhenua and the several hunting and fishing lodges on offer.
So it's no wonder people are quietly moving here; no wonder the valuer finished off his inspection of both our properties with the words, "I might even retire here myself."

Come on baby light my fire...

Those of  us who are the last of the babyboomers and who remember Dragon's hit song "Are you old enough" will know why it is one of the top 10 song's to get stuck in your head. It is that catchy.
When speaking of catchy things, the heating problems we have had in the bus in recent times found us all outside on a cold winter's day yesterday admiring the scenery with a little bit more  speed than usual.
Warren and Barb, who used to own the bus before we got her had come down for Queen's birthday weekend both for a wee break and so that Warren, who had installed the diesel-fuelled central heating could figure out what was actually wrong with it - because it had been going when we were still in Rotorua.

Ken had spent hours charging one battery, buying another, fiddling with the diesel levels, but to no avail. All that had worked was the machine; it blew air - but there was no heat.
We'd got up to quite a nice morning yesterday and out on the deck, I made a huge breakfast of bacon, eggs, mushrooms, diced fried roasted vegetables from the night before, tomatoes, and toast.
Neither Warren nor Ken are sit down and relax kinds of men when there are things to be done, so Barb and I sat there and leisurely grappled with having a big breakfast and copious amount of hot tea. Tough job, but someone has to do that on a Sunday! So, down they both were under the first step of the bus where the main machinery is located. The first inkling that part of the problem may be been solved was a most ungentlemanly snigger from Warren. "Someone put the batteries in back to front.." That, it appeared was the fault of a diesel mechanic Ken was related to, so that was sorted out, while Barbara and I calmly raised our voices 10 decibels higher, the fan of the heater sounding like a small jet engine during warmup.
"Yep, said Warren happily, " She's going!" She was going alright.... I watched with consternation as wisps of grey smoke started to drift into the bus.
"Don't worry about that," said Warren, "It's just excess diesel; it'll burn off soon enough - we'll just shut the door though."

So Barbara and I sat there and finished our breakfast while nervously eying the burnoff turn from wisps to clouds and not being altogether certain just where it was coming from.
When I couldn't see the back of the bus and when seeing Barb across the table meant squinting or crossing my eyes to get her face in focus, I thought it might be time to call a prudent retreat.
Somewhat faster than I might normally move, I skedaddled out the door, without realising the deck was even smokier than the bus given its close proximity to the motor, got outside coughing fit to bust before turning around to see the bus gently burping large clouds of grey smoke in a ladylike manner that made her look as if she was being cushioned by a large cloud. I just never thought to grab my camera as well, more's the pity. But this one of the train looks VERY similar!

By this time more than a little worried that someone would call the rural fire service, I diffidently questioned how much longer it would do this. Warren cut the diesel to the motor; he had not been aware that my wonderfully uneducated-in-the-ways-of-electronic/mechanical-things husband had opened the taps considerably more than was required in an effort to get it going. What should have been a drip-drip of diesel had become more like a farm pond of the stuff. It burned off, but also in being fully stationery now, the problem was that the air intake at the bottom of the stairs, also ended up being the place where the outtake was sending its smoky fumes - so we now had heat. If you could live with the fumes. Ken's idea of using it just to heat the place up and then turn to the radiant heater didn't work either - still too many fumes. So, back to the drawing board with the idea of piping it out the back of the bus....
So at the moment, I am sitting at the table, with the radiant heater on two of its three bars, humming Dragon's 1978 hit song  "Are you old enough?"- but with a difference. It goes something like this..

Are you warm enough

Are you warm enough

Are you warm enough

Are you warm  enough

Are you warm enough oo oo

Are you warm enough oh oh

(For those who don't know the song, try this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zezo9dMnXy0

The washing machine waltz

There are times I really enjoy being a woman. Especially when it comes to no longer having the oomph I once was used to and being married, what's more, to a man who has triple the muscle power I have. So when it comes to moving a washing machine that is in a tricky place, of course I defer to the Department of Brawn.
However, this week even I had to wince when it came to the third time in as many weeks for the dratted thing. And let's be perfectly clear here - there has to be an evil little house gnome living in the corner where the machine goes, because this is also the third washing machine in five months.
Now granted the first was a Haier front loader that arrived with the bus, with a cracked/glued door and in a not-going condition. The learned advice from the mechanic was "Haier? Don't bother. Dump's the best place for it."
So on the basis of a)we live a fair way out of town and don't want to have to pay excess travel costs to use a repair man and b)we don't want to have to drag it out of place and take it into town ourselves, we bought a brand new Samsung front loader. Now, I am enamoured of their cellphone, wouldn't be without it and the portable office it gives me. So, I thought that given the work-horse abilities of the phone, surely that would mean the same would apply to the washing machine.

First off, we had to take the handrail off the entry steps into the bus so we could inch machine in. (I had measured the space it occupied, but not the door to get it INTO the bus...) It then had to be carefully levered up the stairs by Ken, before we discovered the toilet door had to come off so that we could slide it into place.  But, we got there. Even if I had to think seriously about whether I'd have to learn to knit to add some extra rows to Ken's jerseys. He ended up thinking his arms had been stretched a few extra inches.
Now, I have a fairly good IQ. Ok, a very good one. I am told it sits just inside the genius range, even. Except that for the life of me the dashboard on this thing looked like the interior cockpit of a spaceship. And I am not a rocket scientist. Be as that may, I managed to decipher how to put a load on; switched the thing on and sat back with a  thankful sigh that at long last, poor Mum no longer had to put up with my washing littering her floor anymore.
Wrong. With rolling r's even.
It got  just 10 seconds - yes, 10 whole seconds - into the cycle and *yawn*, sorry, no can do, no wanna know, not happening. It broke down. Irretrievably.
So, down came the toilet door, down came the handrail on the stairwell and Ken's arms got stretched a wee bit longer again. I'd had enough with that. Did not want another one and told Harvey Norman I wanted to get something else. Washing machines obviously are not Samsung's forte. (Neither are their laptops, as it turned out, but that is another story...)
So I went and handpicked a great looking Electrolux. You know those old vacuum cleaners that never gave up? Yep, that brand.
And for the first four months it worked really, really well.
But on our return from Aussie, we were told it wasn't spinning. So I pulled out the book on "How To's" and found myself head-on-the-floor, butt-in-the-air, eyeballing the floor orientated emergency water release and drainage pump, which, it informed me needs cleaning at least once a month. After pulling everything out, I was amazed. We must have had the cleanest dirty washing ever. It didn't need cleaning.
So I had to ring HN's again and somewhat tersely let the poor sales person whose fault all this wasn't, know that I wasn't happy at all at this turn of events. Which of course was when we discovered that living in the country does have at least one major drawback. The 'appointed appliance repairer' of Electrolux didn't make calls out here. To HN's staff members credit, he managed over a three day period, to get Electrolux to agree to using a repairer who is based out here.

I had to wince here, because in between times, I had bought a convection oven to replace the microwave oven. n being larger, it meant we could not access the power point to the washing machine easily. In fact, what had to happen was that the convection oven had to be pulled right out and the shelf it sits on slid out. :) Well I didn't think I'd have to pull the damned machine out again THAT soon! And Ken, who arms were still tweaking themselves back into shape from pulling it out to see if he could fix it, wasn't going to do it again.
So, poor Rob had to pull it out to find out what was wrong. It turned out that  the thingamajig that holds the belt on the watchamacallit that spins the drum had come off and in doing so, had flung the belt off.
Oh great - but easily fixable, yes? (And phew, not a stuck sock or bra, so the cost of repair was not ours!)
Er no,  said Rob. "I can put it back on for you, but by the looks of it, it'll only come off again. I might need to talk to the manufacturers to see if others have had the same problem and if they have upgraded a part for it. Because I don't think this part would do the job for any length of time." He was dead right about that. We got one load done, then halfway through another, I heard the telling 'Punk' as something came off at speed inside the machine cavity. And yes, the washing was dripping wet at the end of the cycle and no, the spinning action was not working once again.
Great news not.
By this time, I am not a happy little camper at all.
I am currently waiting to see what HN are going to come up with next. I certainly have no wish to take up one one kindly friends idea of getting Ken to "knock up a scrub board".My answer to that was, "Are you kidding?? Why would I give him such a dangerous idea? He'd want to keep it! He tried to get me to use an ancient wringer at the beach last year that he had found under a mate's house!" He still hasn't quite given up the idea off being totaly of the grid one day.
And no - this is NOT a picture of me!!

A growing concern

Every gardener knows that starting from scratch with a bare canvas, is in theory, a cool idea. In practice however, I'm sure that the term 'tennis elbow' would be more appropriately named 'gardeners elbow'.
I know that the one I have is directly a result of hauling more wheelbarrows of soil, mulch, potting mix than I have ever done in my life to date. Which is no bad thing, given that I am  - just - over 50 and any excerise is good for continued longevity! And that established gardens have been the norm till now. Expanding on those doesn't count.

Given that the brawn of the operation has been flat out working (so much for semi-retirement!) since we got here five months ago, it got left to the usual supervisor to get out there and ensure the gardens were in and preferably, at the height of summer so that I could catch at least some of the autumn bounty.
And, as every gardener also knows, it takes time to get the soil biology up and running to the point where you will get the big 10 pound cabbages I used to get from a green-fisted friend's garden the year after she'd moved out after being there 22 years.
So trying to juggle getting a healthy soil going on top of topsoil that was primarily a thin, sandy layer with alkaline tendencies and getting produce from newly set combinations wasn't as easy as it sounds.
I also had to decide how I wanted the gardens to look and being that over 50-year old who has a crook back from falling off a horse 10 years before, meant I now needed to have something that I could sit on while I worked in the garden. Bending like Beckham simply isn't in the possibilities pile any more.
I've always loved the idea of potager gardens; potager being a French translation for an ornamental kitchen garden for growing vegetables that were most often used in soups. And given that as I write this, the first winter vegetable soup is bubbling away in the slow cooker behind me with such veggie ingredients as carrots, celery, parsnip, turnip, kumara, peas, beans and whatever else I had on hand this morning, it shows just how versatile these raised garden beds can be.
So I used the cardboard box I had saved from the new washing machine and a couple of other large purchases and laid that flat before soaking it for 24 hours with the sprinkler. On top of that went sandy topsoil, then went well rotted horse manure. Next was bark mulch which had almost broken down into soil. Then went in a six inch layer of good quality potting mix and some additional blood and bone that had been well mixed in. All of this was well saturated. For the asparagus beds I went a bit  further and used old seed raising mix as well.
This then is the basis for all the gardens we have put in, knowing that this first year probably wouldn't give us a great deal of produce; the soil biology has to take time to really kick into action.

However, we have been pleasantly surprised by what has happened. The first of the seven gardens was built in late December. Two more happened in January. The remaining four, including three large tractor tyres, were completed in March.
Here in the final days of May, I look back on what the gardens have given us and it has been pretty good:  lettuces, carrots, silverbeet, spinach, celery, cucumbers, gherkins, beans, tomatoes, onions, (red, brown, spring and shallots), asparagus (although that's a while off being used) beetroot, radishes, cabbages, brocolli, brussel sprouts, plus a very large herb garden as I like to dry my own herbs, as well as use fresh ones for most meals I make.

I've even grown yams this year and that was by accident. I had put the young yam plants into a hot water cylinder that had been cut lengthways prior to the Big Shift (along with a few handfuls of garden soil) and as time went by, it sat snugly behind a small compost bin and I forgot about it. When I finally remembered it, I had a look to see how it was doing and found I had leggy yams that had produced in three quarters of the cylinder - and a healthy bush of going-to seed puha in the last quarter. So I will definitely be replanting yams early next spring, but in  a much larger container - being a member of the oxalis family, they need to be contained or they will take over the garden.
Although I do have one inadvertent crop - I used some Tui's straw mulch and now have a full barley crop in most of the gardens! I have left it there simply because it works as a greens crop that can be worked back into the soil much like mustard greens for example.
In between times I have added a little bit of nitrophoska, because the bark mulch component requires it, but to be honest I do like using Seasol's products; natural and working well within the system we prefer. Outside of this, the only added extra we have needed has been Derris Dust for the cabbages; local farmers grew brassicas as a stock feed in recent years and the white butterfly is of plague proportions.
If there was a problem to be had, it is that the gardens should be rotatable for a few years; that is, whatever you plant in one one year, gets moved to the next garden in the next year. The problems is that one bed is a dedicated asparagus bed. Another is solely for herbs. That leaves five, three of which have a good percentage of them filled with onions which will not be ready for harvesting until almost next summer. So the two brassica gardens are going to have to be rotated into.. you guessed, some new gardens. When my elbow has recovered!

We be-leaf!

I had to admire the smooth way Ken managed to get out the door yesterday to go fishing. We were on our first day back from an Australian holiday and as always, there are a million things to do on a lifestyle block after one has been away for a wee time. Before I could turn around with my arm-length list, he had slithered out the door like an otter and was gone.
I forgave him; he did bring home a 6.5 pound rainbow trout a few hours later

 which found its way into the smoker after I'd seasoned it with lashings of brown sugar, tarragon leaves, sprinkles of worcestershire sauce and a capful of good rum.
But today was another day and the three big trees that line our road frontage have lost most of their leaves - leaves I want in my compost bin.
We are great believers in recycling and we try hard not to use too much chemical stuff. Except for on the rampant blackberry canes. And broom. And gorse, although none one that dared show its face this last summer. But outside of those, the idea is that we build up from the soil a kind of biological harmony that creates a longterm beneficial effect starting from soil composition and worms through to plants that relish that and of course, the animals we have on the block that benefit from that - and as a result, we benefit also.
It is the reason we have not put animals onto the land for the past 12 months. The grass has been grown and mown and left to lie to encourage self-fertilisation. We have reseeded the paddocks in an open sowing method and that too has paid off. The land is looking better than it has in many years.
That isn't to say that the land is getting enough. But I have been doing a lot of reading about people whose farms are producing much more (and sustained) than those who are using traditional chemicals which can force growth to suit. Their way is the way we want to go here and so we'll continue to work away towards creating not only top soil for our orchards and vegetable gardens; we also want the same for the paddocks that will be home for the animals that will sustain our wider family over time.
The trees are huge; 20 metres or more high and so they provide a lot of compostable leaves, which in turn make great soil for the gardens.
One shed its leaves very early and did get quite drought stressed, so that one we left alone - it will needs its golden winter blanket of nutrients to help it next spring. The one closest to the driveway is also being left this year.

The first tree however, we have taken two thirds of what it has or will shed. It will still have some to see it through winter and early spring and we also have left alone those leaves which fell from the canopy into the paddock - this provides a great fertiliser.
We had a lot of fun with this; stomping in the leaves in the trailer to squash them (to get more in) and ditto in the compost bin.
Although it must have looked hilarious as I have a crook ankle and getting into the trailer was quite a production. But not, it must be said, as much of a one as it was getting out. Ken was nearly rolling in the leaves laughing.
I am the photo taker of the family - I dislike being in front of a camera. But as one wit remarked recently, "You need to be in there or everyone will think Ken does all the work by himself." So for those who think that, this next pic is for you. (Just don't expect to see too many more!)

 We have very large composting bins; with each bay at a different stage in the breaking down department. These leaves, which will be mixed with an old mulch to help speed up the decomposition, were stamped down and will be covered with an old piece of carpet. This filters the rainwater down, providing a dark environment for nature's little helpers (and the worms) to do their thing. In three to four months time, I'll be adding  in a good sack of blood and bone (as well as the one I add now) and the whole will be added to the mulch mix which has almost broken down into soil at this point - by early spring, it should be good enough to add to the gardens.  And finally, I did like this picture. Almost 12 months since we first put the tender on the property (June 6), it has changed a great deal from the sad and uncared for land it once was.