Since announcing that we are selling the farm. I’ve been asked many times: Why are you selling the farm? What made you want to pack everything up and hit the road with your family? To be honest, each time I was asked, I still didn’t fully understand why. Six years ago, we packed our bags, left the city, left our comfort zone, and embarked on this farming journey. Are we doing the same thing now or is it different this time? I came to this farm chasing a dream — the romantic idea of a quiet, simple life in the countryside. I pictured a few chickens, some farm animals, kids running barefoot under a golden sunset. That warm, gentle glow of rural life — I thought that was it. I thought I had found my utopia. The first 12 months shattered that illusion.

We can now say without doubt: this model works. Technology has allowed our family to bypass the supermarkets and connect directly with YOU. I sincerely don’t think we fully grasp the full potential of what’s been unlocked. Over the past few weeks, our family has been deep in discussion—reflecting on what we’ve learned, what we know works, what doesn’t work and where we go from here. Now, we feel ready. Ready to share it. Six years ago, we left our jobs in search of something we couldn’t yet quite understand. But we do now, what we desired deep down was simple, it was freedom. Along the way, we’ve experienced the full spectrum of human emotions, crashing over us as frequently as waves along the shore. Like a river finding its way to the sea, we’ve braved the chaotic rapids and gut-wrenching waterfalls—and now find ourselves drifting peacefully along the meandering bends.

It’s 3pm, Monday, April 7th. Autumn’s finally decided to show up. The sky is blue again, clear and still, until a gust of wind kicks up dust and dead leaves. I squint as it rushes past, and for the first time in weeks, I feel grateful just to be dry. After all the mud and dying plants, it’s a relief to be squatting in the sun. I’m picking capsicums with my daughters under a big old camphor laurel. A flock of white-headed pigeons are up in the branches, tearing into the ripening black fruit. Every now and then a hawk passes overhead and the whole tree erupts—branches shaking, birds panicking, wings flapping into leaves and branches. Then somehow, within seconds, they’re gliding in perfect formation, like a scene from a fighter jet movie. It’s wild how quickly chaos becomes harmony.

The third ‘Know Your Food, Know Your Farmer’ evening is at Grazed and Grown Farm on the 27th April. What's it about and why are we doing it? It's quite simple really, we believe the most important part of farming is the connection between the Soil, Farmer and Eater. Ifwe're to be honest, it's probably the only thing that has kept us going all these years. The trouble has always been trying to find the time and spare energy to hold these events we so desire. We would like you to join us for a very casual night of farmer interviews and conversations between people who care deeply about food and farming. The afternoon/night will consist of a farm walk, dinner around campfires and interviews with local farmers to dig a little deeper into the challenges and rewards of local organic and regenerative farming.

Sometimes I wonder if the supermarkets meant to build a wall between the farmer and the eater. A silent wall, like the one that once split Germany from East to West—keeping both sides from seeing, from speaking, from understanding. Because that’s what it feels like to me. When we began this journey, it wasn’t about business. It was about being together—as a family. Not just sharing a house, but sharing something real. Something hard, something beautiful.

Autumn arrives not with a whisper, but with a test. We were spared the worst of Cyclone Alfred, yet the relentless rains still carved their mark upon the land. And just as the storms relented, a new challenge emerged—roving stags, their hunger untempered, pillaging our vegetable fields in their nightly feasts. The bowerbirds, too, have turned their appetites from insects to our tender greens, feasting upon the young seedlings we so carefully transplanted. What the prolonged rains weakened, the sudden surge of heat—days soaring beyond 30°C—became the final death knell. It feels as though we are being tested on all fronts, the transition between summer and autumn demanding our patience and resilience. Each passing year, March seems to slip further from autumn’s grasp, lingering instead in the clutches of an ever-extending summer. This shift is no longer subtle; it is undeniable. March, once a critical time for planting winter crops, now bears the weight of hotter, wetter conditions that threaten both seedlings and soil alike. We are left to wonder: can we continue as we have, or must we adapt to a new rhythm dictated by a changing climate?

Bunkering down during cyclone Alfred offered some time for reflection and deeper thinking. In just under six years Sohip has grown from delivering 20 boxes of vegetables a week to over 300. What started out as a desire to sell only what we grew, evolved naturally into a business that now sources produce from farms locally and from around Australia. This journey has unravelled many contradictions along the way. People have told me we should focus only on local and seasonal produce, whilst they pull the cork from a bottle of wine produced in South Australia, cut into a wheel of cheese from Tasmania and reach for a cracker made with organic grains from South America. I’m not pointing fingers because the same contradictions exist within myself, and truth be told, If I could peek inside the cupboards and fridge of even the most ardent local foodie, I will find more than one contradiction on their shelves.

It’s time to brace ourselves and prepare for the deluge ahead. By the time you read this, Cyclone Alfred will have made landfall. The extent of its impact remains uncertain, but I sincerely hope that no lives are lost—property can be rebuilt, but lives are irreplaceable. It looks like we may be spared the worst of the wind, but heavy rain and potential flooding could still reach our region. While not as extreme, it’s hard to forget that this time last year, we had more than our fair share of wet weather. I don’t like to sound like a complaining farmer, but this is the worst possible time for excessive rain.

This week I want to share with you all the importance of kind and honest feedback. Your feedback is an integral part of our business, without it we wont be able to learn from our mistakes and get better at what we do. I see you all as part of our business, you're not customers, you're Sohip community members and play a vital role in how your food is grown, how the land is treated and how the people growing the food are treated also. The below is a series of emails between Emily and one of our community members. It demonstrates the trust, the honesty and the kindness that will move us forward, make us stronger and enable us to achieve our goals of healthier food, healthier land and a healthier future.

The food on our plate is the entire world staring back at us. I’m one of the lucky ones, thanks to you I get to listen to sounds from long ago, I get to feel the fragile beauty of the interconnected world that surrounds me. But whether I like to admit it or not, this way of life is slowly dying. There was a time, when all of the land we tended to, sang to us. Bird song filled the still morning air with a mix of sweet and gentle melodies. Soon afterwards the hum of insects beginning their patrol and then the rustling of leaves beneath the feet of curious creatures rummaging through the forest. Beneath the feet of the farmer the soil pulsed with the quiet rhythm of nature, and those who tended it did so with reverence. They knew the land not as a resource to be exploited, but as a living, breathing thing—a partner in the sacred act of feeding the world.

I want to share with you our current situation. I have always valued having an honest relationship with you, one in which I share the good, the bad and the beautiful. But before I do, I want you to know, you must not feel like you're not already doing enough. Because you are doing enough, your support, your love and loyalty, is helping us change the food system for the better. If this model is successful, I believe everyone and everything that the food system touches will stand to benefit. If you missed a newsletter or two, let me bring you up to speed. Myself and my family currently receive government support of $720 per week for each couple (myself and wife Emily, plus Mum and Dad). This government support is called ‘Farm Household Assist’, which is an allowance supporting many small to medium family farms struggling to survive the relentless pursuit of lowest cost forced by supermarket monopolies and the increasingly frequent damage caused by floods and droughts...

It's easy to forget why we are all involved in this. Some of us try to convince ourselves it's about saving the planet, some of us force ourselves to believe that without organic farming, our human and planetary health will continue to be destroyed. We create narratives around community and connection, the importance of holding onto a way of life that seems to be slipping away. What do you tell yourself when you spend the extra money to buy our vegetables? How would you explain it to someone who couldn't possibly understand why on earth you would pay more for your food, when you can get it somewhere else cheaper? Do you know anyone like that? Is he sitting next to you as you read this? Hahaha, I'm poking fun, I know only too well, because I was that husband who questioned my wife when we were paying more money for something I didn't believe in or understand.