This morning's was the scariest yet. Between Kemberton Mill and Grindle Forge there's a field running down to the Wesley and a herd of youngsters has been in there for the last week or so. Kindly the farmer has put a one-wire fence alongside most of the footpath, so you can cut along the bottom of the field, thus avoiding eye contact with the inquisitive little shits.
Today the cattle were on the skyline and saw us straight away. That's okay I thought, they're the other side of the fence and we made our way halfway across the underside of the field. Next thing I know, 30-40 of them are charging at full tilt down the hillside towards me, the fence seemingly a thing of the past.
I was stuck in their headlights long enough to do a little wee before leaning down and unleashing Bobby as we're advised. They were all but upon me when I ducked behind two small trees, just in time for them to bump and barge and slip and slide to either side of me. Without the trees it would have been almost exactly like that scene in Tamara Drewe.
Half of them veered off to chase Bobby, who jumped the stile from whence we'd come, tucked his tail between his legs, sat down on the other side and generally said “you're on your own mate”. The rest of the herd decided on a much deserved drink at the Wesley where they forgot all about me, congratulated each other on a job well done and generally humped each other playfully. I fought my way back through them and got the hell out of Dodge.
Also good with horseradish sauce...