We awake to the sound of loud mooing.
The field on the other side of our valley is part of a dairy farm, home to those we have dubbed ‘The Ladies’.
That’s probably not what they’re called over there. These Ladies have attitude. And a particularly stubborn streak. Going in for milking doesn’t always hit the top spot on their wish list provoking, more often than not, a rich stream of expletives to add to my West Country vocabulary.
Mike was at the top of the drive, trying to fix the intercom. It’s an essential bit of kit. Without it there is no way of knowing who is at the gate. When we’d gone up earlier to get the grocery delivery a cacophany of crackling issued from the speaker. No doubt the rain has got to it too. Neighbour Trevor came rattling past on his quad bike, a font of knowledge on all things local. Following pleasantries, conversation turned to the raised decibels opposite.
“Aaaah, he’ll have put the bull in the field. Just going down to check me fences. Them cows will make a hell of a mess if they get over ‘ere.”
No wonder The Ladies are mooey. And now yet another job to add to The List, or face the consequences if things get frisky.
It might pay to steer clear of the public footpath as well, for a day or two at least.