The Burren in between

I first visited the Burren region of Ireland last year and it really took hold of me. So much so that when it came to time to leave, I had a wrenching feeling and didn’t want to go. I couldn’t explain why exactly, but it was so powerfully visceral, I had to take notice.

This part of north County Clare is where the Burren’s limestone hills meet the sometimes wild weather coming in from the Atlantic. There is great drama to take in – from the waves crashing against the rocks to the sand dunes’ grasses waving in the wind whipping off the water, and sunlight flaring across the bleakness of the limestone.

Tiny flowers and ferns grow in the protection of the limestone’s grikes and whitethorn trees grow low and bent in the direction of the westerly gusts. Dry stone walls delineate fields and farms, and are carefully constructed with openings to allow the wind to blow through them.

Walking high on the ridgelines and along green roads on a clear day you can see across the bay to the Aran Islands and the mountains of Connemara.

Mobile homes at the caravan park shelter behind the dunes at the beach. Their rectangular silhouettes placed at angles to brace against the wind, like tanks on a battlefield; the lighthouse too.

The mystical, pulsing vitality of this place gets under your skin. It did mine. After spending just a week here immersed in its landscape, poetry and music, I knew I wanted to return.

There’s something thrilling about tasting the breadth and diversity of the world that I wouldn’t want to give up. But there’s also a lot to be gained from devoting time and attention to the richness of one place and your encounter with it.

In a region like the Burren, there are layers revealed by steeping yourself in it, whether in one block of time or by returning across the seasons and the years.

When I came back here last year, I was in a liminal space having quit my corporate job and city life, and feeling my way into a new one. I planned to stay for two months. I would rent a house so I could cook and have my own space. I would write and edit in the mornings and go hiking in the afternoons. I knew some people from my last visit so I wouldn’t be completely alone, but I did think it would be a quiet time spent largely in solitude, which is what I thought I needed.

These photographs were taken during the early days. They are dear to me because they reflect back to me the openness and curiosity of that time, of grounding myself in this place. I began to shift my orientation from walking through the landscape, to immersing myself in the place. I tuned into what was around me and noticed details I might otherwise miss. I covered much less ground and discovered more.

With my openness, I frequently encountered warm and generous people, who welcomed me into their lives and communities in ways I could never have expected. Opportunities opened up all the time and I ended up having a busy social life, which included meeting my husband!

As summer turned into autumn, I witnessed the change of seasons in the landscape and light. Now that I have returned to live here, I’m fortunate to explore its different faces across the year.

One advantage of being a foreigner is that everything is experienced for the first time and with wonder, rather than the closed complacency of the familiar. And yet, I believe that the invitation is always there, wherever we are. Home can be place we inhabit with wonder just as much as somewhere new, but it is more likely to be subtler as we experience its shifts more gradually.

It seems the key is our perspective and willingness to open ourselves to experiences with curiosity. For me creative practices help with this, like photography, writing, growing and foraging food and flowers, cooking and preserving, as well as the mindfulness of walking. Anything that tunes me into the rhythm of nature and its seasons. What about you?

The Burren Flower Farm

Buying or gathering flowers can feel like a luxury. In a practical sense, they have no use. But as Michael Longley has said about poetry, that’s not to say they are without value.

The Burren region on the west coast of Ireland has a wild, bleak, even surreal, landscape of limestone. At a distance its twisted, glaciated hills can look like smooth silvery mud pies. When you get closer however, its limestone karst terraces are punctuated by woodland of hazel, ash and birch, which provide a haven for lichen and ferns, along with wildlife from birds of prey to butterflies, bats, pine martens and even wild goats. At your feet are tiny wildflowers, ferns and grasses emerging from the limestone’s grikes. Alpine, Mediterranean and arctic plants grow side by side because of the region’s unusual geology and history.

It’s a place unlike anywhere else I know –  mystical, fragile and full of vitality all at once.

The Burren Flower Farm is a microcosm of this landscape: surrounded by those unmistakeable hills and with its own limestone pavement, native woodland, turlough and meadows.

Originally bought as a tranquil place to live while working nearby, over time founder Sarah Wall has drawn on her background in forestry, ecology and gardening to create a home and a living on the land.

I had been attracted to Sarah’s work for its colour and rambling textural beauty, and the way it reflects the particular season and place through an intelligent and creative mix of cultivated, native and wild flowers, along with herbs, grasses and branches that thrive in the Burren.

I visited the farm one evening during the recent heat wave, when it had cooled enough for Sarah to show me around the property and to cut flowers for the next day’s deliveries.

As we walked around, Sarah explained how the landscape and seasons offer both creative inspiration and constraint. Because she works with what she has available on the property, Sarah is careful to make the most of her cultivated flowers and be open minded about the wildflowers and foliage available to her. She cultivates her flower beds in stages to generate a constant supply and variety for her arrangements, as well as continuous cover to control weeds naturally.

Like all types of farming however, things often don’t go to plan. The first half of this year alone has brought extremes from the cold and snow of Storm Emma to the recent heat wave and drought.

These challenges mean that Sarah also relies on foraging to supplement her cultivated flowers. Out of necessity, she takes a holistic view of her environment, but it is this perspective that also highlights its beauty and diversity. Through Sarah's eyes, the gentle wave of grasses call to be included in her arrangements, and the architectural qualities of young hazel and birch branches become a complement to the elegance of tulips.

Sarah also sees weeds in a different light. It's a reminder that the term doesn't have any botanical significance, and really refers to a plant that is undesirable in a particular location. But that doesn't mean that weeds can't be appreciated for their own kind of beauty and place in the landscape.

Like her arrangements, Sarah’s management of the property balances the cultivated, wild and native. She allows nature to do its work in the meadows and limestone pavement areas where cattle previously grazed, as is traditional in much of the Burren. Over her 13 years on the farm, the woodland has naturally expanded from a single large birch tree to over 40 trees.

There is some debate about hazel scrub and woodland covering areas of limestone where the Burren’s renowned flora otherwise bloom. Sarah’s counterpoint to this is to recognise that woodland is also part of nature and that native woodland and lichen are equally important as the flowering herbaceous, and can be managed where needed.

Sarah taking in the exotic scent of Bergamot, used in Earl Grey tea blends

Sarah's blend of creativity and invention ensures that her arrangements are always unique and reflect what is flowering on her farm and in the Burren at that particular time. It’s not an easy balance to strike and many people wouldn’t bother, especially with the flower industry shipping flowers from all over the world these days to guarantee supply at any time of the year. But for me, and many others, this dedication matters.

My time with Sarah helped me to appreciate that being in the presence of her beautiful flowers has the power to enliven and bring us more into rhythm with the natural world.

We can enjoy flowers in the wild but we can also find great delight in giving or receiving an arrangement that has been grown and gathered into something new and perhaps even surprising.

They help us to value what is fleeting and fragile. They remind us that even in the greatest bleakness, we can be elevated and sustained by everyday beauty. And that has real value.

Sincere thanks to Sarah for so warmly and generously inviting me to the Burren Flower Farm and into her creative process in those gorgeous golden hours of sunset. It's an experience I'll never forget.

You can follow Sarah's work on Instagram and if you’re lucky to be in the Burren on a Friday, go and buy some flowers at the Kinvara Farmers’ Market. They’ll be sure to brighten your day.

Adventures in preserving: jam

This year, I’ve been taken by preserving in a way I hadn’t expected. I don’t grow my own food, so I wasn’t prompted to preserve out of necessity (no heaving fruit trees on my apartment balcony!). But I do eat seasonally and locally so I want to make the most of what’s around me.  Plus the preserving process is rather mysterious and magical, who wouldn’t be curious?

Of all the forms of preserving, I had no idea jam making would instantly take hold like it has. Not in some quaint grandmotherly way, but boldly, effervescently, deliciously. It has taken me on some exuberant adventures and rekindled the quiet joy of making and giving. Really.

I wasn’t introduced or exposed to preserving in the traditional way, where it is passed down the generations as a vital skill to preserve surplus produce from going to waste, to provide food through the winter and a varied diet throughout the year. I didn’t grow up seeing my mum make preserves other than the year she ran the jam and pickles stall at my primary school fete. These days, I’m not alone in this experience. For most people, preserving is something their grandmother used to do.

Yet even without much of a personal connection to it, my curiosity drew me in, and I have my mother to thank for cultivating that. She instilled in me an openness to be inspired by what is around me and the confidence to try new things and find my own way.

As I was becoming interested in preserving, it was this spirit of curiosity and adventure that I recognised in the story of the Cornersmith café and picklery. Cornersmith has taken a home cook’s foray into preserving (when Alex Elliott-Howery was at home with her small children in Sydney and seeing fruit literally falling off the trees in her neighbourhood and carpeting the ground), to opening a café incorporating their preserves and a local community produce trading system, and then establishing a picklery to expand production and to teach and inspire others.

The cookbook ties it all together and encourages others to make their own way into preserving too. Structured in chapters based on the seasons (my favourite kind of cookbook), it offers an understanding of how to preserve with the seasons and incorporate what you’ve made into meals throughout the year. In this way, it deftly integrates the tradition of preserving into modern life.

Refreshingly relaxed in its approach, the book makes accessible what could be intimidating: sterilising jars, fermenting and the mysterious setting point of jam. I love its sense of humour about the sometimes wild ride of preserving, including offering full permission to have a gin and lie down when it all goes wrong!

Knowing that it was possible to have a go at preserving without any experience or special equipment, to try and not really have a clue if it was going to work out, made starting out easier because I didn’t expect perfection the first time or every time.

It let me go with the wildly unrealistic notion of making my first ever batch of jam on a Monday morning before work (because I’d been side tracked on Sunday night and it was now or never with the macerated blackberries!) and having to run out the door, unsure if the jam had set and leaving my kitchen splattered with sticky purple spots and smears. When I came home, I popped open a jar and discovered to my great delight that the jam had indeed set and was heavenly – gloriously glossy, with the zing of lemon zest and juice to cut through the sweetness.

I was amazed that I could make something this good first-go. I was hooked. As much as I enjoy pickling and I'm wide-eyed about exploring fermentation, somehow jam making became my first love. In a few short months, I’ve made two batches of blackberry jam, two of strawberry, rhubarb and rosewater jam and one of lime and ginger marmalade.

Mostly, the chaos continues. It feels like my jam making has a life of its own and I’m feeling my way through with some guidelines from the cookbook but mostly trusting my instincts. And yes, I still rather optimistically decide to make jam when I don’t really have the time. Like when I attempted to make it while also slow roasting brisket – rather distracting, don’t try it! Or when I was up until midnight making marmalade because it took forever to thinly slice a kilogram of limes with a blunt knife and I somehow missed the detail in the recipe which said they would need to simmer for an hour and a half before beginning the setting process, and at that point there was no turning back!

Of course, I’ve had some failures. Two attempts at quince and apple jam did not work out. After spending hours peeling, chopping and softening the fruit and then setting the jam late into the night, I really did feel like taking Alex’s suggestion of having a gin and a lie down! It hasn’t put me off though and I’ve found ways to salvage my imperfect jam.

Looking back on the delight I’ve taken in the magical, addictive process, I can see jam making goes beyond being a purely practical way to preserve surplus food, or to have something nice to eat.

Even though we don’t need to eat seasonally or preserve food if we don’t want to these days, and many of us have let go of the practice in favour of time and convenience, a growing number of us do want to. I believe we preserve not because we’ll necessarily be at good at it, or because we have time to kill (as I can attest!). Rather, we want to find the time to make something from scratch because we are curious and because we know the rewards are worth the effort. When we start making, our appreciation grows by understanding what goes into crafting something so personal so proficiently. We can also be confident of what ingredients and care have gone into making it.

Jam won’t cure our ills (or slim our waistlines) but I believe it nourishes us in ways that are just as vital and therapeutic. Rather than the norm they used to be, homemade preserves are a rare treat these days. That’s why I enjoy giving so much of what I’ve made away - to my family, to a friend going through a tough time, in a birthday cake to share with colleagues, or to thank a generous dinner party host.

I like to think of the people I care about having a moment of pleasure over tea and toast in the morning, with scones for afternoon tea, or eating it straight out of the jar with a spoon, as one friend likes to do! That they go out of their way to let me how much they’ve enjoyed my jam and marmalade, and have felt compelled to share it with others, tells me we’re all craving this nourishment, care and connection, even if we didn’t realise it. Don’t you think?

A slow summer picnic

I’ve surfaced from a few weeks of summer holidays and letting go of routine for a while. Nature, on the other hand, has continued at full tilt. Right now, a trip to the farmers’ market is a heady time, leaving my basket heaving with produce – stone fruit, berries, capsicums, zucchini, sweet corn, tomatoes, cucumbers and more – and my imagination buzzing with possibilities.

So the other weekend, we decided to make the most of the gorgeous weather and inspiration from the summer harvest and celebrate with a picnic. We found a quiet spot in Melbourne's Royal Botanic Gardens, and gained a new perspective on time, space and pleasure in the process.

We feasted on tomato and zucchini flower tarts; our favourite goats cheese from Holy Goat; ham off the bone, salad leaves and a baguette with my first batch of bread and butter cucumber pickles. We finished with a beautifully soft fluffy yoghurt cake studded with strawberries and blueberries, topped with a salty sweet crumble and served with the wonderful Schulz Organic cream, plus more tiny strawberries from an Italian family I’ve come to know.

It was one of those special, spacious afternoons where time seemed to pass slowly, generously. Everything had been catered for, so all we had to do was savour it.

It got me thinking about how we could enjoy the time we had because we had given ourselves permission to take it, purely for pleasure. There was nowhere else to go and nothing else contemplated. We let go of the to-do list and distractions, and surrendered to the simplicity of a leisurely afternoon of food, conversation and rest.

Unlike our everyday lives where we can feel bullied by time and the drive to squeeze more out of every minute, time felt different that afternoon. It felt bigger, more generous and open, and we wanted to spend it differently. We were free to tune into what felt good in that moment and do that, like lying under the tree and watching its branches wave in the breeze. Other picnickers also seemed happy to relax and enjoy each other's company and when they did have the urge to move, it was gentle too – throwing a frisbee, playing bocce or hide and seek with the children. 

As we immersed ourselves in the spaciousness, I noticed that it was different because we had made the conscious choice to carve out the time, to create that space, and to let go in the way we do on holidays. So I wondered, can we experience this in our everyday lives more than we think? Are time and space a state of mind, a way of being?

A conscious community: Powlett Hill farm and mill

A little while ago, I came across Powlett Hill biodynamic stone ground whole wheat flour. On the back of the bag of flour I picked up, I read about the Fawcett family who have been farming at Powlett Hill in Campbelltown, Victoria since 1865. The story I read talked about how they adopted biodynamic farming methods in 2000 and how quickly they saw a change in the quality of the soil and pasture. As I did more research, I discovered they mill wheat, rye and spelt flour onsite, with specialty pasta makers in Victoria and South Australia producing their dried spelt pasta. I had been doing my own reading about biodynamic farming and stone milled flour, so I was excited to find people doing this locally and wanted to know more. Graciously, the Fawcetts welcomed me for a visit.

What I found was a busy farm and mill (in the middle of sheep mustering and shearing the day I visited!), and a family dedicated to their role as custodians of Powlett Hill. The Fawcetts are both proud of the farm’s 150 year old family heritage and how fifth generation Ben encouraged the adoption of biodynamic farming to respond to challenges they faced through conventional farming. They are now strong supporters of biodynamic farming, which they say: confirms to us the benefits of naturally grown food without the use of chemicals and synthetic stimulants producing vibrant healthy soils and in turn healthy plants, animals and healthy humans.

This awareness of the impact of their decisions and pursuit of integrity at every stage of the process was what struck me most on my visit to Powlett Hill. The Fawcetts have invested in biodynamic farming to improve the quality of their soil, to in turn enhance the quality and nutritional value of their crops. And in deciding to produce their own flour, they have chosen to use granite stones to mill the whole grain, distinct from the typical industrial steel roller mills that produce the refined white flour we mostly eat today.

Stone ground flour retains all parts of the grain, therefore preserving maximum nutrition. Put simply, refined white flour contains only the starchy endosperm of the wheat grain, which lasts longer because it is separated from its other components (the bran and germ) which release oils that make whole wheat flour more perishable, but also significantly more complex, flavoursome and nutritious because of their vitamins, minerals, antioxidants and fibre. When they put so much effort into their farming to produce the best grain they can, I can appreciate why the Fawcetts would want to retain this as much as possible in their flour.

As the process continues, a broader community becomes involved, such as the pasta makers, distributors, and the bakers and consumers who buy directly from them.

As I reflected on these relationships and the process from soil to seed to stone, I contemplated the web a whole community weaves to produce our food - one that is easy to become disconnected from in modern life.

With flour, we often see it as something so basic that we hardly think about it; or merely as an ingredient, a component of a larger creation, even when it is the key ingredient in our main staple – bread – and has the greatest potential to influence taste, nutrition and therefore our health. The same goes with picking up a packet of pasta at the shop – we might not stop to think about the farmers who have grown the grain, the miller who has made the flour which is transformed by the pasta maker for us to cook at home at our convenience.

Nature, the farmer, miller, pasta maker, baker and shopkeeper come together to not just produce our food but also enable us to create the meals we love and to celebrate life’s occasions, from our daily bread to Mum’s spaghetti bolognese or a friend’s birthday cake.

On returning home, knowing the provenance of my flour and pasta has brought them to life. When I look at a loaf of bread I’ve baked, I can connect the dots of how it came to be created in my kitchen. When I cook pasta, I am more mindful of the amount of work and care that has been taken to produce it and I want to make the most of it. This often means doing very little to it – like simply tossing through seasonal ingredients like peas, goats curd, young garlic, mint and lemon zest.

I feel richer for knowing the people and the process involved in bringing a meal to my table. As a result, I am more conscious and I am certainly more grateful.

Many thanks to the Fawcetts for allowing me visit and for sharing their story. Click here for more information on Powlett Hill and to try their flour and pasta yourself.