I’ve heard some bull in my time…

Bulls and cows in fields can be unnerving to walk past, particularly if calfs are involved and they all start following you. This situation is encountered rarely on these walks. The Chiddingstone Walk’s latter stages often features a herd, however, made up of a benign group of individuals. Not so the bunch encountered on Tuesday evening in one field on the Romney Street walk. This was in a field between points 5 and 6. You might also blunder into them on the Fackenden Down walk if you choose to take the higher route after Magpie Bottom rather than walk along the valley floor. There is a yellow sign by the stile that says ‘Beware bull in field, keep dogs in the lead’. I’ve been this way many many times before without an issue but this time the herd was in the field and disconcertingly close to the stile. We passed determinedly and swiftly but one bull calf decided to follow us to the stile. Fine, just curious.

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What we hadn’t bargained for was that, behind us, in the woodland above the eastern rim of Magpie Bottom was another herd… a historic variety I guessed, noticing their impressive horns. They blocked the route down. There was nothing for it but to hop over a barbed wire fence and get down the hill through thick protected woods and hope they didn’t follow us on their side and meet us at the bottom. As it turned out they were not there for us but for a face-off with the field herd above. The ensuing bellowing was positvely primeval – I was reminded simultaneously of Jurassic Park and of angered elephants in the savannah. It was a situation to be avoided, although my boys enjoyed it hugely, and I wonder if farmers should do their best to keep mixed herds with bulls and calfs away from footpaths when possible.

This was a beautiful evening’s walk though, with bats and the odd hoot of an owl, followed by a pint at the Olde George where we relived that barbed wire leap and blunder down the hill.

In other news, check out the Travels page for news of this week’s foray to the Brecon Beacons, where southern Britain’s highest peak was conquered heroically by yours truly in conditions that were more January than August.

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