Philip Judge

I rode precarious pillion as the long flapping tails of my clearly impractical coat threatened to whip me under the wheels.

Relieved to get off, I was positioned behind a large beech tree and told the simple plan.

The cows would be rounded up and politely encouraged out of the field.

Their inclination would lead them down the lane instead of up where they were bound.

When the gate was closed behind them, a whistle would be my signal to emerge, stop the herd and send them back up the lane to the barn.

I was pretty clear on most of this if slightly vague about the stopping the herd bit but before I could demur away the quad bike roared and I was alone under a silent pitiless sun.

The beech tree cast a shadow like a gallows.

Life seemed intensely sweet and far too short.

My mind wandered morbidly, my cattle-stomped corpse, weeping mourners following my hearse through the darkened village, inconsolable family, distraught guilty farmer.

Then a crow cawed, the ground rumbled under the urgent heavy hooves and the air was suddenly thick with roared obscenities and the revs of the quad bike.

There was a loud whistle.

then a shrill one, then a bellow of, Stop the effing cows!

My doom was upon me.

I stepped out, looked up the lane, and narrowly avoided fainting.

A single cow trotting is quite a pleasing sight.

It is a gratifying combination of bulk and elegance.

However, a whole herd cantering straight at you is a different matter.

I made a strange, involuntary whinnying sound.

Then I took hold of myself and uttered commanding, clicking noises.

Nothing.