The Art of Not Knowing
There’s an art to not knowing — truly.
When I first started farming, I thought the biggest challenges would be the obvious ones: fencing, drainage, water systems, animals staying where they’re meant to stay. Turns out, the surprises are endless. Grass grows faster than you think, mud is a personality trait here, and alpacas have opinions… loudly, silently, and often both at once.
No one ever tells you that real estate listings should come with a disclaimer: faces north (but also: the water pump works only when it feels like it).
Back in those early days, I bought equipment I didn’t need, ignored the things I did need, and asked my neighbours questions that probably made them wonder how I’d survived adulthood this long. But I kept asking anyway. And that’s where the learning happened — in the awkward, slightly embarrassing, messy corners of having no idea what I was doing.
What I’ve learned is that asking “dumb” questions isn’t dumb at all. Learning on the fly is a superpower. Stuffing up is part of the apprenticeship.
My dream of working with fibre didn’t come from farming. It came from a moment at a local show day in 2018, when I volunteered to help set up fleeces. I’d already brought home my first three alpacas, but I still didn’t have a clue about showing animals or anything beyond basic animal care. I just knew I liked them and wanted to learn.
That day, I met the incomparable Adrienne Clarke — a judge, a powerhouse of knowledge, and one of those rare people who shares generously without making you feel small. I was acting as a gofer, trying not to get in the way, when she started explaining micron and crimp and fibre structure. She put fleece in my hands and talked while I listened, leaning in over her shoulder, completely absorbed.
And then it happened — that moment where the world goes quiet. Some people get it with music, or painting, or engines, or boats. For me, it was fibre.
The textures. The colours. The diversity — nature expressing itself strand by strand. I felt calm and alive at the same time. I’d found my place.
If you’ve ever heard me say, “I can’t wait to get my mill,” you already know I’m not talking about a million dollars.
Since then, the dream of a small Tasmanian fibre mill has lived quietly in the back of my mind. At first, I assumed someone else would build one at the scale and response that I dreamt of. And when they did, I wouldn’t have to. But as time went on, no one did — and the dream didn’t leave.
Eventually I realised that even if someone else opened a mill tomorrow, I’d still want to build mine.
Is it for other people?
For growers?
For the wider community?
Maybe.
But if I’m honest — it’s also for me. And I’m okay with admitting that.
It’s a massive investment. Not for the faint-hearted. But neither is moving states, rescuing alpacas, or rebuilding a farm from scratch. I’ve never exactly been the “play it safe” type.
Part of what keeps pulling me toward this dream is the belief that good fibre deserves respect, no matter what animal it comes from or whether the fleece is “pure” by some standard. A beloved herd animal’s fleece, transformed into something beautiful by a maker’s hands — that’s dignity. That’s story. That’s heritage.
Humans have been spinning whatever fibre they had for thousands of years. Purity is modern. Usefulness and connection are ancient.
In 2017, I helped rehome a some of a larger group of rescue alpacas — 140 in need, though I only placed 20 myself. Quiet, gentle, sometimes uncertain animals. If you knew me as a child, this wouldn’t surprise you; I was the kid who always brought home strays. My herd is still mostly rescued, and they’re not perfect show animals, but they’re perfect to me. Their fibre — humble, varied, honest — deserves to become something meaningful.
My vision is to eventually build a working fibre mill big enough to employ a person or two. Processing alpaca, sheep, goat — maybe even the occasional highland cow (yes I’ve been asked and I can’t wait to try that!). Workshops, creators’ retreats, people sitting around with fibre in their hands, talking, learning, laughing. A little coffee machine in the corner.
A simple, honest, farm-like space, tucked between the Broad River and one very sweet strawberry farmer from Queensland.
This is the dream I keep returning to — the one that stayed steady when everything else shifted. The one that began with a handful of fleece at the Hobart Show and a woman willing to share her knowledge with someone who didn’t know a thing but wanted to.
If there’s a takeaway for Week 2, it’s this:
You don’t need to have it all sorted before you start.
Keep asking questions.
Make the mistakes.
Stay curious.
Sometimes the thing you know nothing about becomes the thing that changes your entire life.