By afternoon the hedge is a small town. Birds drop in like old friends — brown, grey, flash‑winged — trading the day across branches.
When we first planted the food forest and hedgerow, there were no small birds here. Just open pasture — no shade, no shelter, nowhere to hide. Now families of Willy wagtails, Superb Fairy‑wrens, Yellow-faced honeyeaters, Grey Wrens, Silvereyes and more live here, raising the next generation in the tangle of elder, aronia berries and grasses. The flowers and grasses bring in the insects and tiny creatures that feed them — biodiversity in motion. Their chatter is the farm’s heartbeat — a daily reminder of what it means to make room for life.
It’s easy to think of the food forest and hedgerow as a pantry we borrow from, but the truth is softer: we’re one guest among many.
The elder has long been called a “household tree” — protector of the boundary, guardian of the home. In old lore, to plant one was both blessing and promise: offer shelter, and the wild will return it tenfold.
Elders create habitat for insects and small creatures, feeding the wrens and other birdlife that return to nest and thrive. Their offspring carry the story on and the hedgerow becomes not just an edge, it's also a bridge — between paddocks, between seasons, between we humans and the wild things that we share space with.
