I grew up in London. The best place ever. Biggest playground in the world. All things were available at every stage of life. Brilliant. I could smoke like a chimney by the time I was 12, play a decent game of snooker by 14, knew the tube network inside out, all that was missing was shoplifting and pick-pocketing to be the entire Artful Dodger. But I never knew about ‘the ways of the countryside’. That mysterious and mythical region that existed the other side of Epping. Full of mystical beasts (sheep) and enchanted forests (Richmond Park) and things that townies just didn’t really understand. And even though I’ve now traveled quite a bit, I still don’t really get the whole countryside thing. The ‘rules’.

So yesterday, on our way back from Arundel, we thought we’d have a nice walk on the South Downs. They’re big green things they have down there. There are ‘public footpaths’, advertised on little green signs to tell you where to walk. I missed about four because I was in ‘get back to London’ mode which means driving very very fast. At the fifth I stopped, turned the car round and went back. Public Footpath.

There’s a gate. There’s always a gate. Double one. Big locked, tractor-sized one and next to it a little ‘person sized’ one. For persons. Public persons. Let them in, keep cows out. And they never teach you, in London schools, how to open a fucking gate in the countryside. They should do. So ten minutes later, Mel & I proudly (yes!!! I’d done what a thousand country folk do in 5 seconds without even a thought) walked into ‘the countryside’. Hmmmm, lovely, smell that air, feel that grass underfoot, wonderful.

There were a bunch of cows in the field. Sorry, a ‘herd’. About 200 yards away, 30 or so bovines. Who all looked up. Fine. Then started ambling. Towards us. I don’t care, but Mel really is no fan of any animal that’s not on her dinner plate. I laughed, ‘they’re cows for God’s sake!!’ and God in fact made them daft and extremely timid. Sharks, I’d be worried. Lions, for sure. Cows? Just walk on, darling.

The cows broke into a run. All of them, heading for us. Most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen. We arrived at the next gate just before they ‘arrived’ and stood in the refuge of the next field. And the cows piled up to the gate and just stood there staring. I think they were attracted to Mel’s jacket. You can see the attraction. I’ve since learned that cows are pretty much colour blind. Though are aware of ‘yellow’ when presented in such Mel-type quantities. But fuck ’em. We walked on. Round the next field, conscious that unless we wanted to walk back to London, we’d have to return the same way to the car.

Eventually we returned, half hour later. And there; staring where we’d left them, were ‘our cows’. All of them. The whole ‘gaggle’. Just staring. At their messiah in yellow. Mel.

I opened the gate and they did what cows do; cowered and moved away. I would say sheepishly but I’m not sure if you can say that in the countryside. Mixing your meataphors. They scattered. Knowing that I do martial arts. We walked on. And left them… doing pretty much what they had been doing, but somewhere different.

Bizarre. I’ll never understand the ways of the countryside. That’s part of the charm.

Happy cow-free Monday

A xxxx