A few weeks ago, I was back in Oxford - my home before I moved to Melbourne about 4 years ago. The city of dreaming spires is still as beautiful as ever with punts gliding past, croquet being played on perfectly mown college lawns, church bells ringing and gargoyles looking down from many a bell tower and medieval cloister.  

“This marvellous city can be stifling,” says Elijah Wood, a young American student, in a film called The Oxford Murders also starring John Hurt. I know just how he feels. Dripping with architectural, historic and other wonders, it’s easy to feel a bit stuck in Oxford - walled in.  There’s plenty going on and the city offers plenty of wonderful parks and gardens to escape the hustle and bustle, but it lacks a certain vibe, a certain buzz.

Oxford comprises a curious mix of locals, students and tourists and, in truth, never the three do meet. Perhaps that’s why it lacks oomph and why I ran out of steam.  Perhaps too much beauty, too many bell towers, too many walls and all surrounded by a busy ring road and situated in the low-lying (think damp and fog) Thames Basin.

Don’t get me wrong, I did have fun in Oxford and was lucky enough to have a bunch of wonderful friends and a terrific job as fundraiser at the local Wildlife Trust, but after five years,  I was ready to move on to pastures new.

My first few months in Melbourne were tough but once I got going I found that it pretty much gave me a ticket to dream and to start afresh.  Melbourne has an upbeat feel, a groovy vibe, a certain ‘go for it’ energy. Melbourne is never boring - whether you’re into books, fashion, jazz, comedy, food, horse racing, cricket, art, kite-surfing, wine-tasting, fashion or spending lazy days on the beach - it’s all on offer.

Combined with the Aussie ‘go for it’ attitude and ‘you’ll be right’, it’s the kind of place that allows you to reinvent yourself, have an adventure and see what happens.  Forgive all the cliches, but there’s plenty of space in Australia to spread your wings and experiment. It’s a young, vibrant country  - not so beholden to social convention and tradition as the UK.

But, it’s been fun revisiting all those British customs and traditions, all the pomp and dressing-up. Royal Ascot was on last week - and it was nicknamed Royal Chavscot (Chavs are akin to bogans (sp?!)) and their inadequate dress sense has ruffled upper class sartorial feathers).  Dress code for the Royal Enclosure was tightened up this year following complaints that standards were slipping and hemlines rising.

Mini-skirts, midriff-baring tops, spaghetti straps and halter-neck dressed were all banned on the orders of the Queen’s representative, The Duke of Devonshire. Ladies were also advised that knickers should be worn, but not on show, and that streaky tans are a ‘total fashion faux pas.’  Race-going Melburnians - take heed.

Ok, so I’ve been ‘rhapzodizing’ about England’s countryside, history - and I haven’t started on the food yet (why does it get such a bad press?) - but it’s not all sweetness and light in the land of Pimm’s and cucumber sandwiches.

Since I arrived 3 weeks ago, the weather has been dire with only infrequent patches of sun and I’ve hardly had the chance to peel of the jeans and bare a leg.  Over the Bank Holiday weekend at the end of May, many of the festivities such as the Hay Festival were miserable, rain-drenched, thundery affairs.

And just before the Bank Holiday, I read in The Independent that 18 million cars were due on the roads and more than 30 sets of engineering works were expected on the railways. Nothing changes…..

And if you do manage to pick a road that is not grid-locked with traffic, there’s the problem of soaring petrol and diesel prices to deal with.  The cost of filling a Renault Espace with diesel now costs £23 more than it did a year ago.

Rising petrol and food prices are all part of the ‘Credit Crunch’: a much-used phrase in the press and everyday conversation.  It’s probably biting harder in the North than in the affluent South East - in the small Nottinghamshire town of Retford, one shop was advertising a special 50% off ‘credit crunch ‘ sale.  I have experienced severe bladder crunch at several railway stations. You can’t have a pee for less than 30p nowadays and so it’s bad luck if you don’t have the right change.

Terry Wogan is still hosting the Eurovision Song Contest - although apparently the voting is heavily rigged - and Cherie Blair has washed her dirty linen in public by publishing her memoirs with the me, me, me title of ‘Speaking for Myself.’  Broadcast on Book of the Week on Radio 4 (what were they thinking?), she reveals when and how baby Leo was conceived. She left her contraceptive equipment at home on a visit to Balmoral to avoid embarrassment. She goes on to explain that when the royal valets unpack ‘one’s’ suitcase, they lay out all ‘one’s’ belongings. But she and Tone nevertheless decided to rock the castle - as if we want to know…..

The papers have also been full of the dodgy deal made by Peter Phillips (Princess Anne’s son) and his Canadian bride, Autumn Kelly. They negotiated a £500,000 deal with Hello magazine to feature their wedding. Many think their sell-out to the airbrushed world of the celebrity magazine was very vulgar and that the Queen was an unwitting victim of the deal. Who knows - maybe the Queen is feeling the Credit Crunch and needed some extra funds!

Maybe I am looking at dear Old Blighty through rose-tinted, tourist spectacles, but I’m drinking in the history, the soft, lush, green….and damp countryside/

Less than 24-hours after landing, I am back in medieval Britain at Rufford Park in Nottinghamshire. Once a Cistercian Abbey and the inspiration for Wragby Hall in D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley, it is the perfect setting for the re-enactment of medieval life during the 12th to 15th centuries. The volunteers representing the Knights Hospitallers really look the part with their plump, pallid faces peeking out under their hooded garments.

Pease Pottage is bubbling in a cauldron, the apothecary’s stand is adorned with hops, comfrey and other herbs, women are combing wool, the blacksmith is smelting silver while others demonstrate how to use a maul - a mean piece of equipment comprising a long wooden pole inset with hobnails around the base. It was used to fend off marauders or to whack the legs of an approaching enemy horse.  I take a photograph of a man easing himself into a suit of chain mail and watch while he flexes his bow in readiness for battle.

At the Harley Gallery, part of the Welbeck Estate and housed in the 5th Duke of Portland’s gasworks, I marvel at exhibits including the gloves worn by Charles I for his execution and the consecrated cup from which he drank his last communion.

Still in Nottinghamshire, we visit All Saints’ Church in the village of Babworth. Richard Clyfton, a separatist,  was Rector here from 1585 to 1605 and was instrumental in starting the Pilgrim Movement.

From Nottinghamshire my parents and I travel to the River Test in Hampshire - it is one of the best fly-fishing rivers in England.  Dad is the angler, but Mum and I are mere spectators and there for the birdlife, peace, tranquility and picnic lunches. We catch a glimpse of a kingfisher - a quick shot of turquoise and bronze - and swans with cygnets riding on their backs. Sedge warblers flit between the reeds, their song strident and metallic compared to the complex song (Dad compares it to Bach’s music) of the blackcap, which like the cuckoo, we hear but don’t see.

Buttercups stain our shoes yellow as we track Dad’s progress up and down the bank, squelching across ancient water meadows. Run by the John Lewis Partnership, the Leckford Estate has 14 beats and all are beautifully maintained with mown paths.   Herons strut their stuff, orange-tipped butterflies flit about and wild irises grow on the banks. But we are here for the Mayfly, a creature that spends most of its life as a nymph at the bottom of the river  before emerging in May for a brief 24-hours to mate, lay eggs and die. Like butterflies with long, dangling tails, once the Mayfly hatch, the trout start to rise and it’s time to do some serious fishing.

As we drive to and from our country Bed & Breakfast complete with springer spaniel and large, well-stocked garden, we pass through idyllic villages with thatched cottages, country gardens and 12th century churches with cemeteries full of crumbling, moss-covered tomb stones. The scenery reminds me of the picture on one of those old-fashioned shortbread tins, but it’s for real. To steal from Rupert Brooke, it has that stamp of Forever England.

It’s mid May and the plane (from Melbourne via Dubai)  is due to land in Birmingham in five minutes, but there’s still no sign of life on the downward camera operated by the touch screen in front of my seat.  Just cloud and drizzle. Three minutes before landing, I finally glimpse terra firma and my beloved green fields. The captain announces it’s 12 degrees outside - this is 5 degrees lower than the autumn day I left behind in Melbourne! I hope my mother has brought a coat for me.

I smuggle my Melbourne-ripened lemons through customs - not without a flutter of guilty nerves. I am confident that I have not introduced pests into the UK and Mum will enjoy a slice of Meyer lemon in her G & T. I see her waving among the sea of people. She is clutching a thick, blue fleece.

In the car on the way  home, I notice drifts of cowparsley everywhere and chestnut trees with their confetti-like pink and white candles. It all feels hugely familiar, normal even. I recognise the motorway landscape, road signs and the profusion of long-haul lorries from the UK and all over Europe.

I am perhaps a bit of a chameleon, but back on English soil, I slot right back in as if I have never left or been anywhere. When I am in Melbourne, that is home and Britain recedes into the background. I am clearly operating to the ‘when in Rome’ rule.  Either that, or I have a split personality and am a divided-loyalty-Pomoz?!

Mum’s house is cosy and warm with its double-glazing, Aga cooker, carpets and pretty soft-furnishings. Roses are blooming outside and bluetits, finches and robins feast on nuts and seeds in the bird feeder. It’s all rather reassuring that time appears to have stood still.

We have fish pie for supper and it’s delicious. Cooked only as Mum cooks it with a mixture of smoked and white fish. Again this feeling of cosiness.  I relish being a daughter again and bask in maternal cossetting and pampering.

As I get ready to visit friends and family in the UK - my first time as a ‘new’ Australian citizen (just don’t get me to sing that song..) - I am dismayed to read that the much-cherished country of my birth and first 40 years on planet earth has been described as a nation of “overweight, sex-and-celebrity-obssessed TV addicts.” So say four British travel writers in the The Rough Guide to England.

They acknowledge the beauty and culture but add that we, or should I say they, are a self-important, insular and irritating bunch. And that’s not all: there’s binge-drinking, obesity and too much reality TV, not to mention social inequality and the entrenched class system.

Watching the Channel 9 series, Ladette to Lady, last night, you would be forgiven for thinking England is indeed a nation of binge-drinking, vomiting, swearing ladettes (and presumably lads) on one side and ra-ra, plum-in-the-mouth toffs in dinner jackets on the other.

As if we don’t have reality TV and binge-drinking in Australia? The last time I was in the centre of Melbourne on a Saturday night, it was not a pretty sight.  Let’s get a bit of perspective…

At least the Brits can laugh at themselves - me included. There’s still some great comedy coming out of The Old Country: Little Britain, Catherine Tait, Ross Nobel to name but a few.

I am going to be visiting some of my favourite places in the UK  - Oxford (positively oozing history), Derbyshire (with its 500 miles of rugged moorland and national park, The Peak District), Nottinghamshire (there’s more to this county than Robin Hood), Hampshire (think My Fair Lady) and London. Planned highlights for London include a trip to theatre to see Brief Encounter on the stage, a walk along Kew Garden’s new treetop walk, a visit to one of the best foodie markets in the UK, Borough Market, and probably an English-style barbie in my sister’s garden.

I’m arriving in the merry month of May and spring will be in full bloom with bluebells in flower and birds trilling their fabulous Dawn Chorus.  It will be light until ten o’clock in the evening and Radio 4 (even the Rough Guide gave that the thumbs up) will amuse and soothe while, in lush, green pastures, cows will safely graze. The swifts and swallows will have arrived from Africa and my visit will concide with Pimms, strawberries and cream and Wimbledon.

Anyone for tennis?

When I visited Western Australia for the first time in May 2003, ecotourism was still a realatively new concept.  Ningaloo Reef Retreat, 70 kilometres south of Exmouth (think whale sharks), was my first foray into the world of sustainable, green, responsible and eco-educational travel.

Billed as a Wilderness Camp, Ningaloo Reef was comfortable with its safari-style tents and queen-size beds but didn’t otherwise pander too much to softies and city slickers. The real luxury lay in being surrounded by wildlife 24/7. Ghost crabs scuttle in the sand at night, crickets chatter, you might bump into a kangaroo on a torch-lit visit to the very clean, sealed-system compost toilet, and in the morning you wake to birds wheeling overhead. By day, snorkelling around the Blue Lagoon ( a short kayak trip away) or around the turtle pools just metres from the shore, reaps rich and multicoloured rewards of the fin and gill variety.

Now, green tourism is a growing market with opportunities to sample ecotourism at all levels and all prices, from designer eco-lodges to more modest and hands-on camps and retreats where you can get involved in conservation projects.

One of the new kids-on-the-block is the Karjini Eco Retreat. The Karijini National Park is in the Pilbara region of Western Australia, inland from the mining town of Karratha. There were no luxury tents with king-size beds, ensuites and well-stocked food and drink outlets when I visited  with Snappy Gum Safaris in April 2003. 

With limited time to spare, and inspired by Fred Williams’ paintings of the iron ore-producing Hamersley Ranges,  I settled on The Karijini National Park as it was closer than the Kimberley, but promised similar terrain: steep gorges, copper-red earth and swimming holes. 

When the two guys from Snappy Gum Safaris came to pick me up in Karratha (I was staying at the Mercure Hotel after an unpleasant exchange with the woman at Karratha Backpackers), I noticed there was no one else in the car. “Just me?” I asked politely.  ”Yes,”  they answered, perhaps a little snappily,  adding that it was not really viable for them to be taking only one passenger.  A lack of moolah and all that. The conversation moved on to their hangovers -  one of them  was nursing a bandaged leg after coming off a motorbike the night before, and both of them were slurping iced coffee.

I have forgotten their names, or perhaps I have wiped them from my memory, so for the purposes of this story I will call them SG1 and SG 2. SG as in Snappy Gum. 

Was it five hour’s drive or three? I forget, but do remember that the long, red, gravel road tracks the Tom Price Railway Road. We stopped here and there for SG 1 and 2 to smoke and arrived in the Park by lunchtime.  

We stopped at a couple of swimming holes, the vibrant green of the ferns beautifully offset by the rusty red of the rocks. Positioning myself under mini waterfalls I let the jets of water massage my neck and shoulders and ease away the passive hangover vibes. So far, so good.

During the afternoon I admired the workmanship of a huge termite mound, at least twice my size,  and took a picture of a lone drop dunny plonked on the hillside. Confirming all my whingeing Pom prejudices, the dunny came complete with a redback sitting obligingly in a web spun across the seat.  All that was lacking was the voiceover for the Castlemaine XXXX ad.

That evening we set up camp in the car park area. Dinner was pretty ordinary - budget kangaroo and cask wine and not enough green stuff. I bet the Karijini Eco Retreat serves up groovy bush tucker and good wines. But for these guys I was not a money making proposition so why waste fancy ingredients?

As it happened I helped ‘facilitate’- let’s use some managment speak - a bit of extra business for them. The place seemed almost deserted, but out of nowhere four young people approached us asking about The Miracle Mile. Dollar signs appeared in SG 1 and 2’s eyes!

Whatever The Miracle Mile was - wait and see, you’ll love it was all I got from mine hosts - you needed guides to do it. Sounded rather intriguing to me, and no of course I wouldn’t mind - how could I object? The deal was signed and sealed, and the young foursome, two guys, two girls, Canadian and Irish, I think, agreed to meet us early the next morning.

Time for bed. SG 1 and 2 rolled out my mat and swag under a tree and hung a mosquito net from a branch. The mosquito net had more holes than a string vest, but I knew I mustn’t whinge. SG 1 and 2 rolled out their beds nearby and we wished each other a good night. Tanked up with cask wine, SG 1 and 2 were in the land of nod way before me, but I eventually drifted off only to be woken in the night by SG1 shouting.

I offered soothing words until I realised he was sleep-talking and not re-enacting some childhood trauma. Now fully awake, I needed a pee. I wandered off with my torch to a suitable patch of spinifex grass . Mission accomplished, I completely lost my bearings - one spinifex bush looks much like another - and couldn’t find my way to the camp.

Brought up on apocryphal stories about Australia being the land of killer bugs, beasts and all things that creep and crawl, I panicked. Was that a dingo I could hear? What would happen if I trod on a snake? I shouted - ‘”Hello - sorry - are you over there?” Silence. The cask wine was still working its magic on the boys.

Eventually I got back to base and snuggled thankfully back into my swag. Woken by the piercing, liquid notes of a bird (I never did find out what it was), we had a skimpy breakfast (if I had know what I was in for, I would have eaten three times as much), and packed up leaving only footprints and tiny blobs of spat out toothpaste on the spinifex bushes where we had cleaned our teeth. In that respect, our camp qualifed for the eco label.

The Miracle Mile started well. Climbing down a long, rusty ladder we descended the first gorge. I soon realised why we needed hard hats as we negotiated steep, narrow ledges of terraced rock, the water swirling rapidly below us. Like huge, jagged chimney stacks the rocks rose above us and we crept along rock walls, carefully placing feet and hands, inching along.

At one point we were spread-eagled between the narrow walls of a gorge, the rock a dizzying pattern of striated layers all around us.

The bright young things were in their element, whooping for joy the more precarious it became and setting dares for each other. SG 1 and 2 joined in the fun and encouraged daredevil jumping off rocks into the pools below. Trying to ungrit my teeth, I kept going reminding myself to enjoy the scenery and stop and smell the roses. At one point I slipped and grazed my knee - nothing in itself - but this wasn’t a place to be slipping. I later learnt that people have fallen to their deaths doing the Miracle Mile.

The going did get easier in places and, at some points, we stripped down to our bathers and swam across ice-cold rock pools, the water almost aquamarine, but limb-numblingly cool. 

About halfway through the epic journey, I began to feel weak and hungry; a mixture of nerves, lack of sleep and physical exertion. And, then I realised that I felt lonely - that lonely in a crowd thing. SG1 and 2 had each other, and the young travellers had obviously bonded as travellers do, whereas I felt like a little shadow creeping along behind.

Towards the end I relaxed my grip a bit and slipped again. My inner child wanted to have a good old ‘poor me’ cry, but not in front of this lot. No, time to be brave. So in a final spurt of adrenal energy, I clenched my teeth one more time and hauled myself up to the top.

Back at the car, I devoured an apple and a biscuit and felt instant blood sugar relief. But, after so much gritting of the teeth,  I also managed to break a tooth.  Perhaps that’s what happens if you don’t relax and go with the flow. …

Needless to say, back at the Mercure Hotel, all was rosy in the garden. Hot shower, picnic supper from Woolworths, clean sheets, happy in my own company and no sleep-shouting snappy gums. Bliss!

As promised in my last posting, it’s time to re-visit the murky world of GM food. Is it really about feeding the world or boosting corporate profits?

I had the pleasure of meeting Canadian farmer Percy Schmeiser at ‘A Taste of Slow’ in Melbourne. Percy and his wife Louise, third generation farmers now in their 70s, took over their Saskatchewan farm in 1947 and were quietly getting on with farming the land until, in 1996, GMO soya, corn, canola and cotton were introduced into Canada. Enter Monsanto with their Roundup Ready canola and extravagant promises of higher crop yields and reduced pesticide use.

in 1998 Percy was sued by Monsanto for patent infringement: the crop in question was Roundup Ready canola. How did Monsanto find evidence of their seed on Percy’s land and how did it get there?

Monsanto have a team of ‘gene police’ who carry out spot checks by helicopter, spraying Roundup over crops. ”Any green thing” (quote Monsanto) that doesn’t die, has their gene in it. In other words, they can identify it as their Roundup Ready crop with its inbuilt pesticide.

In Percy’s case, a neighbouring farmer was growing Monsanto crops. It doesn’t take much to work out how Percy’s crops became contaminated.  Contrary to what you read in the mainstream press, GM crops cannot be contained.  The birds, bees and wind don’t know how to distinguish between conventional and GM crops. Once the genie is out of the bottle, that’s it and you can wave goodbye to organic crops and invidividual choice.

Although only a trace of Monsanto’s crop was detected - out of 9000 pounds of seed sewn in that year (1998), a maximum of  ten pounds was contaminated - it  was no help to Percy when he faced Monsanto in the Supreme Court. The judge and jury, who had no understanding of farming, ruled that Monsanto owned Percy’s seeds through contamination.  It was immaterial that a neighbouring farmer was cultivating Monsanto’s crops.

Percy, a quietly spoken man with deeply-held principles,  took on  Big Brother Monsanto  and fought the first court case in the world on patent infringement.  While he lost the right to own the seeds that had taken him half a century to develop, he did not have to pay any costs to Monsanto - they sought $1m in punitive damages plus fees. It was a seven-year battle and during that time Monsanto used a range of bullying techniques to intimidate Percy and Louise. Monsanto representatives would park in the Schmeisers’ driveway and spy on Louise while Percy was away, for example.

Percy is a brave man and I admire his fight to protect the rights of farmers to choose their own seeds and production methods, but the battle is only half-won. Monsanto are now selling seed with the same characteristics as those that Percy developed. This is nothing short of bio-piracy.

Very few farmers have the courage, financial means or determination to stand up to Monsanto (Percy paid $400,000 in legal fees).  The way Monsanto conducts its business is more likely to scare farmers into submission than provoke challenge:

• Monsanto’s contracts are extremely punitive. Signing up is basically a life sentence with an inbuilt gagging order
• If a farmer signs up to Monsanto and something goes wrong with the seed, he/she cannot sue
• The gene police, former Canadian Mounties, don’t limit themselves to crop spray checks, they  also investigate personal tax records, reward farmers to inform on their neighbours and if you are found to be growing GM crops  with no license - by cross-pollination or otherwise - you will be interrogated
• The Monsanto ‘terminator gene’ renders plants sterile after one-time use. This means that impoverished farmers in developing countries can’t save seed from one year to the next. Profit rules OK.
• The Monsanto ‘cheater gene’ as it is called in Canada is combined with the terminator gene in the seed, making the plant unable to produce unless it is sprayed with Monsanto chemicals.

Percy also explained that, although GM crop yields do increase in the first few years, this subsequently drops off. Even worse, the claim that GM crops use less pesticides appears to be unfounded. The plants gradually become resistant to the pesticides and superweeds develop. A new, hugely toxic chemical has been manufactured to deal with these superweeds and it contains 70% agent orange.

Apart from the environmental concerns surrounding GM crops - the high level of pesticides, the lack of  peer-review testing and the blending of different life forms - fish genes in tomatoes etc - it is  also the loss of human rights and individual sovereignty over our food supply that concerns Percy. As a farmer, you can own land, pay your taxes and be a law-abiding citizen, but you can no longer choose to grow what you want.

Monsanto are patenting new life forms with their GM crops, and Percy thinks this represents, “the greatest assault we’ve ever seen on the life of this planet.”  And, we don’t know whether, once introduced into the environment,  we will be able to recall these new life forms. It’s not like cleaning up an oil spill, says Percy.  This technology raises questions about who owns life and who can patent life forms.

There are liability issues involved if  a corporation owns and controls life forms which, once introduced into the environment, cannot be controlled.  These are the questions now being discussed in the Supreme Court in Canada where Percy and Louise are fighting a new case. Percy’s argument is that he didn’t choose Monsanto crops: he never had any contact with Monsanto or bought their seed. His land has been contaminated and damaged by cross-pollination and Monsanto are liable.

People from all around the world are supporting Percy with this new case. “If you believe in something, you work on it and don’t give up,” says Percy. Determined not to leave a legacy of water, soil and land full of poisons, Percy says he will fight to the end.

If you are still in any doubt about GM food and think Monsanto is a knight in crop-production armour, check out the following link. You’ll see how that our governments are in cahoots with multinational corporations. It’s all about corporate profit and control.

http://danwarne.com/the-documentary-monsanto-would-never-let-you-see/

And Victoria has just lifted the moratorium on GM Canola. …..

and withstood bullying and intimidation by Monsanto in what is

Continuing on the subject of Slow Food…. it’s more than just cooking up locally-sourced ingredients and traditional varieties, it’s also about being aware of how our food is produced.

The Slow Food movement supports sustainable agriculture and cultivation methods, respects cultural and natural diversity and is everything that industrially mass-produced food is not.  It’s about agriculture rather than agri-business.

Speaking at the recent ‘A Taste of Slow’ festival in Melbourne, Barbara Burstyn, an investigative journalist from New Zealand, spoke about her travels throughout India during the making of the award-winning film, One Man, One Cow, One Planet.

Barbara and her husband, Canadian cinematographer Tom Burstyn, filmed biodynamic farmer Peter Proctor as he travelled throughout India promoting the benefits of biodynamic farming and, in particular, the use of cow dung to enrich the soil. You may snigger about cow dung, but it remains one of the best and simplest ways to enrich the soil.

It’s interesting that they found many of the younger, literate Indian farmers are turning their back on Western aid and so-called ‘development’ with some becoming increasingly militant in their fight to maintain their traditional seed banks and cultivation methods.

In her talk, Barbara explained that, thanks to the introduction of intensive, chemical agriculture, there is no topsoil left in India. Subject to years of chemical input and water-hungry high-yield crop varities, the soil  has become barren and India’s once efficient system of irrigation has all but dried up.

Since the introduction of large-scale, industralized farming in the 1970s,   suicide rates among Indian farmers - either made redundant or weighed down by debt - have rocketed. If ‘we’ in the West hadn’t interferred, perhaps India farmers would still be in good shape, with small-holdings cultivated with mixed rotational cropping and local seed varieties.

Now, after 30-years of the topsoil-stripping ‘Green Revolution’,  India is at the forefront of GM experimentation. As Barbara puts it, “we have gone from the Green Revolution to the Gene Revolution.”  But many farmers don’t want a bar of it and are aware that GM crops are not all they are promoted to be. And I say promoted to be as the realities of GM technology and its application on the land is not as simple as the global agro-chemical companies would have us believe.

In the mainstream press we are fed stories of how GM will feed the world by achieving higher yields and using less pesticides. But if you scratch below the surface, you’ll find the GM debate gets murkier and murkier with plenty of good-guy-versus-the-big-bad-corporate stories.  If  you’ve seen the film Michael Clayton starring George Clooney about a lawsuit against an agrochemical company, the plot won’t seem so far-fetched.

In my next post, I’ll talk about Canadian farmer Percy Schmeiser, who was sued by Monsanto for patent infringement when his canola crops were contaminated by GM canola. More food for thought if you’ll excuse the pun!

At Melbourne’s recent ‘A Taste of Slow Food’ Festival, Slow Food President Kelly Donati suggested we could try and change the world one meal at a time. I like that idea! Food is more than just a calorific mass that we stuff down to satisfy our hunger or, dare I say, greed! Food is about our connection to the earth, to the soil, to family mealtimes, to ritual and to the seasons.  

It’s a shame that the food we buy in our supermarkets is so divorced from its origins  - some kids don’t even know that eggs come from chickens.  Wrapped in plastic, injected with hormones, preservatives and God knows what, much of our industrially-produced food lacks character and nutritional value. And, although we don’t get to read about it, there are some crazy goings-on in the food production world: scampi is sent from the UK to Thailand where it is peeled and then flown back again to the UK to sit on a supermarket shelf.  Think of all those carbon emission and air miles. Ouch!

And the trouble is that all this mass-produced, quick-fix pap is laden with the wrong kind of fat and full of sugar and salt. It’s calorie-laden convenience.

In his book, Fat Land, American journalist Greg Critser looks at how those living in the land that invented Ronald Mc Donald, got so fat, so fast. Needless to say it all boils down to fast food.

When someone yelled ‘fatso’ at him in the street, Greg decided to do something about being 40 pounds overweight. He wrote about the experience in a daily paper in a column that became known as ‘The Chubic Odyssey’. A brave soul, Greg fought off threats from Fat Rights groups who didn’t like the apparent attack on their size issue. That was five years ago when it was politically incorrect to talk about obesity, but OK to bury the issue under mountains of junk food.

What impressed me most about Greg is that he doesn’t champion any headline-grabbing diets or formulas, but he does champion the pleasure of simple, home-cooked food and sitting around a convivial (and conviviality is a big thing in the Slow Food Movement) table with family and friends to enjoy meals.

Forget eating on the run, drive-in hamburgers and portions of food served up in polystyrene boxes, take the time to cook a meal at home with family and friends.

Be inventive with your cooking and buy what’s in season. Seek out local producers and farmers and look for REAL food– think knobbly carrots, unwaxed apples and potatoes covered in dirt.  That’ll get your dinner guests talking. As Greg says, “A return to the table is a return to civilisation.”