Western Morning News (Saturday)
On Saturday Worrying about the little things in life
IT’S strange how the little things – which are huge in life when you are small – begin to grow again once you get old.
The inevitable consequence of shrinking horizons? If you don’t get out and about as much, the trivial stuff happening in your immediate surroundings is bound to grow in importance. We’ve all had a dose of it thanks to the Covid pandemic – the long shadow of which is still affecting the way we live even now.
Here’s an example of something that’s big in my life, but which will mean nothing to most people living in modern Britain... A local farmer has brought cows and calves to graze on a steep pasture which we call the Egg Rolling Field, and for a few weeks their presence is going to make a big difference to me, my wife and our dog Finn. Certainly to my wife. She can hardly walk and is in great pain enduring the long wait for a hip operation – an unpleasant interlude which all too many readers of this newspaper will recognise. Even with her tough levels of determination, Sue will not be taking Finn to the Egg Rolling Field now that the cattle have taken up residence.
Because, as everyone knows, cows with calves do not get on with dogs and you need to be able to move very fast indeed if they decide to investigate you and your hound.
As a life-long countryman, I am not scared of cattle – at least I’m not if I have no dog with me. But I have seen what bovines can do when a dog gets their goat, so to speak. They can be dangerous. Especially in steep fields.
Years ago in this column I wrote about how our old lurcher, Monty, hid behind me when a bunch of cattle came running down the hill to chase him out of their field. He, of course, could have outrun the cows with ease but he chose to rely on my protection. It was a close run thing. Literally. If I hadn’t cleared a five-bar gate after a lung-bursting sprint I’d have been in trouble, because those angry cattle were unable to stop their downhill charge in the slippery mud. They crashed into the gate and damaged it. Me and Mont would have been crushed had we not been on the safe side out in the lane.
Which is exactly what the cows did to an erstwhile neighbour who was hospitalised after experiencing the same angry moo-cow mob in the same field. He broke a shoulder in the crush when they skidded into him and his Labrador.
I make no complaints about any of this, by the way – even though there’s a busy public right-of-way passing right through the middle of this field. I realise it’s just a country thing and so, along with my wife, I will simply avoid the Egg Rolling Field until the beefy bovines have gone. Be aware and avoid the situation, is what I say.
Anyway, you see what I mean about a little thing looming large. If my London media friends were to read this they’d sigh... “Poor old Hespie. He’s losing it. What’s he doing writing an entire newspaper column in a large regional daily about a bunch of cows? What about the resignation of a Deputy Prime Minister or the crazy cost of living? That’s what newspaper columns are for. Not moaning about head-banging bovines!”
If any of those learned journo friends of mine come down for a visit over the next couple of weeks I’ll take them up to the Egg Rolling Field to demonstrate just what a big deal 50 excitable creatures weighing halfa-ton each can be.
“See-ya! Wouldn’t want to be ya!” is what I’ll shriek over my shoulder as I sprint towards a handy escape hole I know of, hidden in the hedge.
However, I’m guessing some London
types might be capable of taking such stampedes in their stride.
Take the ex-Deputy Prime Minister for example. Dominic Raab has a black belt in karate – and he’s used to media stampedes – so he’s not going to be the type to be bullied by a herd of Westcountry cows. Or bullied by anything or anyone else for that matter.
No... Mr Raab is the sort of chap who can fall on his sword but carry on fighting with a dagger in each fist as he goes down into the murky lake of post-political obscurity.
I’ve got my own more immediate problems. Like trying to figure out why my garden has become a vast sprawling underground refugee camp for runaway moles – you cannot take a step without sinking an inch or two into one of their tunnels. Or why our greenhouse has suddenly decided to major on the production of millions of small aggressive brown ants. Or why a cold easterly wind is bringing rain.
How can that be? It is the west wind which brings precipitation to our peninsula – I cannot remember the last time a chill breeze from Europe carried big black clouds full of the wet stuff. The rule has always been that we send it to them.
But what do I know? The world is changing fast. I am better employed worrying about the little things in life.
‘I’ve got my own problems... like why has my garden become a refugee camp for moles?’