As kids, the fields around us were ‘polka doted’ with cows, they were everywhere. Whenever you crossed a pasture a quick scan to see if the bull was about became standard ‘survival’ practise. As a dare we would grab hold of the electric fencing, set up to stop the cows braking out onto lusher grass. Bike riding slalom skills were required to avoid the twice daily application of cow poo which was literally splattered up and down just about every lane and byway as countless cows were brought up for morning and evening milking. Farms and lanes had a bitter sweet smell of cow poo and silage, which I found strangely pleasant (perhaps that’s just me). There’s still a junction in our village known as ‘smelly corner’ but I doubt if there has been a cow on that farm for twenty five years or more.
Cindy’s dad, Stan, was a farmer as was Stan’s dad, his dad, and his dad’s dad. Their family farm was in the middle of High Halden, I say ‘was’ because it’s now a selection of ‘desirable residences’ with not a blade out of place let alone a silage clamp. Elm Tree Farm was typical of its type and of its time in its framing diversities, including the requisite herd of black and white Frisian cows. Within living memory Stan and his dad had delivered milk, cream, farm kitchen butter, and eggs from a horse drawn cart. The milk being ladled directly from a churn straight into the customers own jug. (There’s a carbon foot print to ponder, hand milked, no diesel, no bottles, not even any foil bottle tops!)
Given her lineage, Cindy’s hankering to have a house cow was totally predictable, so we out and brought a ………. GOAT !
She may well have a blood line of cow keepers going back generations, but Cindy is scared stiff of the critters. Herself will sit astride a horse which looks to me as if its having a fit….. but she won’t go within thirty passes of a cow. Me, I’m not comfortable with cows or horses, my blood line goes back through generations of jobbing plumbers, so more ballcocks than bullocks in my case.
A scan of the local classifieds located us our first goat. Yet again blissfully ignorant we went to see our proposed addition to the Forsham Cottage mad house! We listened intently to the ‘Goat Bloke’ as he told us what he (and we) thought we needed to know. He showed us how to tether the goat. He showed us how to house the goat. He showed how to milk the goat. He showed us how when trimming the goats hoofs it was essential to hold the beast properly because if you didn’t it would kick out and you would plunge your pen knife into your leg. Goat Bloke demonstrated how to bleed quite badly whilst doing a one legged hopping dance and cursing at a disinterested goat. Mr and Mrs Goat Bloke started shouting at each other about ruined trousers, tetanus and tourniquets. Mr Goat Bloke did not look at all well as they sped off in the direction of A&E.
We posted £60 though Goat Bloke’s letter box and took the goat home. ……. another interesting day.