The Farm Turning Toward Winter
The shift toward winter rarely arrives all at once on the farm.
It happens gradually through smaller things. The soil cooling underfoot. The vines beginning to yellow and shut down. Smoke rising earlier from the kitchen fires. The stretch between planting and harvest growing longer as the days shorten.
Out in the garden this week, Martine planted the final succession of peas for the season. By now she knows the soil has cooled enough that they won’t produce heavily before winter settles in properly. Still, after enough seasons in this ground, experience tells her exactly what this planting will give. Just enough to carry the season a little further. A few more pods for the chefs before growth slows right down.
At the same time, the first lambs have started arriving in the paddocks.
Still unsteady on their feet, umbilical cords fresh and wet, already following closely behind their mothers as though they’ve always known this place. Ben spends these early days moving quietly through the mobs, checking new mothers, keeping an eye on twins, and making sure the little ones who wander too far find their way back again.
For us, lambing has always marked the real beginning of winter on the farm. A quieter shift in rhythm begins to settle over the property. The vines slow. Winter greens move into the garden beds. The kitchen leans toward slower cooking, smoke and warmth.
This year the pear trees seemed determined to hold onto autumn for as long as possible.
The branches bent almost to the ground beneath the weight of fruit, somehow still managing to ripen some of the sweetest, crunchiest pears we can remember harvesting here. Over the past few weeks they’ve slowly found their way from orchard to dining room — poached and fanned beside muscat pain d'épices, turmeric and burnt honey gelato, warm spice and curry leaf.
One of the quiet joys of farming and cooking this way is watching those transitions happen almost in real time. The distance between paddock, orchard, vineyard and table begins to disappear.
Even the wines start to feel different as the season shifts.
Lately we’ve found ourselves thinking about Pinot Noir again. Perhaps because Pinot has always felt like a wine tied closely to mood, season and place. Our Wildings Pinot sold out some time ago, but it remains one of those wines that tends to linger around here long after the final bottles leave the cellar door.
Over the coming weeks we’ll be sharing more from our Pinot Clone Project, an exploration that began nearly a decade ago after grafting five different Pinot Noir clones into a small south-east facing pocket of vineyard here in Karridale. Curious to see how each might interpret the same piece of land differently over time.
For now though, the farm continues its quiet turn toward winter.
The fires are lit a little earlier each morning. The dining room feels warmer as the evenings cool. The paddocks soften after rain. And across the property, life simply keeps moving with the season.