COUNTRY LOVING
A cavorting cow lives up to her name and ruins Imogen Green’s plans for a romantic rendezvous
Rural life isn’t always idyllic, especially when it comes to dating…
‘Cowgirl seeks partner who knows how to see the funny side’
MY LATE HUSBAND TOLD ME THAT, WHEN HE WAS A CHILD, there used to be a privy in the farmhouse garden, and he dreaded using it in the dark. One night he was sitting there, terrified, when he got the horrible sense that he wasn’t alone. He stretched out a trembling hand – and felt feathers. A friendly hen had decided to roost there. As if she sensed his fear, she suddenly started squawking in an alarmed fashion (sending my husband fleeing back to the house) and in the morning he found an egg perched on a ledge by the loo. I see this as an example of how, if you spend enough time on a farm, the livestock will begin reacting to your moods.
This evening, when I was letting the cows back in after milking, one of our youngest ones – named ‘Rebel’ on account of her playful nature – was studying me with interest. Perhaps she could sense the excitement and fear coursing through my veins. I’ve liked my handsome neighbour Matthew for over a year, and last month he kissed me. But now I was anxious about the next stage – scared that a love affair might feel disrespectful to my husband’s memory.
Cows could probably give some good advice about love. They are experts in hopeless, long-term devotion. On a dairy farm they may be parted from their calves early, but they never stop caring about them. Even two years later, they’ll recognise them joyfully – our herd is full of mothers and daughters who have reconnected, and now graze and milk side by side, as if they have never spent a moment apart.
Tonight was our first proper date, and Matthew was taking me to a Valentine’s Day supper at a smart restaurant. When he came to pick me up, he was quiet and on edge. Then, as I was getting in his car, I heard an ominous bellowing from the stalls. I rushed there to find the wire stamped flat and Rebel missing. I told Matthew he didn’t have to help, but he insisted. So, clad in wellies and old coats, we set off across the churned-up pasture. Rebel was on the horizon, and as we got closer she skipped with delight – charging through a hedge. At that point, Matthew fell and I had to help him up. It was an exceptionally slippery, muddy field. A few paces further on, I also found myself sliding along on my back. By the time we finally dragged Rebel back home (by way of wading though a swollen stream and a dramatic visit to her latest calf ), it was gone ten, and Matthew and I were soaked, prickled, muddy and frozen.
We slumped either side of the kitchen table – any smartness achieved at the beginning of the evening now expunged by a generous covering of mud. This was not how I had hoped the evening would go. Eventually, the heat from the Rayburn thawed me out enough to break the silence by offering him a glass of wine. He smiled, creasing the dried mud on his face in the process, which I took as a yes. “Cows always seem to know when it’s a special time,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe the Christmases they’ve ruined.”
“I would,” he said. “I saw what they did to my garden, remember.” I’d forgotten we’d met when my herd trashed his shrubbery. Then I realised he was shaking with laughter, bits of twig falling from his hair. “I don’t suppose we can still go to that restaurant?” I said, looking down at our bedaubed attire, before dissolving into giggles myself. After that, everything seemed ridiculous – the peculiar Spanish omelette we cobbled together from the contents of my fridge, even our final, mud-caked embrace before Matthew set off home. But, then, that’s what happens when animals interfere.