We reach the third paddock of our journey through Warrawindi Farms, in South Australia’s Coonawarra region, to find a struggling ewe, the tiny hooves of her first lamb visible. Ben Brooksby, a sixth-generation farmer and the son-in-law of the farm’s owners, Alison and David Galpin, approaches to help. Three minutes later, twins: one lost, the other gently licked by its mother as its faint heartbeat strengthens in the early minutes of life.
“Sorry if I smell a bit now,” says Brooksby as he cleans his forearms with baby wipes. They’re on the back seat for lambing season, and for his one-year-old daughter, Cleo, who joined us to feed poddy calves outside the 100-year-old shearing shed.
A warmth starts in the back of my throat and slides down my chest, a fire borne of nostalgia for the chapters of my life spent on farms in rural Illinois and western NSW. The cows and crops were different, but the sentiment is the same. Farming families extend tendrils that reach deeply into the communities around them, and I quickly feel as welcome on the Galpin property as I do when I return to my family’s farms in the US. The warmth of recognition reaches my cheeks before I realise I’m grinning at a particularly well-maintained fence.
“This is my favourite time of the year,” Brooksby says as we pass a mob of apricot-coloured Limousin steers. “Except winter, when everything is green, which is good for the soul.”
Green is the theme at Warrawindi, a regenerative farm located where South Australia and Victoria meet (literally – Border Road splits the farm). They have 1000 head of cattle and 1200 ewes, plus an 80-hectare conservation area that provides refuge for native bees and the endangered south-eastern red-tailed black cockatoo. Then there are emus, quick and gangly, the muscly western grey kangaroos and, on occasion, confident bucks.
I’m lodging at Warrawindi Escapes, a luxury farm stay on the family’s 1200-hectare property. It’s in the heart of the Coonawarra, one of Australia’s leading wine regions, and the closest town, Penola, features a well-maintained historic strip, a buzzing art gallery and a large chunk of Mary MacKillop’s life documented in stone. A short drive from the farm, olive groves share fence lines with amber-leafed vineyards and multiple cellar doors advertise snacking and sipping.
The Galpin family dispersed their 21-year-old Poll Dorset stud to build their farm stay, putting them among the many Australian farmers investing in agritourism (the intersection of agriculture and tourism) to diversify operations. CSIRO estimates agritourism will be worth about $19 billion by 2030, largely driven by travellers seeking new experiences or exposure to an unfamiliar environment guided by local knowledge. I wonder how many travellers will be like me, seeking out the land to feed the pangs of a childhood split from it.
The Galpins moved away from pesticides and fertilisers about eight years ago to develop a sustainable enterprise that would enrich the soil and its bugs, grow stronger and more nutrient-dense crops and grasses, and regularly rotate healthy, resilient livestock around green paddocks.
I can see those happy animals from the Brolga, my off-grid, self-contained studio with its king bed and spa bath. It’s fed by rainwater and powered by the sun, with a bin for food scraps for the chooks. With the sun’s first rays that morning, a six-tune-strong symphony of species carolled in the red gums and fog enveloped the plateau surrounding my lodge. “We want people to have that experience of space and the feeling you’re truly in nature, where there are no chemicals around you,” Brooksby says as he steers. “That’s really hard to find these days.”
Smoko is at the homestead, and we tuck into sausage rolls and potato soup while the Hills Hoist dances. Afterwards, I retreat to my studio. In the distance, an orange tractor bounces a bale, reversing to let the hay flutter to the ground. When the gurgle of the engine fades, all that’s left is the whistle of wind filtering through ancient trees.
The sky blushes as I feed my fire pit. In it, I see the soil I bolted across as a child; the ute tray I knelt on while picking cobs as my uncle drove slowly past rows of corn; the afternoons with my cousins as we wandered through a hummingbird-filled cottage garden, cooling off in humid Illinois heat; a New Year’s Eve spent in my aunt’s paddock in Forbes, NSW, the sheep nudged together in a distant corner. As the dew twinkles, I think of my brother’s irrigation challenges and the times we moved obstinate, unyielding sheep; of the mercy of rain.
Lives are determined by these paddocks – on either side of the equator. I scribble revelations in my notebook: “The cycle always brings us back where we belong.” The sunset sinks as a moo rings out and I face the hungry embers, my silhouette stretching over familiar, fundamental farmland.
The writer was a guest of South Australian Tourism Commission.
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Riley Wilson is a freelance journalist and editor specialising in travel, food, architecture and agriculture. She is a former desk editor at The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age, and the creator of the Greater Good newsletter.Connect via email.
