In addition to this, I set about inadvertently electrocuting myself on paddock fence more times than I care to remember. Organic farming was proving to be test that no university education could prepare me for, and my appreciation of farmers soared.

The work was hard, but faking delight when meals were plated up was harder. Our meals came from garden and drinking water from sky. I’d enjoyed benefits of drive thru’s since Grease was playing in drive in’s and longed for a Mc’Anthing. The cook had two philosophies, ‘We need to be sustainable and eat food we grow’, which I understood, and ‘WOOFER’s will eat anything’, which I despised. True to her word, we would and we did, but never by choice. “I’ll pass on rack of lamb thanks, just dish me up some of that disgusting looking cabbage bake and some rainwater in a glass, Ta”.

Food was something we spooned into our mouth, chewed, swallowed and digested. Carbohydrates were always on menu, carbs equaled energy, and energy equaled fixed fences and weed-less vegetable patches. Everything that could be eaten was. Any food left over from WOOFER’s was given to cats, and any food cats refused was fed to chickens, although order of which I still remain skeptical. We’d collect chicken eggs, rip up spring onions and siphon water from gutters to continue cycle of farm life.

The horses, however, lived outside this cycle. They ate carrots, literally by lorry load, and when lorry was empty they turned to grass. We’d feed them and they’d belt us with their hooves as a way of saying thanks. They would also bite, nut, and stamp on impulse. With one between my legs I felt next stop was nearly always ground, and ground was far. ‘Just get up, and get back on its easy’, ‘There is a reason he’s bucking me off’. Horses are unquestionable beautiful and handled correctly probably receptive. But my relationship with them started with first shin kick and probably won’t continue past spreading manure on garden.

Still cycle continued. The work list never shortened and I was using more salt and pepper on my meals than ever. Progress and recognition were never achieved nor given and I soon felt drained and unwanted. This raw approach to life I’d craved a month prior was beating me. Operating such a self-sufficient lifestyle was very admirable, but I yearned for a glass of water that didn’t taste of roof and a bed with a mattress thicker than duvet.

I’d learned many skills, formed new friendships and put to bed any horse riding desires I had. I’d eaten my weight in carrot bread, could spot a Christmas fern from poison ash and tie a Flemish hitch faster than most boy scouts. But, it was time say goodbye to gang and farewell to Mother Earth. I scrawled Taupo on a sheet of cardboard and picked up my bag.