I had an adventure this morning.
The dogs and I were halfway over the fells, in the dip beside the tarn which lies between the two, when we encountered the herd of cows, the Galloways that are occasionally sequestered there.
They were scattered along the edge of the tarn and grazing peaceably, so I called the dogs to heel and we set off to weave our cautious path between them.
We were halfway through the herd when the sky erupted.
Two deafeningly noisy RAF aircraft, don’t ask me what sort but they were going faster than the speed of sound, howled overhead.
The cows have not been following the news about the war in Ukraine and the Russian nuclear threat, and had no idea that they were on our side, and not about to hurl bombs down on our heads. They leaped up in alarm.
They did not look at the sky. They looked around themselves for the possible source of the noisy threat.
The only alien in their midst was wearing a green macintosh and was being closely followed by two small dogs.
They were most indignant.
They mooed threateningly and started to paw the ground. Then several of them started to bound towards me, heads lowered, snorting, and ready for a fight.
I have already had one fight this week and did not fancy my chances in another one, certainly not if my opponent happened to be about eight tons of displeased beefcake.
I flapped my arms menacingly and shouted at them, in my best farming tones, to Git Dahn.
Rather to my astonishment, it began to work.
I started towards them, still flapping my arms and bellowing, and to my massive relief, the whole lot turned tail and scarpered.
The dogs were trembling at my feet, trying unsuccessfully to hide behind my boots. I told them not to be so weedy, and we splashed off through the mud.
Still it was an exciting moment, and I don’t mind admitting that I was a touch shaken.
I have crossed Bull Fighter off my list of things I want to do when I grow up.
Once I had returned home and recovered I busied myself with all of the usual nuisance Monday chores. Jack was busy packing up to return to Lucy for a couple of days, and thoughtfully stripped his own bed, which helped, and indeed, the day was so blustery and windswept that everything flapped beautifully. In fact in the end I managed to dry both his sheets and mine on the washing line, which I felt was something of an achievement.
Sometimes these diaries are just packed with excitement.
I brought the last of it in about an hour before I went to work, and to my shocked surprise, a couple of minutes later the heavens opened. I was bringing in firewood at the time, and stood gawping at the skies as if I had been the sort of Cumbrian whose genes have been accorded to them by ten generations of intermarriage between cousins. After that I chalked up some gratitude to the Weather Gods, who must have been feeling very generously benevolent, and resolved to light a candle to them when I got home from work.
My afternoon was pleasantly interrupted by some pictures of a pleasing looking dinner sent by Oliver, who has been learning how to cook. Today he has made scones, and a pasta bake, and lentil soup, and it looked splendid, I am beginning to look forward to his homecoming. He said that he did not like the lentil soup, which did not surprise me as none of my children have been greatly fond of lentils.
In conclusion, I was skimming back through some old emails this evening, looking for some information about long-passed family, and I came across this little gem that I had completely forgotten, and which I thought I might share with you.
It was a record of a conversation with Lucy, aged six:
