Running a homestead is rarely a straight line. It meanders, loops back on itself, and occasionally ties you into knots you didn’t know were possible. This spring feels like the first time in years that the path has leveled out, or at least stopped tripping me every second step. Earlier this year, after the last exhausting calving season, I bought three more young heifers and a bull. You may remember the bull, Ernie, from way back in March — solid, enthusiastic, and absolutely certain of his life’s purpose. The moment he arrived on the property, he strutted into the paddock with the confidence of a seasoned movie star and got straight to work. No hesitation. No shyness. Just Ernie being Ernie. Once his fatherly responsibilities were underway, the seasons marched past with their usual drama. Summer crept in hot and dry. Then came one of the most colourful autumns I’ve seen here, trees blazing gold and red under crisp blue skies. After that, winter arrived in spectacular fashion, blanketing the farm in white and providing the sort of snowfalls that make feeding animals feel like an Arctic expedition. And then, finally, spring. A cold spring, so far at least, with temperatures reluctant to climb, mornings still frosted, but spring nevertheless. The kind of season where flowers bloom out of sheer determination and trees unfurl fresh leaves whether we think the weather is cooperating or not. And the cows, as always, begin to round out as calving time approaches. But this year, the weight gain was strategic. Last year my first attempt with pregnant heifers was a disaster; oversized calves, difficult births, and more manual pulling than I care to relive. I promised myself I wouldn’t repeat the same mistake. Pregnant heifers and endless feed do not mix. This time, their grazing was monitored. No more Titanic-sized cows drifting majestically across belly-deep paddocks. They’re healthy, but not over-conditioned; round, but not alarming. On the afternoon of November 7th, while glancing out the kitchen window, I noticed one of the heifers lying in the paddock. Something small, white and wobbly shifted beside her. Our first arrival. A beautiful little heifer calf, born easily, quietly, and without a single complication. A textbook birth. It was the kind of moment that catches you off guard, not with panic, but with relief. Almost a week later, Domino arrived, lively and alert, white with black points and a few scattered black patches that earnt him his name. Again, no drama, no need for assistance, and less nervous pacing on my part. Watching a calf stand and stretch for the first time, discovering legs that seem entirely too long for its tiny body, is one of those small farm miracles that never wears thin. Thunderhoof will be next to calve; she’s been restless, shifting her weight, and showing all the signs that her own calf isn’t far away. Perhaps today. Or maybe tomorrow. After her, another three are still due. Last year, I was too naïve to feel dread, simply because I didn’t know what could go wrong. This year, I understand the risks, but instead of anxiety, there’s a steadier feeling settling in. So far, everything is unfolding the way it should. And then there’s Ernie. To my surprise, Ernie has revealed himself to be something of a gentle giant. A doting father, even. He has been spotted more than once on what can only be described as babysitting duty, standing quietly beside the calves, watching them, nosing them gently back toward their mothers if they wander too far. For a bull who strutted into the paddock like a four-legged Casanova, it’s unexpectedly tender behaviour. Perhaps even bulls have hidden depths. As I watch this year's calves find their footing, I can’t help but reflect on how much I’ve learnt. The mistakes of the past year were painful — emotionally, practically, and certainly financially — but they forced me to learn and adjust, and to try again when things go wrong. And now, the results of those lessons walk the paddocks on unsteady legs, reminding me daily that sometimes improvement is quiet, subtle, and measured in heartbeats rather than achievements. This spring, with its cold mornings and hesitant sunshine, has brought with it not only new calves but a reminder that second chances arrive in their own time, and sometimes wrapped in warm, damp fur...
