- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
So Sunday afternoon, I slipped up to see where the girls were running, and give them a few sweeties to remind them I’m a friend. This would set me up for Monday, when there would be more hands to…er…hand. In fact, as I crested the first brow out over, I was faced with a big mob of them. Calling them over, we chatted for a brief moment – they chat by slobbering their beery breath over me, and jostling with each other for pole position to do this. It sounds all very bucolic and wholesome, and indeed, it is a pleasure I can scarce relay. But the reality is that when 5-6 tonnes of beef are barging around you, all pushing and shoving, you get slammed about a bit. And while I’d like you to think it’s some hybrid magic set between Dr Doolittle and my animal magnetism…the truth is they know what’s in the plastic sack over my shoulder, and my well-being is secondary to getting at the contents.
So off we set. The older cows followed close on my heels while younger heifers held back, wondering why their aunties would be so keen to follow this shabbily dressed ape. Calves skipped about, tails up, bawling, but generally following behind.
In the space of 30 minutes I had more than half the herd inside the fence. Bucked with my success, I thought I’d sneak up the valley, and see who I could find around the intake works. And sure enough, another group were to be seen half a mile further up. It sounds like it’s on a grand scale, but they were about as near as they can really be- they might easily be another mile or two out. As I set off to see how many lay loafing in the afternoon sun, I passed a little group of walkers sat beside the river. I don’t what they thought as I ambled past, with a bag over my shoulder, never mind what they thought when I returned 30 minutes later with a mob of my hairy ladies trailing behind me.
This mob included a fairly new born calf, and when I came to ford the river, things became difficult. Mum was quite happy to cross with her friends but she left her calf on the opposite bank. It followed us downstream on the other side, but wouldn’t cross. Usually, I do this gather with someone walking quietly behind to ensure against such mishaps. But I was on my Todd, so I fed the girls some nuts, and hopped back across the river. Calmly pushing the calf down to the water’s edge, I’d like to be able to tell you it leapt down the sandy bank into the stream, and clambered back up with Mum. Sadly, it bliddy didn’t. It bolted away from the bank, into a wide mire, deep and wobbly. We both floundered about, feet punching through the mossy surface, before it got free, and went to flutter about back upstream like some brightly coloured butterfly. Its stupid mother paid it no attention whatsoever. Bother said I. Slipping the group back down and in the gate, I chucked mum back out so she could go and re-acquire her offspring at her own pace.
A quick tally suggested I needed to find another 7-8, so I set off once more, up over the Southern flank of the valley, knowing a couple of belts were just visible when I came up through. Sure enough, at the head of a precipitous combe I found the remaining group. 2 youngsters had become muddled with a neighbouring herd – one was bulling, and they were checking to see if, perchance, there might be a bull thereabouts. I tried to persuade them to re-join their aunties, but they weren’t having it. Sod em then. The rest were happy to be steered back over the brow, down towards the gate through the seething molinia grass. I oft sing to my bovine charges, and it was with a happy song that we loped down toward the gate through the late afternoon sun.
With only a brief bit of tidying up to do in the morning, I decided there’s worse ways to live.
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Anton's articles are syndicated exclusively by TFF by kind permission of the author and WMN.
Anton also writes regularly for the Dartmoor Magazine and the NFU
He has published two books; the second "The Complete Bullocks" is still in print
http://www.anton-coaker.co.uk/book.htm
