The Day the Barn Was Full
It started at 9.30, with a bit of Autumn sun and that early-morning hum of people squinting into the soft light, and a slow, curious buzz as strangers became neighbours.
There were 35 of us, gathered in the barn—our barn, my long-held dream turned reality.
And so, when I stood up to welcome everyone, I got emotional straight away. There I was, in a space I’d dreamt of for years, filled to the brim with landholders who gave a shite about giving their land back to nature. A full barn. Full hearts. I could’ve gone home fulfilled then and there.
But the day had only just begun.
Rose and Paul, who’ve been rewilding their patch of paradise for over 20 years, spoke with a depth and gentleness that left many of us blinking away tears and scribbling notes like we were in church (if church had more native sedges and fewer pews). Their words weren’t just about what to plant, but why—about resilience, relationship, and the long, slow magic of letting land remember itself.
Caleb and Darcy, from Seeding Natives Inc, showed us what it means to restore a landscape from the ground up—science, sweat, seeds, and a bit of stubborn love.
Everyone came with notebooks, sunhats, muddy boots, and minds full of questions:
What should I plant? Where do I start? Am I mad for trying to revegetate 50 acres with no budget and kangaroos that eat everything?
And while there were plenty of practical answers—thanks to Hayley and Dana from the Hills and Fleurieu Landscape Board team, who offered real, solid advice and also made us all feel slightly more sane—what bloomed that day went far beyond site plans and species lists.
Through a tapestry of talks, conversations, cuppas, and shared muddy boots, we began piecing together some answers—and even better, some relationships.
We covered the essentials:
how to propagate native plants
how to prep your site for success (the ground doesn’t need to be perfect, just loved)
and how to plant and guard without accidentally creating a tiny possum playground
But the real show-stopper? The fancy machinery. The team from Seeding Natives rolled up with equipment that made the whole group collectively swoon. There’s nothing quite like watching your restoration dreams mechanised into elegant, efficient rows of future bushland.
And then came my favourite part.
The circle.
At the end of the day, we gathered under the gum trees and sat in a circle—no microphones, no PowerPoint slides, just people. One by one, folks shared what they were taking away.
Some spoke of feeling less alone.
Some said they now had a plan.
One person said, “I came for the tea cake and left with a 10-year planting vision.”
That circle was proof that community isn’t just a buzzword—it’s the soil this work grows in. For those of us out there planting into the wind, chasing off rabbits, watching failures sprout more often than seedlings—it reminded us that we don’t have to do it alone.
Because if there’s one truth in this work—this long, patient, stubborn act of ecological restoration—it’s that it’s bloody hard to do it alone.
We need each other.
We need community in all its beautiful, scrappy forms.
Some of the take-home messages?
Go slow. Take your time.There’s no one right way.
So here’s to everyone who made the day what it was:
To the wisdom-sharers and question-askers.
To those just starting out, and those 20 years in.
To Hayley, Dana, the Seeding Natives crew, and the quiet magic of Rose and Paul.
Thank you for bringing your hearts, your stories, and your muddy boots.
The land noticed.
And so did I.
