By Kerry Ormand

For a long time, I have been waiting in the wings to up my level of skills and responsibility on the farms.

I say farms as I support my husband, Alex, as well as my parents with their beef farms on South Ronaldsay, Orkney.

I grew up on Orkney and returned whole heartedly in 2014 after studying “doon sooth” for a few years. Once home, I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to work part-time so I can help at home on the farms.

I divvy up my spare time between Dad and Alex; time allocation is usually dependent on who’s doing what, you’d be surprised by how much more the other farm needs your help as soon as the words ‘pressure washing’ or ‘dehorning calves’ are uttered.

And I’ve even gone as far as to allocate myself the title of a farmer, and proudly so. I guess I’ve had a relatively cushy experience so far, with the odds always in my favour; usually being able to opt out of doing the byres if I can’t be hooped whilst still being able to relish carting silage in the sunshine, (there was that day of sunshine last year, wasn’t there?), listening to Clubland Classics all day and call it working.

However, after these last few weeks of ‘actually’ farming I’m not sure if I’m quite as deserving of the title. My shift, in perspective, has come about as my Dad has just undergone a planned operation which has left him unable to weight bear for a minimum of 6-8 weeks, which almost entirely covers our calving.

So, I have had to up my farming game and start learning, fast. Even as little as a month ago I had visions of it being grand, good in fact. Put some bales in with a tractor here, stare at some coos there, all with regular cups of tea and getting to yarn to folk about how lovely it all was.

Everything appeared to be under control, and the weather was even half decent. But then the calving started two weeks early with the arrival of twins.

Inevitably, over the coming days they took it in turns of teetering and tempting death. The smaller of the two, Tiny Tim, needed colostrum and kept a close eye on as he spent a fair bit of time chasing the coo round the pen who wouldn’t stand still to let him sook.

We had to stomach tube him and this was something that I have always been willing to assist with but doing it was nerve racking, but I managed. The cow has since settled, and Tiny Tim is sooking with no problems, only after a lot of worry and staring, of course.

The bigger guy must have been jealous of the extra attention that Tiny Tim had been receiving and so after days of confidently being the stronger, better, healthier of the two, he decided to pull septicaemia out the bag!

Fortunately, they are now going from strength to strength. The twins taught me a few things, how to use a stomach tube, the importance of being prepared and being able to find important things quickly such as said stomach tube, number for the vet and patience, which I appear to have lost again.

I also feel as if all my senses have been heightened to new levels. My once abrupt and hurried whip round with the fork on the slats has now resulted in me experiencing paranoia by the slightest unusual moo, or a cow that ‘doesn’t look right’.

This is largely due to Dad’s bonniest yearling stoat deciding to break his front leg, just for the way of it, on the day that Dad was due to come home from hospital. I was doing my said quick fork up when I saw the poor fullah stood staring at me and looking sorry for himself.

My stomach and jaw dropped when I saw that his front leg was swollen to twice the size that it should be. We phoned the vet and they confirmed that it was indeed a broken leg and that we would have to put him down.

My heart sank, and I really felt for this animal. I wasn’t upset, just gutted. As we stared at him someone trotted out the usual line of ‘when you have livestock, you have dead stock’ which is true, but it doesn’t take away how sick you feel. As I was wandering outside to get enough phone signal to share the good news with Dad, I walked past the pen with the twins. Having spent all morning, and the night before, doubting whether I was doing enough for Tiny Tim as he desperately chased the coo round the pen my spirits lifted as I seen him wagging his tale and not being able to sook hard enough.

Things haven’t always been melodramatic of course and as always, we are so thankful for the help and support we have been getting with keeping the farm running. Dad is recovering from his operation and he is very much used as our base camp, answering questions, or giving reassurance when needed.

Having been a farmer’s daughter for as long as I can remember these last few weeks have genuinely caught me off guard. I am more than used to the peaks and troughs of farming but what I have not been prepared for is the attentiveness that is required for a farm to run smoothly, I feel much more conscientious about the farm than ever before.

This is the first time that I have not been able to clock off at the end of my shift on the farm, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Being responsible and making decisions has made me more eager to go to the farm the next morning to see what the results are, and if my decision the day before was the right one. I hope I can be trusted to keep making decisions, and mistakes, and to be able to learn from them. So far, most things are still living and that’s always the priority.