What Katie did next... Notwithstanding my penchant for steak, I find an inner peace surrounded by my bovine pals
I can stare out of my cottage windows until the cows come home, says Katie Glass
Iknew this was my cottage before I even looked round it, because when I drove up for the viewing, I saw it was surrounded by fields full of cows. To one side of the cottage, calves skittered in the grass; to the other, their parents ruminated on the hill. As we viewed the house, I picked out a spot by a window upstairs where I would write, specially chosen so I could watch the cows in the fields. I am writing at that window now. It is a spot only slightly troubled by a moral dilemma that I hadn’t factored in: how to square this dreamy bovine view with my love of steak.
I moved into the house and up to my desk and got used to writing my column while watching calves playing in the field. It was sweet relief after my desks in Dalston and Soho, where I would regularly look up from work to see a screaming fight or a drug deal, and be disturbed by blue-flashing lights or sirens roaring.
Over these weeks I have got to know my cow neighbours better than I ever knew my human neighbours in London. They look far happier, and friendlier, too: chewing the cud, scratching against hedges, watching the road for whatever it is that cows are interested in. Watching them, I have learnt things about cows that I never knew.
I have learnt that cows are the least bovine things in the world. They are neither stupid nor slow. When I go to their gate, they approach me with inquisitive caution, huge eyes blinking with curiosity, sandpaper tongues sticking out to try and lick me, like friendly dogs. They are independent thinkers: some brave and inquiring, some nosy, others more guarded, watching me with contemplative looks. They have a pecking order and can be quite bullish (which makes sense) if they’re squabbling over food or daring each other to do something brave, such as saying hello.
I’ve learnt that they like to hang out in groups, often huddled in an urgent circle, like they’re holding a town council meeting. That when there is a storm, and the calves retreat to the barn, the bulls nestle themselves at intervals
along a hedge, sheltered from the rain.
I’ve learnt that the calves play like pups. I watch them, some fluffy caramel brown, others with sleek black and white coats, jostling one another with their necks, playing the bitey-face game, shoving each other playfully then hoofing it off across the grass, waiting to be chased, jumping and skipping around with surprising sprightliness.
I have discovered that (for reasons unknown to me) cows like to find the highest point in a field and stand on it, as though they’re guarding a watchtower. If there is a random pile of earth in a field, then there is probably a cow standing on it, looking around. (I soon became so accustomed to this, I now think nothing of walking home past a cow balanced on a mound surveying the view – and to hearing visitors shout: “Oh my God, have you seen what that cow is doing?”
I have learnt (from Google) that these piles of earth aren’t random: they are “cattle mounds”, created by farmers so the cows have somewhere dry to stand when the field’s muddy from rain.
One day, I am hanging out in the garden when I notice the cows are no longer playing in their field but exploring the lane. I go out to find two bolshie calves have pushed their way out of the gate and into the road, where their friends are tentatively following them. I am just wondering what to do, and whether to help them escape (shooing them in the direction of Glastonbury, shouting, “Run free, my little friends”), when a farmhand appears and instead I help him round up the calves.
Later, I get a note from the farmer thanking me for “helping get the cows in”, which I’m so proud of, I want to frame it. Although when I pass the cow field and see their gate shut tight and escape route reinforced, I feel a twinge of guilt.
I discover a place in the garden where I can climb on a chair and see into the barn where the baby cows are asleep in the hay. Martin and I begin to make regular visits, sneaking up quietly so as not to frighten them and peeking over the fence. If they spot us, their sweet faces look up, blinking through giant curled lashes, just like my friend Rob’s.
Martin and I begin discussing the possibility of making a “cow platform”, so we can come out and watch the calves every day. “Imagine drinking your tea every morning watching them sleep!” Martin enthuses. “You could even put a bubble bath up there.”
I am more hesitant. I am already learning that, in the countryside, you
We begin discussing the possibility of making a ‘cow platform’, so we can watch the calves
have to get used to meeting your meals on the street. Since taking my course in game butchery, I now can’t drive past a pheasant without thinking “Mmm, lunch”. Admittedly, there is something about cows, their size and friendly temperament, that makes it easier to maintain a degree of cognitive dissonance.
As I live with the cows, I find ways to make peace between my carnivorous instincts and how fond I’m becoming of them. I reason that compared with dairy cows – some of whom seem to get a worse deal – the beef cows near me enjoy relative comfort and freedom. Still, I never quite make peace between the thought of the sweet faces looking over the hedge and the beef stew I cook in my kitchen.
I joke to Martin that perhaps we should wait to build the cow platform, just in case I go out to sit up there one morning and find a load of carcasses hanging in the baby cows’ place. But in the end, nothing so gruesome happens. Instead, I simply go out one morning to visit the sweet calves playing in the field, only to find they have vanished. Perhaps they’ve run off to Glastonbury?