As I parked my car this morning, I could make out a black and white figure, lurking beneath the hornbeams below the greenhouse and up to no good.
But what on Earth …. ?
Ah. I see. Great. Super. As they had long-planned to, Margaret’s cows had broken into the gardens.
A frantic phone call to Margaret, “Help!” and a solo, doomed effort to keep the bovine bandits corralled in the top corner of the garden …
… armed with nothing but a stick and choice language.
Didn’t work, of course. They galloped past me, chortling, and out across the east lawn like a sweep of wildebeest with me in hot, futile pursuit, waving my stick. Wish I’d filmed it.
Pink-dressing-gown-clad help arrived from the house, having seen a cow trot past the kitchen window. Together we headed them off from the kidney beds, screamed when they approached the veg beds and hurled abuse as they veered off toward the long borders. We ordered them out through the gate and onto the drive – only to be stared back at: silently, curiously … ignored. By luck alone, we managed eventually to coerce them back up towards the greenhouse.
At which point, Margaret arrived yodeling and chirruping her unique cow call. And, as always, it worked. Like obedient Labrador’s off they trotted back out through the knocked down stretch of post and rail fence and back into her field. Without so much as an apologetic, backward glance.
There wasn’t so very much damage. My cool, early morning demeanour was gone, lots of hoofprints across the lawns and …
… a few parting gifts.
Oh, and they helped themselves to my asparagus as, I suspect, they had long planned.