The rains have started. Afternoons and evenings punctuated with thunder; skies darkened with marshmallow-thick clouds the colour of pewter. Water tanks have been filling again, and the dawns – sometimes still cool from the overnight falls – are deliciously scented with wet murraya. But by mid-morning the steam starts rising. The ground, soaked by the heavens during the wee small hours, starts to release what it’s not yet had time to absorb and the resulting blanket of humid steam, overlaid with a November subtropical sun, can take its toll on the human body.

It’s this combination of Spring/Summer rainfall, warm weather, and ancient volcanic soil that makes this part of the world so perfect for growing anything – flowers, food, trees, even people. That merging of elements makes this area more fertile, more pregnant with possibility, than many around the world, and certainly more than most parts around this nation. But, like many things, its positive aspects can easily bleed into its less desirable. Dandelions and farmers friends enjoy these conditions just as much as the eggplants and tomatoes and silverbeet. Bindii, telegraph weed, creeping oxalis, billy goat weed… they’re all thriving in my garden right now and almost every spare evening – after the sun has lost its bite and before the mossies start attacking and the heavens open up – has been spent trying to eradicate them. To little avail. Almost as quickly as I have cleared one square metre, another is riddled with plants that I didn’t choose. And therein lays the rub, the inherent tension with which all gardeners must contend… our clear but sometimes too easily dismissed powerlessness in the face of nature.

An eggplant ripe and ready to pluck off the vine.

This week, as I pulled out bindii and billy goat weed by the roots, and dug around miniature oxalis bulbs with all the care of a surgeon removing a tumour, I was suddenly struck by the absurdity of what I was doing. These plants, their seeds, the climate upon which they rely, the sun which nurtures them – these things were here long before I arrived and will endure long after I have stepped off this mortal coil. So why do I bother? I asked myself, the mound of withering weeds growing beside me. I mean, if gardening isn’t – to at least some extent – an exercise in futility then I don’t know what is. Much of what I tend will die; things I did not choose will prevail. And yet, as any gardener will tell you, getting your hands dirty can also be a profoundly connecting, enriching, productive past-time – nothing futile in that.

My garden is flourishing at the moment. It loves the warmth and the water. The kale is so bounteous I’m setting aside Saturday morning to make jars of sauerkraut. The first eggplants of the season are swelling and ready for harvest; the last of the fennel is flowering now on spikes taller than me. Even the fig is growing at a rate of knots and the raspberries have started to fruit. Everything feels wild and delicious and out of control…. and as I sat in the middle of my garden, surrounded by its rampant extravagance and focused on the scurvy weed threading its way through the young pumpkin vines, it suddenly dawned on me that I was missing the point. That in my human desire to control my environment I was overlooking nature’s most important lesson. She’s in charge. Not me. Aristotle said that in all things of nature there is something of the marvellous. I forget that sometimes; forget that everything that happens does so for a reason; that in all we experience, whether we can see it at the time or not, there is something of the marvellous.

The last of the flowering fennel…

Scurvy weed is like that. Rambunctious. Irritating. Like a new puppy, it makes its way into areas of the garden assigned to other purposes. And yet it is beautiful. Genuinely beautiful.

I’m not weeding as much anymore. I’ve struck cuttings instead, transplanted seedlings and sown seeds throughout the garden. My plan is to fill it to bursting; my cup runneth over. And then nature can decide what will survive. That can be her lesson to me this month.

November in the suburban permaculture garden: Harvest with care, early in the morning and late in the afternoon is best. Mulch well (though not too close to the stems) and stake the heavy-bearing fruits like tomato and eggplant to help them bear their load. I don’t prune my tomatoes – it’s hot enough here that the fruit can do with the extra shade cast by the leaves – but if you live further south and are keen for tomatoes pre-Christmas, you might like to expose the young flowers and fruits to the sun. Most importantly, take the time to sit back, observe, listen, learn; nature has much to teach us in Spring.

From top: Strawberries, lemon flowers and raspberries…

Siboney Duff is a writer, editor, teacher, and mentor living in the Byron Bay hinterland in Northern New South Wales.  You can find out more about her on: siboneyduff

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At least an acre, if not five. That’s how much land I figured I’d need to make good on the waking dreams I’d revelled in for most of my life – dreams featuring the rich aroma of cow dung and rotted chicken manure; where vegetables were plucked daily from perfectly rectangular (and perfectly weeded) beds, and chickens (shimmering ebony-jade Australorps, Australia’s own tranquil, reliable layer) wandered through burgeoning orchards.

I was the only girl I knew who’d read – cover to cover – John Seymour’s Complete Book of Self Sufficiency (published in 1978) by the time I was twelve; the only girl I knew who wanted a Jersey cow instead of a pony. By fifteen I’d discovered Bill Mollison, David Holmgren and permaculture; I’ve spent countless hours since then planning my future acreage and devouring articles on everything from grain milling to citrus grafting.

As the years passed and fiscal realities bit deep into my life, I compromised. I didn’t need five acres; I didn’t even need a whole one. Just give me half, I bargained with a god in whom I didn’t believe. As luck would have it, I ended up with 540 square metres – less if you take away the patch occupied by the house.

Sib’s Bangalow house with its small but flourishing garden.

Located within the small village of Bangalow – twelve kilometres east of Byron Bay – the block on which I eventually settled would have no doubt profoundly disappointed my fifteen year old self. Almost flat, it boasts neither the flowing creek nor the wilderness pockets of my young imagination. It is angular, close to flat, and shares boundaries with three neighbours whose outdoor conversations require little more than a passing breeze to vault the paling fences that demarcate our boundaries.

But despite the fact that I have in arable land only two percent of what John Seymour had inspired me to envisage since puberty, I can hardly complain. My soil is dark, loamy, rich in nutrients and deeper than much of the soil throughout Australia. And at a latitude of 28 degrees, it is ‘bare bum warm’ at least eight months of the year. And then there’s the rain! Copious enough to at times annoy, it ensures steady plant growth and virtual independence from town water. In all, my little shoestring acre is as fertile as they come.

As Spring burgeons, I find myself scampering for time. The potatoes – Coliban and Kipfler – are waiting to be harvested. Bunches of broccoli have given way to random sprigs of broccolini which burst into flower faster than I can snip them from their towering stems. Snow peas are scrambling along wire trellises they will soon outgrow, behind which artichokes lean under the weight of their multi-crowned heads.

And the list of jobs requiring urgent attention continues…

The Australorp – a hardy, reliable and docile Australian hen, according to Wikipedia.

The strawberries need mulching (recent rains have seen an explosion in the local slug population) and netting (I forget to do this most summers and end up losing half my crop to all manner of ravenous, sharp-beaked birds). The chicken coop needs cleaning, there are asparagus crowns waiting to be planted, and my side garden abounds with dainty yellow flowers, constant reminders that I need to get cracking and collect seeds from the bok choys, brocollis and tat sois that are going to seed and will soon wither and die.

But this morning my focus is on dessert.

I often forget how many food plants I’ve managed to squeeze onto my little allotment, only to be reminded at the most inopportune time. Like when I’m dashing to hang out the washing before heading off to work and I spot the sprawling, blushing strawberries under the clothesline. Or when I’m chasing the chickens into their pen at dusk and spy the blueberries patiently waiting for me to notice them before the hens do – six blueberry bushes surround the rainwater tank, two each of early, mid and late-ripening varieties, but there’s little point in investing in the early-ripening varieties if I’m not going to harvest them when they’re ripe. Even now, as I type under the front verandah, a cup of tea on the bench beside me while a late morning mist slowly lifts off the rolling hills to the south, there’s a clump of rhubarb just a few metres away calling my name.

So dessert it shall be, even though the sun has barely breached the horizon. I’ll stew some rhubarb stems with a handful of stevia, let that cool before tossing through some strawberries and blueberries, and then I’ll sprinkle rose petals and heartsease blossoms over the lot, all grown and harvested within my own suburban corner of subtropical paradise.

TOP TIP

October in the suburban permaculture garden: The Spring weather is both a blessing and a curse for the suburban gardener. The warming sun and the higher rainfall (especially in the subtropics) mean that everything – weeds included – is growing at break-neck speed. Be sure to pace yourself (avoid any strenuous tasks during the hottest part of the day) and your plantings. Stagger the amount and timing of your sowings and seedling transplants, and use those calm weekend afternoons to read up on your favourite preserving recipes – the spoils of Summer (and there will be many!) are just around the corner.

Siboney Duff is a writer, editor, teacher, and mentor living in the Byron Bay hinterland in Northern New South Wales.  You can find out more about her on: siboneyduff

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