Posted by: miss cellany | June 5, 2006

a touch of fear

Well it doesn’t really matter how much a bullock weighs when you feel the ground shuddering beneath you as they leap over the woefully insignificant ‘fence’ separating the field you are in from the one they used to be in. And you know that there is nowhere to retreat to. You are too far away from the gate at the top of the field and even if you did manage to get through the twanging wire that the beasts are leaping, what would be the damn point anyway, since they are just as likely to come charging back again.
Oh yes, leaping snorting beasts with the whites of their rolling eyes showing, mooing and bellowing and falling over each other just like the wildebeasties on the telly trying to avoid the crocs in the river.
we should have known that something was going to be not quite right when the herd of insane beasts rammed the fence where it happened to be a bit more substantial. It bowed but it didn’t give. Hmm.
Top of field: wire fence with barbed wire on top sturdy posts and scattered hawthorn hedges.
Middle of field: wire fence with barbed wire and spindly posts, hardly any hedge.
Bottom of field: sagging wire fence which reaches dizzy heights of 18 – 20 inches. NO hedge. NO barbed wire. NO holding them back.
What I would like to know is what kind of idiot expects his beasts to stay put in a field with such a flimsy boundary?
Panic? Moi?
Just a little of the blind variety. Fortunately the stupid bullocks went stampeding to the other side of the field and stayed there long enough for us to get over the gate at the bottom of the field.
I think there were between 30 and 40 of them but each time I get a flashback, they divide and multiply, like one tonne germs.
Written like this it doesn’t really convey the perceived seriousness of the moment. My partner played it down, as men are wont to do, and my daughter didn’t fully appreciate the possible danger we were in, being utterly confident that her parents would protect her from the beasts.
I’m not an utter scaredy cat when it comes to farm animals. I’ll walk in a field of dairy cows nae bother, I’ll go through a herd of heifers. I’ll walk in fields where horses graze. BUT rampaging bullocks are a different matter.
I was convinced that I’d miscarry from fright. It appears I am (and it) are made of sterner stuff, and I feel just as nauseous as before if not more.
And if any of you are wondering what we were doing wandering through fields, we were in Scotland, land of the free, where “Private Road” and “Private Property” signs are a sign that some English person has moved in, unaware that their signs are ridiculous and redundant.


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