I live in a remote part of Australia where access to external inputs such as free woodchips, mulch, or compost is virtually nonexistent. Living on less than AU$20,000 (approximately US$13,000) a year, we’ve had to adopt a highly resourceful and adaptive approach to our permaculture design and daily living. This budget doesn’t allow for idealistic or high-cost solutions—it demands creativity, careful observation, and a commitment to working with what is already present on the land.
Our climate is extreme and variable—marked by prolonged droughts followed by intense flooding. Summers can reach highs of 45°C (113°F), while winters dip to -10°C (14°F). These drought–flood cycles can persist for many years—sometimes an entire decade. The soil is shallow, with less than half a metre of rocky basalt overlaying a dense clay base. Not the kind of environment most would associate with fertile food forests.
When we purchased the property during the height of a ten-year drought, we invested in an excavator for AU$1,000 (about US$650) per day to dig swales along the contour lines. At the time, there was barely any rain to capture, and the fruit trees we planted quickly died in the scorching summer heat—despite daily bucket watering.
Instead of fighting the land, I began working with it. I allowed the “weeds” to grow—hardy pioneers like native acacias and eucalypts that required no input and no encouragement. Over time, I transplanted similar species from other parts of the property. These resilient trees became the backbone of the system.
When the rains finally returned, I chopped and dropped these hardy trees into the swales. This transformed the swales into what I call hugelswales—a hybrid of traditional swales and hugelkultur beds. Into this growing system we introduced our livestock—sheep, geese, Muscovies, ducks, chickens, horses, and cattle—by fencing them into temporary enclosures along the swales. Their manure became a key source of fertility in this evolving system.
We also began cultivating edible fungi in the hugelswales: oyster mushrooms (Pleurotus ostreatus) and red wine caps (Stropharia rugosoannulata). These not only contributed to yields but also helped break down woody material and enrich the soil with fungal networks.
I adopted Mark Shepard’s S.T.U.N. method—Sheer Total Utter Neglect—to establish a diverse range of fruit and nut trees. I planted widely from seed and cutting, with zero pampering. If a tree couldn’t survive, I chopped it and added it to the hugelswale as biomass. What endured was strong, well-adapted, and ultimately productive.
Our greywater is gravity-fed into the main kitchen garden swales, keeping them hydrated year-round. In winter, after leaf fall, livestock are rotated through the orchard swales. They graze the understory and fertilise the soil, essentially performing all the maintenance.
Each year brings abundance—though what thrives varies with the seasons. In hot years, it’s figs and pistachios; in wetter or cooler years, blueberries and walnuts do better. Not everything produces every year, and that’s okay. The diversity of planting ensures that something always does. I've also included marginal or climate-extreme species, so I'm content with whatever nature offers.
The only real inputs now are time, observation, and pruning. Plants showing signs of disease or chronic stress are culled and returned to the system as mulch. In this way, every plant contributes—either by producing food or by feeding the soil.
Filling swales with biomass prevents erosion, improves water retention and accelerates soil formation. Many of the trees we used are considered “invasive,” but I don’t view them that way. If a plant can thrive in these conditions without assistance, that’s a sign of ecological value. These plants improve the soil, provide shade and organic matter, and eventually become food for future crops. Letting so-called weeds grow is a strategy, not a compromise. They’re early successional allies in the regeneration of land and soil.
There are certainly faster ways to build abundance—especially with access to commercial compost, mulch deliveries, and expensive tools. If I had an unlimited budget, I might have gone that route. But permaculture isn’t about building a perfect system with endless resources. It’s about designing with what’s available.
Humans have grown food using only what they could carry or forage for thousands of years. That legacy of resilience and ingenuity is still relevant today. The modern narrative often suggests that self-sufficiency is expensive, but I believe otherwise. With patience, observation, and the willingness to let nature lead, you can build systems that are not just sustainable—but abundant and regenerative.