This morning began, as many do, with fire and purpose.

I hurled a log into the stove with all the energy of someone who absolutely didn't want to be outside in the chilly morning air.

But duty calls, and animals don’t feed themselves, not unless you count that one chicken who thinks she's a goat.

So, out I went to do the rounds.

As I passed the electric fence energiser, I did my customary glance.

That little box is the gatekeeper of peace and productivity around here.

Normally, the display sits comfortably in the green zone.

Green means "buzzing and ready to zap the soul out of anything curious enough to touch it.

Today, though?

It was Red!

Red is bad.

For the uninitiated, red means something is wrong, like a ‘tree fell on the fence’ or ‘a cow has discovered electricity and is now trying to harness it for evil.’

In technical terms, it means there's a massive short somewhere.

But I'm calm.

Zen-like, even.

I continue on, feed the chickens, toss some hay to the sheep, and yell motivational phrases at the cows as they eat.

Then it’s time to walk the fenceline to find the problem.

It’s a lovely walk, all things considered.

Birds are chirping, my boots are making that satisfying squelch noise in the wet grass, and I find a few little things here and there, nothing important, just minor fence-tinkering.

No big smoking wire pileups or dramatic tree branches laying across a strand, though.

I fix what I find, walk back to the house, and flip the energiser back on.

Still red.

2.7 kilovolts of red.

That’s low.

Like, ‘touch it and you might just get a tickle and a mild sense of regret’ low.

That number should be well over 7 or 8 to be truly terrifying.

But 2.7?

That’s fence-speak for, ‘I’m tired, something’s wrong, and I’ve given up.’

Voltage like that isn’t stopping anything except maybe the most emotionally fragile possum.

So, out I go again.

Different direction this time because sometimes, like with flat pack furniture, a new perspective changes everything.

Sadly, this was not one of those times.

I fiddle with some insulators, wipe down bits of wire with my sleeve, and squint at everything like I’m in an electrical whodunit.

Another lap done.

Another climb back up the hill, because flat ground is for cowards and people who don’t live in the Alpine region.

Flick the switch.

Still red.

I curse.

Loudly.

The cows look up.

One chews in slow motion as if judging my life decisions.

I don’t care anymore.

I’m too deep into this saga now.

Round three.

I walk.

I sigh.

I find… a tent peg!

Not the problem, but a minor win.

I need a few more to hold down some tree guards anyway, so I pocket it like a weird treasure hunter who’s two steps away from madness.

And because I’m clearly stuck in some kind of farm-themed Groundhog Day, I decide to try walking the outside of the paddock fence this time.

I tell myself it’s strategic, but really it’s just desperation.

Maybe the sun will reveal something I missed.

Maybe a fox rewired the fence in the night.

Anything’s possible now.

And what do I find?

A seashell...

Yes.

A large, majestic seashell.

Sitting in the paddock like it had just been placed there by a thoughtful, beach-themed poltergeist.

I have questions, none of which get answered.

The nearest coast is hours away.

But my daughter loves seashells, so into the pocket it goes with the tent peg.

Now I’m just one possum short of becoming a folk tale.

I climb back up the hill, again.

And flip the switch, again...

Still pulsing red.

Still mocking me.

I give up.

There’s only so many hours a person can walk a paddock before they begin hearing the fence talk back.

I head inside, defeated.

As I peel off my jacket, I realise I’ve lost a glove.

Somewhere out there, probably wrapped around a tree branch or silently shorting out the fence, is one half of my favourite pair of gloves.

Honestly, it could’ve been worse.

It could’ve been my keys.

Or my sanity!

So, to recap: I walked the fence four times.

Found some minor issues, a tent peg, a seashell, and lost a glove.

Fixed nothing.

Achieved little.

Accomplished exactly the kind of day that homesteading is famous for.

And the fence?

Still shorting out.

But hey, variety is the spice of life.

On the homestead, some days you birth lambs.

Some days you repair things with zip ties and a prayer.

And some days, you end up yelling at a fence while holding a seashell and wondering where it all went wrong.

The energiser still flashes red.

But at least I have a story.