Three Full Months of Rain: A Stark Lesson in Living at the Mercy of the Weather
Foodthink Notes
Under climate change, the increasing frequency of extreme weather is beyond dispute. As farmers, we can only “do our utmost within our means” alongside the elements, holding onto hope. With the rain finally pausing, it is time to tend to the land and rebuild our spirits. Foodthink wishes to take this opportunity to send our warmest regards to our farming community.
As a complete beginner, I wanted to know: if conventional farming yields a thousand jin, roughly how much could I expect without chemical fertilisers or pesticides? Was there a guaranteed minimum harvest?
At the time, I assumed they were just brushing me off with vague talk of “relying on the weather.”
Ignorance breeds courage; the prospect of “leaving it to the skies” didn’t deter me, and I went ahead and leased the land. My two years in Taiwan were blessed with perfect weather, and the harvests were solid—even outperforming veteran organic growers. It wasn’t until I arrived in Woren Valley that the skies gave me a proper lesson, and only then did I begin to grasp what “depending on the weather” truly meant.
I. Onions: a “Successful” Failure
The onions were harvested on 31 May, and the image above shows the entire yield. I had, once again, “successfully” failed. Calling it a success isn’t self-deception: it successfully proved that onions can indeed be grown in Woren Valley.
The dream of total self-sufficiency is that you can grow everything you wish to eat. Yet some crops are theoretically impossible to cultivate here—apples, for instance, require a cold dormancy period to flower and fruit, which our climate simply cannot provide. Others demand a hands-on lesson to break one’s heart, such as kidney beans and walnuts. Onions fell into the category of “yet to be proven.” They were sold locally, but nobody grew them. Seeing that Pingtung at the southern tip of Taiwan was famous for its onions—and given that it’s far hotter than Fujian—I figured, “This might just work.”
In November last year, I ordered two hundred seedlings online and planted them in sandy soil well-suited to onions. The survival rate was excellent, and I felt quite confident about achieving self-sufficiency. After returning from visiting family for the New Year, I found the spring onion shoots thriving. I’d frequently snap off the lush, plump leaves to use as spring onions; they were indistinguishable from the real thing, with a flavour that was utterly convincing.
Then came Woren Valley’s darkest hour. This year’s rainfall has been remarkably persistent. Since March, we’ve been locked into an endless rainy season. To this day, you can count the completely dry days on one hand, and sunny days are even scarcer.
Onions are highly susceptible to waterlogging. While the plot drained adequately, it simply couldn’t stand the relentless deluge from above; soil moisture soon rivalled that of a rice paddy. I watched in dismay as the crops rotted on the vine, slowly vanishing into the mire beneath the endless rain. A handful of stubborn survivors—my “ironclad onions”—did manage to cling to life, but they fell woefully short of covering the thirty-odd yuan spent on the seedlings.
II. The Winter Wheat That Yielded Not a Single Grain
The idea to grow wheat came from Taiwan, where the climate is hotter than here yet winter wheat is still cultivated by quite a few farmers. Back in May 2022, I noticed a solitary wheat stalk growing by the roadside. Stepping up to inspect it, I squeezed the head and was surprised to find firm grains inside. A local friend theorised that the seeds might have dropped from a passing feed lorry, or perhaps been bait in rodenticide that sprouted after catching some rain. Regardless, it demonstrated that wheat could indeed head and set grain in this region.
I first trial-planted wheat at the end of 2022, on 2 December, right on the eve of a cold snap. Around here, you cannot sow wheat by the traditional seasonal calendar; you have to read the sky. The seeds go in only when peak temperatures drop below 15°C; otherwise, as soon as they germinate, they will shoot up too fast and leg out.
The grains I sowed that year were not proper seed stock, but rather ones intended for producing sprouts and malt sugar. Strictly speaking, it was merely a test plot, yet the return was respectable: I harvested just over ten kilograms. Encouraged by this, I was quick to source proper seed for 2023, thoroughly prepared the soil and moisture, and went about planting the wheat with full commitment.
The temperature drop in 2023 came slightly later than the year before, and I sowed on 11 December. With this more careful preparation, germination was excellent. During the Spring Festival, I was back at my family home in Shandong, and when a neighbour sent over a photograph, I felt a surge of quiet excitement. I returned home late after the New Year, and the first thing I did was shine a torch over the wheat seedlings. The field was a carpet of green; looking at them, I wasn’t just seeing seedlings, I was seeing the dream of growing my own flour.
Under my steadfast watch, the garden of wheat seedlings turned green, tillered, and headed. When I photographed the very first wheat ear, I couldn’t resist posting it on WeChat Moments to show off. I had already begun to dream—a harvest dream of golden wheat waves. I could practically see steamed buns, bread, pizzas… the carbohydrate army marching into view.
But then came this spring’s relentless, ceaseless rain. The field’s drainage ought to have been adequate, yet the wheat plot was stubbornly flooded into a rice paddy: not only were the roots left soaking, but the daily downpours throughout the flowering stage made pollination impossible. My wheat ears ended up thin, tiny, pale, and shrivelled. Not a single plump grain formed across that half-mu plot, and in the end, I had no choice but to mow it all down and turn the crop back into the soil.
And so, the 2023–2024 winter crops at Wicked Valley met with a complete and utter defeat.
The weather is an act of God. What I encountered, using today’s common parlance, is “extreme weather”. This is not only agriculture’s number one challenge, but humanity’s as well.
III. Imagining Heilongjiang from Taiwan: A Summer Insect Cannot Speak of Ice
The friend had specially consulted her cousin, a rice farmer, and meticulously prepared slides to explain to the Taiwanese farmers how rice is grown in the north-east, from artificially heating greenhouses to sprout seedlings in spring, all the way to the October harvest.
Harvesting rice in Taiwan revolves entirely around calculating typhoon windows. The harvest date must not only precede the typhoon but also avoid heavy downpours, while also accounting for the weather during the post-harvest drying period. Wuchang is dry, so drying rice is never a worry. My friend said her cousin’s real concern was snowfall; the rice absolutely had to be harvested before the snow fell.
“What if it snows?” the Taiwanese rice farmers couldn’t help but fret on behalf of their north-eastern counterparts thousands of miles away. “Do they wait until the snow melts to harvest?” In Yilan, if you can’t harvest before the rain, you simply wait a few more days. Even if fully ripe grains drop into the fields, you wait. You wait for the rains to pass and the skies to clear.
My friend shook her head. “The snow where we’re from doesn’t melt once it falls.” The room fell silent. After a moment of quiet, everyone burst out laughing—Taiwanese people simply don’t understand the north-eastern cold. In Taiwan, if snow flurries from the sky, everyone’s first instinct is to take photos, otherwise it’ll melt the moment it touches the ground. They cannot fathom snow that refuses to melt upon landing, only to thaw half a year later when spring blossoms arrive.
There is a kind of distance that stretches far beyond the journey from Yilan to Wuchang, so profound it makes us believe we are capable of anything.
The heavens have always hung as the supreme authority over the farmer’s head, unchanged for millions of years. It is only modern people, reshaped by over two centuries of industrial civilisation and modern education, who tend to project their own assumptions onto the weather, or even attempt to change it.
When I once asked my Yilan farming friends about crop yields, that too was a mindset born of the modern industrial model.
IV. The Sky and the Farmer
This is not to say humans are entirely powerless. Improving soil quality and restoring microorganisms are ongoing efforts at Eren Valley, of course alongside introducing new crop varieties. One by one, broad-leaf greens, large-leaf coriander, and sour pawpaw from Yunnan, buddleja officinalis, schizonepeta from Henan, Hani red garlic, and green thorn fruits from Lugu Lake have taken root here. Also planted are the fragrant toon and figs from my courtyard at Mount Tai, and the Ruiyan fragrant rice, which travelled thousands of miles with me from Taiwan.
If anyone asks about yield these days, my answer remains: “It depends on the weather.” This is not a cryptic dodge, but a plain statement of fact. If someone asks, “Are you still growing wheat? Still growing onions?” Of course. Why wouldn’t I?
If a person has a dream for this patch of earth, they simply follow it. Plant, and there is at least a chance. Do not plant, and you are guaranteed nothing.
Man proposes, heaven disposes. Sowing is doing one’s part. As for the harvest, do your utmost first; whatever remains is left to the heavens, and we each accept our lot.
Unless otherwise stated, all illustrations in this article are by the author.
Editor: Wang Hao Layout: Xiaoshu