Flash back to around five weeks ago and you’ll find me on my hands and knees with my head in an oven (in the least suicidal way possible), desperately scrubbing at stubborn grease in an attempt to please our obsessive hosts.  Cleaning an oven to their standards involves an array of screwdrivers, and it’s a twice-a-week job. THERE IS MORE TO LIFE THAN CLEANING OVENS. Anyway, in walks aforementioned obsessive host, and fires me.

That’s right. We got fired from VOLUNTEER WORK. I truly believe that says much more about our hosts than it does about us. Although we were hugely grateful for the incredible accommodation, free afternoons and impressive views, we found ourselves frustrated and exasperated on an hourly basis – usually resulting in daily tears on my part. Exhausted from watching me cry all the time and with his brain slowly turning to monotonous-chore-induced mush, Sean eventually lost his temper and politely told our host where she could stick her opinions. She seemed irritated that Sean had mown around the large rocks on the lawn, despite issuing those specific instructions to him just minutes earlier… we considered that she was perhaps suffering from dementia, but in the end decided she just had a nasty case of unpleasantness. And so, without protest, we packed our bags and set out on a hunt to find something more suitable.

We’d always known that farm work was a requirement of the visa, but we were really hoping that we wouldn’t be counting down the days until home time and would instead find ourselves in inspiring and interesting work. Enter farm no. 2, which far exceeds all of our wildest expectations.

Our host is kind, generous, curious and a self-confessed nutcase. Current projects here include drenching and shearing sheep, marking calves, caring for a small army of birds, planting veggies, designing and building a new house, speed weeding (my favourite kind of weeding), developing a website, organising a library, renovating a campervan, mowing lawns, taking photos, and constantly helping out friends and neighbours. Boredom is pretty low down on the agenda.

And so to the animals – as well as owning two large blocks filled with sheep and cattle, the home itself is surrounded by furry creatures. We’re caring for four chickens, twelve newborn chicks, a rooster, ten ducks, five fish, a large male cow, a tiny poddy calf (no mother) and now an incubator full of soon-to-be ducklings.

The animals have little regard for the complex system of fences and gates that divide up the land – if there is a weakness in your fence, a sheep will find it and wander through to the grass-is-always-greener other side. They also don’t care whether this fence backs onto more of your land or someone else’s, so we often get phone calls from the neighbours to inform us that sheep/Baz are eating their flowerbeds. These phone calls are always followed by a hair-raising ride at breakneck speeds in order to catch and herd the culprits back to where they belong. I asked Andrew how he manages to drive so damn fast and keep an eye on the animals at the same time – he replied that he very rarely actually looks where he’s driving – I shouldn’t have asked.

On one of our trips to the largest block to check the sheep, we spied a small furry black lump lying in the shade. Closer inspection revealed it to be a tiny calf, miles away from its mother, malnourished, and in a paddock which the cows had never had access to (how she got herself in there is a bit of a mystery!). She was quickly christened Daisy – original – and has now become my little project. She lets you know if you’re late feeding her by gently head-butting the back door and mooing. She’s shooting up by the day, and is currently all gangly legs and gorgeous eyelashes. I’m a little obsessed. A couple of times this week I’ve accidentally squirted milk up her nose, which always results in a sneezing fit, which usually results in farting fits, which always results in me chuckling to myself for a solid twenty minutes.

Another one of the creatures pottering around the farm is the oversized baby who answers to the name Baz. Our host rescued him when he was of a similar age and malnourished state as Daisy, and hand reared him into the 600kg jet-black bull he is today. Baz still has the nature of a calf – he’ll wander over to investigate whatever projects you’re working on, be it planting vegetables or hanging out laundry, and apparently loves to snuggle. Completely unaware of his own strength, and armed with a rather pointy pair of horns, we had to embark on the unpleasant task of dehorning the poor chap. Our host told us it was just like cutting toenails. What he didn’t tell us is that it’s like cutting toenails WITH A CHAINSAW. Poor Baz kicked and wriggled as his huge horns were chopped off, blood literally spurting out of him in a way I thought only happened in cartoons. Half an hour later, he was staring me in the eye through the kitchen window, his left horn still forlornly spurting blood. I suspect he blames me. I give Baz even more space after that event.

I was always under the impression that roosters crowed at dawn, which is correct, but ours also crows when he’s startled, pleased, hungry, walking, sitting, observing, eating, scratching, raping (he does a lot of this), windswept, cold, hot, restless, or roostering. His body clock is definitely out of whack. I clipped his wings last week to stop him getting into the duck pen and attacking them – ever since then, he puffs himself up and glares whenever I’m in his proximity. I seem to be angering a lot of the animals here…