We at Milton Farm decided to run seven recently dried-off
cows down the young heifer gauntlet today.
We have 27 smallish-to-medium
heifers grazing the bottom of the hill and up above in the Gods are the dry
cows. There is a sneaky side entrance to the upper reaches of the hill that
avoids putting the cows through the heifer field - which would be an act of
unspeakable madness - but this alternative path to the summit does mean running
them down the road and then up onto a field-side track where all that separates
cows and ditsy young heifers are occasional wooden posts and two strands of
barbed wire. For this is Somerset and Somerset is - “be” in the local parlance
- cow country. Thus no wire sheep netting on the fences around these parts with
which to contain curious, excitable calves; just the austere and timeless
severity of wooden posts and strands of wire.
Here is an action shot of the
cows trotting down the road with an excitable audience of youngsters shadowing
our every move.
Behind me I had a fancy 4x4 breathing impatient fire down my
neck while I was using my entire canon of calf mind control powers to implore
them not to come spilling through the hedge and down the bank onto the road.
They didn’t, nor did they pour through the fence along the sneaky side
entrance. Just a lot of mooing and jumping silliness, which is part and parcel
of having anything to do with young animals.
And so, the farming peoples of
Westcombe Dairy and their beasts lived happily ever after, for a few hours more
at least.
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