June - Midwinter at the Paddock
Dear friends,
Winter has finally arrived in earnest.
It has been slower to settle this year, as though autumn was reluctant to let go, but over the past few weeks the season has quietly taken hold. Mornings begin beneath a blanket of frost that glistens across the paddocks, each blade of grass edged in white before the first light reaches it. By mid-afternoon the sun sits low in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields, and before long the evening arrives once again.
There is a stillness to June that feels entirely different from the rest of the year.
The garden no longer asks to be admired for its flowers. Instead, it reveals its bones, bare branches, empty beds and strong structures that have quietly supported months of abundance. Winter strips everything back to its essentials.
There is honesty in that.
No excess.
Only structure.
And perhaps that is why I love this season so much. It reminds me that not every chapter of the garden or of life is meant to be full of colour. Some seasons are simply for strengthening foundations, preparing quietly, and trusting what cannot yet be seen.
In Bloom This Month
June is one of those deceptive months in the garden.
At first glance, everything appears to be resting. The borders are quieter, the flower rows sit bare, and colour has all but disappeared. Yet beneath the surface, some of the most important work of the year is quietly underway.
Much of this month has been spent lifting dahlias. It has been a particularly wet June, with almost 200mm of rain falling throughout the month, turning what is usually a satisfying winter job into a rather muddy affair. On the dry days, I made the most of every break in the weather, carefully digging clump after clump from the softened ground. When the rain returned, I retreated indoors, dividing tubers and labelling varieties ready for another season.
There is something deeply satisfying about this rhythm. Each tuber carries the memory of last summer’s flowers and the promise of those yet to come.
With around half of the collection now divided, the remaining clumps will patiently wait until I return from my annual trip to Queensland to visit my family. Gardening has a wonderful way of teaching us that not every job needs to be finished immediately. Sometimes the season itself decides the pace.
One of the highlights of the month was making the two-hour drive to Gateforth Peonies to collect the final plants needed to complete the peony field. It is hard to describe the excitement of bringing home new varieties that have lived on my wish list for so long.
This year’s additions include Lemon Chiffon, Coral Charm, Monsieur Jules Elie, Red Charm and Margaret Gerade, along with another row of my all-time favourite, the beautifully romantic Sarah Bernhardt. I was also able to complete the rows of Red Sarah Bernhardt, Alex Fleming, Shirley Temple and Emma Klehm, bringing the vision for this section of the flower farm another step closer.
One of the unexpected gifts of the day was Fiona generously showing me through their packing shed, sharing the process of harvesting, dividing and storing peonies. I left inspired, and with an even greater appreciation for the years of knowledge that sit behind every beautiful bloom.
The weather, however, has reminded me that every season brings its own lessons.
The persistent rain has claimed many of my ranunculus seedlings. While the corms remain healthy, the young seedlings simply couldn’t cope with the conditions. Looking back, I know row covers would likely have protected many of them. Gardening has a way of humbling you like that. Every disappointment quietly becomes next year’s experience.
The slugs have also taken quite a liking to my young delphiniums, leaving me with the task of replanting several more once spring arrives.
Closer to the house, a small piece of another dream has begun to take shape. My standard roses arrived this month and have now been planted in the new garden bed overlooking the pool, framed by a neat English box hedge. Irrigation and mulch will have to wait until I return home, but even in its infancy I can already picture how beautiful this space will become in years to come.
Winter may appear quiet, but it is a season filled with dreaming.
Already I find myself sketching new garden beds, planning winter projects and, perhaps inevitably, falling in love with more dahlia varieties to add to the collection.
The work may be quieter now, but it is no less important. It is simply preparing the stage for everything that is yet to bloom.
On the Farm
Winter on a farm asks something different of you.
There is no rushing through the season. Winter has a way of setting its own pace. The days begin a little later, not out of laziness, but because the paddocks remain frozen beneath a blanket of frost and the morning sun takes its time warming the ground. There is little temptation to hurry outdoors when your breath lingers in the crisp air and every blade of grass crunches beneath your boots. Instead, mornings are eased into slowly, often with a hot cup of tea in hand, waiting for the first warmth of the day before stepping outside. Even then, boots are rarely dry, and almost every job takes a little longer when the earth is soft beneath your feet. Yet there is a quiet beauty to winter that reveals itself only when you slow down enough to notice it.
Some mornings begin beneath a blanket of fog, the paddocks almost disappearing into the distance until the first rays of sunlight slowly lift the mist away. On colder mornings, frost settles across every fence line, spider webs become delicate works of art strung between the fencing wire and posts, and each step across the grass is accompanied by the familiar crunch beneath your boots.
These are the moments I treasure most.
This month all of our pregnant ewes have been brought through the yards for their final preparations before lambing begins. Each ewe receives her pre-lambing drench and vaccination before being condition scored, assessing whether she needs a little more condition or is carrying enough weight to comfortably support her pregnancy.
From there they are carefully drafted into their winter mobs according to whether they are carrying a single lamb or twins, as well as their condition score. These decisions may seem small, but they influence everything that follows. By managing each group according to its needs, we can provide the best possible nutrition and give both ewes and lambs the strongest start when lambing finally arrives.
There is something deeply reassuring about this annual rhythm.
Each task builds quietly upon the last, every small job contributing to the season ahead.
Beyond the paddocks, winter also brings a different kind of farm work. much of it taking place around the kitchen table and in the office rather than out in the fields.
With the end of the financial year, many evenings and wet days have been spent finalising the bookkeeping, reconciling accounts and preparing budgets for the season ahead. There is a surprising satisfaction in closing one financial year while beginning to map out the next, reflecting on what worked well and where we’d like to invest our time and resources in the months ahead.
This is also the time of year when we take stock of almost everything on the farm. Feed reserves are counted, fertiliser inventories checked, chemicals and animal treatments accounted for, and livestock numbers carefully reconciled. Every detail is reviewed and updated within our farm management system, ensuring our records are accurate before another production year begins.
It isn’t the most glamorous part of farming, but it is one of the most important. Good decisions in spring and summer are often built on careful planning during the quieter months of winter.
When the weather allows and sheep work is finished, our attention turns back outdoors, continuing the new fencing project on the new farm. Progress has been slow between rainy days and muddy ground, but little by little the farm continues to take shape. Farming has taught me that meaningful progress is rarely dramatic. More often, it is simply the accumulation of many ordinary days spent doing useful work.
And perhaps that is the lesson winter returns to teach each year.
That growth is not always found in what we can see.
Sometimes it is hidden beneath the soil.
Sometimes it is quietly growing beneath a ewe’s wool.
Sometimes it is found in spreadsheets, budgets and carefully kept records that help shape the seasons ahead.
And sometimes it is simply found in showing up, day after day, trusting that spring will come.
From the Kitchen Table
By June, the kitchen becomes less about lingering over complicated recipes and more about the comfort of familiar routines.
The days may still be full, but the evenings quietly ask us to slow down. Darkness falls well before the children arrive home from school or sport, and by the time everyone is gathered around the table, there is a sense of coming home that only winter seems to bring.
Life on the farm is rarely slow at this time of year, so our dinners need to be simple and nourishing rather than elaborate. Meals are chosen less for presentation and more for practicality, food that can be prepared ahead of time or brought together quickly after a busy day outdoors. Winter reminds me that sharing a meal isn’t about perfection; it’s about making time to gather, however busy the day has been.
Our larder truly begins to earn its keep at this time of year. Shelves lined with jars of preserved peaches, apricots, plums, cherries and bottled pears, carefully bottled during the abundance of summer are opened one by one. There is something quietly comforting about serving fruit in the depths of winter that was picked from our orchard, foraged from the roadside or bought from local growers months before. Gently warmed and ladled into bowls with generous spoonfuls of homemade vanilla custard, it has become one of our favourite winter desserts.
The custard itself is made even more special with my own homemade vanilla extract. Every year I simply split a handful of vanilla beans, place them into a glass bottle and cover them with vodka, leaving the mixture to slowly infuse for six to twelve months in the pantry. Time does all the work, transforming just two simple ingredients into a beautifully fragrant extract that perfumes cakes, custards and baking throughout the year. It’s one of those small kitchen rituals I return to again and again, a quiet reminder that some of the best things simply can’t be hurried.
Every jar opened and every spoonful of custard is a reminder that the work of preserving isn’t simply about storing food, it’s about carrying a little of summer’s warmth into the colder months. It feels like opening jars of sunshine on even the frostiest of winter evenings.
The children have also declared hot chocolates to be an essential part of winter. On cold afternoons, mugs filled with hot chocolate, topped generously with marshmallows slowly melting into creamy swirls, are often the first request after returning home from school. It has become one of those simple rituals that marks the changing of the seasons just as much as lighting the fire or pulling an extra blanket onto the bed.
Food in winter isn’t elaborate.
It is nourishing.
It gathers everyone around the table, filling both the house and our hearts with warmth.
Home Made Vanilla Extract
Ingredients:
- 6-8 vanilla beans
- 250ml Vodka (or bourbon, brandy, rum)
Method:
- Split vanilla beans lengthways.
- Place them in a bottle filled with vodka.
- Place in a dark pantry and shake well once a week or every couple of weeks.
- You can use it in 6 months but 12months it is even better.
Gathered at Home
Winter has a way of drawing life back indoors.
The garden may be resting, but the house feels wonderfully alive. Lamps are switched on long before sunset, candles flicker softly on the dining table, and branches of eucalyptus or bare winter stems gathered from around the farm find their way into old stoneware jugs throughout the house.
As the pace of the flower farm slows, I find myself dreaming about the little projects I’d like to complete before spring arrives. Wallpaper samples are spread across the dining table, paint colours are tested on bedroom walls, and lists begin to fill the pages of my notebook. Winter always feels like the season for refreshing our home, slowly making each room a little more beautiful and a little more functional before another busy growing season begins.
June also marked a special milestone for our family as our eldest son, Harry, attended his Grade 10 Formal. It hardly seems possible that the little boy who once spent his days following us around the farm is now tall enough to tower over me in a suit. Watching him get ready, adjusting his tie one last time before walking out the door, was one of those quiet parenting moments you wish you could hold onto for just a little longer.
Seeing him alongside his beautiful partner, both dressed up for the evening, I couldn’t help but feel incredibly proud. Childhood has a way of slipping by so quietly, until suddenly you’re standing at the front door taking formal photographs, wondering where the years have gone. It was a lovely reminder that while the seasons change around us, they are also changing within our family.
But while so much of June encourages us indoors, some of our favourite memories this month were made outside.
This month we celebrated our youngest son George’s ninth birthday over at our Schawfields farm. Rather than hiring a venue, we gathered family and friends in one of the paddocks, where the children spent the afternoon running through the bush, playing laser tag amongst the silage bales, their laughter carrying across the paddocks.
As the sun disappeared behind the trees, the barbecue was lit for a simple sausage sizzle, and everyone gathered around a crackling bonfire for warmth and to toast marshmallows until they turned perfectly golden. The evening ended with fireworks lighting up the winter sky, reflected in wide eyes and excited smiles.
It wasn’t an elaborate celebration, just fresh country air, muddy boots, dirty clothes, open paddocks and people we love.
Sometimes I think those are the celebrations children remember most.
Winter has a wonderful way of reminding us that home isn’t confined to four walls. Sometimes it’s a farmhouse filled with candlelight and quiet evenings. Other times it’s standing on the front doorstep watching your eldest child head off to his first formal, or gathering in a paddock beneath a star-filled sky around a crackling fire.
Perhaps that is one of June’s greatest gifts.
It gently reminds us that home is less about where we are, and more about the people we love and the memories we make together.
Field Notes
Winter asks us to appreciate rest.
Not as absence, but as an essential part of the cycle.
The garden doesn’t apologise for sleeping.
The peonies retreat beneath the soil.
The dahlias are lifted and stored away.
Seeds wait patiently inside their paper envelopes.
Nothing appears to be happening, and yet everything important is quietly underway.
Perhaps we could learn something from that.
To trust that growth does not always look like movement.
Sometimes it looks like stillness.
Sometimes it looks like preparing.
Sometimes it simply looks like waiting.
Until next month,
From the paddock.