I stood at the gates, trying to pinpoint where the noise was coming from. I’d driven up to the entrance to unlock the gates and had heard something new and interesting. Ah! There!
Peering over the hedge I could see the Farmer on his quad bike, attempting to round up his herd of cows. He was not doing terribly well. The cows were forming breakaway groups and scattering to all four corners of the meadow, instead of going through the gate into the next field as intended.
“You fucking bastard cows!”
My grin broadened. The Farmer was entirely oblivious to me, his attention focussed on his unruly herd.
“Fucking move. MOVE! You fucking, fucking bastards!”
Reluctantly I returned to my car and continued on my way, much as I would have enjoyed watching and listening to more.
Later that day I encountered the Farmer down at the house. “Hello!” I beamed. “I heard you earlier, moving your cows!”
He laughed. “Ah, yes, then you would have heard me cow whispering.”
“Cow whispering,” I repeated, delighted.
“It’s an art,” he affirmed.
“Well, the school group I was in charge of was really impressed.”
There was a moment, just a moment, when he thought this may have been true. Then he saw my grin and knew I was just teasing. Still, I missed a trick there. It would have been so much fun to fake a child’s drawing of the Farmer on his quad bike, with some lovely accompanying text in clumsy lettering, saying “we did go to the farm and we did see ducks and lambs and trees and flowers and fucking bastard cows”.