I was doing veg deliveries last week. I stopped at a house and delivered their box. As I made my way back to the van, a lady ran out of the adjacent house. She had been reading these newsletters and said it was about time I wrote a book. Over the years I’ve been encouraged by some of you to write a book. I’m not quite sure I know how, but I have been writing down my thoughts and experiences. Maybe one day they will make it into a book. And if they do, it will be thanks to all of you that have encouraged me along the way. As of now, I’m going to start sharing what might be called ‘chapters’ of this book with you. Given it is you who have encouraged me to write, why not try and somehow write this book with all your help. I’m sure the encouragement won’t go astray when I’m feeling unmotivated or stuck.

Emily got back from deliveries this week and told me “Susan said she wouldn’t buy our veggies if you don’t write your weekly newsletter”. What a great compliment, it certainly put a lot of wind in my sails. This farming journey has made me realise I enjoy writing, and I’m thrilled that others enjoy reading it! This week I passed our vegetable fields as I motored past on the tractor. All I can see now is a field of weeds. Nature has taken back what was once neat, productive rows of mixed vegetables. Something I thought was so permanent—something I believed would last forever—has all but disappeared.

Somehow—miraculously—we managed to get all but 15 veg boxes delivered to you all. The messages of support, the offers to donate veggie boxes to people who’ve lost everything, and the general outpouring of kindness reminded us of why we keep doing this. Thank you. Truly. We feel incredibly lucky to be part of a community like this. Our hearts go out to those who’ve lost homes, animals, and loved ones. The floods were devastating. And the road to rebuilding—physically, emotionally, spiritually—will demand resilience most of us can barely imagine.

The past few weeks has seen a persistent pattern of showers, and the forecast for the next seven days promises even more. The ground is saturated, our vegetables are barely holding on, and those that do survive are stunted, producing far less than usual. We haven’t been able to prepare new ground, weed, or plant any new crops—everything has come to a halt. Thankfully, we still have two to three weeks’ worth of veggies that were planted months ago, which should carry us through for a little while. But beyond that, we’re likely to see a significant gap in supply from our farm. With winter approaching and the days growing shorter, even if the rain does stop and the ground dries out, most farmers along the east coast will struggle to produce a decent crop over the coming months; most won't have anything decent until Spring. Cold and short days slow everything down.

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.

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?

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.