Want to avoid unnecessary beef? Steer clear of angry cows

As a child I was a fan of cows. I liked to spot them from the window on long car journeys. Friesians were my favourites, which hints at a depressing lack of imagination. Once, when staying on a farm in Devon, my mother told me to “whoosh” a fine Jersey milker to get it moving. I misheard and pushed the unsuspecting animal from behind; and was lucky not to get a hoof in the face.

More recently, a herd of Belted Galloways, which graze on fields not far from Berkhamsted, have been a joyful marker – as much to me as my children – that we’re nearly home. But cows can get jumpy. More than once I’ve walked through fields full of what I thought were docile beasts, only to discover they were frisky bullocks who will happily move at pace if goaded.

When I was 14, doing a fortnight’s work experience at a country park, the head warden told me that if ever I was charged by a bull, the best response was to punch it in the face. He claimed to have once knocked out one such marauding creature: but I didn’t fancy finding out whether I could repeat his trick.

A few weeks ago, with family in tow, I ventured out for a late-afternoon wander through the woods to our favourite pub. It was getting gloomy by the time we got there and the children didn’t want to walk back to the car, which was barely a mile away as the crow flies. I set out alone to get it; just as my dad had often done when I was a child and had had enough.

There was, I knew, a more interesting pathway exactly parallel to the one which would take me straight there, and since it would only add seven or eight minutes to the journey time, I decided to go for it.

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Downhill at first, westwards, I then turned to the north along one of the many straight-as-a-die valleys that cut through the Chilterns. It was only a tiddler really, but with the sun setting there was a perfect symmetry to it: fields sloping upwards on both sides to hulking lines of trees; a fence bisecting the path ahead and taking the same upward line to both east and west; and a telegraph wire, silhouetted against the darkening sky, doing the same a little further on. There was nothing at all extraordinary about it, but I tramped through this gentle, pastoral scene feeling glad to be just exactly where I was.

By the time I turned east again, I was probably no more than five minutes from the car, but as I ascended the valley side a small gang of cows hove into view towards the top of the rise. They appeared to have congregated around the path, just where it went through a narrow gate. I paused, noting that even in the half light of dusk my coat was very red. Was the red rag to a bull thing an urban myth? I couldn’t remember. But I did recall a recent news story about a woman who had been trampled to death by an angry dairy herd.

As I stood and dithered over what to do, one of the cows raised its head. It looked at me, crossly I thought, and took a few steps down the hill in my direction. Could I knock a rampaging bullock unconscious with one meaty punch? Could I b*llocks. I turned on my heel and hurried away, a relieved coward, anxious as ever to avoid unnecessary beef. I’m still a fan of cows though; and that’s no bull.