I’ve mentioned the farm pen at the end of Mill Lane which contains a dozen or so young cows. Whenever I walk that way, I always go over to them and scratch the ears and noses of those that will let me.
I was feeling a bit down when I went past there yesterday, and so, for once, I carried on walking. I’d got about twenty yards beyond the pen when I heard a number of cow’s voices raised in unison with a single moo. I turned around to see them all standing in a line, watching me over the framework. It seemed they were protesting at being ignored, so I went back and did my duty. And I felt better for it.