At just 29, Thomas Murdoch already understands that progress in farming rarely comes without weight. Named Farming’s Future Award winner at the Scottish Agriculture Awards, the Lochwood Farm dairy and poultry farmer from Saltcoats stands at the point where recognition meets responsibility. The title, he says, is an honour, but it sharpens the sense that the eyes of the industry are upon him.
“It feels like someone’s put money on you to be the future,” he admits with a laugh.
Thomas doesn’t fit the caricature of a young farmer chasing growth and expansion for its own sake. He is well spoken, pragmatic, and quick to credit the people around him. Yet beneath the laid-back exterior sits a clear understanding of modern farming’s realities: volatility, rising costs, tightening policy regulation, and the quiet truth that standing still is rarely an option.
From a distance, Lochwood Farm looks much like any Ayrshire holding – green fields rolling towards the coast, sheds set neatly against the landscape. Up close, it tells a different story. One of careful diversification, generational negotiation, and a young farmer learning how to stand on his own two feet without abandoning the family foundations that shaped him.
Growing into farming
Farming was never a fall-back for Thomas. “It was always what I wanted to do. My mum always gave me the option of other routes, but I always had the passion for it – it’s kind of in the blood,” he says.
The draw wasn’t just livestock or machinery but progress itself. “I always loved growing things – grass, barley, cattle. Even growing the farm itself. Putting up a shed, seeing the progress – that was right up my street,” he recalls, while looking upon a photo display of the farm over the years.
Like many young farmers, his early fascination lay with machines. “When you’re a teenager, you’re more into tractors and driving. It wasn’t until my early twenties that I really got into the cows and the breeding side.” By the time formal education came around, much of the groundwork had already been laid. “When you’re ten you can drive, by twelve you can weld. When I went to college I’d already learned half of it on the farm,” he says.
The confidence to try things and sometimes fail came from his father. “My dad was always like, ‘if you want to do it, let’s go.’ Even if you don’t stick with farming, you still learn so much,” Thomas explains.
Leaving to find a way back
Farming isn’t always a straight line. In 2015, when milk prices collapsed, the reality hit hard. “Dad just sat me down and said, ‘There’s not enough work’” Thomas remembers.
He stepped away, heading abroad to New Zealand for several months – an experience that widened his outlook and loosened the sense that remaining on the farm was the only possible future. Opportunity returned unexpectedly in the form of a poultry enterprise. “That’s what really kept me on the farm,” he says.
The hens were never meant to replace the dairy, but to stabilise income and spread risk. “I didn’t expect the hens to be the success they’ve been – but we knew it was a good way of bringing money in so all your eggs weren’t in one basket,” he says, pardoning himself for the pun. Today, the farm draws income from milk, beef and eggs. “I’ve never had all three good or all three bad – it always levels out,” Thomas reflects.
Running Sunny Side Up Free Range Eggs also brought something less visible but equally important: independence. “Having our own business gives us head space. It lets us make decisions and make mistakes – and that’s probably what’s kept me farming,” he says. Chelsea, his wife, sees the value of that separation: “It gives us our own room – and I think all young folk need a wee bit of that.”
And with that freedom came the decision to double the intake from 32,000 to 64,000.
Dairy at the core
Despite branching out, dairy remains the centre of Thomas’s ambition. “Dairy is where my passion is. That’ll be on my gravestone,” he says. The herd has evolved through experimentation. Montbéliarde and Norwegian Red genetics were trialled, but some things worked, others didn’t. “Holsteins are the bread and butter of dairy,” he notes.
Breeding decisions are conservative by design. Cattle are AI’d in-house, focusing on proven bulls rather than genomic risk. “If we can get more litres, we can put up another shed, maybe a new parlour or robots – that’s the next step,” Thomas adds. A rotary parlour, inspired by time spent in New Zealand, has long sat on the wish list.
The business spans 400 acres at Lochwood and 330 acres at High Smithston, where Thomas and Chelsea have their own operation. It’s the scale and diversity that give him breathing room to think and plan. “You can’t grow a farm if you’re constantly busy. Relief staff let me concentrate on things and think longer-term,” he says.
The people who make it work
No farm runs on one pair of shoulders. Lex Watt, the dairyman, has been with the family as long as Thomas can remember. “Lex has been here about 30 years – you don’t get that anymore. He’s the dairyman, a great tractor driver, and you can trust him,” Thomas says. Robbie Walker, who left and later returned, provides flexibility across a multitude of tasks. “Robbie’s just one of those guys – wherever you need him, he’ll go,” he notes. “It really makes a difference to have a strong team on the farm everyday.”
His father, Robert, still oversees the dairy, bringing a work ethic shaped by a different era. “My dad’s a grafter – up at five every morning, last out at night. He’s got a different mindset: if you’re not grafting 24/7, he wonders where you are,” Thomas says. Respect runs both ways, tempered by practical experience.
The wider team, including relief staff, allows Thomas to think longer-term. “You need a mix: a few people who are really on it, and others who enjoy the nature of the work,” he explains. That variety also feeds morale. Silage, for example, is one of the highlights of the year. “Everyone loves silage. It gives the staff a mix, and it keeps morale up. It’s a good laugh,” he says.
A public window
Much of Thomas’s public profile comes via TikTok, where nearly 15,000 followers watch farm life unfold. “TikTok wasn’t really my thing at first – Chelsea drove it,” he says. What began as marketing soon became a platform for storytelling, networking, and recruitment. “We’ve had folk message us about work through TikTok – even if it’s just, ‘maybe in a few months,’ it’s a useful tool” Thomas notes.
Recognition has come in unexpected ways: being recognised abroad, invited to events, and even attracting brand interest. “People come in and say, ‘If you buy this, we’ll give you a discount if you make a video.’ That’s when my dad started turning,” he recalls with a laugh.
The reach has altered perceptions, even within his own family. At first, his father worried it looked like showing off. Now, the platform is valued as part of a modern, credible business.
Pressure, possibility, and the road ahead
Being labelled ‘the future’ brings expectation. Thomas feels it, but pragmatically. “I’m no different from other young farmers – we’ve all got a positive attitude for the future,” he says. Farming is changing, he knows. Smaller herds may struggle. Scale matters. Timing matters. “Milk’s too volatile over 20 years – it wouldn’t pay the farm on its own,” he says.
Debt, he adds, isn’t something to fear if the plan is solid. “Keep your bank manager as your best friend. I plan to be very good friends with Terry Butcher at Oxbury Bank,” he jokes.
In ten years, he hopes for a business that is sustainable, diverse, and supported by a strong team. There will be more chickens. There may be a rotary parlour. And, with plans underway for an events space too it is certain that the future of the Murdoch’s farming enterprise is in same hands.
For now, Thomas remains where he has always been most comfortable: building steadily, asking questions, and picking up the ball when it lands at his feet. “When the ball lands at your feet, you don’t ask – you just pick it up and run,” he says. “Sometimes when an opportunity comes, you just take it.”
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