The past can teach us about the future, provided we remember to look.

I wonder how many opportunities we lose when we forget what previous generations achieved together.

Twelve months ago, I set out to write the history of the Jamberoo dairy factory. I imagined a modest booklet, perhaps 50 pages, celebrating the farmers who established the cooperative in 1887 and the people who kept it operating for the next century.

Well, that was optimistic.

The manuscript has grown to more than 200 pages of research, photographs, newspaper reports, interviews and discoveries. Along the way, I’ve learned an extraordinary amount about the people and industries that made this region what it is today. I’ve also discovered how much misinformation can find its way into local history.

Dates are repeated until they become accepted facts. Names change, events become muddled, and accounts written decades later sometimes contradict contemporary newspaper reports. Even respected historical publications contain mistakes. I’ve spent countless hours comparing sources, tracing original records and talking with people who actually worked in the factories.

And the more I discover, the more astonished I become by how little of this history we celebrate.

From Wollongong to Nowra, dairy farmers established cooperatives, pioneered manufacturing technologies, created the recipe for spreadable butter, developed the Illawarra dairy breed and built businesses that supplied products across Australia and overseas. Their influence reached into agriculture, science, transport, employment, education and community life.

Yet where can a visitor discover this remarkable history?

We have Daisy, our magnificent fibreglass cow in Kiama, standing proudly as a monument to the dairy industry. Beyond her, there is remarkably little across the region that tells the wider story.

MOOving Art: how Daisy the Cow inspired a national dairy art phenomenon

I suspect readers of this booklet will be flabbergasted by the scale of the industry’s achievements and equally surprised by how little public recognition remains.

And there is another story emerging from my research, one that has considerable relevance today.

My conversations with cousins Geoff Boxsell and Russell Fredericks revealed how dairy cooperatives developed community leaders. Both became factory managers and successful sporting leaders. Their workplaces encouraged people to learn every part of the operation, understand different responsibilities and work together to solve problems. These skills travelled into football clubs, community organisations and boardrooms.

When regional industries disappear, we lose far more than jobs and economic activity. We also lose places where young people learn from experienced colleagues, develop confidence, take responsibility and discover their capacity to lead.

Today, we often talk about organisations working in silos, with departments disconnected from one another. Those old cooperatives offer some interesting lessons about what happens when people understand the whole business and recognise that everybody’s contribution counts.

There is a great deal to learn from a generation that understood the power of working together.

It helps us understand the decisions that brought us here, recognise the people whose contributions have been overlooked and consider what we might learn from their experiences.

And occasionally, it reminds us that a fibreglass cow has been doing an extraordinary amount of heavy lifting for an entire region’s industrial heritage.

It’s time Daisy had some company.

How two cousins helped shape their communities and Australia’s dairy industry

From the football paddock to the boardroom – How two cousins helped shape their communities and Australia’s dairy industry

I’ve been researching the history of the South Coast dairy cooperatives, and the stories emerging are extraordinary. These factories developed innovations, produced nationally recognised dairy products, nurtured talented people and played an influential role in their communities. This is the story of two cousins, Geoff Boxsell and Russell Fredericks, whose achievements in sport, business and community leadership show what can happen when people recognise one another’s abilities and give them opportunities to develop. Their story has given me enormous hope about what we can achieve in our communities today.

This is a chapter from The dairy cooperatives that built our communities.

Growing up beside the dairy factory

In a paddock beside the Jamberoo dairy factory, a group of boys spent their childhood playing football, kicking towards makeshift goalposts attached to a telegraph pole. Among them were cousins Geoff Boxsell and Russell Fredericks, born exactly one year apart, on 4 July 1939 and 4 July 1940.

Geoff’s father Wallace (Wally) managed the Jamberoo Co-operative Dairy Society, while Russell grew up on the nearby Fredericks family dairy farm, Burnside. Their families lived within a short distance of one another, and the factory was part of their everyday lives. The boys played alongside Geoff’s brother Bruce and Russell’s brothers, including Lance, Alan and Neville.

Geoff recalls that every one of those boys eventually played first-grade football. He and Russell would go on to have distinguished sporting careers, manage dairy factories while still remarkably young and help shape the future of Australia’s dairy industry.

They grew up in communities where farming, sport, business and voluntary organisations were closely connected. People knew one another’s families, understood the demands of farming and frequently worked together in several different capacities.

Russell learned to drive the family’s Farmall tractor when he was eight or nine. Like other children growing up on dairy farms, he understood that cows needed milking twice a day, machinery needed maintaining and everyone had responsibilities. Geoff learned to milk cows on his grandfather’s farm and spent much of his childhood around the dairy factory his father managed.

Both boys attended Jamberoo Public School before boarding at Hurlstone Agricultural High School. Russell excelled academically, particularly in mathematics, and represented Combined High Schools in rugby union. Geoff continued to Hawkesbury Agricultural College, graduating in 1958 with a Diploma in Dairy Technology. He was dux and best practical student and earned sporting Blues in athletics and cricket.

Russell had the academic ability to pursue further study, although family circumstances influenced his immediate future. His father Milton was living with multiple sclerosis, and Russell understood the importance of remaining close enough to Jamberoo to help his parents and the family farm when necessary.

He had considered employment with Elders in the Northern Territory, although the prospect of moving so far from home was difficult for his parents. Instead, he accepted a position with Kiama Supply Company, beginning work in December 1957, aged seventeen.

That decision would eventually lead him into dairy factory management, although the opportunity arrived in a rather unexpected way.

Wally Boxsell recognises Russell’s potential

Russell worked as an accounts clerk at Kiama Supply Company, which operated a grocery ordering and delivery service. Customers placed their orders, staff assembled and delivered the groceries, and accounts were settled periodically.

When the business changed to a self-service model, with customers paying at the counter, the ordering and delivery operation was closed. Seven employees were retrenched, including Russell, who returned to helping on the family farm while considering his next move.

At seventeen, Russell had embarked on a promising career in accounting. The career had other ideas.

Then his uncle Wally Boxsell, manager of the Jamberoo dairy factory, approached him with a proposition. Would Russell like to try working at the factory?

Russell accepted, and his first job involved unloading milk cans from trucks. The cans weighed approximately 60 kilograms when full and had to be lifted onto the receiving platform, tested for quality and moved along the conveyor system to be emptied into milk vats. At the height of the season, Jamberoo could receive as many as 1,000 cans from nearly 100 farms over the morning and afternoon deliveries.

It was a very physical introduction to management training.

Russell also washed equipment, cleaned floors and worked in the produce store. Wally then gave him opportunities to learn the other sections of the factory, including the laboratory, where he tested milk and cream, and the milk room, where he operated cooling equipment. He learned milk grading, worked alongside chief butter maker Steve Dare and eventually gained his milk grading qualifications and Butter Maker’s Certificate.

By the time Russell left Jamberoo, he understood milk receival, laboratory testing, butter manufacturing, refrigeration and factory operations. He also understood how the work performed in one section affected everything that followed.

One day, while Russell was working in the laboratory, Wally mentioned that Gerringong Co-operative Dairy Society was looking for a manager and encouraged him to apply.

Wally helped prepare Russell for the interview, taking him through the operation of the boiler, refrigeration plant and other equipment, and explaining the administrative responsibilities associated with running a dairy factory.

Russell faced a demanding interview with Gerringong’s board of directors and was offered the position in 1965, when he was twenty-four, turning twenty-five that July.

The young man who had lost his job as an accounts clerk was now responsible for managing a dairy cooperative.

Wally Boxsell recognised Russell’s potential, brought him into the factory and gave him opportunities to learn the business from the ground up. A few years later, Russell was managing a cooperative of his own.

Five grand finals and five premierships

Russell’s sporting career was developing alongside his work. In 1958, aged seventeen, he was selected for Jamberoo’s first-grade rugby league team, playing alongside men who spent their working weeks milking cows and performing physically demanding jobs on dairy farms.

Jamberoo defeated Berry 18–8 to win the premiership that year, and Russell collected his second premiership with Jamberoo in 1961 when the team defeated Nowra 7–2.

He later played for Dapto, winning the Illawarra first-grade premiership against Collegians in 1966. By then he was managing Gerringong dairy factory, and late in 1967 Gerringong Rugby League Football Club invited him to become its first-grade player-coach.

Russell had never coached a football team, but he knew what it took to be part of a premiership winning team and he took on the challenge.

Triumph for the crocks

Gerringong finished the 1968 regular season as minor premiers. The side included outstanding players such as Roy Stewart and the Brown brothers, Terry and Ken. Russell regarded Stewart as one of the finest footballers he had played alongside, admiring his speed, judgement and ability to create opportunities.

The difficulty was the size of the playing squad. Gerringong had only seventeen players available, leaving almost no capacity to accommodate injuries in a physically demanding sport. As the season progressed, the injuries accumulated, and Russell had to make increasingly difficult decisions about who could take the field.

Shellharbour defeated Gerringong 15–0 in the major semi-final, leaving the team needing to beat Albion Park in the preliminary final for another opportunity to play for the premiership. Gerringong won that match 11–9 and faced Shellharbour again on 21 September 1968.

This time Gerringong won 15–9.

Three days later, The Kiama Independent celebrated the victory with a headline that captured the condition of the winning side. TRIUMPH FOR THE CROCKS

The newspaper suggested Gerringong Football Club could now hold a bargain sale of bandages, strappings and harnesses. Its report praised Russell’s tackling, tactical kicking, ability to direct play and leadership under pressure. An accompanying photograph showed him receiving the premiership cup from Group Six president Harvey Middleton.

Russell had now played in four premiership-winning first-grade teams, twice with Jamberoo, once with Dapto and once with Gerringong.

The factory needed his attention throughout the week, from staff and production to finances and the farmers who supplied the milk. On weekends, Russell had seventeen footballers to manage, and an injury list that kept growing.

Russell was managing a dairy cooperative and coaching a first-grade football team with only seventeen players. Both responsibilities demanded judgement, trust and an ability to bring out the best in people.

By 1970, Russell was managing the Gerringong dairy factory, playing first-grade rugby league, studying accounting and, with his wife Coral, raising two young children. One wonders when he found time to sleep.

I have some questions for Russell when we next speak. How did he manage the injuries? How did he restore the players’ confidence after the 15–0 defeat? How did he persuade men who were tired, injured and working physically demanding jobs to give everything they had?

And did he apply anything he learned coaching Gerringong to managing people in the dairy industry?

Recognising young talent

Russell continued coaching Gerringong in 1969, although several experienced players retired and he had to develop a younger team. Among the emerging footballers was Michael Cronin, who would become one of Australia’s most celebrated rugby league players.

Russell recognised Cronin’s goal-kicking ability and gradually gave him greater responsibility. Gerringong missed the finals that year, although the younger players were gaining experience that would prove important the following season.

Russell had also enrolled in management accounting at Wollongong Technical College, attending classes two or three evenings each week while managing the dairy cooperative. In 1970, he decided to relinquish the coaching position so he could concentrate on his studies.

Ron Hopper took over as coach, and Russell continued playing. Gerringong reached the grand final against Shellharbour, trailing 13–2 during the second half before staging an extraordinary recovery. Russell scored a late try that helped bring the scores level, and Michael Cronin’s kicking eventually secured a 17–15 victory in extra time.

It was Russell’s fifth first-grade grand final, and he had won all five. Two with Jamberoo, one with Dapto and two with Gerringong.

Russell completed his management accounting studies with honours and later took up a role managing a poultry farm in South Australia.

Geoff’s sporting achievements

Geoff Boxsell was also an accomplished rugby footballer, playing rugby league for Jamberoo before becoming a foundation member of Kiama Rugby Union Club in 1961. He represented Illawarra at Country Week for four years and was named Illawarra Rugby Player of the Year in 1963.

He played alongside Russell’s younger brother Neville Fredericks, whom Geoff remembers as an outstanding breakaway.

One of Geoff’s favourite rugby memories concerns a penalty kick in 1966, when his captain, Peter Fyfe, asked whether he wanted to kick for goal. Geoff thought he was about forty metres from the posts, so he accepted and sent the ball between the uprights.

Only when he turned around did he realise he had kicked from the halfway line. Neville later confirmed how far the ball had travelled.

Geoff’s rugby career ended in 1967 when he broke his arm, although by then cricket had become an increasingly important part of his life.

He had scored 201 runs in a representative match for Southern New South Wales against Northern New South Wales, attracting attention from people involved in Sydney grade cricket. He joined Waverley and went straight into first grade, spending the next eleven years opening the batting for the Sydney club.

Geoff finished with the highest aggregate runs in the Sydney competition in both 1970 and 1971 and spent two years in the New South Wales state squad.

When Waverley celebrated its 150th anniversary in 2020, Geoff was included among fifty players considered for the club’s historical best team. The left-handed opening batsman’s position eventually went to David Warner.

The manager who drove to Sydney every Saturday

In 1970, Wally Boxsell retired, and Geoff became manager of the Jamberoo Co-operative Dairy Society, aged thirty. He was responsible for a substantial local business serving scores of dairy farmers, employing factory workers and manufacturing products sold well beyond the district.

Throughout the cricket season, he continued travelling from Jamberoo to Sydney to open the batting for Waverley.

Geoff was also studying. Although he held a Diploma in Dairy Technology, he wanted a stronger understanding of accounting and management, so he undertook accounting and cost accounting studies at technical college before continuing with commerce accounting at the University of Wollongong.

On Friday evenings, Geoff attended classes in Wollongong. His wife Viv would bring their young children to meet him afterwards, and the family would continue to Sydney for the weekend for Saturday cricket matches.

By the mid-1970s, Geoff was reconsidering the time he was spending travelling to Sydney. Tony Greig had arrived at Waverley around the time Geoff left, reportedly receiving $25,000 while the established players received nothing.

One Saturday in 1975, while driving north towards Sydney for preseason cricket practice, Geoff passed the University of Wollongong and noticed the cricket nets were up. He stopped to investigate.

He was already studying at the university. Why was he travelling all the way to Sydney every weekend when he could play cricket at Wollongong?

He never returned to Waverley. It had taken him eleven years of Sydney grade cricket to discover the advantages of playing closer to home.

Geoff joined Wollongong University Cricket Club and continued playing until 1999, when he was fifty-nine. He received a cricket Blue and life membership and represented Australian Universities on a tour of New Zealand in 1976. In 1980, he graduated from the University of Wollongong with his commerce accounting qualification.

A factory where knowledge was shared

Everyone had something to learn and something to teach

Geoff and Russell had both learned the dairy business from the factory floor, an experience that influenced their understanding of how the different parts of a manufacturing operation worked together.

Russell had started by unloading milk cans and progressed through the laboratory, milk room, butter room and other sections of the Jamberoo factory. When Geoff became manager, he continued encouraging employees to learn different jobs so they could cover absences, assist colleagues and understand how their own responsibilities affected other parts of the operation.

Milk receival, laboratory testing, refrigeration, manufacturing and packaging all depended on one another. A problem in one section could quickly affect production elsewhere, and an employee who understood several parts of the factory was better equipped to recognise difficulties and help solve them.

Geoff also enjoyed working alongside his employees. When a truck needed unloading or returned milk cans needed washing, he was prepared to put white overalls over his office clothes and help.

His directors occasionally reminded him that managing the factory was his job. Geoff maintained that knowing the operation included being prepared to wash the milk cans.

Employees were encouraged to acquire skills beyond their immediate jobs, giving the factory greater flexibility when someone was absent and allowing people to develop a broader understanding of the business.

At Jamberoo, employees were encouraged to learn every part of the operation. The factory gained a workforce capable of helping wherever needed, and its people gained skills they could carry into new responsibilities.

Learning another job meant someone could step in when a colleague was absent. It also gave employees a better understanding of the people, machinery and decisions on which their own work depended.

Quality, quality, quality

The Jamberoo dairy factory developed an exceptional reputation for making butter, achieving the Department of Agriculture’s highest butter grade for fifteen consecutive years. In 1976, Jamberoo butter was named Supreme Champion Dairy Product of Australia.

Geoff worked closely with laboratory specialist Kevin Richardson on product development, including an early form of spreadable butter. They blended cultured butter with vegetable oils to create a product that families around the world can spread straight from their fridge onto their toast at breakfast.

Making spreadable butter was one challenge. Selling it was another. The Pure Food Act prevented them from marketing it as butter, so they called it STUFF. The name left plenty of room for interpretation.

The experiments demonstrated the factory’s willingness to explore new products, challenge established practices and apply its technical knowledge to opportunities emerging in the marketplace.

At Nowra, Russell was overseeing similar achievements.

A 1983 newspaper article headed Top Awards to Dairy Co-Op reported Nowra’s most successful year in dairy product competitions. The cooperative had won awards at the Australian Dairy Institute’s national and state championships and the Sydney Royal Easter Show.

Its products included award-winning cream and yoghurt, with the factory also developing yoghurt without artificial additives or preservatives.

Russell attributed the success to four factors: the quality of milk supplied by farmers, the combined skills and experience of the workforce, rigorous manufacturing methods and strict quality control before products left the factory.

The newspaper identified employees including Geoff Jarrett, Keith Rosskelly and Peter Condon among those contributing to the achievements. Keith has his own chapter in this history, and his recollections will add another perspective to the people and practices behind the factory’s success.

Jamberoo and Nowra were producing nationally recognised dairy products through the combined efforts of farmers, laboratory staff, production workers, technical specialists and managers.

Both factories had developed reputations for manufacturing quality, and both managers recognised the contribution of the people responsible.

The trophy that belonged to everyone

When Jamberoo’s butter was named Supreme Champion Dairy Product of Australia in 1976, the prestigious Nightingale Trophy came back with Geoff Boxsell’s name engraved on it.

Almost fifty years later, Geoff still questions that decision.

Why was his name on the trophy when the achievement belonged to the cooperative? The farmers who supplied the milk, the laboratory staff, the butter makers and everyone else involved in producing that butter had contributed to its success. Geoff believed the trophy should have carried the cooperative’s name.

Russell expressed a similar view in 1983 when he attributed Nowra’s awards to the farmers who supplied quality milk and the employees whose knowledge and care produced the finished products.

Geoff still looks at that trophy and thinks about the people whose names were missing from the recognition.

Almost fifty years after receiving the Nightingale Trophy, Geoff still asks why his name was engraved on it. He believes the award belonged to everyone who helped produce the winning butter.

The cooperatives that shaped their communities

The dairy factories at Jamberoo, Gerringong and Nowra were major businesses in their communities. They employed local people, purchased milk from surrounding farms, supported transport operators, invested in machinery and generated business for local suppliers.

Owned by farmers and governed by boards elected from their membership, the cooperatives gave producers opportunities to participate in decisions affecting milk supply, manufacturing, investment and the future of their businesses.

The wider dairy industry also exercised considerable influence with government. Producer organisations, dairy committees and annual conferences brought farmers, cooperative representatives and industry leaders together to debate the issues affecting their livelihoods. Milk prices, quotas, marketing arrangements, transport, processing regulations and industry investment all required engagement with government, and dairy leaders had established relationships through which they could advocate for producers.

These organisations also gave people experience in governance, finance, negotiation and collective decision-making, often while they continued running their own farms or businesses.

Their products were part of everyday Australian life. Milk, butter, cream and other dairy foods produced in these regional factories travelled far beyond the farms where they originated, finding their way onto breakfast tables, into school lunches, family meals, cafés and commercial kitchens. Thousands of families who had never heard of Jamberoo or Nowra consumed products made possible by the work of their farmers and factory employees.

The cooperatives helped shape the social and cultural life of their districts. Farming families and factory employees were involved in sporting clubs, service organisations, schools, churches and community events. Relationships developed through dairying carried into these other activities, creating networks of people who knew one another, shared resources and worked together to get things done.

Their collective influence extended into government and industry policy. Through farmer organisations, cooperative boards and dairy industry conferences, people from small rural communities could participate in decisions affecting agricultural production, manufacturing, food supply and the economic future of their regions.

The cooperatives also provided opportunities that could change the course of someone’s life. Geoff Boxsell and Russell Fredericks grew up surrounded by people who shared their knowledge, recognised potential and encouraged others to take on new responsibilities. Both men carried that approach into their careers, giving others opportunities to develop skills and discover abilities they might never otherwise have had the chance to use.

Choosing the right people

By the early 1980s, the dairy industry was changing rapidly. Smaller factories faced ageing equipment, increasing costs and pressure to invest in more sophisticated manufacturing facilities.

Plans developed for a regional consolidation of dairy processing, although several potential partners withdrew, leaving Jamberoo and Nowra to proceed with the formation of the Shoalhaven Dairy Co-operative.

The merger meant Jamberoo’s factory would eventually close, a particularly significant decision for Geoff. It was the factory where he had grown up, where his father had been manager and where he had spent much of his working life.

When the merged cooperative needed a general manager, Geoff recommended Russell.

He believed Russell had the experience and abilities required to lead the new organisation, while Geoff would take the deputy role, contributing his technical knowledge and manufacturing experience.

The cousins who had played football together beside Factory Lane were now working together on the future of dairy processing across a much larger region.

Russell brought extensive experience in cooperative management, financial administration and organisational leadership. Geoff brought specialised knowledge of manufacturing, product development and factory operations.

The proposed new Shoalhaven factory at Bomaderry required major investment and technical expertise, so Geoff brought in Peter Delaney, a former Hawkesbury Agricultural College colleague whose experience he respected, to help oversee the project.

The new factory became a significant development in the region’s dairy industry, and in 1989 Shoalhaven, Hunter Valley and Dairy Farmers combined to form Australian Co-operative Foods.

Geoff subsequently held senior manufacturing and corporate positions, retiring in 2001 after forty-two years in the dairy industry. Russell’s career also extended into broader leadership responsibilities, including substantial service in community organisations and financial institutions.

Both had moved a long way from the village factories where their careers began.

The connections beyond dairying

The Fredericks family’s contribution extended beyond Russell’s career. His younger brother Neville became an accomplished rugby union player and later served two terms as Mayor of Kiama.

Another brother, Alan, spent more than twenty years as president of the Alpine Club of Kiama, an organisation with origins in relationships formed through the dairy industry’s recruitment of overseas-trained veterinarians.

The club brought together farmers, professionals and businesspeople who pooled resources to establish a ski lodge at Thredbo.

The connections between dairying, sport, volunteering and community leadership appear repeatedly throughout these families’ histories. People developed friendships and professional relationships through farming, carried them into sporting and community organisations, and used their knowledge and contacts to help new ventures succeed.

What made these communities successful?

Russell Fredericks won five first-grade rugby league premierships, including the remarkable 1968 victory as Gerringong’s captain-coach. Geoff Boxsell played first-grade cricket for Waverley for eleven years while managing a dairy factory and pursuing further education.

Both became influential figures in an industry undergoing major structural change, while continuing to contribute to the communities where they had built their lives.

Their sporting records and management careers are impressive. The more revealing stories are about the opportunities they created for other people.

Wally Boxsell recognised Russell’s potential and gave him opportunities to learn the dairy business from the factory floor upwards. Russell later recognised the abilities of young footballers and helped them develop.

Geoff encouraged employees to learn different jobs and was prepared to work alongside them. He recognised Russell’s suitability to lead the merged cooperative and Peter Delaney’s technical abilities during the construction of the Bomaderry factory.

Both men publicly acknowledged the farmers and employees responsible for their factories’ award-winning products.

The factories and football clubs gave people room to learn, make mistakes, take responsibility and surprise themselves. Their communities benefited from everything they learned along the way.

The dairy cooperatives provided a structure through which individual farmers could achieve things collectively that would have been difficult to accomplish independently. Their factories brought together people with different skills, from milk production and testing to engineering, manufacturing, finance and management.

Sporting clubs created other opportunities to develop skills, accept responsibility and work alongside people from different backgrounds. The relationships between these organisations helped strengthen the communities they served.

The dairy cooperatives brought together people with different knowledge and abilities. Their strength came from what those people could achieve together.

What could we learn from them today?

As organisations have become larger and more specialised, the work people do has often become more narrowly defined. Employees may develop considerable expertise in their own responsibilities while having limited opportunities to understand the work of colleagues elsewhere.

Knowledge can become siloed, confined to individual departments, organisations or professional groups. People may make decisions without fully understanding how those decisions affect others.

At Jamberoo, employees learned to work across the factory, gaining experience of the manufacturing process and the responsibilities of their colleagues. Russell benefited from that approach early in his career, developing an understanding of dairy manufacturing that later supported his work as a manager.

Both men went on to lead organisations in which product quality depended on people bringing different skills together. Their factories’ awards were evidence of what those teams achieved.

The dairy cooperatives also gave farmers opportunities to pool resources, develop relationships, exchange knowledge and influence decisions affecting their industry. The benefits reached beyond the individual businesses to the wider communities in which they operated.

Geoff and Russell began as boys playing football beside a dairy factory. Their careers took them far beyond that paddock, and throughout they kept making room for other people to learn, contribute and lead.

Geoff and Russell grew up in that environment. Throughout their careers, they recognised the abilities of others and understood the value of bringing those people and their abilities together.

What have we lost as our organisations have become more specialised, our knowledge more compartmentalised and our opportunities to learn from one another more limited? And how much more could we achieve if we rediscovered what these dairy communities understood about sharing knowledge, recognising strengths and giving people opportunities to contribute?

Dairy farmers knew deregulation was coming. Were they prepared for it?

I suspect our cows had a few opinions about the whole business too. Lots to think about on the hill at Clover Hill

I’ve spent the past few months researching the history of dairy co-operatives, particularly the Jamberoo Dairy Factory and the organisations that eventually became Australian Co-operative Foods.

Jan Todd’s Milk for the Metropolis, published in 1994, has been a fascinating resource. Towards the end of the book, Todd describes how Australian Co-operative Foods (ACF) was preparing for an increasingly competitive market. By 1993, its directors were examining the financial and organisational changes required to operate in a deregulated environment.

Reading about those preparations more than thirty years later has brought back memories of what happened on our own dairy farm.

Farmers knew deregulation was coming. The arguments had been going on for years, and many were determined to fight it. The partners on our farm certainly were. They had invested their lives and their money in a business that operated within a regulated system, and they saw little reason to welcome changes that threatened their livelihood.

Did change happen with farmers or around them?

Farmers are well know to err on the conservative, particularly when it comes to decisions that affect their financial security. Yet some of the most innovative and resourceful people I’ve known have been farmers. Give them an opportunity they understand, and they’ll find extraordinary ways to pursue it.

That contradiction interests me because it says something about how we approach change in agriculture.

For decades, governments regulated the marketing of milk. They established prices for drinking milk and determined which producers could supply particular markets. Farmers borrowed money, invested in infrastructure, built dairy herds and planned their businesses around those arrangements.

The prospect of deregulation challenged many of the assumptions on which those decisions had been made.

By the early 1990s, the industry’s major organisations were examining what deregulation would mean for their operations. There were consultants, feasibility studies, financial projections, merger discussions and proposals for new ownership arrangements.

Todd’s account shows how seriously Australian Co-operative Foods was examining its future. The directors understood that changes in regulation, competition and access to capital would have significant consequences for the business.

I’d love to know how those conversations translated into preparation on individual dairy farms.

The partners on our farm spent a great deal of energy opposing deregulation. Looking back, I wonder what might have happened if someone had helped us devote some of that energy to examining the possible outcomes and deciding how we wanted to respond.

What would our financial position look like without regulated milk prices? Could we reduce production costs? Would increasing herd size improve profitability, or expose us to greater financial risk? What other options were available? What information would help us make those decisions?

These were conversations that deserved time, independent advice and the opportunity to explore different scenarios with people who understood the realities of running a dairy farm.

A dairy farmer cannot change direction as quickly as a government can change policy. Milking sheds, machinery, farm improvements and livestock represent substantial investments. Loans have to be serviced. Families have to live. Decisions about breeding, infrastructure and production can have consequences for many years.

I wonder how much attention agricultural leaders gave to understanding the people they were asking to adapt.

When farmers resist change, it helps to understand what concerns them. Sometimes they have good reasons. Sometimes their assumptions deserve challenging. Sometimes they have spent so long defending the arrangements they know that they have had little opportunity to imagine an alternative.

That is where leadership and engagement become so important.

I have spent much of my professional life bringing people together to explore difficult questions, and I have seen what happens when they are given the opportunity to contribute rather than being presented with decisions that have already been made.

People bring knowledge that rarely appears in a consultant’s report. They understand their own circumstances, their communities and the practical consequences of decisions. They also bring fears, frustrations, prejudices and assumptions. All of those belong in the conversation.

The seven years between the planning Todd describes in 1993 and dairy deregulation on 1 July 2000 provide an interesting period to exam

Dear readers

When dairy deregulation arrived on 1 July 2000, NSW farmgate milk prices fell from around 37 cents a litre to approximately 28 cents (Note these figures are industry averages). A reduction of almost a quarter. Add a drought to that equation and you have a pretty powerful incentive to reconsider how you run a dairy farm.

And reconsider we did!

We went from milking 80 cows twice a day to 400, three times a day. We leased another farm, hired a consultant, conducted research trials with Sydney University, attended conferences and made some enormous changes to the way we operated.

For a farming family whose partners had fought deregulation, we certainly became enthusiastic students of change once it was upon us.

I suspect our cows had a few opinions about the whole business too. Particularly the three-times-a-day milking.

 

What we need is a milk war – me and the cows strongly 💪disagree

In February 1985, Professor A. G. Lloyd contributed an article to the Sydney Morning Herald with the splendid headline, “What we need is a milk war”. I found it among the papers of the Nowra Dairy Co-operative. By then, the Australian dairy industry had been fighting itself for the best part of a century. Apparently, nobody thought it had quite finished the job.

Every farming family knows something about a long-running dispute. The cousin who borrowed the trailer in 1974 and never brought it back. The father whose succession plan left the farm to the son who gambled it away. The siblings who haven’t spoken for twenty years and can no longer remember what they were fighting about. The dairy industry had all of these characteristics, plus several thousand cows, a collection of governments and an astonishing capacity to hold a grudge.

Our story begins in 1908, when Sydney milk buyers cut the price paid to farmers from 10 pence a gallon to six, in the middle of a drought. Farmers went on strike. The young Dairy Farmers Co-operative offered seven and a half pence, helped Jamberoo clear its debts and financed a new factory. Everyone shook hands, or something approximating it. Peace lasted 23 years.

In 1931, with the Depression biting, a Sydney distributor offered Jamberoo a better price for its milk. Jamberoo had recently opened a new brick factory and owed £17,000. Dairy Farmers considered this a betrayal. It expelled 100 members, many of them Jamberoo farmers, and cancelled their shares. Jamberoo remembered. In the dairy industry, a grudge had an exceptionally long shelf life.

The NSW Government created a Milk Board to restore order. Unfortunately, the Board could declare prices but couldn’t enforce them. Historian Jan Todd called it a “toothless tiger”. Farmers received less than half the declared price. The government tried again, gave the new Board some teeth, and regulated the fresh milk industry for the next half century. Everyone complained about regulation, but at least they had something in common.

Then came 1984. George Orwell had warned us about surveillance, propaganda and perpetual war. He had overlooked the NSW milk industry.

On 9 April, supermarket owner Jim Fleming put Victorian milk on the shelves of his Jewel stores in Sydney. It came in two-litre plastic bottles and cost nine cents less. The Victorian milk represented about one per cent of the NSW market. Bill Crothers of Midland Milk described it as “only a hatful of milk”. NSW reacted as though Victoria had crossed the Murray with tanks.

Milk vendors blocked Macquarie Street with their trucks. Premier Neville Wran came out to negotiate. More than 800 farmers launched Operation Padlock, picketing Jewel supermarkets and standing outside the Midland Milk factory in Shepparton. Ten days later, Fleming conceded defeat. “We are pretty good, but not that good,” he said.

By February 1985, Professor Lloyd was calling for another milk war, arguing that competition could expose inefficiencies and help Sydney consumers paying high milk prices. The farmers, processors, retailers and vendors had rather different ideas about who was inefficient and who should pay.

Federal Primary Industry Minister John Kerin tried to bring the states together under a national plan. In March 1986, he spent an entire day locked in a room with three farmer leaders. They emerged with the comfort clause, an arrangement allowing a state to withdraw from the national scheme if another state’s milk undercut its market. NSW used it twice within a year. I suppose we should be grateful they agreed on anything.

Back on the South Coast, two cousins who had grown up together in Jamberoo were taking a much less complicated approach. Russell Fredericks managed Nowra’s dairy factory. Geoff Boxsell managed Jamberoo. During a drive to Sydney in late 1982, they joked about putting “the cat among the pigeons” by proposing a merger. They eventually brought the two co-operatives together.

Dairy Farmers tried to persuade Nowra to join it instead. Nowra’s farmers rejected the offer. It had been more than fifty years since the Depression-era expulsions. Apparently that was too soon. Six years later, Shoalhaven, the co-operative formed by Jamberoo and Nowra, joined Dairy Farmers anyway.

Then came the Italians. In 1999, Parmalat offered Dairy Farmers members $4.02 a share for part of their holdings, under a proposal that would give the Italian company control. Farmers gathered at the Burrawang Hotel, passed motions of no confidence and eventually took the dispute to the Supreme Court.

Dairy Farmers responded with advertisements declaring, “Beautiful one day, foreign-owned the next.” Geoff Boxsell wrote a song to the tune of “I Am Australian”. He called it “We Ain’t Italian”.

The court found that material distributed by the board was misleading and deceptive, although the judge made no finding of dishonesty or bad faith. The directors were ordered to pay legal costs personally. In April 2000, around 3,000 farmers voted at a special meeting. The three directors facing removal retained their seats with overwhelming support. Managing director Alan Tooth offered a memorable observation. “Any jackass can knock down a barn but it takes a team of skilled carpenters to build one.”

While everyone was fighting, Victoria decided it no longer wanted the regulated system. As the country’s largest milk-producing state, its decision left the others with little room to move. On 1 July 2000, the regulated fresh milk markets disappeared.

Within a year, average NSW dairy farm income had fallen from $82,000 to an estimated $37,000. Around 200 NSW dairy farms closed in the first six months. There were winners, there were losers, and there were families whose futures changed forever.

I’ve been looking back over these events while also reflecting on something I discovered preparing for a World Peace Day presentation to school students in Cowra. In studying the history of war, I was confronted by how persistently organised violence has appeared across human generations.

Of course, a milk war is a very different proposition from an armed conflict. Nobody should confuse a blockade of supermarket milk deliveries with the devastation of military warfare. But the language interests me. For a century, the dairy industry talked about wars, battles, invasions, threats, surrender and enemies.

Farmers fought processors. Farmers fought retailers. Processors fought retailers. States fought states. Co-operatives fought other co-operatives. Farmers fought farmer. Farmers fought their own co-operatives.

Governments regulated everybody, then deregulated everybody. And all of them believed they had something important to defend. Often they did.

A farmer fighting for a price that covers the cost of production has a legitimate grievance. So does a consumer struggling to afford food. A milk vendor protecting a family business and a processor trying to keep a factory operating both have reasons to be concerned about their future. Their interests sometimes conflict. Finding an arrangement that allows them to live alongside one another is the challenge.

Looking back, the most interesting moments in the dairy industry’s history may be the occasions when people stopped fighting long enough to negotiate. Kerin and the farmer leaders in that locked room. Russell Fredericks and Geoff Boxsell talking during their drive to Sydney. Farmers, vendors and processors sitting around George Davey’s pricing committee, part of the negotiations associated with the group the industry nicknamed the “milk mafia”.

Those conversations didn’t solve every problem. Some produced compromises that quickly unravelled. Others helped organisations and communities survive. I wonder how much of our energy, in agriculture and beyond, goes into proving that the other side is wrong. And how much we invest in understanding what they are trying to protect.

We teach children about the great wars of history, the victories, the defeats, the treaties and the terrible human cost. Perhaps we could spend a little more time teaching them how to negotiate before a disagreement becomes a conflict, and how to recognise when compromise is possible without abandoning what is fair.

As for the dairy industry, through every strike, blockade, court case, merger, price war and family grudge, the cows remained magnificently indifferent. Morning and afternoon, they turned up to be milked. They had no interest in who won.

And perhaps, after more than a century of dairy industry warfare, the question is whether the rest of us can learn to live with an outcome in which nobody has to lose.

Dear reader  FYI Dairy Farmers, with a capital D and F, refers to the Dairy Farmers Co-operative and the company that followed. Little bit of history – Dairy Farmers Milk Cooperative was formed on 15 January 1900. Sixty five stakeholders from the New South Wales Illawarra region, came together and agreed to run the organisation on true co-operative lines.

Dairy farmers, with a little d and f, are the people milking the cows. They were not always on the same side.

The reports list the costs and leave out the 4am alarm

I’ve spent this week reading 25 years of government reports on the NSW dairy industry. A Senate inquiry, two NSW parliamentary inquiries, three ACCC reports and the Department of Primary Industries’ latest industry overview.

I now know an extraordinary amount about structural adjustment, processing rationalisation, labour constraints and climate variability. I’ve also developed considerable sympathy for anyone whose job involves writing these reports.

The numbers are extraordinary. In 2000, NSW had 1,725 dairy farms. By 2025, that number had fallen to 443. Over the same period, the average herd more than doubled, from 155 to 343 cows, while annual milk production per cow increased by almost 50 per cent, from 4,827 to 7,013 litres.

The average herd has more than doubled, while each cow is producing nearly half as much milk again.

Apparently, the solution to having fewer farmers is to give the remaining ones twice as many cows and expect each cow to produce half as much milk again.

My family has been milking cows in this district since 1831, so I have some idea what happens behind those impressive statistics.

The reports list labour constraints. That’s the relief milker ringing at 3.30am to announce that his car has broken down. The cows, unfortunately, have not received the memo.

Input costs include the hay you bought in March for twice what you paid last year because the rain stopped in January. Land values are the neighbour selling to a developer, while your children calculate whether they could ever afford to come home and take over the farm.

Processing rationalisation is the letter announcing the closure of the dairy factory your grandfather helped build. Your milk will now travel another two hours to be processed somewhere else. The report calls this improved industry efficiency. Your grandfather might have had another description.

And then there’s the weather. The official terminology includes “climate variability, rainfall and irrigation reliability, heat and humidity, and natural disasters”. My friend Kate calls these things headwinds.

Dairy farmers have been dealing with them for generations. In a 1976 paper I found among the Nowra Dairy Co-operative records, Bega farmers said it like it is

“Come fire, flood or drought the milk must be produced.”

I came across a submission from Jackie Norman to the NSW parliamentary dairy inquiry. Jackie started dairying at 19. Looking back on what she called the industry’s golden era, she recalled that the hours were so long and the demands so intense that there wasn’t even time to prepare proper meals.

The golden era! I’d hate to see what she put down for the difficult years.

Of course, you could replace the dairy farm with almost any small business. The government reports would list compliance costs, energy prices, wages and productivity.

The café owner would tell you about doing the BAS at the kitchen table at 10pm. The plumber would mention the invoice that’s been overdue for 90 days, from a customer big enough to make chasing payment uncomfortable. The shopkeeper could describe the summer storm that flooded the premises the week before Christmas, after all the stock had been paid for.

And every small business owner knows the experience of covering for an employee whose family has had an emergency. Policy researchers have a term for this: lived experience.

I’ve been thinking about those 1,282 dairy farms that disappeared from NSW over 25 years. Some farmers retired. Some sold. Some changed direction. Others fought for years to keep going before finally deciding they’d had enough.

The government reports record the closures, the increase in herd size, the improvement in production per cow and the economic consequences of industry restructuring.

What I’d like to know is how many of those farmers remember the morning they milked their cows for the last time. And whether, after a lifetime of getting up at 4am, they managed to sleep in the following morning.

Milk and men (no women) and the archive we inherit

I am writing the history of the Jamberoo dairy factory.

The minutes are thorough. Motions moved. Votes carried. Chairmen thanked. Directors named.

The record is male because in that era authority was male.

That is the structure the archive preserves.

From the 1940s through to the 1970s the dairy industry ran on family labour. Women rose for early milking. They fed calves. They sterilised equipment. They kept the production books and the household accounts. They stretched the milk cheque across machinery payments and grocery bills. They managed rationing in drought years. They hosted meetings. They sustained community networks. They carried the emotional load when prices dipped or disease struck.

None of of that appears in the official file.

Board minutes record motions. Newspapers quote chairmen. Legislation names directors. The kitchens and calf sheds rarely make print. Even our local retrospectives, rich in civic detail, move through institutions and office holders.  In the Kiama Independent Our History Supplement the pattern is consistent. Public life is recorded through public roles.

The tragedy sits elsewhere. The women who carried half the enterprise are now largely gone, and their voices were rarely recorded in their own words.

Oral history could have balanced the record. Time has narrowed that opportunity. It is archival reality.

When I read through factory reports and industry correspondence, I can trace leadership decisions with precision. I can follow drought policy, milk zones, compensation debates. I can name the men who chaired meetings and negotiated with ministers.

I cannot hear the conversation at the kitchen table when the milk price fell.
I cannot see the private calculations made after a vet bill arrived.
I cannot read the words of a woman who rose at 4 am and went to bed after the books were balanced.

Half the enterprise sits between the lines.

Wanting to change that makes sense. It shifts the lens forward rather than back. It asks who is documenting women’s lived experience now, while those voices are still present. It asks whose work is counted as leadership.

If we are serious about industry history, we record the boardroom and the calf shed. We record the motion and the margin. We record the lived experience

Interviews, recorded conversations, written reflections. These are not embellishments. They are structural repair.

An industry history written only through formal office leaves half the story implied.

I am writing “Milk and men (and no women.)”

The next chapter needs different sources. I hope those voices can be found

If Google cannot find you, did you even happen? Putting Jamberoo firmly on the digital map

Source Facebook 

Marketing guru Gaye Steel is a friend and mentor. In passing, she said something that made me smile and then made me act. If you are not on Google, you do not exist.

She was talking about what lasts.

A digital footprint carries a story beyond the last person who remembers it. Beyond the neighbour who knows. Beyond the family who tells it at the table.

Gaye is someone worth listening to because she has spent decades making big organisations move, not talking about it. She understands what cuts through because she has been responsible for ideas that had to work in the real world, at scale, with no room for excuses.

At McDonald’s, Gaye was at the centre of market defining innovation. She led the launch of products that reshaped the brand’s Australian offer, including Flake n Cone, McFlurry, McOz, and the first Family Meal Deal. These initiatives strengthened McDonald’s market leadership and showed her ability to translate consumer insight into large scale commercial success.

Gaye Steel taught me that good advice is meant to be used. So I used it, nudging a few Jamberoo legends onto the internet and leaving enough breadcrumbs that when someone types a name into a search bar, something comes back.

Think of it as historical housekeeping, with a keyboard. A way of making sure the people who shaped this place do not quietly slip out of view.

Geoff Boxsell and Kevin Richardson are a perfect example. Between them, they created the formula for spreadable butter, something that changed how Australians eat at breakfast. For years they were far too quiet about it. Hardly anyone in Jamberoo knew the full story.

Geoff Boxsell gets his first Instagram moment at 86 and somehow makes it look effortless. Read the story in Region Illawarra here 

Now the world does.

There are Google pages. Radio interviews. TV interviews  Podcast stories. A national audience hearing how two local blokes solved a practical problem and changed a national habit. The story has moved from sheds and factory floors into the places people actually look.

Listen on Apple Podcasts

This work also connects back to why I started digging so deeply in the first place. When I spoke with Dr Tony Gilmour, who has been documenting local history for years, I told him I wanted to ground my book in what Jamberoo was like in the late 1800s and early 1900s. He warned me there was not a great deal of Jamberoo history written down.

If the record is thin, what we add now carries weight. Digital footprints are not about promotion. They are about continuity. They give future storytellers somewhere solid to start.

Jamberoo’s residents are proud of our village. Always have been. What has changed is that we are now firmly on the digital map as well. Our stories are there, searchable, linked, and ready to be found.

And that feels like a good thing to leave behind.

Never underestimate the role of men in amplifying feminism

Image credit Sylvia Liber

I am deep in the late 1800s for my novel, working through co-operative records, newspapers, council minutes, and the small details that tell you how people actually lived. The book is a historical novel set in a dairy valley on the NSW South Coast at the turn of the twentieth century. The further I go, the more familiar the patterns feel.

I grew up a sixth-generation dairy farmer. By the time I came along, technology was everywhere on the farm. The cows were unimpressed. They still needed milking 365 days a year, twice a day, sometimes three. The machines changed. The stories stayed.

My mother milked cows before and after school. Her mother did the same. I noticed how normal it all sounded.

My father had one rule. “Never ever ever learn to milk a cow.” He wasn’t joking. He made it clear to my sister and me that our younger brother would inherit the farm. There would be nothing for us to inherit. That rule came from his mother, who hated milking cows and moved heaven and earth to make sure her daughter had an education. He carried that lesson forward. That advice probably did more for my feminism than any book I read later.

My father’s logic belonged to the nineteenth century. Sons inherited. Daughters adjusted. It is now very outdated, and it deserves to be named as such.

My father is gone. My brother sold the farm. The logic did not survive either.

That family arrangement was not unusual. It sits squarely inside what the historical record shows.

The Illawarra co-operative story is usually told through factories, boards, and balance sheets. What sits underneath it is work done by whole families, organised around necessity rather than choice, as documented in Illawarra Co-operatives: The First One Hundred Years (University of Wollongong, 2014).

Most dairy farms in the late nineteenth century were small, around 30 to 60 hectares. Life for men, women, and children was exhausting and relentless, shaped by weather, seasons, and livestock. Every day, a family spent about four hours milking an average herd of thirty cows. There were no days off.

Men’s labour was constant and physical. They cleared land, fenced paddocks, planted and harvested feed, cared for stock, maintained buildings, and carted milk and butter to market over poor roads and long distances. Their work was visible.

Women’s labour ran alongside this. Women ran households, cooked and cleaned, bore and raised large families, drove herds, milked twice a day, sterilised equipment, tended poultry, pigs, and gardens, and rose as early as 2am in summer to prepare butter for market. In poorer families, women took on heavier outdoor work as well.

Children worked before and after school, when school was possible at all. At Kiama Public School, the timetable was adjusted to fit around milking. Education bent to agriculture, not the other way around.

Butter making was slow and physically demanding, but it mattered because butter paid the bills. Cream rose when it could. Sometimes it soured. It was still skimmed, ripened, churned by hand, and packed for market.

This is the pressure co-operation responded to.

From the late 1880s into the 1890s, factories shifted part of this work into shared systems. Separators, refrigeration, and rail transport mattered. So did the effect on daily life. Time pressure eased. Physical exhaustion reduced. Risk moved out of kitchens and sheds and into collective arrangements. The work still depended on women, but it no longer sat entirely on their backs.

Women were never named as founders or directors. Yet the system depended on their labour, endurance, and availability. Co-operation did not remove women’s work. It reorganised it.

This is where Joseph Weston enters the story.

As editor and proprietor of the Kiama Independent, Weston used the newspaper to argue for co-operation as a response to how work was actually being carried out in the district. He wrote about structure, not sentiment. He brought labour that had been treated as private into public discussion and made it part of the economic conversation.  After this much time in his columns, I have developed an entirely unreasonable fondness for him.

Local newspapers did more than report. They shaped what communities thought could change. Weston used the platform he had.

This is not about men granting permission. It is about who had access to the microphone, and what they chose to say into it.

A later layer of visibility comes from historical scholarship. The 2014 history Illawarra Co-operatives: The First One Hundred Years records women’s labour throughout the system. One pattern stands out. Women are named largely in contemporary chapters. In the foundational period, women’s labour is described in detail, but individual women are not identified. The work is present. The names are not.

My work begins there.

My book is relevant now because communities still decide who women are faster than they listen to who they might be. The Illawarra co-operative movement worked because entire families carried it. Some men used their access to make that visible at the time. The task now is to keep it visible.

History of Dairying – From horse and dray to robots in the shed

For much of the last century, dairy farming was shaped by muscle, routine, and ingenuity. Milk did not move easily, and neither did the work. Every change in transport and milking reshaped daily life on farms and quietly transformed the industry.

In the early days, milk left the farm in ten gallon cans, each weighing close to sixty kilograms when full.

Cows were hand milked, usually twice a day, and the milk was strained, cooled as best it could be, and poured into cans.

Image source 

Those cans were loaded onto a horse and dray, or slid down timber milk slides on steep country, then carted to the factory. In wet weather, roads became mud, wheels bogged, and schedules slipped. Strength mattered. So did reliability. Missing a collection was not an option.

As farms grew and roads improved, mechanisation crept in. Hand milking gave way to early machines, powered first by kerosene or small engines, later by electricity. Milking sheds changed shape. Bail sheds replaced open yards, hygiene improved, and consistency lifted. The work was still hard, but it was faster and more predictable.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, significant advancements were made in milking machine technology, with the introduction of vacuum-operated systems that improved milk extraction efficiency and reduced stress on the animals. These early milking machines were typically stationary units that required cows to be brought to the machine for milking.

Transport followed the same path. Horse and dray gave way to trucks, still collecting milk in cans, but covering more ground. Then came one of the biggest shifts of all, bulk milk collection. Instead of lifting cans, milk flowed directly from the vat into a tanker. For farmers, it meant less physical strain and better milk quality. For factories, it meant scale, efficiency, and the ability to plan.

Jamberoo Dairy Factory, mid-20th century.
Milk arrived in many ways at once, by horse and dray from nearby farms, by individual trucks, and by larger trucks collecting milk from multiple properties, marking the transition from horse-powered dairying to mechanised transport.

Bulk tanks on farms changed shed design again. Cooling became immediate and controlled. Milk could be held safely until collection. The daily rhythm altered, but the discipline remained.

Large dairies today often have 20,000 litre milk vats

Today, the shed tells a different story again. Rotary dairies, automatic cup removers, and data screens sit where stools and buckets once did. In some sheds, robotic milking systems allow cows to choose when they are milked. Sensors track yield, health, and feed intake in real time. Transport is integrated into logistics systems that optimise routes and timing.

Rotary Dairy System 

What has not changed is the logic behind every shift. Each step aimed to protect milk quality, reduce risk, and make the work sustainable. The tools look different, but the principles are the same.

Robotic Dairy System 

From horse hooves on muddy tracks to stainless steel tankers and robots in the shed, dairy farming has always adapted. The story of transport and milking is not about nostalgia or novelty. It is about problem solving, step by step, generation by generation.

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From three factories to one co-operative how Jamberoo dairying consolidated by 1926

 

Jamberoo Central Dairy Company built Waughope Butter Factory.
Described in November 1887 via Trove as the most complete butter factory on the South Coast, with innovative milk-receiving and weighing systems handling nearly 1,600 gallons a day from 19 suppliers opening 6 weeks before the Woodstock factory began operating. 

Before Jamberoo became known for a single, strong co-operative factory, the valley lived through a long period of experimentation, competition, and hard lessons.

In the earliest years of dairying, Jamberoo farms were largely self-contained. Milk was separated on farm, butter was made for household use, skim milk fed pigs, and any surplus was carted out by horse and dray. Cream, not milk, was the product that travelled. It was heavy, slow, and vulnerable to spoilage, and prices were unpredictable.

Cream on farm was left to separate in these shallow pans ( Dowling 1888) 

The arrival of butter factories in the late nineteenth century changed everything. Factories offered scale, consistency, and access to wider markets. For Jamberoo farmers, they were not about convenience, they were about survival in an increasingly volatile industry.

For a time, Jamberoo supported three separate dairy factories, each with its own promise and its own problems.

The Jamberoo Central Dairy Company built the Waughope Factory in late 1887, was the earliest and most familiar. It symbolised progress for many local farmers, a move away from purely farm-based production toward factory butter. Over time, Jamberoo Central  became entangled in unstable supply arrangements, including dealings with Fresh Food & Ice and later the collapse of the Farmers’ & Settlers’ Co-operative. By the early 1900s, it was carrying debt, ageing plant, and fragile contracts. Its difficulties showed that longevity alone could not protect a factory from structural weakness. in 1908 it was rebranded as Jamberoo Dairy Factory

The Druewalla Factory was smaller and shorter-lived, but its role was pivotal. Located on Jamberoo Mountain, it was positioned to serve farms on the escarpment and upper country, where steep terrain made hauling milk down into the valley slow, heavy, and costly. In practical terms, its location made sense for those suppliers. Strategically, it did not. Druewalla drew milk from the same finite district as Woodstock and Jamberoo Central, intensifying internal competition rather than strengthening Jamberoo as a whole. When Druewalla closed in 1898, reducing three factories to two, the lesson was clear. Fragmentation carried a cost, and Jamberoo was paying it.

The Woodstock Dairy Factory was the most modern and ambitious of the three. Better equipped and quicker to adopt refrigeration, it demonstrated what investment and scale could achieve. But its success destabilised the local balance. Milk flowed away from weaker factories, accelerating their decline. When Woodstock installed refrigeration in 1899, negotiations with Waughope collapsed. Coexistence was no longer viable.

Woodstock Dairy Factory, Jamberoo. 

Woodstock Factory opened in the 1887, followed by Druewalla in 1891, which
was amalgamated with Woodstock nine years late.
By 1903 the Woodstock Factory was supplied by 70 farmers and was equipped with refrigeration, large churns, and capacity that regularly exceeded expectations

By the 1890s and early 1900s, the wider Illawarra dairy industry was under intense pressure. Proprietary companies, agents, separating stations, and co-operatives all competed for control of supply. Farmers were often paid on terms they did not set and bore the risk when milk was condemned or prices fell. Small factories struggled with debt, hygiene standards, and access to markets.

What followed was a slow, sometimes bruising move towards consolidation.

Jamberoo farmers watched neighbouring districts falter and learned quickly that independence without bargaining power left them exposed. Co-operation became not an idealistic choice, but a practical one.

By the early 1900s, Jamberoo was moving towards a single local factory model. Consolidation meant fewer plants, but stronger ones. It meant shared investment in buildings, machinery, refrigeration, and transport. It also meant shared rules, shared standards, and shared accountability.

Timeline

  • 1887: Two competing co-operative factories open within 6 weeks of each other
    → Jamberoo Central also known as Waughope ( Factory Lane formerly Waughope Lane)
    → Woodstock (north, near Curramore Rd)

  • By 1891: Druewalla operates as a smaller plant or receiving point

  • 1898: Druewalla closes
    → first step toward consolidation

  • 1899: Woodstock installs refrigeration
    → negotiations with Waughope fail

  • 1908: The cooperative story consolidates formally under the Jamberoo Co-operative Dairy Company  name

  • 1926: Jamberoo Central and Woodstock merge

The formal reconstruction of the Jamberoo Co-operative Dairy Company in 1908 and its merger with Woodstock Factory in 1926 allowed it to absorb the assets, debts, and hard-won lessons of  Jamberoo Central, Druewalla, and Woodstock. From that point on, Jamberoo spoke to the wider dairy world through one factory, one set of books, and one board.

 Jamberoo had achieved something many districts struggled to do. It had consolidated its local dairy industry into a single co-operative, aligned with wider Illawarra networks but grounded firmly in the valley.

Note in the late 1880s in Jamberoo were a period of experimentation and competition, with factories opening within months of each other, technology evolving fast, and records being kept for different purposes. Information for this post was accessed from Milk for the Metropolis by Jan Todd,  W Boxsell’s History of Jamberoo Cooperative Dairy Factory and other sources including Bluehaven by W A Bailey, and the Kiama Independent. 

#JamberooHistory #DairyHistory #IllawarraDairying #CooperativeMovement #AustralianAgriculture #RuralHistory #CommunityEnterprise #MilkAndButter #FarmersWorkingTogether #JamberooDairy #AgriculturalInnovation #SharedRiskSharedReward