Welcome

some changes, what to expect

the Sunday stroll

Welcome to new subscribers and greetings to all. If you’ve been with me for more than a week you might have noticed the name change. It no longer feels right to hold onto the title of Shepherdess as this farm and blog have become about more than just sheep, and less about shepherding.

If you followed Wild Irish Shepherdess over from Instagram or subscribed early on and you’re still here, I thank you. But, I also realise the direction my writing has evolved into might not still resonate with some of you. And that’s okay. We all grow and twist and turn as the winds blow. A lot has changed for us since I started this Substack when we came to live here on the land. Twenty-two months spanning two full winters and two hard seasons of drought, of living day to day by the whim of the seasons without the comforts and conveniences we’ve all gotten so used to, will do that. It has given me pause, distance, just focusing on the most basic necessities of living, to figure out what really matters, to reprioritise. It’s meant letting some things go. Oh, so much to let go. How much we all waste of the precious time we have on needless drama and superfluous stuff! Let it go! Life’s too precious. Let it go. And it has taught me more about the land, this ridge of rock we’ve come to live on, being it and living it through all seasons, than all the prior months—years—of observing and studying and running our sheep on it only when the sun shone and the grass was green. That’s meant letting some things go, too, changes in how we work with the land and how we plan to go on from here.

So, a name change to reflect the evolution and a little updated bit about what you’ll get from subscribing to this little corner of Substack.

Ramblings from a Wild Irish Farmstead is about living on the land, on connecting to the land and the source of our sustenance, the roots and bones of what it is to be human in coherence with the land and nature. It is life on the land, raising animals for food and fibre, growing food and medicine, living in accordance with the seasons and cycles of the land, told in stories of life and death and everything in between. It is not a glossed curation of a manicured homestead—if you’re looking for shiny kitchen inspiration, tidy rows of raised beds, or all the cute fluff with none of the hard stuff, this is not the place for you—I live in a power-less, plumbing-less shack on a wild, wet, rugged hill with my husband, a flock of sheep and a herd of goats, I tan animal skins, born of this land with the bark of the willows that grow here like weeds, and it is messy, muddy, bloody, raw and real.

The land we live on is a wild little patch of southwest Ireland, a ridge of shale, peat and clay on the edge of the Cork and Kerry Mountains, where the valley meets the hill, where hares race and ravens scout and the hen harrier hunts, where the only things that grow are willows, heather, rocks, and ruminants. My work is to restore our little patch of marginal land into vibrant heath, semi-natural pastures, and pockets of native wood. At least, that’s the easy version. As if the land needs me. As if life couldn’t flourish here from her own vital force without my paltry efforts to manage it. No, my work is to feed us from the land we live on and try to do it in a way that gives as well as takes, in a way that integrates our farm and livestock into the land, into the dynamic interplay of its ecology without extractively depleting it. But more than that, deeper than that, underlying that, my work is to learn the land, to grow with it, to root into the wildness of this place and become it. That’s what these ramblings are about.

My animals are the soul and sustenance of my farm. I raise sheep and goats for food and fibre. We harvest our animals at home, swift and sure on the land that birthed them and I write on all of it—please know that I do not tiptoe around the harder aspects of farming, raising animals for food, or the inescapable necessity of death in the order of life. That is and will be a running theme throughout my writing. Expect raw and sometimes graphic honesty.

Expect essays on land and life; living with our wild land; on localisation and the deep alignment of eating and living seasonally and from place; on raising sheep and goats from birth to butchering; on the food and fibre that are ultimately why we farm and what connect us all back to the land. Essays that challenge the narrative, perhaps challenge your comfort, and bring you closer to the land, life and death, full circle, soil to soil.

You can read a little bit about who I am on my About page, and in this previous Intro of sorts.

Over the past year I have gathered a small and growing cohort of paying subscribers, and I have struggled with the dilemma of what and how much to put behind the paywall—what and how much more to give my paying subscribers without compromising on my free subscribers. Going forward, I think I’ve come up with a balance that feels fair and practicable.

I aim to keep on posting free essays at least twice a month. I started out on here posting fortnightly free essays and that won’t change for as long as I can keep it up. So if you are happy staying on my free list then I am delighted to have you here. But keeping that up is made possible by my paying subscribers. Paid subscriptions are part of my livelihood and literally enable me to commit the time and energy to keep writing regularly. I put a lot of time, thought, learning, and lived experience into my writing—I hope it shows, at least some of the time, and that you get something of value from it. And there is something in the reciprocal exchange of a paid subscription and the more intimate setting of a closed group who value my work enough to want to support me with their hard-earned dollars, that I want to keep some things back for, and give a little bit more to. Paid subscribers will get additional posts in the weeks between free essays, including behind the scenes life and how we do things on our farm, more on wildcrafting, growing and harvesting, occasional seasonal, herbal and nose-to-tail recipes, as well access to all archived essays and occasional chats.

Occasionally I’ll skip a week to allow for interruptions to my writing, avoid burnout, and try to keep my words flowing from a place of creative inspiration, not forced for the sake of a schedule. There are times in the year when land and livestock demand all of my energy and attention, and besides, my brain doesn’t function well under pressure of schedules or deadlines and it shows in my writing, so I ask for your grace in forgiving me an occasional slip from regular posting.

I have set subscriptions at a rate I am comfortable with—I’m not interested in growing a huge following or a casual stream of shallow transactions; some of my posts are quite personal and/or sensitive. I am interested in forging a meaningful, reciprocal relationship with my readers. But I also don’t want the cost to be a barrier to anyone who genuinely wants a full subscription and can’t afford it. If that’s you, please send me a message and I’ll set you up with a complimentary subscription—I only ask that you’ve been on my free subscriber list for at least three months already so you know what you’re signing up for.

Or you can use this link for 40% off if you want to give a little but find the full rate too high.

Lastly, I’m going to invite anyone with whom my writing no longer resonates to unsubscribe. I won’t be offended. You’d actually be doing me a favour. If my emails are sitting in your inbox unread those spam detectors will get on my case and that hurts my reputation. Besides, I’d rather not be clogging up your inbox if you’re no longer interested in reading my posts. So I thank you for your support up to now and for reading this far, and kindly bid you farewell. (There’s an unsubscribe link in the footer of every email).

If you’re staying with me, thank you for being here and giving my ramblings your time and space. If you’re thinking about upgrading, now’s a good time.