How the team carries the team.

Lambing is now over halfway, and that always feels like a real milestone. It gives you a moment—just a moment—to lift your head, look around, and remember how fortunate we are to do what we do.

(Yes… I’ve had a good morning round, and I’m feeling it.)

But I want to touch on something that feels almost taboo—at least for me.

During lambing—and plenty of other times in farming—we burn the candle at both ends without thinking. Jobs stack up faster than we can clear them. The to-do list never seems to shrink. The same water bucket needs changing five times a day because a ewe’s decided it’s also a toilet. You finish one round, and another lamb’s on the ground. You sit down for five minutes, and there’s a prolapse, a slow feeder, or a pen needing rebedding.

It just keeps coming.

And somewhere in all that, we convince ourselves we can just keep going. Run and run. Push through. Get it done.

But the truth is—we can’t.

Your body doesn’t work like that. It needs rest if you expect it to keep performing. It’s no different to weight training—if you keep lifting day after day without recovery, you don’t get stronger… you break down. The gains happen in the rest, not just the work.

And that brings me to the bit I struggle with—the real taboo (in my own head anyway):

Having a nap.

That voice kicks in straight away—

“How dare you?”

“You’ve got this, this, this and this to do.”

“You can sleep later.”

But later never really comes, does it?

My body has a way of telling me when I’ve pushed too far.

For me, it’s mouth ulcers—every lambing, like clockwork. That’s when I know I’m running on low battery. And if that’s happening, I also know my head’s not right. I’m slower, more irritable, more likely to react the wrong way… or not react at all when I should.

That’s the danger point.

But I’m one of the fortunate ones—I’ve got a team around me who recognise it now. They see the signs before I even say anything. Sometimes they step in and take over a job without fuss. Sometimes they make a call I might miss. And sometimes, they just know to leave me be for five minutes.

That awareness—that quiet understanding—makes all the difference.

I think back to lambing at the Muirheads in Crieff. The numbers there were on a completely different scale to what we have on the croft, but the principle was the same: get as many out and alive as possible.

What really sticks with me isn’t just the work—it’s the camaraderie.

If one of us was having an off day, the others just rallied round. No big discussion, no drama. Someone would quietly feed your pens. Someone else would check your lambs. Jobs you hadn’t got to yet would just… be done.

Other times it was lighter—taking the piss, keeping spirits up, breaking the tension when things were getting heavy. A daft comment in the shed at 2am, just enough to reset your head before going again.

And then there were moments where nothing needed said at all—just someone beside you, getting stuck in.

That’s what got you through. The team carried the team.

And really, our crofting community isn’t all that different.

We like to think we’re independent, but the truth is none of us does this alone. At some point, everyone needs a hand—and more often than not, someone’s there to give it.

You see it especially at this time of year.

A simple post goes up—“lamb available”—and within minutes it’s moving round the local groups. Someone’s ewe has lost a lamb, or won’t take to her own, and suddenly there’s a chain of people making that connection happen.

One crofter has a spare lamb. Another needs one. Someone offers to hold it for a few hours. Someone runs it across the island in the back of a pickup.

No fuss. No overthinking. Just people solving a problem.

During one of the rougher days this week, I got a phone call from a lady in the neighbouring village. Now, that’s not unusual—it’s normally,

“your sheep are on the road,”

“your sheep are eating my flowers,” or

“your sheep have absolutely destroyed my driveway.”

Standard public relations work.

But this one was different.

We’re still missing a handful of ewes off the hill, and this one—unbeknownst to me—had quietly clocked out of hill life and moved herself onto this lady’s croft.

And not just for a quick visit—she’d been there the best part of two months.

Two months of solo grazing. Shelter. Peace and quiet. No competition. While the rest of them were still up on the hill battling the elements like mugs.

Honestly… you almost have to respect it.

The lady—Maletta—lives on her own, and over that time she’d struck up quite the bond with this sheep. To the point she’d given her a name: Mrs H.

(Which already tells you who was really in charge of that situation.)

The reason for the call?

Mrs H had just gone and produced a cracking set of twins, and Maletta quite rightly thought, “I’d better let someone know before I end up running a full maternity unit here.”

So I went to check on them…

And of course—typical sheep—she didn’t need a thing.

Absolutely spot on. And now has one of the best sets of twins we have on the Croft 

But the best part of it isn’t even the lambs.

It’s that for those couple of months, that ewe gave Maletta a bit of company—and in return got the VIP treatment: good grazing, shelter, and someone keeping an eye on her.

A runaway ewe accidentally landing herself a private croft and a personal stockperson… you’d nearly try and plan it if you thought you could get away with it.

In the middle of a tough, tiring lambing season, it’s one of those daft, feel-good stories that just lifts things a notch when you need it.

And it says the same thing, really, as everything else.

This way of life works because of people.

So maybe that’s the balance we need to get better at during lambing.

Knowing when to push on—but also knowing when to stop, even briefly, and let the body catch up. Because whether it’s mouth ulcers, a short temper, or a foggy head, the signs are usually there if we’re honest enough to see them.

And just like no sheep thrives when it’s run into the ground, neither do we.

The thing is—we’re not doing it alone.

Whether it’s a team in a big shed rallying round without a word, or a crofting community passing a lamb from one end of the island to the other—or even a neighbour quietly looking after a runaway ewe—this way of life has never been about one person carrying it all.

It works because people step in.

It works because people notice.

And it works because, when one of us is running on empty, someone else quietly helps carry the load.

So maybe having a rest—having that nap—isn’t something to fight against.

Maybe it’s just trusting that, for a short while, the team—and the community—have got you covered.