In the absence of any nearby dairy animal, it was time to take a bolt to the village and replenish the milk. The drive wends its way across one cattle grid into a field where it joins the ‘old road’, over another cattle grid and then up the slope to the top field and the gate, with the road grade on one side and a sandy bank full of ancient pine trees on the left. Then it’s only to get out of the car, open the gate get back in and the main road is ready.
On approaching the second cattle grid, it dawned on me that the fetching white and chestnut mottled pattern was not a new form of mushroom, but all 20 steers laying across the road and generally munching in a rather annoying relaxed manner. I looked at them; they looked at me. I revved the engine; they looked at me. I wound down the window and shouted “Oy!” They looked at me reproachfully and lumbered to their feet, sighing. Sighing! I moved the car forward 1metre. They moved off as if they had a bad case of arthritis aggravated by a hangover for about 3 metres and then they all stopped, turned and looked at me reproachfully. Did they move to the side before the slopes start? No, of course not, but continued stopping, sighing and looking for the remaining 50metres to the road, where there was a long, lugubrious moo to send me on my way. It was worse than trying to get to an exhibit at the Science Museum through the children and their mothers/nannies/weekend fathers.
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