The turning of the year

I’m not really sure when it feels right to talk about “the new year” in the endless cycle of life on the farm. I’m pretty sure that it isn’t 1st January though. Perhaps I’d go for late October or early November when the last transplants are out, the squash is in, the pace of work slows and thoughts turn to woodland work, repairs, planning and the like. Or perhaps it’s around now when the new season’s garden work really gets going. Home gardeners and intensive commercial growers already have many plants well established, but bringing early crops in has never made much sense to me for a small, low input operation like ours – gains in market price are cancelled by the additional inputs, and the stress of ensuring a return on the extra investment by getting the crop to market on time doesn’t seem worth it. Jean-Martin Fortier takes a different line in his book The Market Gardener, which a commenter on this site recently suggested I might discuss. Having now read the book, I’ll be happy to oblige soon…

It also feels like new year around now in terms of off grid life. The sun is getting high enough and the days long enough for the PV panels to do their work regardless of the weather – no more fretting over computer use on cloudy winter days (though the soil warming cable in our propagator now becomes a slight worry as it pulls a cool 150 watts out of the batteries all night). The solar hot water tubes are shaking out of their winter slumber too – except we’re now in the spring dip when the woodstove is no longer needed in the cabin but the tubes aren’t yet quite fully up to the job. Without the back boiler, our water at this time of year is decidedly lukewarm – an issue to tweak in the future perhaps. This winter I did the first proper thinning of our ten year old woodland, along with the yearly cut of the willow pollards, so I’m hoping we’ll have enough wood in from our site for next winter – if we’re still here. For indeed, my bureaucracy-busting alter ego Spudman is soon going to have to dust down his iron cloak and do battle once more with Mendip District Council in order to secure permanent permission to live on the farm. More on that to come.

Some things don’t change though, despite the turning of the year. For example, a correspondent has brought me news of an article by an old adversary – a critique of permaculture forest gardening from a master’s student in agroforestry at Bangor University on a brand new website, The Cultural Wildernenss. The article is detached and academic in tone rather than aggressive and ranty. And its author now sports an augustly scholarly beard. But it’s still, unmistakeably…Graham Strouts! Actually, I happen to agree with quite a lot of his critique. Though for one who bemoans the shoddy use of quantification in alternative agricultural circles, Graham’s like-for-like comparison of nut yields with potato yields on a tonnes per hectare basis almost made me laugh out loud. Various permaculturists have responded to his critique – and though a few of them were content to invoke that notorious permacultural fatwah to which I too have been subjected (“you’ll never understand permaculture”), I thought between them they offered some worthwhile counter-arguments. I’m still not convinced that Mark Shepard’s work is a clincher for the superiority of perennial polycultures, though. Ach well, I think I’m done with that debate for now (though I’ve updated my web page on it to include a few more things, including Brian Cady’s interesting thinking around ‘oligoennials’). And I’m done debating with Graham too. Despite apparently possessing a degree in sociology, he seems to have emerged from it blissfully ignorant of what the words ‘romantic’ and ‘feudalist’ actually mean, judging by his predilection for applying them to me in the various travesties of my arguments that he’s published. Hopefully he’ll study more diligently for his master’s degree, and somehow figure out what agroforestry is. I wish him well with that.

Another correspondent, another old adversary. Ted Trainer has drawn my attention to his critique of Leigh Phillips’ Austerity Ecology (also relevant here are some interesting discussions with Anthony Galluzzo concerning modernism in general and Leigh Phillips in particular). I’m just working through Ted’s interesting thinking on ‘The Simpler Way’ at the moment, which I hope to discuss soon. Ted says that my critiques of the ecomodernists haven’t addressed the numerical evidence concerning the rate of resource/economic decoupling that will be necessary for their vision to be realised. I suppose that’s fair enough, though for the record I’ve engaged in some basic analysis along such lines here and here. Leigh contacted me a while back promising, in amongst the insults (and, to be fair, some praise for offering to host his reply) that he’d write a rejoinder to my critiques of him. Nothing has yet been forthcoming, but hope springs eternal.

Anyway, all this argumentativeness over perennial polycultures and ecomodernism feels…well, just so last year. With the turning of the year, I plan to focus my upcoming posts mostly on an analysis of how a peasant farmscape might look in a Europe (…or Britain … or England … or Wessex) of the future, and what the politics of such a farmscape might involve. On the latter point, I want to pick up again on the discussion I started in this post around modernism, agrarian populism or what Bill Barnes calls ‘producerist republicanism’. The ensuing debate has led me to think that getting to grips with modernism is vastly more important than getting to grips with ecomodernism.

So that’s a rough outline of my future programme. But first I’m going to take a new year’s holiday from blogging for a few weeks. For one thing, I’ve got that rarest of beasts, a paid writing gig, to get done, and I also need to spend a bit of time researching the peasant farming posts to come. Hell, I’ve even got some farm work to do. So, I hope to be live again on Small Farm Future in late April/early May. Meanwhile should you need to fill that Small Farm Future shaped hole in your life – and if you’ve read this far, then you surely do – you can listen to me talking about WWOOF on BBC Radio’s Farming Today.

Slaughterhouse Zero

Following on from my post about our compost toilet (the full photo experience is now available at, by the way), I thought I’d stick with the visceral theme and devote a few words to the closure of my local abattoir in the centre of my town, only about a mile from my holding. Apparently it failed to meet modern hygiene standards.

I imagine this will be one of the less mourned business closures among the good people of Frome. Tales abounded of the rivers of blood running down Vicarage Street at dead of night, or the unearthly screams of doomed animals reverberating off the walls of St Johns church. Urban myths, methinks. Plenty of people are happy to eat meat, but fewer like to be reminded about what eating meat involves. I welcomed the fact that the abattoir was in the town centre, so that people going about their daily business could at least see the trucks and trailers of live animals heading to their final destination and have some kind of connection to the business of life and death that is farming. Even so, most local residents I’ve talked to didn’t know there was an abattoir in town.

I for one will mourn its loss. I can’t say I ever particularly enjoyed taking my animals there – not least because of the increasingly overbearing legislation and form-filling that has accumulated around the raising and slaughtering of livestock in recent years, mostly as a result of food scares associated with large-scale farming that nevertheless bite hardest on small-scale farmers. But it was good to have a small local abattoir that was happy to process just a few animals, and which was close enough by to keep the stress of moving them to a minimum. In the 1980s there were more than a thousand abattoirs in Britain, a number that has now dwindled to less than 300. Leaving aside issues about the role of livestock in sustainable farming (I’ll be considering this in more detail soon) I’m not at all convinced that these closures are a good thing for either animal or human welfare. Our culture seems endlessly concerned with micro-managing small risks of the kind that lie behind small abattoir closures, while blithely ignoring much larger risks – climate change, to name but one.

If we’re to have the kind of small farm future that I think we need to create a just and sustainable society then we’ll also need a local agricultural infrastructure to support it. The closure of Frome’s abattoir is one more little step in the wrong direction. Time was when the point of a small market town like Frome was mostly to provide those kind of services to the people living and working in its rural surroundings. It wasn’t so long ago that there was still a cattle market in the town centre. Year by year, the contact of the general public with farming is eroded.

A walk around Frome reveals a plethora of lovely old buildings with all manner of hatchways, trapdoors, gantries, workshops, stables and so forth that show how work, including agricultural work, was once part of daily residential life in the town. Today they’re almost purely residential. Many of these buildings now have listed status and are part of the town’s conservation area. Strange how we’re so concerned to preserve the form of old buildings but so happy to dispose of their function. Those who speak up for a more localised mixed agriculture are widely dismissed as backward-looking romantics, whereas those who maintain the pretence of it by preserving old buildings are hailed as forward-thinking conservationists standing up to the vandalism of development.

To me, the more telling vandalism is in the gutting of local economies, symbolised by the huge industrial abattoirs, markets, feedlots and all the other paraphernalia of modern large-scale farming, which removes agriculture from public view. In the past, towns and cities usually grew up around working functions, as commercial or industrial centres. But now these functions have become so large and concentrated that often they can no longer fit even within the distended boundaries of our modern cities. The port at Shanghai, the largest in the world, at 3,600km2 is more than twice the size of Greater London. And most of Britain’s old port cities, including London, are no longer working ports – a function that has been outsourced to non-urban places like Felixstowe with greater legroom. All this raises the question of what modern towns and cities are actually for…but that’s something I aim to look at in another post.

A tour around my toilet

After a string of posts on eco/modernism, it’s time for something earthier. And since the Small Farm Future office recently received a request for a feature on compost toilets, we’ve decided to bring you a world exclusive photo-essay on the sanitary facilities at SFF headquarters. What could be earthier than that?

There is a connection to the last cycle of posts, though, which I hope I’ll be forgiven for mentioning briefly. Because it’s not hard to find texts within the ecomodernist corpus that scorn the humble compost toilet1. Perhaps there’s a simple division in the world between those who think it’s absurd to compost human waste, and those who think it’s absurd not to. But consider the consequences. In India, more than half the population (which amounts to something not too shy of 10% of all humanity) has no access to a latrine of any kind. Open defecation, it has been shown, is associated with intestinal illnesses causing childhood stunting, and this results in numerous health problems throughout the life course2. It’s also associated with assaults on women and children occasioned by their search for secluded spots for defecation. And that’s to say nothing of the fertility lost to agriculture by failing to make use of human waste (which is considerable – by my calculations, the urine produced by Britain’s population could furnish something like 40kg of nitrogen per hectare of cropland, which would put us well on the way to agricultural self-fertility).

The narrative of ecomodernism makes much of high-tech items like golden rice and nuclear power as means for improving the lot of the poor. But since all a compost toilet requires is some wood or plastic and a bit of easily-imparted knowledge, I’d be interested to see an economic evaluation comparing the per dollar benefits of creating access to compost toilets to poor communities lacking latrines with the fancy technologies preferred by the ecomodernists. Though on reflection, not that interested – I’m not against worthwhile research, but I guess one reason I quit academia was a sense that a lot of the money devoted to economic evaluations of whether to do this thing or that thing was probably better spent on actually doing this thing or that thing. In fact, what I’d really like to see is an economic evaluation of how useful economic evaluations are. But I digress – rather embarrassingly, as I’ve scarcely even started.

So let us turn our attention to some compost toilets in their practical manifestations. Here’s one, and ain’t she a beauty? This is the first one we built at Vallis Veg – a magnificently lofty throne from which I’ve surveyed my farm on many a fine sunny morning with the door thrown wide open just like this to welcome the rising sun, while I simultaneously perform other important work. Though not if I’m expecting visitors. Unless I know them very well.

Digital Camera

Digital Camera

We now have four separate compost toilets on the premises, all source separating ones, and all basically variants on the same theme. The unlovely IBC in the foreground of the photo showcases our receptacle of choice for the solids in two of our toilets. As Michael argued under my last post, the near future may turn out to be a salvage economy – so here’s my tip: invest in IBCs now! Source separation makes a lot of sense, to my mind. The urine is more readily usable, and it’s also much bulkier so if it’s mixed in it creates a slurry that’s trickier to deal with. Standard sewage systems are even more slurry-based, of course. All that wasted water! In urban situations no doubt it’s harder to avoid slurry-based sewerage, just as industrial farming demands slurry in preference to the simple farmyard manure systems of the small mixed farm, occasioning the need for more complex downstream treatment, if it’s treated at all. I just feel so sorry for all those poor animals cooped up in their little pens and so alienated from their environment that they’ve been trained to flush away their own fertility.

Now I’d love to be able to take you for a look around the back of my toilet (sorry if that sounds a bit wrong) but unfortunately I’ve had a devil of a job uploading some of my photos due to what a Google search reveals is known as “the notorious WordPress upload problem”. Too notorious for me to solve just now at any rate. So you’ll just have to imagine a chimney into the IBC, which funnels nasty smells safely upwards into the innocent Somerset air. And a large square of dark fabric covering it, the idea being to make it darker inside so that flies are attracted up the chimney and out towards the light. We haven’t generally found flies to be too much of a problem, except on the odd hot, still summer day when there are a few more around than feels ideal. Maybe in a climate less given to roiling cloudiness than western Britain, more elaborate insect-proofing may be required. And then to the right you can see imagine 25 litre containers (old wholesale laundry liquid cans) where the urine goes. We have about 20 of these. When almost all of them are full, we empty them onto our woodchip compost windrows. Not a particularly pleasant job – more because of the weight of manhandling the cans than their somewhat noxious contents – but it doesn’t need doing all that often.

The compost toilet in the picture has served us loyally for the last five years or so. The IBC has only just filled completely (though the site wasn’t residentially occupied until 18 months ago), and we’ll now let it mature for another 2 years before using it (probably not directly on food crops – more likely on top fruit, willow or hay). But we recently came across the new-fangled idea of having a toilet indoors. Apparently, it’s the very rage nowadays among all the fashionable folk. And so with the help of our friends Joanna and Josh, we recently built a fetching little wooden cabin-style addendum to our humble abode comprising separate indoor composting toilet and shower room, which unfortunately you’re also mostly just going to have to imagine. I really wanted to demonstrate how well it blends in with the adjoining north wing of Vallis Veg Mansions, which we built according to a traditional English farmhouse design dating right back to the 1947 Town and Country Planning Act, a signal piece of legislation that made the pursuit of new dwellings in the countryside other than those possessing wheels something of a lifelong quest. But you’ll just have to imagine a nice little cedar-clad cabin adjoining a godawful plastic trailer. Still, my bureaucracy-busting alter ego, Spudman, will soon be dusting off his cape and preparing to do battle with Mendip District Council once again in pursuit of a wheel-less house. But that’s a story for another time.

The indoor toilet has proved a hit with the family so far, and certainly with me. No more pulling on boots and venturing out in the lashing rain in the middle of the night after a few too many down at the Farmers Arms. Again, I’d like to show you our double-chambered toilet design, with two IBCs enrobed in their cedar raiment. Unfortunately, that’s something else I’m going to have to leave to your imagination. We figure that it takes a couple of years to fill an IBC, and then another couple of years of undisturbed composting. Hence two IBCs so that we can alternate between them.

Now, something I can show you is the door to the inner sanctum of this temple of self-fertility.

ct1 small




















Would you like to take a look inside? Well, all right then…

ct2 small


















…and there you have it, our smallest room in all its woody glory, with a stack of cut willow pollards drying at the back ready for the woodstove next winter. And so that brings our tour of the compost toilet to a conclusion – I hope you… Sorry, what was that? You want to see what? Hmmm, well, where I come from I was taught to honour a visitor’s requests whenever possible, however unusual. So, er, here’s a world exclusive view down my toilet.


You’ll notice the advanced source-separating technology hidden in the toilet bowl, which cleverly accommodates itself to both female and male anatomies – albeit in the latter case only if one adopts a seated posture for excretions of both kinds. Which I’ve noticed is quite beyond the capacities of certain among our male visitors, who leave the distinct impression that sitting down to pee is an insurmountable challenge to their deepest sense of self. They also often leave a suspiciously moist residue inside the IBC where it ain’t supposed to go. But I find that men with experience of organic growing are generally better able to take it in their stride. I like to think this is because we’re somehow more secure in our masculinity. Though I fear it’s more likely that time spent organic gardening has fostered a willingness to endure any indignity in the hunt for good compost.

Beside the bowl (previous photo) you’ll note a bucket of sawdust, which we mostly obtain at no cost from a local forestry sawmill (so no dodgy glues and suchlike in our compost). A handful down the bowl after each deposit adds a useful shot of carbon and has the added benefit of concealing the visual and olfactory evidence of one’s effusions from the following hapless visitor. Without source separation, a lot more sawdust would be required, reducing system efficiency.

And, finally, let me show you the urine can in the new toilet, usually concealed by the floor hatch you see in the picture. A piece of high-end technology that would surely delight Stewart Brand himself…


I should add that I deserve very little credit for designing or building the incredible contraptions on show here, which are the speciality of my beloved. Pretty much my only contribution has been wiring in the lights. But I like to think that’s my role in life – whether in the wide open reaches of the blogosphere or the narrow confines of our backwoods abode, I bring illumination where previously there was darkness…

And that’s pretty much it. Next week: inside my laundry basket.


  1. For example, Phillips, L. (2015) Austerity Ecology & the Collapse Porn Addicts. Yes, that book. And also Bruckner, P. (2013) The Fanaticism of the Apocalypse.
  1. Spears, D. (2013) ‘The nutritional value of toilets: How much international variation in child height can sanitation explain?’

So you want to be a farmer? Thirteen words of wisdom from me to myself

I gave two talks recently at the Oxford Real Farming Conference. One concerned peasant agriculture, which I’m planning to come back to on this blog later in the year as part of a series on constructing a neo-peasant agriculture for contemporary times. The other was at a session inaugurating the College for Real Farming and Food Culture, brainchild of science writer and ORFC founder Colin Tudge.

Colin asked me to describe my experiences establishing a small, ecologically-minded farming business, the obstacles we’d faced and how we’d overcome them. I only had a few minutes of the floor, and I didn’t want to present my own fumbling efforts to learn how to farm as any kind of blueprint for others to follow, so I decided to present the talk in the form of thirteen maxims I’d like to have been able to pass on to my younger self at the point I started my switch into the agrarian life. The talk seemed to go reasonably well and so here, by popular demand (or three emails at any rate), I’m reproducing it.

  1. Make sure you live on the land you farm, however you do it, whatever it takes, LIVE ON YOUR LAND!
  1. Run a small, mixed farm – we need maybe 2 million farmers in the UK, equating to an average farm size of 50 acres or less depending on how you crunch the numbers with permanent pasture, so if you think your farm needs to be bigger than that you need to be able to convince someone else why theirs has to be smaller.
  1. Try to insulate yourself as much as possible from depending on open market prices – it’s not easy, but there are various possibilities. Be creative. Start a non-profit social enterprise if you have to, but if you do tread very, very carefully.
  1. Try to sell retail, not wholesale.
  1. Farming is full of get-rich-quick schemers, and people obsessed with a pet approach of one kind or another. Listen to what they have to say with an open but sceptical mind, then discard what’s not useful – which is usually most of it.
  1. Or to put that another way, there’s essentially no such thing as a low input – high output farming system. Modern farming is generally high input – high output. The safe bet is low input – low output.
  1. If you’ve learned farming via a traditional agricultural education, then consider diversifying. If you’ve learned it (as I did) via an alternative agricultural education like the permaculture movement, then consider un-diversifying.
  1. Focus generally on producing basic foodstuffs and ignore the advice to ‘add value’ by getting into processing as a way of making money. ‘Add money’ rather than ‘adding value’, possibly by growing a high-earning cash crop. The best high-earning cash crop is usually people – get them somehow to come to your farm and to pay you for the privilege.
  1. Hold on to your ecological idealism, but don’t kill yourself. Use some diesel. But imagine if diesel wasn’t available or it had a carbon price attached to it of, say, £50/litre – would it be remotely possible to continue farming as you do? If not, rethink.
  1. Be completely honest and open about what you do with your customers, and show them your genuine gratitude for their custom. But don’t toady to them – let them know subtly that it’s producerism and not consumerism that makes the world go around.
  1. Be as open and honest as you absolutely have to be, and no more, with anyone else, especially government bureaucrats.
  1. Don’t worry too much about the howling errors you’ll inevitably make – the only people who’ll really scorn you are people who aren’t actually running a small farm business themselves…
  1. Remember that every farm and every farmer are different, and that you’ll be different too as the years pass. Remember too, as I’ve already said, that farming is full of charlatans offering their unwanted advice. So feel free to ignore everything I’ve just said. Except maybe this – if you start a new small farm enterprise you almost certainly won’t get rich quick, or even get rich slow, but if you’re lucky you may just stay in business and you’ll be doing something more interesting and more worthwhile than many, many other things you could do.

Of pigs, peasants and pastoralists

I’ve been meaning to write a simple little blog post about the pigs I’ve been raising on my holding this year. But here at Small Farm Future we like to go for big picture analysis, and somehow the post has turned into a redesign for British agriculture in its entirety. Ah well, at least it enables me to riff on various hot topics recently featured on this blog: rewilding – particularly in the context of Miles King’s fascinating vision of nature-friendly arable farming; the affinities and tensions between livestock and arable, which in these modern consumerist times often figures as a vegans versus omnivores debate, but in the alternative farming world can also hinge on arguments about the respective ecological credentials of meat versus plant production, and more broadly in the longstanding historical tension between agrarians and pastoralists; the issue of whether organic farming can feed the world; and, lastly, the war cry of the latter-day agricultural improvers that we need to get people out of small-scale farming and increase the productivity of the land without increasing total land take.0 2015 09 21 Pigs in clover 2

But let’s start with my pigs. I have two weaners which I’ve been attempting to feed as much as possible from my on-farm resources, minimising the amount of grain or soy-based concentrate I buy in (no offence intended to any grain or soy-oriented readers…) It’s been going OK. The pigs are living in about an acre of mixed young woodland plantation, which includes an area of pasture and fodder crop. The fodder crops are alfalfa for protein (reasonably successful) and fodder rape (not so successful). The pigs have also been getting crab apples, some nuts, and a lot of vegetable waste from the market garden, including our reject potatoes. So far I’ve had them four months and got through just over one 25kg bag of concentrate. I’ll probably need to buy in a bit more before they’re finished, but I did get them relatively late in the year (July). I suspect the main limiting factor if I run this as a long-term project is going to be their soil-disturbing activities, which are quite profound even at a stocking density of 2 pigs/acre. A topic for further reflection and discussion…

Projects like this make me think about land use. What kind of land take is associated with these pigs? What else could or should I be doing with it instead? And if I were to generalise from what I’m doing, what would be the wider social and environmental implications? So in the light of the interim lessons from my pig project let me temporarily appoint myself God and redesign British agriculture as I see fit. I’m going to do it using the following self-imposed guidelines:

  • My agricultural output will be mixed
  • My British farmscape will need to furnish the entire calorific needs of the country’s population. It’s not that calories are the only important nutritional metric, but there’s no avoiding the fact that any plausible farm system has to meet its population’s energetic requirements, and this is among the more demanding tasks asked of it. I conjecture that in my mixed farming system, if I can take care of the calories most of the other nutritional needs can take care of themselves
  • Fertility will be organic, and largely self-generated on the farm
  • Farming will be small-scale and labour-intensive for a variety of reasons that I won’t dwell on here but have done in past posts and will do in future ones. You know it makes sense!
  • Livestock will be default, ie. they will complement the production of human food and not directly compete with it. In that sense, my pig project is much closer to default than grain/soy fed pigs, but it’s not quite default because of the fodder crops and the small amount of bought in concentrate
  • Trees on farms are good – for biodiversity, for the soil, for wildness, maybe even for timber. But people need to eat too

Let’s start by looking at existing UK agricultural land use, as reported in DEFRA’s Agriculture in the UK. Figure 1 gives you the lowdown.

Fig 1

Fig 1









And now let’s look in Figure 2 at what we’ve got in that cropped area.

Fig 2








Hmmm, this isn’t good. Not good at all. Happily, having arrogated temporary omnipotence to myself, I can soon put things right.

First of all, I have to profess my sympathies with Robert C, the upland sheep farmer who commented on my recent post about rewilding. His family have been farming sheep since the sixteenth century and they’re not going to be pushed around by Johnny-come-lately urban re-wilders. Plus, upland shepherding drives the whole of British sheep farming. Fair play, sir – to you and your kind, I allocate all of the sole right rough grazing for sheep farming. But I’m also sympathetic to the re-wilders – George Monbiot’s laments for the sheepwrecked uplands touch my soul. So I’m going to allocate half of the common rough grazing to the re-wilders, taking it out of agricultural production and getting some trees on it, while retaining the other half for sheep farming. Then I shall watch what unfolds from my lofty perch in the heavens before issuing my final judgment. May the best man win!

Now then, heaven forbid that I should invite the ridicule of the ag improvers by taking any more cropland, so I’m going to fix the cropland essentially at its current level of 4.7m ha. I am, however, going to add in the temporary grass, which is surely just cropland that’s lazing about and not reporting for work…and there’s no place for malingering of that sort in George Osborne’s Britain. I’m also going to add in the outdoor pig land. I don’t care if they’re outdoors – it if ain’t default, I’m calling a halt. So let’s do something more useful with that.

We’ll need to come back to the crop mix, but first we need to do a little more tidying around the edges of the cropland. As I mentioned, trees are good, so let’s arbitrarily (arbortrarily?) treble the amount of farm woodland (we can put a few pigs in it). We’ll do it by including the re-wilded commons in our woodland portion and then pinching just under a million hectares of the permanent grass. Hell, those aristocrats and horsey folk won’t even notice they’ve lost a smidgeon of their copious estate. We’ll also forest up the ‘all other’ land. I wasted too much of my youth as a data analyst pussy-footing around with residual categories. To any parcels of land that won’t clearly state their intentions I say this: I have a tree-planting auger, and I know how to use it…

So now let’s get back to the cropland. Dear oh dear. My fellow Brits – didn’t our parents tell us to eat our greens? Right, well we’re farming organically so let’s put a quarter down to legume-rich grass leys. Then we’ll have a quarter down to wheat, a quarter to potatoes and a quarter to vegetables. Oilseeds? No, sir. But I suppose we do need some oil or fat. Well, let’s have some dairy cows then. They can graze the permanent pasture and the leys. No concentrates, though.

That brings us to livestock. We’ve got a few sheep in the uplands and some dairy cows down on the farm. And we can eat the calves, of course. Apart from that, it’s tricky. How many default pigs can we have? Not many. Let’s say we can produce one default pig carcase per two hectares of farm woodland per year. And how many default hens? Depends on the farm size, of course. Let’s look at that next.

I’m figuring on about 10% of the working age population working as farmers – something I looked at previously. Maybe that sounds high. I think it’s probably a sensible, sustainable figure, and it may not be too far off the actual number toiling to fill the British plate when you count in all the people around the world to whom we’ve outsourced the most labour-intensive food production jobs. So that would be about 3.9 million farmers. Let’s say most of them live and work as couples. Then the average holding size would be about 6.7 hectares – not too dissimilar to my own humble plot, in fact. Assuming that these lowland farms have to do the bulk of the work in feeding the nation, each 6.7 hectare parcel would be charged with the nutritional welfare of about 33 people. And, coming back to the hens, how many default hens could we have on our 6.7ha? I don’t think too many. A bit of food waste, a bit of gleaning, a bit of grass and some insects from the field – shall we say six dual purpose birds to give us eggs and chicken pie? And let’s have some bees. Easy now with the honey. Default bees need it more than we do. But perhaps they’ll allow us to skim off 10kg a year.

I haven’t said anything about fruit and nut trees. Tough, I’m a veg grower. La Brassicata and I are going to be pretty darned busy growing your spuds and milking the cow, so if you want fruit and nuts as well you better come down to the farm and lend a hand. Actually, in this climate I think nuts are probably better thought of as an occasional gift of wild nature rather than a farm crop. And fruit production is quite specialist. But I imagine we can fit in a bit of top and soft fruit in our spare time – let’s say 200kg of apples and 50kg of raspberries.

Right, well there we have it. Agri-redux, courtesy of Spudman. Let me now plug in some figures to see what we can produce. Full details are on this spreadsheet and it’s a real back of an envelope job so I’d welcome any comments, especially if you want to challenge the plausibility of my yield figures or stocking densities. Absence of howling errors not guaranteed. Probably the key assumptions are a wheat yield of 4.3 tha-1, a potato yield of 20 tha-1, a grass-fed house cow producing 3000 litres of milk a year, dual purpose hens laying 200 eggs a year, and upland sheep farming producing 3 lamb carcases per hectare (an overestimate?) Most of those yield figures are quite low – lower than current yields from organic farming. But my suspicion is that there’s quite a surfeit of manure and other implicit energy subsidies in the organic farming of today stemming from our overdriven nitrogen and carbon cycles, our food imports and so on. I know on the basis of my experience that the figures I’m using should be achievable long-term with mostly on farm nutrient cycling, so they feel more properly sustainable or ‘agroecological’ to me. In any case, this way the result ought to give a minimal, baseline figure.

Assuming an energy requirement of 2,300 calories (9.6 MJ) per person per day, my figures turn out a national energy requirement of 2.25 x 1011 MJ and a total farm productivity of 2.58 x 1011 MJ – a ratio of 1.15 the latter over the former. So, my conclusion is that yes we can produce a decent, mixed and calorifically adequate diet for the UK population organically from its existing farmland. But only if we keep livestock numbers rigorously controlled and meat consumption low, and resign ourselves to getting most of our food energy from wheat and potatoes (see Fig 3) – which may not suit some folks. I’m sympathetic to the idea that we should diversify our diet away from simple carbohydrates. But I’m also sympathetic to the ideas that we should farm organically, with minimum tillage, on mixed farms and that we have to feed the population. So something has to give. I’d be interested to hear what other people’s priorities might be. As it stands, I’m projecting about 6-7kg meat per person per year from my system, something like a tenfold drop from current EU levels of consumption. And about 90 litres of milk (or 6-7kg of butter). By God, this is tight. Still, we can always go visit the candyman for a sprinkle of his magic Haber-Bosch dust. And, by my figures, there’s scope for trimming back the potato/wheat area a little. Or we could try to increase the margin in other ways – more labour input for diverse perennial cropping, a bit more farm specialisation (but not too much, we’ve fallen into that trap before…), urban farming with poultry and pigs as waste cyclers. And we do have to bear in mind that this is probably a minimum yield figure that we’re working with.

Fig 3








Now then, if we did away with the cropped area and grew grass instead we could put an end to all that damaging tillage farming. We could replace it with the most productive form of livestock farming – dairying – and bring in another house cow and calf, while keeping the other livestock, the fruit trees etc. But if we did that, we’d only be able to produce about 15% of the national population’s energy needs. That’s an interesting figure in relation to the old ecological rule of thumb that each step up in trophic level loses about 90% of the productivity of the previous level, which seems to be roughly borne out here.

There’s quite a move in alternative farming circles these days to talk up livestock farming – particularly in relation to extensive raising of ruminants for meat. Great claims are made for traditional range management, desert reclamation through grazing, carbon sequestration in grassland soils, grass-fed cattle, mob stocking and the like. I’m sceptical about some of them, though I find them plausible enough in the main. But I don’t find them plausible as a method of feeding humanity. They’ll feed small numbers of poor rangeland pastoralists and small numbers of rich grass-fed meat enthusiasts, but extensive pastoralism is no more viable as a plan for feeding contemporary humanity than hunting or foraging. That’s not intended as a criticism of people farming livestock agroecologically. If I took on a farm in present economic and ecological circumstances that’s what I’d probably do. And it makes sense to fit extensive livestock husbandry in where possible around more intensive provisioning strategies. But – as with Britain’s upland sheep – its role will be minor.

I think what this analysis shows is that, unlike extensive pastoralism, intensive, ‘organic’/ agroecological, local ‘peasant’ farming is feasible for national self-provisioning.  It may seem impossibly distant from how we farm now, but it’s not impossible as a provisioning strategy. And how we farm now may seem impossible in the not too distant future. So my punt is that the livestock of choice in the future will be the usual peasant menagerie: the house cow, the pig and the chicken, and not the pastoralist option of the ruminant herd. Though to make up the shortfall in the meat ration, insect and mollusc farming may have an emerging role too.

When I write posts like this, somebody usually says “yes, but what about the energy requirements?” and then bangs on about the land-take of horses or oxen. But most of the energy requirements in the food system relate to fertiliser synthesis and farm-to-consumer costs. Here, I’ve eliminated the former and the latter isn’t my problem. Hey, I’m growing your food for you, you expect me to worry about how you’re going to get hold of it too? You shouldn’t have bought that fancy townhouse! The world according to Spudman is a world of producer sovereignty, re-ruralisation and localisation. So if you want to live in the city, you’re gonna have to pay for the privilege. And if you want to call my vision ‘feudal’, it means you don’t know what ‘feudal’ means and, even more inexcusably, you haven’t yet read the essay I’m going to be posting up on here in a few weeks’ time about all that sort of thing. There, I think I got my retaliation in first.

OK, OK, so farm energy may still be a problem. But if so, it’s a hell of smaller problem with 4 million working the land than with 400,000 – and not just because of the direct substitution of human for fuel energy, but also because of the different kind of farming strategies involved. Give me 30 litres of petroleum a year for my on-farm use and I’ll cope OK. If, as Andy McGuire said here, our societies prioritised fuel use sensibly they’d make it (sparingly) available to farmers in preference to many other more frivolous uses and we could use if for centuries without facing such acute energy uncertainties as we presently do. But if I can’t have my 30 litres then I’ll plant 30 pine trees and make the damn stuff myself, or – as David suggested here – grow another biofuel crop, by trimming back the woodland or the meat. Really, when it comes to unsustainable energy use, farm traction comes low on the list. Meat comes in higher, but if you and my other 31 customers are really, really nice to me, I may just put a little chicken and bacon by for you for Christmas. Don’t eat it all at once!

Gosh, I’m feeling dizzy…I think I’m falling…what’s that I see? It’s a field…a field of…no, it can’t be…aargh!…oilseed rape. And where has all my woodland gone? Crash! Dammit, I think my omnipotent powers have deserted me and I’m back to the bare earth of the arable cereal fields with a bump. Sigh. Well, I’ll just have to work out how to deliver on that vision by normal, human means. Any suggestions gratefully received below…

Interim Report

Well, Vallis Veg has hit the big time. If you watch the latest episode of the BBC’s Countryfile programme you’ll see none other than Mrs Spudman herself carrying our cabbages in for sale at the Frome Food Assembly. Come to think of it, my moniker of ‘Mrs Spudman’ is perhaps a little bit sexist. I mean, I might be lumbered with that name but there’s no reason for her to have to bear it too simply by virtue of her foolhardy association with me. So I think perhaps I’ll call her La Brassicata from now on instead. What d’you think?

Anyways, thing is now that we’ve been featured (albeit fleetingly and silently) on national TV, orders for our humble wares have gone through the roof. So I’ve been too busy sorting out vegetables to finish off my next proper blog post. My thoughts on the BBC’s analysis of local food issues are probably best left unsaid. Why bite the hand that feeds you?

I’ve got a blog post in the offing about pigs, peasants and pastoralists that I hope will entertain my readers, so this post is just a promissory note to bring you some meatier stuff soon (though not that meaty, as you’ll see if you read the post) – hopefully in a couple of days when I get the chance to finish it off. Meanwhile, having got into trouble on Twitter for criticising somebody’s newspaper article without having read their book – a heinous crime, I know – I’ve obtained a copy of said book by the author in question, one Leigh Phillips. So far I’m finding Austerity Ecology & the Collapse-Porn Addicts every bit as bad as you’d expect from the title. But I haven’t finished it yet, so you never know – there may be a credible argument or perhaps even a nuance stuffed in there somewhere towards the end. God, this guy makes Mike Shellenberger seem like a paragon of academic gravitas, and that’s not intended as a compliment to Mike. On the up side, it’s helping me clarify some thoughts on ecological modernization which I’ve just started shaping up into an article involving a rather daunting amount of crunching with a World Bank data set. Veg-wrangling by day, and data-wrangling by night – what a lucky man I am! But having been warned off more ecomodernist-baiting by my long-suffering readers, I promise to publish the results elsewhere. So next up – pigs and peasants…er, soon-ish.

Off Grid-ish

Small Farm Future's HQ

Time to bring it all back home today, with a sneaky behind the scenes virtual tour of Small Farm Future’s corporate headquarters.

The picture at left gives an overview of the complex, as seen from the lofty throne of the outdoor compost toilet. Funny that in these days of retro fashion the backyard loo hasn’t made a return to every hipster’s homestead wishlist. Ah well, more evidence that SFF is ahead of the curve.

So let me walk you through the various accoutrements visible on the edifice’s southern wing. At left is the satellite broadband dish through which my jeremiads about the false god of progress are beamed instantaneously around the world – and who would have thought that possible just a few short years ago? Up and right, at the back of the roof are our solar hot water tubes – mighty sentinels surveying the farm from the lordly height of their tin roof. Nothing very lordly about their performance in the darkest depths of December, however, so fortunately we have backup in the form of a wood burning stove with backburner whose chimney outcrops cheekily between the footings of their rivals. The Small Farm Future cabin is moderately well insulated for a prefab that’s only supposed to see us through 3 years of temporary planning permission. It does require a bit of space heating in winter from the wood burner, but surprisingly little. Heating water is another matter, though. Just as well we planted a veritable forest on site ten years ago, which pretty much serves our needs.

Prone on the roof beneath the tubes, you’ll observe twelve PV panels which provide the bulk of our electricity, via our 3kW inverter. 3kW would have been a fine thing indeed in the winter, but now that it’s summer we’re on electrical easy street, despite the odd cloudy day. At far right you’ll see our 1kW wind turbine lurking in camo colours in the lee of the building. Dang thing hardly turns at all where it is, especially now I’ve tied it with baler twine. Getting it generating will be a project for the autumn.

On the facing wall the attentive viewer will notice more solar panels – in this case for the dehumidifier, which blows warm, dry air into the cabin on sunny winter days. Far right is the Vallis Veg propagator, allowing us to flood the global market with an endless stream of cucumbers, tomatoes and aubergines – but with a night time power drain of 150W through its warming cable, it’s a bit of tease to our electricity supply. Through the window you may even be able to spot the nerve centre of the Small Farm Future publishing empire, the very locus of its awesome creativity, known affectionately by staff as ‘the dining table’. Such wags.

Mercifully out of view around the deck on the left are our 19kg propane cylinders, used for cooking and occasional heating. “The great thing about the propane cylinders” I opined airily to Mrs Spudman one dark December Saturday, “is that, unlike the solar panels, if we run out we can just go and buy some more”. Sure enough, it did run out the very next day. And my desperate search for replenishments among the garages and hardware stores of Somerset proved wholly fruitless. I’d like to say I was sleeping on the sofa that night, but in fact it was Mrs S who was sleeping on the sofa – it was a lot warmer in the living room. I now have several spares.

Regarding water, other than the magnificent plenitude of the Somerset skies, we currently rely on a mains pipe – though I did have to spend a merry week in January in an open canopy mini digger laying the pipe to the house. Now there is household talk of boreholes and reservoirs in the longer term. Another alliance with Mr Yanmar beckons.

Off grid-ish, then, but not off reliance on the wider world. No sir, I’m all too well aware of my position somewhere near the end of Mr Putin’s tailpipe, which is not where anyone really likes to be. Still, let me try to draw some wider conclusions from all of this in keeping with Small Farm Future’s general brief. Perhaps the first one to note is that technological progress such as LED lights and photovoltaics allows us to live a pretty congenial off grid-ish lifestyle which previously could only have been funded by a large diesel generator. But it still requires a certain amount of care from us – doing the laundry only on sunny days, equalising the batteries regularly, rationing hot water and so on. Not massive sacrifices, but things that connect us a bit more to the potentialities of the natural world around us, and also lower our energy use and our carbon footprint a bit.

Now, I’m not one to brag about the size of my carbon footprint. I’ve come to think that human beings seek ever new arenas in which to best their fellows – bigger house, newer car, angrier blog, more LinkedIn connections, lower carbon footprint, whatever. I can’t say I’ve completely succeeded in overcoming the need to play this childish game, but I reckon I do a much better job than most people in not comparing myself with others. So I really don’t want to make a big deal about what I’m doing as some kind of exemplary sustainable lifestyle. Given our particular circumstances this approach made the most sense to us, but it’s probably not a widely replicable model. Nevertheless, what I like about it is the fact that it does impose occasional limits: if the sun ain’t shining, the laundry stays undone, and so on.

There’s a lot of talk about the way that technological developments enable more efficient use of given resources – for example, a 4W LED light can now provide illumination equivalent to about 60W from an old incandescent bulb. But this relative decoupling of resource outputs from resource inputs only really matters if it helps achieve an absolute decoupling – less total resources used. And when you look at global resource use, most notably in relation to fossil fuels, this just isn’t happening. It’s all very well me postponing the laundry until a sunny day – meanwhile, they’re pumping water up a Welsh mountain at dead of night so that everyone can have a cup of tea after watching Coronation Street. Rebound effects abound.

So maybe my point is this: it’s often more efficient to produce a good like electricity, or public water, collectively, but the danger is that it is then undervalued by the public, who demand – from the government, from ‘scientists’, from ‘civilisation’ – that the spigot must be opened ever further. I’d argue that there’s something to be said – no more than that – for more people to have the chance of being responsible for an area of land and figuring out how they’re going to produce food, water, energy and other necessities from it, especially when there’s a carbon price or other long-term environmental cost as well as a fiscal price attached to their decisions. It concentrates the mind.

Wrapped up within that point is a set of issues about public, private and collective control of resources, which I want to address in my next couple of posts on the matter of commoning, past and present. Until then, it’s goodbye from Small Farm Future HQ: don’t forget to turn out the lights.

Grass dilemmas

Today a few musings prompted by a characteristically thoughtful and lyrical post on haymaking by Brian Miller.

As Brian points out, there’s really no comparison between the speed of hand or indeed horse-powered haymaking and what can be achieved even by a small 45hp tractor, let alone by a big one. The way that’s worked out in ‘developed’ country farming on a straightforward cost accounting basis is that fiscal output over fiscal input favours the tractor every time, and it also favours the big tractor over the small one, which is why the agricultural landscape in so many ‘developed’ countries looks like desert(ed) steppe. We tend to slip into talking about this kind of agriculture as being ‘efficient’. It may be so financially, but not necessarily in terms of carbon, energy or social accounting. I’ll be dealing with that issue in more detail in an upcoming post, aka ‘the Vallis Veg grass cutting experiment’.

But what I want to focus on here is some of my dilemmas around the classic agricultural balance between grass and tillage cropping (or ‘horn and corn’ as they used to say in these parts). Granted, nowadays both arable and livestock/grass farmers tend to rely on imported synthetic fertiliser and the grass farmers often plough and sow short-term temporary ryegrass leys, but in a classic mixed agricultural situation with few external inputs you’d go for a mix of permanent pasture, temporary grass and cropland. My 18 acre site was all permanent grass when I started – now it’s about 2 acres of vegetables, 7 acres of woodland/wood pasture and 9 acres of grass.

I’ve only recently established a small flock of sheep on the site, having finally got the green light to live here. I’m still basically just a glorified veg gardener, but I’ve been enjoying having the sheep around. The birth of my first set of lambs this spring was pretty special. God, it’s a lot of work though: and I was even thinking of getting a house cow at one point…

So now, how should I best manage my own little mixed farming experiment? A lot of people (especially if they’re vegan) say that livestock farming is land-inefficient, and we ought to trim it back and focus on direct human plant food. Fair enough, but I’d raise a few queries. First, 2 acres of veg is more than enough to keep me busy, especially on our rather poor, alkali soil where the best parts are already under cultivation. You could argue that we should therefore turn the rest of the land over to other people to do something more productive with it – which to some extent is what we’ve done, but we’ve found those arrangements aren’t 100% straightforward and in any case people aren’t exactly queuing up to become commercial fruit or veg growers. Trying to help out younger people who want to get a start in farming is definitely part of my longer terms plans, however. And so is more thought on private and collective land management – some posts coming up on that soon.

Another issue somewhat elided in the ‘just grow food crops’ argument is how to get enough fertility into your cultivated ground if you’re not importing synthetic fertility from offsite (we can – and I have – argue about how much need there is in the world for synthetic fertiliser. But drowning in an ocean of artificial fertility as we are here in southern Britain, and with significant downstream nitrate and phosphate pollution, personally I can’t see good arguments other than possibly financial ones for a small market garden startup to use synthetic fertiliser as a first resort). You can go the vegan organic route with temporary clover leys like Tolly’s interesting system, but then you’ve got quite a lot of forage that you’re just cutting with a tractor – if you’re not vegan, why not graze it too? The trouble is, I find in practice that a market garden is quite an intensive system: I’ve got raised no dig beds (of which more anon), polytunnels, all sorts of irrigation kit, seedlings etc. so I don’t really want a bunch of woolly grass munchers blundering around amongst it all. Hopefully in the future I’ll be able to set things up so that I can graze them out in my field crop rotations (more bloody fencing…) – but it’d have to be limited to a short period in the spring when there are no crops in the ground. I like the Hampshire Downs idea of grazing the sheep out in the wildlands during the day and then bringing them down into the fields at night. But again not easy to make work in practice – and obviously quite a low output system. I suppose there are confinement or cut-and-compost options too, but in practice it seems to me that using ruminants as nutrient vectors for an intensive market garden isn’t an easy stunt to pull off.

Oh well – maybe I should be happy just having them on the grass and keeping the pasture ticking over. That brings a few more dilemmas (life is full of them, no?) At this time of year the grass growth is so rampant that my flock can’t keep up, whereas winter is more problematic. The obvious thing to do is to make hay or silage like Brian, but I’m not sure I can quite justify getting a drum mower, hay bob and baler, all just for my ram and six ewes. And contractors are a pain. Here in warm, moist Somerset the grass grows virtually all year round and the sheep just about got by on it through the winter. I did make a little hay by hand – scythe, rake and wheelbarrow into the shed. But the sheep were none too keen on it, or indeed on the nice green bale I bought at the farm merchants. I noticed that, being unbaled, my own hay had its fair share of mouse droppings in it (despite the fact that the cat seemed to spend most of the winter asleep on top of it), and it didn’t feel so grand feeding it to the sheep. Not sure I’m up for making hay again by hand this summer. I think I like the idea of a foggage system, supplemented with a bit of bought in hay and maybe some concentrate for the pregnant ewes. Perhaps not the best way to get the most out of the grass, but most isn’t always best. I like all the insects, and the voles and raptors we have on site – plus our campers too, our most lucrative form of livestock, in the wild wood pasture.

One final sheep issue. I’m not sure what the balance of shepherding wisdom on this is, but I vaccinated my sheep against pulpy kidney and clostridial diseases under veterinary advice – all but one lamb, which is reserved for a valued customer who is not a fan of vaccination. His view, if I don’t misrepresent it, is that the adjuvants used in vaccines can be quite toxic, that the risk-immunity tradeoff is not good, that overuse of vaccines has similar consequences to overuse of antibiotics, and that the medical and veterinary industries are – how can I put this – fleecing us. I’m possibly with him on the latter point at least – after trawling the web for information on the incidence of said diseases I found very little, except for one piece claiming 50% lamb mortality prior to the advent of vaccines. For me personally, I’m pretty happy to be up with my tetanus jabs, but (especially for the small-scale shepherd) there’s a slightly more brutal cost-benefit calculus involved with the lambs, given that they’re off to the abattoir in just a few months. And so my question: to jab or not to jab?

Meanwhile I’ve been reading George Monbiot’s tirade against intensive meat farming. And his book Feral is in the in-tray: I gather it involves a tirade against extensive meat farming. I guess George just doesn’t like meat. I’m actually a great admirer of his writing, though I do think he tends to blame farmers themselves a little too much for the dysfunctions of the food system. Also in the in-tray is Philip Walling’s Counting Sheep, and James Rebanks’ The Shepherd’s Life, which has become a minor literary sensation. I’m glad that some books about farming are intruding upon the obsessional recent trend for nature writing in Britain, even if I’m troubled that these guys may have stolen my schtick. Maybe once I’ve let George, Philip and James argue it all out I’ll be able to answer some of my dilemmas. But feel free to add your tuppenceworth below.

Vallis Veg Takes The 100 Species Challenge: No Contest!

I have a few posts coming up on annual and perennial plants, or more generally on the relationship between agriculture and plant growth forms. As a preface to this, I thought I might post up a list of plants (and animals) that we’ve deliberately introduced onto our site here at Vallis Veg. I was also prompted to compile the list as a result of a recent discussion with this site’s favourite Ohio-based soya expert on the number of species introduced onto our respective farms.

I don’t want to make any particular points about the list. I think there are about 140 species in it. We’ve probably established a few more that I’ve forgotten about. Not all the animal species are still on site. Some of the perennials we planted unfortunately are no longer with us. Some of the perennials we planted unfortunately are. I don’t grow all of the annuals every year. Some, like buckshorn plantain, I’ll probably never grow again. But overall I think we have in excess of 100 introduced species still onsite this year – not that there’s any particular virtue in that. I’m not an expert on systematics, so maybe some of my ‘species’ designations are suspect. And of course some of the introductions are very minor – just a few individual specimens.But there you have it.

In terms of numbers of species, the balance is roughly 50:50 between perennials and annuals. In terms of biomass, perennials are strongly in the ascendancy, particularly if you add in the ones we haven’t deliberately introduced but are still growing onsite (like the pasture grasses). In terms of our input and our fiscal income the annuals are strongly in the ascendancy…but now I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m not expecting anyone actually to read the list (troubling interior voice: Why not? It’s a lot less turgid than your usual prose). But here it is for better or worse as a written record of our plans, mistakes, and biases. My own initial reaction on looking at it was – why so few invertebrates, fungi, and fish? Doubtless there’s a bias there in modern European farming, though on the latter count maybe it’s also because we have no ponds which have the important property of actually retaining water. Another job to add to the list.


Anas platyrhynchos Duck

Anser anser Goose

Apis mellifera Bee

Bos taurus Cow

Equus ferus Horse

Felis catus Cat

Gallus gallus Chicken

Homo sapiens Human

Ovis aries Sheep

Sus scrofa Pig


Perennial Plants


Woody perennials


Acer campestre Field maple

Alnus viridis Green alder

Alnus incana Grey alder

Alnus cordata Italian alder

Betula pendula Silver birch

Carpinus betulus Hornbeam

Castanea sativa Sweet chestnut

Cephalotaxus Plum yew

Cornus sanguinea Common dogwood

Corylus avellana Hazel

Crataegus mongyna Hawthorn

Elaeagnus x ebbingei

Elaeagnus umbellata Autumn olive

Euonymus europaeus Spindle

Fagus sylvatica Beech

Ficus carica Fig

Fraxinus excelsior Ash

Hippophae rhamnoides Sea buckthorn

Ilex aquifolium Holly

Juglans regia Walnut

Malus sylvestris Crab apple

Malus domestica Apple

Morus nigra Black mulberry

Origanum majoranum Marjoram

Populus deltoides x Populus trichocarpa Hybrid poplar

Populus tremula Aspen

Prunus avium Wild cherry

Prunus domestica Plum

Prunus spinosa Blackthorn

Pyrus communis Pear

Quercus robur Pendunculate oak

Ribes nigrum Blackcurrant

Ribes uva-crispa Gooseberry

Rosa rugosa Ramanas rose

Rosmarinus officinale Rosemary

Rubus idaeobatus Japanese wineberry

Rubus idaeus Raspberry

Salix caprea Goat willow

Salix viminalis Osier willow

Salvia officnalis Sage

Sorbus aria Whitebeam

Sorbus aucuparia Rowan

Sorbus tormiinalis Wild service

Thymus vulgaris Thyme

Tilia cordata Small leaved lime

Ulmus glabra Wych elm

Viburnum opulus Guelder rose

Xanthoceras sorbifolium Yellowhorn


Herbaceous perennials


Armoracia rusticana Horse radish

Asparagus officinalis Asparagus

Cynara scolymus Globe artichoke

Dactylis glomerta Cocksfoot

Festuca rubra Red fescue

Helianthus tuberosus Jerusalem artichoke

Holcus lanatus Yorkshire fog

Iris pseudacorus Flag iris

Levisticum officinale Lovage

Lolium multiflorum Italian ryegrass

Lolium perenne Perennial ryegrass

Medicago sativa Lucerne

Phleum pratense Timothy

Plantago lanceolata Buckshorn plantain

Rheum x hybridum Rhubarb

Rumex acetosa Sorrel

Symphytum x uplandicum Comfrey

Trifolium pratense Red clover

Trifolium repens White clover



Annuals & Biennials


 Allium cepa Onion

Allium porrum Leek

Allium sativum Garlic

Amaranthus cruentus Amaranth

Anethum graveolens Dill

Apium graveolens Celery/celeriac

Atriplex hortensis Orache

Beta vulgaris Beetroot, chard, fodder beet, leaf beet

Borago officinalis Borage

Brassica carinata Texel greens

Brassica juncea Oriental mustards

Brassica napus Swede/turnip/radish etc

Brassica oleracea Cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli, calabrese, kale, kohlrabi etc

Brassica rapa Pak choi, Komatsuna, Mizuna, Mibuna etc

Calendula officinalis Pot marigold

Capiscum annuum Pepper

Centaurea cyanus Cornflower

Chichorium endivia Endive

Chichorium intybus Chicory

Cicer arietinum Chickpea

Cucumis sativus Cucumber

Cucurbita pepo Squash/courgette

Daucus carota Carrot

Eruca sativa Rocket

Fagopyrum esculentum Buckwheat

Foeniculum vulgare Fennel

Helianthus annuus Sunflower

Hordeum vulgare Barley

Lactuca sativa Lettuce

Limnanthes douglasii Poached egg plant

Lupinus spp Lupin

Lycopersicon esculentum Tomato

Medicago lupulina Black medick

Montia perfoliata Winter purslane

Myosotis spp Forget-me-not

Ocimum basilicum Basil

Pastinaca sativa Parsnip

Petroselinum crispum Parsley

Phacelia spp Phacelia

Phaseolus vulgaris French bean

Phaseolus coccineus Runner bean

Physalis peruviana Cape gooseberry

Pisum sativum Pea

Raphanus sativus Radish

Salsola spp Salsola

Scorzonera hispanica Scorzonera

Secale cereale Rye

Sinapsis alba Mustard


Solanum melongena Aubergine

Solanum tuberosum Potato

Spinacia oleracea Spinach

Tagetes erecta African marigold

Tagetes patula French marigold

Tragopogon porrifolius Salsify

Trifolium incarnatum Crimson clover

Triticum aestivum Wheat

Tropaeolum spp Nasturtium

Valerianella locusta Corn salad

Vicia faba Broad bean

Vicia sativa Vetch

Xanthophthalmum coronarium Shungiku

Zea mays Maize




Lentinula edodes Shiitake

Of consumers and permaculturists: or, win some, lose some

More breaking news in this post from the vortex of literary creativity that is the Small Farm Future office these days. Editor-in-chief Chris Smaje’s article about the Vallis Veg box scheme (yes, I do occasionally actually grow some plants) entitled ‘Kings and commoners: agroecology meets consumer culture’ has just been published in the academic journal ‘The Journal of Consumer Culture’. I can make individual copies available to my expectant publics once I’ve worked out how to use my author privileges to breach the publisher’s formidably defended paywall.

I’m sure few would disagree that this major publishing event demands a blog post of its own in order to explain the nature of the article, so I think I will leave that to another time. However, it’s not all been a bed of roses in the Small Farm Future publishing empire this year. Today I also bring you news of an article most cruelly spiked. And in future posts I shall then get on with the business of talking about small-scale farming rather than endlessly attempting to showcase my literary output.

Anyway, earlier in the year I published a blog post Permaculture Design Course Syndrome, which garnered a bit of attention amongst permaculturists. As a result of it, I was asked by Permaculture Activist magazine to write an article about the relationship between permaculture and science. It’s always nice to get a commission even if you’re mega busy on the farm, and even if they’re not paying you for it, so I obliged. The editor told me that the article was great, and even asked me to identify pictures for it and track down the copyrights, which I also did. Then a couple of months later he told me that it turned out they had enough articles for the edition, so they weren’t going to run mine. Now, in my original blog post I professed my enthusiasm for what I called permaculture’s ‘cheerful, can-do amateurism’. But in the case of Permaculture Activist I feel the need to omit the adjectives. I’ve spent a good many years bottom-feeding in the lower trophic levels of the writing game, but I’ve never been so badly messed about by an editor before as that. So when it comes to Permaculture Activist magazine, my advice to any aspiring permaculture writer is – avoid!

Oh well. Permaculture Activist’s loss is Small Farm Future’s gain. So I hereby present my article for your consideration. I already posted it on the Permaculture Association’s website, which led to an interesting email discussion with Ford Denison, so I suppose the effort wasn’t entirely wasted. It’s quite long, and I expect few will read it – though the uncharitable thought forms that much the same would have been true had the article appeared in its intended location. Still, any further thoughts welcome below. I’ll also make the article available on this site’s Publications page.


Of holism and reductionism

Permaculture & the Science of Hunches

Chris Smaje


Permaculture emphasizes holism. It addresses problems through wider relationships and patterns scaled at different system levels, avoiding the reductionism that isolates a problem within a specific sub-system of the wider whole and tries to solve it narrowly at that level only. The science from which it draws most inspiration is ecology, the biological discipline par excellence of relationships, systems, and levels.

Yet what interests me here are some tensions between permaculture as an holistic practice and ecology as a reductionist science. I want to make a reductionist biological critique of some aspects of permaculture’s holism, but also a holistic critique of certain forms of scientific reductionism. The result, I hope, will be some pointers toward improving permaculture’s scientific grounding, without losing the movement’s wider insights. Or to put it another way, sometimes it’s good to be holistic, whereas at other times a bit of reductionism fits the bill, and some subtlety is needed when choosing. My comments below represent my own personal journey in and around the worlds of permaculture and science—apologies in advance for over-generalizations or misrepresentations.


A reductionist ecology


Biology and ecology confront the incredible world of organisms and their interactions, but there’s no point simply marveling at the complexity of it all—understanding proceeds from reducing it to simpler elements and then building up again. For example, 19th century biologists discovered that soluble nitrogen compounds were critical plant nutrients, and this enabled them to characterize the nitrogen cycle which brings plants, grazing mammals, soil detritivores, and microorganisms into relationship with each other.

A key relationship in the nitrogen cycle is the mutualism between certain bacterial biochemists, who can fix nitrogen into plant-available ammonium, and plants able to take advantage of this skill, such as alders, which are often pioneers in nitrogen-poor soils. It’s tempting to take an holistic perspective and consider such plants to be generous trailblazers for the wider biotic community, which can take up residence only after the generously nutrifying efforts of the pioneering alders. But ecological research suggests instead that the excess nutrient is a function of atmospheric nitrogen’s virtually limitless availability, and the priority of pioneer plants comes mainly from their competitive advantage in establishment and not from their communitarian benevolence (1).

To push this insight to a more general conclusion: biodiversity in the wild usually results from niche occupation by organisms with specialist skills in tapping often recalcitrant resources, whereas human cultivation usually relies on getting high returns from a small number of organisms that respond impressively to high resource availability when humans make conditions favorable for them. This explains why, at least at a given level of the system (a vegetable bed, for example), there is little compelling evidence that polycultures or companion planting are, in general, more productive than monocultures. And it’s why ecologist Ford Denison warns against what he calls “misguided mimicry of nature” in designing agricultural systems (2).


From science to scientism


The gold standard in science is the controlled experiment. By carefully defining a problem in terms of associations between variables that are then rigorously manipulated, it becomes possible to develop and test causal hypotheses about how the various parts of the universe relate to each other and to the whole.

As a reality check to prevent us from leaping to conclusions on the basis of what we think is probably going on or what we’d like to think is going on, this experimental method in science is pretty much the only game in town. Sure, we can scoff about the reductionism of lab work and how it over-simplifies the complexities of real-world relationships. But nobody ever figured out how to replace biological nitrogen fixation with a synthetic alternative by musing on the irreducible complexity of nature; that trick was figured out in the lab, and then taken into the field. It’s hard to gainsay its technical success. Something like 40% of our food globally now relies on nitrogen fertilizer synthesized industrially using air and fossil fuels.

There’s an obvious catch here, though. The experimental method enables scientists to understand plant nutrition and develop synthetic alternatives, but it doesn’t tell us whether those alternatives ought to be adopted. The widespread use of synthetic fertilizers in agriculture has led to eutrophication in rivers, lakes, and seas and the emission of greenhouse gases, among other problems, which may or may not prove remediable by further technical interventions. The larger point remains: should we adopt synthetic fertilization, or any particular innovation enabled by the scientific method? Science has nothing to say about this.

So when people say that we need a “scientific agriculture” (for which read “large-scale, capital-intensive, labor-light, and biotech-heavy”), or that we must embrace “technological progress,” the concepts of science and technology lose their only true moorings in the experimental method and start to function as ideologies—symbols for the kind of politics, economies, and societies that its proponents favor. In this way, science becomes “scientism”—a political metaphor that has precious little to do with science as a method of enquiry. We might debate, for example, whether vitamin A deficiency in South Asia is best tackled by developing transgenic golden rice or by community agroecology projects, and we might adduce certain kinds of scientific evidence in favor of one view or another. But that pervasive brand of scientism in contemporary culture, which always favors the higher tech solution: golden rice over agroecology, represents ideology rather than science.

Others go further: a long tradition of science criticism questions the distinction I’ve just drawn between ideology and science. In this view, scientific enquiry isn’t some value-neutral enterprise that reveals objective truth, but is a social practice defined by the same ideological blinders that afflict politics and society. The society of scientists is a maelstrom of personalities and power politics no different from any other walk of life, in which some people and some questions get promoted over others for reasons that have nothing to do with truth. Personally, I’m happy to go a fair way along that road with the critics of scientific practice—of the military-industrial complex, the corporate takeover of science, and so on. However, I’d argue that ultimately there is a difference between science and ideology. I don’t think the kind of ecological findings about nitrogen I mentioned earlier can be described as ideological in any useful way, and scientific enquiry is self-correcting in a way that is scarcely true of religion, politics, or ideologies like scientism. In science, ultimately the truth will out, whereas these other modes of thought are almost endlessly capable of legitimating themselves to avoid facing their limitations.


Permaculture: from self-legitimation to emergence


So much for the critique of science as a self-legitimating political metaphor. The same can be said of permaculture. Many of us in the permaculture movement are attracted politically by the values of a flourishing community, mutual aid, social cooperation, balance, and moderation. I think we’re therefore predisposed to look for these values in the natural world and the wider universe, and to latch on to any supportive evidence that seems to confirm our worldview. I’ve already touched on some ways in which nature doesn’t always play ball with us. I’m not sure it much matters, because we don’t need to model the rules for human interaction after those of the natural world—and in any case, these values have complexities enough in their own terms (anyone who thinks that a commons or a community is a naturally self-organizing entity that maximizes net benefit probably needs to read some more history). But we do need to pay attention to the way the natural world works in our traffic with it as gardeners or farmers because, as with scientific enquiry, we can delude ourselves with wishful thinking about landscape design only for so long.

We can, if we like, describe the relationships between organisms as cooperative in preference to a Darwinian emphasis on competition. But it’s not very illuminating either way to use such singular, determinist labels, and it takes a lot of ideological conjuring to characterize the relationship between, say, lions and zebras as cooperative. Only by appointing ourselves lofty judges of lion and zebra-kind can we afford the luxury of an holistic view that holds the dance of death they enact as the benign unfolding of some larger plan for their self-improvement. If I were an individual zebra, however old or sick, I’d more likely take the reductionist position of not wanting to get eaten.

Nevertheless, the lion-zebra example illustrates the concept of emergent properties, which may help permaculturists escape the dissonance between ecological realities and communitarian ideals. Emergence occurs when the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, just as the form of a future cake cannot be deduced from its specific ingredients. The agronomist Andy McGuire, building on the insights of ecologists like Denison, has argued that there are no emergent properties in ecosystems, and therefore human designers can better nature by improving on the genomes of its constituent organisms and combining them in novel ways (3). At one level, as a gardener and farmer, I can scarcely disagree, because my daily practice involves propagating improved varieties in non-natural combinations to give me products that I would never otherwise obtain.

But at another level, I do disagree because there is emergence in nature. Emergence doesn’t require the presence of some mystical unifying force of the kind that accords alders the role of benevolent trailblazers (there are many enthusiasts in the permaculture movement for such mystical forces—I’m not myself persuaded that this is more than self-legitimating ideology). But lions and zebras, while doing no more than following their individual dramas of predation and survival, help create an emergent ecosystem that cannot be derived analytically from its parts. It’s not a community in any meaningful human sense—it’s not cooperative and it’s not necessarily balanced. More important than any such questionably anthropocentric values is its emergent and conditioning form, which I would characterize in the words of ecologists Philip Grime and Simon Pierce, “within all branches of the tree of life, constraints of habitat interacting with the limited potentiality of the organisms themselves have restricted the outcomes of natural selection to a rather narrow range of basic alternatives in life-history, resource allocation, and physiology” (4).

The great inspiration of Denison’s work is his emphasis on the tradeoffs faced by every organism in the context of these limited options that evolution presents, and at a higher emergent level the tradeoffs we also face as human assemblers of agro-ecosystems built around arrays of similarly limited organisms. The essence of a tradeoff is that “having more of one good thing usually means having less of another” (Denison, p. 44), and I’d be inclined to turn this point against Denison’s own argument that “Local sourcing of nutrients in natural ecosystems… is a constraint imposed by the lack of external inputs, not an example of ‘nature’s wisdom.’ ” For while there may be no mystical wisdom of nature, our understanding of tradeoffs suggests that drawing in more external inputs, more good things from somewhere else, usually imposes deficiencies elsewhere in the total system.

Here, permaculture, as an approach in human ecology, can build bridges between the economy of nature and the ecology of humanity. The human doctrine that most strongly motivates the overcoming of local resource constraints is capitalism. Requiring a compound annual growth rate of at least 3% to preserve its impetus, the modus operandi of the capitalist economy is to seek out new global arenas for investing capital and absorbing wage labor, and thus to eliminate any local constraints to its expansion (5). By my calculations, at 3% the global economy will have to grow from its present $85 trillion to $246 trillion by 2050, all else remaining equal. Not all growth necessarily impacts negatively elsewhere, but it’s hard to imagine a tripling of the global economy within a generation that won’t draw down natural capital even faster than at present. And, for many of us, it’s hard to see what benefit this relentless growth ultimately brings to the majority of humanity, let alone the rest of the biosphere.

A basic insight of permaculture is that to get out of this impasse, it’s worth exploring some of nature’s lessons on making do with what we’ve got, avoiding waste, avoiding the total system costs imposed by overcoming local constraints, and finding ways to live more convivially within the parameters of our environs rather than feeling the need to define ourselves over and against them. To be fair, Denison himself writes “we may learn much from studying the adaptations of wild plants that evolved under… constraint” (p.106), and the real force of his complaint about the “misguided mimicry of nature” is not that it’s misguided to mimic nature, but that it’s easy to mimic nature misguidedly. If the permaculture movement keeps refreshing its engagement with a reductionist ecology, it’ll avoid making a lot of unnecessary mistakes of this sort, which mostly stem from too reductionist an approach to various specific practices that have become permaculture’s sacred cows: perennial cropping, zero tillage, swales, mulching, forest gardens, livestock tractoring, and so on. All of these are appropriate in some situations, but not in others (and, I’d submit, often in fewer situations than permaculture education generally conveys).

When reductionist science hitches itself to an expansionist economic doctrine such as capitalism, it easily fosters troublesome hybrid ideologies like scientism. In contrast, complementing science with an holistic doctrine of sufficiency such as permaculture could help us make better design decisions and ultimately enjoy a productive, convivial social ecology.

I accept that in the long run nature overcomes limits, that it’s not in balance, that whole assemblages of organisms rise and fall. But we need to design for the human short-run, not for nature’s deep time, and if permaculture sometimes errs in its vision of nature as a balanced, functional whole, this is a more appropriate fiction for staving off humanity’s fall than scientism’s fiction of humans overcoming all.


The science of incremental hunches


At present, the scientific establishment is not even very aware of permaculture. If we want to bring more of the benefits of reductionist science into our present practice, we’ll have to do it ourselves.

And herein lies a problem. The experimental method is tremendously costly in time and money. Even quite simple agronomic trials can involve much skilled labor by many people working with huge sample sizes in order to produce worthwhile data. Although there are welcome signs that various permaculture institutions are becoming more interested in formal research studies, it seems unlikely that the movement as a whole can command the resources to do much scientific research, particularly with the small-scale and highly diverse cropping it tends to practice. On this score, I have to confess a poor record on my own part in seeing through various mini-experiments I’ve initiated on tillage and fertilization, polycultures, and pest-repelling intercrops, which have all fallen by the wayside in the face of my need as a commercial grower to focus on production. I’m hopeful that my current experiments in small-scale wheat growing and extensive pig husbandry will prove longer-lived than some of those previous efforts.

But maybe it’s possible to develop a permacultural science more in keeping with the movement’s amateur, grassroots character. Gardeners and farmers always have hunches about what works in their particular situations. We can go a long way towards being more scientific permaculturists if we subject these hunches to a little gentle testing through observation. This is a cornerstone of both good science and good permaculture, albeit a difficult one to master, as it’s easy to observe what we want to observe and allow received wisdom to prevent us from observing objectively. Cultivate true observation as a key permaculture skill—so much more important than the clichéd and outcome-focused permaculture standards of zero till, perennial cropping, and so on mentioned above. We can go further still if we keep good notes, ground ourselves in the rudiments of reductionist scientific methodology, and try to keep abreast of ecological thinking, regardless of how well it accords with our fondest notions about how the world should be. In this way, we can develop a skilled and responsive local practice as permaculturists based on a science of incremental hunches which avoids clichéd one-size-fits-all permaculture design, while remaining true to the wider insights in political ecology of the permaculture movement.

I’m neither a great scientific permaculturist nor an expert commercial grower. But my practice over time has inclined toward traditional mixed land uses from my region—clover leys, annual vegetables, orchards, permanent pasture, and wooded pasture—in other words, local sourcing of inputs and dealing with natural constraints by multiplying the cycling of those inputs. We can learn a lot from the reductionist science of contemporary ecology, but there’s much to learn too in the natural wisdom—the “natural science?”—of tried and tested agricultural systems, a fact which ecological research indeed increasingly reveals (6).    ∆


Chris Smaje is a market gardener and small-scale farmer based at Vallis Veg in Somerset, England. Hes also worked in academic research, and writes on agricultural and ecological issuesrecent work has appeared in The Land, Red Pepper, Statistics Views, and the Journal of Consumer Culture. Chris blogs at present article develops some themes originally presented in a blog post, Permaculture Design Course Syndrome, at



1. Begon, M., Townsend, C., Harper, J. Ecology: From Individuals to Ecosystems, Oxford, UK: Blackwell (2006).

2. Denison, F. Darwinian Agriculture: How Understanding Evolution Can Improve Agriculture, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press (2012).

3. McGuire, A.

4. Grime, P. and Pierce, S. The Evolutionary Strategies That Shape Ecosystems, Oxford, UK: Blackwell (2012).

5. Harvey, D. The Enigma of Capital and the Crises of Capitalism, London: Oxford University Press (2010).

6. Perfecto, I., Vandermeer, J. and Wright, A. Natures Matrix: Linking Agriculture, Conservation, and Food Sovereignty, London: Earthscan (2009).




It’s not misguided to mimic nature, but it’s easy to mimic nature misguidedly.


It’s easy to observe what we want to observe and allow received wisdom to prevent us from observing objectively. Cultivate true observation as a key permaculture skill—so much more important than the clichéd and outcome-focused permaculture standards of zero till, perennial cropping, and so on.