- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
Bored looking out of the same old window, my beloved and I slipped off in the truck for a few nights. Officially, it was a romantic break, although she brought along her mate -her ‘cow bestie’- for company. This might sound a bit weird, but I’m pretty fond of the lady in question as well, so I can’t complain. They are, as a double act, very good company, and the miles slipped past easily as we barrelled northward up the M5 and M6. On the latter, I note the ceaseless roadworks have given way to something called a ‘smart motorway’. This is where they turn a 3 lane carriageway with hard shoulder into a 4 lane death trap. When you’re in fairly heavy traffic, knowing you couldn’t pull across into an empty lane- should the old jalopy develop stomach ache- is not a nice feeling. God alone knows what it’s like when you come to a halt in what was formerly known as the ‘hard shoulder’. It sends a shudder.
Happily, we escaped such dilemmas, and pulled into Tebay for some supper as the light began to fail. Sitting at a table beside the window, we watched a steadily increasing mass of what looked to be Jackdaws wheeling over the bleak dimming Lakeland landscape. I’d noticed similar, if lesser, groups massing at home….but there were hundreds of these. They eventually wheeled out of sight as we downed the last of our tea. Heading out the building toward the car, we discovered where they go to roost. For the Scots pines at the back of the car park were alive with a deafening cacophony as numbers untold bickered and squabbled for the best roosts. It was an arresting spectacle, and I’m glad I witnessed it.
We only had a few miles to go, pulling off the motorway at the top of Shap, and dropping down to a favourite grand old hotel –it’s rather fallen on hard times, and has to tolerate the likes of me nowadays, although it is still a lovely spot. Seeing as the evening was yet young, after dropping bags in respective rooms we mustered back in the bar. The pace was heavily populated with elderly coach party clientele, as a gaudily sequined lass crooned easy listening tunes, using a karaoke type gadget. The oldies were soon slipping off to beddy byes, as my travelling companions and a couple of tables full of chance met reprobates hit their pace. Singalongs and a bit of dancing soon had closing time creep up on us.
Dawn saw us heading onwards, up over the border, and turning left bound for the glorious Solway coast. I had a bit of business to attend, some bulls to look over, old acquaintances to catch up with, drams to share and stuff to do. By turn I’d young’uns to counsel, and oldies to listen to. I climbed my favourite hill, and watched from on high as a sunrise came up over the distant Firth. I wasn’t needing a fresh bull right away, and nothing much caught my eye anyway, so my hands stayed in my pockets at the bull sale events centred upon. However I did find an absolute stunner later, hiding in the bracken on a windswept hillside. He’d been destined for great things, but slipped in the crush backalong, almost ripping a claw off. An intense course of honey dressings, and a long rest turned back on the hill has cured his injuries, and I suspect I might have to return directly and endeavour to enter negotiations with his breeder. It won’t be an easy task, given his presence and arrestingly good pedigree.
And so, after a few short days, we set sail Southbound once more. We’d heard reports of further deluges –although we’d had fairly kind weather up North- and as we rolled along, sure enough there were signs everywhere. Trenches scoured across the stubble showed where foragers had gamely been trying to chop maize, then puddles in fields, then lakes. By the time we sailed passed Brum, minor meandering rivers were spilled half a mile wide out across the flats. Yuk. Returning to our own sodden moorland, we’ve met cold Easterlies, driving rain at the livestock, and flushing leaves off the trees around the yard. Already, several groups of cows are bawling for grub, and we’re steadily weaning calves now, not wanting them to drag flesh off their dams as winter looks like it’s setting in. Hmm. Perhaps this’ll be a blip, and we’ve an easy autumnal month or two yet…..sure doesn’t feel like it up here just now.
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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
Happily, we escaped such dilemmas, and pulled into Tebay for some supper as the light began to fail. Sitting at a table beside the window, we watched a steadily increasing mass of what looked to be Jackdaws wheeling over the bleak dimming Lakeland landscape. I’d noticed similar, if lesser, groups massing at home….but there were hundreds of these. They eventually wheeled out of sight as we downed the last of our tea. Heading out the building toward the car, we discovered where they go to roost. For the Scots pines at the back of the car park were alive with a deafening cacophony as numbers untold bickered and squabbled for the best roosts. It was an arresting spectacle, and I’m glad I witnessed it.
We only had a few miles to go, pulling off the motorway at the top of Shap, and dropping down to a favourite grand old hotel –it’s rather fallen on hard times, and has to tolerate the likes of me nowadays, although it is still a lovely spot. Seeing as the evening was yet young, after dropping bags in respective rooms we mustered back in the bar. The pace was heavily populated with elderly coach party clientele, as a gaudily sequined lass crooned easy listening tunes, using a karaoke type gadget. The oldies were soon slipping off to beddy byes, as my travelling companions and a couple of tables full of chance met reprobates hit their pace. Singalongs and a bit of dancing soon had closing time creep up on us.
Dawn saw us heading onwards, up over the border, and turning left bound for the glorious Solway coast. I had a bit of business to attend, some bulls to look over, old acquaintances to catch up with, drams to share and stuff to do. By turn I’d young’uns to counsel, and oldies to listen to. I climbed my favourite hill, and watched from on high as a sunrise came up over the distant Firth. I wasn’t needing a fresh bull right away, and nothing much caught my eye anyway, so my hands stayed in my pockets at the bull sale events centred upon. However I did find an absolute stunner later, hiding in the bracken on a windswept hillside. He’d been destined for great things, but slipped in the crush backalong, almost ripping a claw off. An intense course of honey dressings, and a long rest turned back on the hill has cured his injuries, and I suspect I might have to return directly and endeavour to enter negotiations with his breeder. It won’t be an easy task, given his presence and arrestingly good pedigree.
And so, after a few short days, we set sail Southbound once more. We’d heard reports of further deluges –although we’d had fairly kind weather up North- and as we rolled along, sure enough there were signs everywhere. Trenches scoured across the stubble showed where foragers had gamely been trying to chop maize, then puddles in fields, then lakes. By the time we sailed passed Brum, minor meandering rivers were spilled half a mile wide out across the flats. Yuk. Returning to our own sodden moorland, we’ve met cold Easterlies, driving rain at the livestock, and flushing leaves off the trees around the yard. Already, several groups of cows are bawling for grub, and we’re steadily weaning calves now, not wanting them to drag flesh off their dams as winter looks like it’s setting in. Hmm. Perhaps this’ll be a blip, and we’ve an easy autumnal month or two yet…..sure doesn’t feel like it up here just now.
-------------------------
Anton's articles are syndicated exclusively by TFF by kind permission of the author and WMN.
Anton also writes regularly for the Dartmoor Magazine
