Run over by April.

I’ve been putting this blog off. Part of me feels like writing it is just feeding the wolf—all doom and gloom, nothing good to say.

But this is the reality. This is how it was. And if it reads badly, that’s because it was bad.

The numbers don’t lie. No amount of positivity is going to dress this up or change it. I’ve just come through the worst lambing of my life.

So those three paragraphs stay exactly as they are—no polishing that.

That said, here’s the important bit—I’ve come through it. It’s done. The dust is starting to settle, and the warmer end-of-April sun has that fresh, almost clean smell about it again. The kind that makes you stop for a second, breathe it in, and remember why you put yourself through all this in the first place.

Like I’ve said before, a good hill shepherd always looks back behind him, just to see what he might have missed. And here I am—washed out, done in, running on fumes—looking back over it all and thinking… what bus just hit me? Must’ve been one of those double-deckers. And I’m fairly sure it reversed back over me for good measure, just to be certain.

For those of you who don’t know me, I’m usually an upbeat guy. I try to find the positive in most situations—sometimes to the point it probably annoys people. But even I’ve surprised myself with how much this lambing season has got to me.

I remember two years ago when so many farmers and crofters had an awful time with constant wet weather. We had it wet too, but our flock got off lightly. I remember thinking how bad it must be, and I did feel for them—but the truth is, until you live it yourself, day after day of losses, of ewes and lambs gone for all sorts of reasons, you can’t fully understand it.

Well, this year I’ve worn those shoes down to the soles… and then kept walking on what was left of my feet. Which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t the best long-term plan.

And that’s the thing that’s stuck with me most—just how much a person can actually take before it catches up with them.

Everyone has a limit. There’s only so much you can take before something gives.

You see it clearly enough with physical work—some folk are stronger, some can go longer, some just have that extra gear. We all know the type. The ones who somehow look fresh while you’re questioning your life choices halfway through the day.

But when it comes to what’s going on in your head, it’s not as obvious. You can’t see it like weight on a bar. Some people carry a far heavier load than others, and you’d never know just by looking at them.

Most of the time, that’s seen as a good thing. You’re the one who gets on with it. You don’t complain, you don’t make a fuss—you just crack on.

And that gets rewarded. In this job especially, it has to be like that. The work doesn’t stop because you’ve had enough. Sheep definitely don’t check in to see how you’re feeling before causing the next problem.

But there’s a downside.

If you’re used to pushing through, ignoring how you feel and just getting the job done, you don’t suddenly switch that off when the day ends.

You take it home with you.

You’ll put up with things you shouldn’t. Tell yourself it’s fine, or it’ll pass, or it’s just part of it. You keep going, because that’s what you do.

And the stronger you are, the longer you can keep that going. Which sounds great—right up until it isn’t.

From the outside it looks like strength. But in reality, you’re just leaving yourself behind somewhere along the way.

You get used to thinking that if something’s hard, it must be worth it. That if it’s a struggle, there’s meaning in it. So when something feels off, you don’t see it as a warning—you just see it as something else to get through.

But not everything is meant to be endured.

Some things are just not right—no matter how good you are at putting up with them.

And the problem is, if you’ve spent years telling yourself to get on with it, you stop noticing where your limit actually is. You don’t ask, “Do I want this?”—you just ask, “Can I handle it?”

And the answer, more often than not, is yes.

That’s where it catches you out.

Because being able to handle something doesn’t mean you should. And there’s no medal waiting at the end for quietly putting up with too much—despite what we sometimes tell ourselves at 2am in a lambing shed.

Farming and crofting has a way of rewarding exactly that mindset. You keep going because the stock need you, the weather won’t wait, and there’s always another job needing done. Before you know it, you’re not checking how you are—you’re just checking if everything else is still standing. And even that feels like a bonus some days.

I suppose in writing this I’m trying to put into words what it feels like when you’re doing your absolute utmost to do the best job you can—and still end up wondering where it all went wrong. Or if it even did.

Failing is not something I choose. In the moment—when the wind is lashing your face and the rain is stinging you on the bike as you race home to try and save another six hypothermic lambs—that’s not me accepting failure. That’s me doing everything I possibly can.

And I know I’m not alone in that. Up and down the country, there are plenty doing exactly the same.

If that means two hours’ sleep, so be it.

If that means missing meals and running on coffee and hope, so be it.

If that means dragging yourself out in the dark knowing full well what you might find, so be it.

If that means sitting in a heap at the end of it, completely spent—mentally and physically—so be it.

Although I will say, coffee and hope is a questionable long-term nutrition plan.

So where do we go from here?

For me, it’s simple—draw a line in the sand. It’s done. It’s over. There’s nothing more I can do about it now. No amount of replaying it in my head is going to change a single outcome.

But maybe by sharing it, it helps someone else going through the same thing realise they’re not the only one feeling like they’ve been hit by Luke Stoltman and told to get back up and carry on.

Myself and Noah are marking lambs tomorrow, and we’ll have a laugh while doing it—because somehow, even after all this, there’s still plenty to laugh about. That’s probably half the reason we get through it.

At the end of the day, I still consider myself a very fortunate lad to be able to do the job I do, in a place like this—even if I’d quite happily press delete on April 2026 and never speak of it again.

As for next year, there will be a few changes—some well thought out, some probably decided at 3am and scribbled down somewhere I won’t find again until July.

Maybe a bit more shelter here, a bit less of “she’ll be fine” there, and possibly a strict rule about not trying to be in three places at once like some kind of budget superhero. Turns out I’m not as good at that as I thought.

I’ll tell myself I’ll be more organised, more prepared, and definitely more sensible… but I’ve been telling myself that for years, so we’ll see how long that lasts.

The main thing is I know I’ll be back to myself again—head clearer, legs working, and maybe even sleeping like a normal human.

And if all goes to plan, I’ll be swapping lambing sheds for trainers and convincing myself it’s a good idea to run a half marathon.

Which, after this spring, might actually feel like a bit of a rest.