Burning to Begin Again:
Our First Regeneration Burn at Riverdale
Last weekend, James and I did something we’d never done before. We set fire to a paddock on purpose.
It still sounds slightly mad when I say it out loud—especially after such a dry summer here in South Australia. But under the calm guidance of Andrew from Seeding Natives Inc., we carried out our first ever regeneration burn on the old cropping block—our native grasses paddock.
It was a practical choice, in the end. The grasses we planted a couple of years ago—spear grasses, wallaby grasses, and others—had done so well that they’d built up a thick thatch. Too thick, in fact. So thick that new shoots couldn’t break through. The paddock was choking on its own abundance. It needed a clean slate.
Winter is when these grasses regenerate (known as C3 grasses), so now—while it’s cool, damp, and still—was the safest, most sensible time to burn. But sensible doesn’t always feel safe. I was nervous. All my instincts said: Don’t light a match on your dry farm. But Andrew helped ease us into it.
We mowed around the perimeter of the paddock. We wet down the boundary to create a solid edge. We triple-checked the wind and then burned against it, so the flames crept slowly, without fuel from behind. And then… we lit the match.
I expected to feel fear. But what I felt most was awe.
The fire moved in a calm, deliberate line. Not a roaring blaze, but a gentle clearing. I watched it closely, heart thumping, waiting for the unexpected. But what came was quiet. The scent of smoke was earthy and beautiful. Birds—willy wagtails and firetails—watched us from the fence line, curious and alert. The paddock opened up before us like a slow breath out.
By the end of the day, the tension had lifted. I felt grounded. Grateful. Invigorated. Like I’d learned something ancient and new all at once.
And now—just one week later—green tips are already pushing up through the blackened earth.
Yet, the paddock looks bare stripped back to its bones—but in that openness, something unexpected has emerged. We can see the birds. Dozens of them—willy wagtails, firetails, thornbills—flitting in and out of the paddock, diving for the grass seeds still scattered among the ash.
It’s more alive than we imagined. Not hidden under layers of thatch, but revealed. Clear. Buzzing with movement and life.
This experience has shifted something in me. As a whitefella on stolen land, I’ve listened for years to stories about cultural burning—about fire as a tool of care, not destruction. But this was the first time I’ve felt it in my body. The quiet power of fire. The deep knowing of a landscape that has evolved with it. Not against it.
Regeneration isn’t always gentle. Sometimes, it takes fire. Sometimes, it takes letting go of what once flourished to make room for what’s next. Sometimes, it takes trust.
What I’m left with is a deeper respect for the land. For the knowledge it holds. For the quiet, ancient cycles of growth and release. And for the joy and possibility that live in the ash.
With deep thanks to Andrew from Seeding Natives Inc. for his guidance, calm presence, and brilliant regenerative mind.
