As a child I was a fan of cows. I liked to spot them from the window on long car journeys. Friesians were my favourites, which hints at a depressing lack of imagination. Once, when staying on a farm in Devon, my mother told me to “whoosh” a fine Jersey milker to get it moving. I misheard and pushed the unsuspecting animal from behind; and was lucky not to get a hoof in the face.
More recently, a herd of Belted Galloways, which graze on fields not far from Berkhamsted, have been a joyful marker – as much to me as my children – that we’re nearly home. But cows can get jumpy. More than once I’ve walked through fields full of what I thought were docile beasts, only to discover they were frisky bullocks who will happily move at pace if goaded.
When I was 14, doing a fortnight’s work experience at a country park, the head warden told me that if ever I was charged by a bull, the best response was to punch it in the face. He claimed to have once knocked out one such marauding creature: but I didn’t fancy finding out whether I could repeat his trick.
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