The herd stampeded across the meadow. There were more than we had thought; many more. And all the while, the great, grey matriarch stared fixedly at us. She knew exactly where we were and had no intention of letting two travellers slip away. We had a plan. I just prayed that it was going to work.
*
The young lambs gathered around the fence, watching proceedings with growing interest. On the other side, they observed as one of their fellows darted about in rapidly increasing panic. They didn’t blame him either. They would be panicking too if they hadn’t suckled from their mother for so long, and on top of that, two great lumbering things (that looked a bit like the farmer) were drawing menacingly, deliberately, closer.
*
I stood in front of the sink, tap still running, scrubbing my hands furiously. It had been a lovely day. The sun had shone more than expected, the Weald had delivered a highly memorable walk, and we were now going to round things off with a post-walk pint at The Lazy Fox. Yet, more urgent matters were, quite literally, at hand. I continued to wash them (not a regular habit of mine, as many will attest). I added an extra pump of soap for good measure, its lather joining the battlefront that had become my left hand. I truly hoped that this would be enough to fix the unfortunate result of my arguable stupidity.
*
Following a leisurely lie-in, Beth and I headed out the door a little later than we had expected. The day was warm, if a little overcast, with a good spattering of sunny rays filtering through at a reasonable rate. We picked up our meal deals in the Tunbridge Wells Tesco and then made a second pre-walk stop at the Mark Cross garden centre to pick up a big bag of mealworms (as per last year) to keep our birds happy. We then headed thirty seconds further along and parked up in the little public car park, where we leapt out to don our boots. Enthusiasm was high as we set off a little before half past eleven. The whole of the High Weald was before us, and we crossed over the road to where the first footpath awaited to whisk us away. I looked out across the field, and came to an abrupt halt. “Oh sh*t.” Beth followed my gaze. She froze, eyes wide.
*
“Maybe we should say something to the council,” Beth suggested as our heart rates slowly returned to their normal walking rhythm. I’m not a nark, but yeah, she was probably right. We agreed that the farmer ought to have put some kind of path diversion to take unsuspecting walkers safely around the edge of the danger, rather than dumping a herd of such fractious cattle into a footpath-bearing field and simply peacing out. Anyway, we were on a road stretch now, where we knew we would be safe from cows for a while at least. Instead, we passed a decidedly safe paddock of bleating ewes and laughing lambs, who watched our passage. The sun was shining as we left the road and made our way through a series of pretty meadows bearing the stalky-yellow appearance of late spring, and a glowing woodland where soft mosses grew upon fallen trees. It was gone one o’clock by now, and last year’s lunch spot was drawing nearer. Previously, we had been joined, rather unexpectedly but certainly most welcomely, by a pair of lambs who had tottered curiously towards us. We hoped that we might be joined by some again, and as we approached, the corresponding sounds were certainly somewhere upon the wind. However, having already encountered cows where there should be sheep this day, our ears also twitched at the dreaded, ominous, mooing.
*
I made my way toward the farmyard, left hand deliberately held away from my body. Beth had decided not to touch her phone until she had a chance to disinfect it, and so stashed the infected item safely in her pocket. Removing my hand from its wrist to stash in the bag until later was not so simple however, so I instead focused on just not touching anything at all. As we entered the yard, I spotted what looked like a metal sanitiser pump on the stone wall. I went over to have a look. Holding my bad hand beneath, I used my other to give a few optimistic pumps. Eventually, a trickle fell onto my palm. These drips may not have even been disinfectant, yet desperate times called for such desperate measures, and I was grateful.
*
“There’s no cows on this walk, are there?” Beth had asked the night before.
“No,” I replied, thinking back, “I don’t remember any, only loads of sheep.”
What I had earnestly thought to be a truthful answer had turned out to be nothing more than a comforting lie, which was immediately found out. Eight miles of walking were before us, and we stood stationary, staring toward a herd of beefy cattle. More than that, young calves were clearly present in their midst, and we have learnt all too well what the presence of young can do to mother cows. I left Beth at the gate and entered the field. I made my way along the footpath parallel to the hedge, testing the waters. One looked up, but the rest seemed decidedly unbothered, carrying on with their day. I let out a breath, and beckoned Beth through the gate. She joined me moments later, as we passed the herd. I admired them as we went, however Beth remained nervous, very much focusing on getting past until she was at what she considered a cow-safe distance. Early cow drama complete, we continued with our day. This early portion included meeting a tiny caterpillar who attached themselves to my arm, as well as a large lamb who didn’t entirely trust us. He headed over to the water trough, only to be disturbed by two grinning idiots on the other side of the hedge. He stopped, stared, stomped and turned back, drink disturbed. As soon as we had vanished, he headed back to the trough and enjoyed a long, refreshing slurp. The following stretch of woods contained the remnants of the year’s bluebell stands, now green and stalky, and Beth was sure to say thank-you to the few that remained. As we reached the end of the woods, we could hear ahead the bleating of lambs.
*
We entered the lunch field with appropriate caution. At first glance, it seemed vacant. However, as too had it last year, and that had proved incorrect on that occasion. With this in mind, I wandered off over the brow of the hill in search of beasties. What I hoped to find was lambs. What I did not hope to find was cattle. In the end, the field proved to be truly empty this time around, which was an acceptable compromise. We set ourselves down on two conveniently placed chopped logs in front of a water-trough, and leaned back against its warm metal side. We tucked into our sandwiches, which were the same today, deli-pickle (or something like that). Rising to our boots, we continued, soon finding ourselves walking alongside the source of the bleating. This field of black-faced sheep was followed by another of white-faced ones. The second contained one particularly exuberant lamb, who was leaping about and racing through the grass, clearly just loving life. The stony path began to bear to the left, where it turned to a tarmac driveway. To our right, was a footpath. This is the one we had failed to take last year, which led to possibly our biggest detour to date and finding the scariest place in East Sussex. We made sure not to make this mistake twice. We turned down the footpath and ventured into as yet undiscovered territories, unlocking a new part of the map. The unknown was before us.
*
A sheepdog lazed sleepily in the sunny yard. It must have had such a lovely Sunday afternoon, relaxing in the sunshine, clearly without a single care in the whole, wide, Weald. He watched as we walked by, and heard me mutter something about “sleeping on the job”, “gotten into this mess” and a sarcastic “you’re welcome”, as I took in its bold and blatant doze. We passed the metal hurdles of a sheep run out the other end of the yard, as I remained intentionally conscious of my hand. A five-bar gate was ahead of us, at the top of a rolling green field. Immediately on the other side, stood some old bovine friends of ours.
*
We emerged from beneath the trees into a long, stretching section of farmland. On our previous visit last May, this section had contained an exuberant abundance of our favourite spring-beasts, and we were very excited to meet some more. Straight away, we spotted a ewe with a tiny head poking out behind. We stopped beside them for a swig of liquid, as they too decided to join us in a drink. Yet despite this early success, this was the last lamb we saw for a while. We walked along footpaths which had previously been lined with sheep, yet today, there was not a bleat to be heard. Farmers are known to rotate their fields (a very smart and necessary practice), and we remained optimistic that the undulating countryside would soon enough give up its secrets. We made our way up and through a farmyard and headed down the other side, toward another long, rising field, which we hoped would be alive with new life. We approached the gate at the field’s edge. The paddock was steep, sweeping up toward the clouds above. Over the horizon, appeared a shape. And then another. And then another. Silhouetted against the sky, half a dozen looming cows stared down intently at the two humans who dared to disturb them.
*
Beth and I walked peacefully beneath a green canopy aglow, hand in hand down a gently sloping stone path. A delightful little stream tinkled musically beside us, foliage waving and rustling in the gentle woodland breeze. This was much nicer than the murder tunnel. At the bottom of the path, we spotted an impressive crown of roots protruding high from a peaceful bank above a larger, gurgling stream, which ours joined. Beth made the most of her EXTREME boots here, by going for a paddle and a splash in the shallow water. If I were to say that this little spot felt like a Venn diagram of both the Shire and Rivendell, I would not be a miss, and today we discovered one of the High Weald’s secret spots. Yes, much better than the murder tunnel. The path then began to take us back upward, and we eventually came out at a busy road, which needed crossing. Once safely on the other side, we picked up the next footpath past a few large cottages and a series of equine fields, before arriving at the next road stretch. Fortunately, this one was much quieter, and soon enough turned to a bridlepath, which then became what may very well have been an ancient roadway, judging by its high banked sides and stony base. This then returned us to the main road to re-cross, on the other side of which was the day’s first farm. This marked the beginning of the end of the day, and we once again found crops where once there were lambs. Having praised so heavily this route’s lamb-factor earlier in the day, I now theorised that perhaps this had been a one-year-wonder, and that it was looking like Tenterden would be taking the crown this year. The loamy earth of Mark Cross heard my challenge, and, through its ancient soil, responded in kind.
*
Two cows turned to stare at the approaching pair of people, one of which seemed to be holding its left forelimb in a strange manner. They suppose it must have a sore hoof, and returned to munching the hay their farmer had kindly provided for them. Fortunately for the humans, their route initially led them through the woods beside the field rather than right through the cattle’s midst, as they returned to the path that had led them out into the countryside at the start of the day. Doubly fortunately, particularly for Beth, having met these cows earlier, we knew that they were completely docile and unbothered. Certainly, compared to their relations lurking across the fields, they seemed positively tame, and we entered their field at the opposite corner, confident that they would stay put – and indeed, they did. At some point in our tree stint, I had felt a vine of brambles attack my leg, but so intent was I on reaching some kind of soap-based facility, that I did not stop to look.
*
We continued to lean on the gate and look up at the cows. The cattle continued to stare back. Already I was assessing options. One certainly was not to proceed along the footpath running right through the middle of the herd. Our years of walking have taught us much about cow body language, and it was immediately clear that we were not welcome. Another option was to bushwhack through the trees and foliage on our left. We could follow the little stream, which would hopefully bring us out onto a road, just a little off course. This was no short distance however, and there was no guarantee of reaching our goal. I did not fancy it much. Instead, a second option began to form as I spied a small gate just a short distance away across the field itself. The pasture beyond had appeared clear from an earlier vantage point, and ran parallel up alongside the problem-paddock. My thinking was that we could nip to the gate, make our way up protected by the hedge and then hopefully find a way to rejoin the route at the top. Whilst this was a plan which by its nature needed to develop as it went (after all, we had no idea how we would get out of the unknown field at the other end), it still seemed like the smartest option. So, we opened the gate, and stepped boot into the cow’s field. On the brow, they still stared. One particularly vast, grey individual stood at the centre. As we made our way directly toward the small gate to safety, she broke into a sudden, targeted trot.
*
We left the crop field behind following a dusty track. A sheep field sat hidden behind a hedge to our right. Just as we reached a patch of track carpeted in discarded wool, we also heard a chorus of lambs bleating just on the other side of the thick foliage. There was a break in the conversation, and we took this opportunity to put forth our own opinions. We bleated at the out-of-sight lambs, who quickly responded with a rebuttal. This lovely chat went on, and was very insightful. We rounded the edge of the hedge and finally caught sight of some of our new little friends. Yet of sudden and decidedly more immediate urgency was the larger lamb directly ahead of us. On the wrong side of the fence.
*
With my non-diseased hand, I waved goodbye to the rolling fields, passing the same waymarker which had directed our start. Ordinarily, we would head to the car to change out of our boots at this point, before heading to the pub. However, recent events had reshuffled priorities somewhat, and so we headed straight into the awaiting Lazy Fox. Rather than getting a drink, our first stop was the bathroom. We agreed to meet back at the bar, and I entered the men’s toilet. With a heavenly glow and a holy choir, there before me was a wash basin accompanied by an abundance of soap. I stood in front of the sink, tap running, scrubbing my hands furiously. I added an extra pump of soap for good measure, its lather joining the battlefront that had become my left hand. I truly hoped that this would be enough to fix the unfortunate result of my arguable stupidity. Annoyingly, someone else then came in. I needed a wee, but it would look too weird to wash my hands and then go, so I instead went to wait for Beth at the aforementioned meeting point.
*
The great grey cow stopped, companions halting behind her. We carefully continued toward the small gate, having momentarily frozen to the spot as they teetered on a charge. We made it, exiting the field gladly and latching the gate closed behind us. We began to make our way up along the hedge. On the other side, the herd stampeded across the meadow. There were more than we had thought; many more. And all the while, the great, grey matriarch stared fixedly at us. She knew exactly where we were and had no intention of letting two travellers slip away. We had a plan. I just prayed that it was going to work. Looking ahead, I could not see the hedge, nor, more importantly, its quality. Over the hundreds of miles shared, we can attest that not all hedges are the same, and plenty have large, deliberate and easily cow-sized gaps in them. Leaving Beth in relative safety, I headed up to check things out. As more of the boundary came into view, I relaxed a little, deeming it secure. Wherever the hedge thinned, I peered through, and the grey was always staring back, as they kept level. She was still staring as Beth rejoined me, and we headed to the field’s peak. I was grateful to see a solid, fresh-looking barbed wire fence stretching across the top and out of sight. Another barrier between us and them, although it did raise the question of how and where we were going to get ourselves out again. Once we reached the fence, we spotted one of the dreaded, large gaps in the hedge on the other side. Our gratitude for the fence increased, yet this was also the direction we needed to be aiming for. Needing more information, I climbed over, approached the gap, and slowly peered around the corner. Looking back, was Big Grey.
*
Sheep and man looked at each other. For a moment, I thought the lamb might simply walk over. Yet things were never going to be so simple. The lamb began to back away, and as I stood up, it began to look for an escape. Beth, following years of putting goats to bed, instinctively took up position in the large gateway, blocking off the open field at our rear. This left me the job of catching the thing. At first it tried to just run through the wire, pushing his head through a gap which his body was never going to follow. He then began to run about and leap at different parts of the fence, at increasingly impressive heights, yet never quite enough. On the other side of the fence, the young lamb’s friends gathered around, watching proceedings with growing interest. They observed as their fellow darted about in rapidly increasing panic. They didn’t blame him either. They would be panicking too if they hadn’t suckled from their mothers for so long, and on top of that, I was closing in. For a second time, he tried to force himself through the wire. Fearing he would soon injure himself, I took this opportunity and leapt on him. He could not pull his head out in time to evade capture, and after a small amount of struggle, he was safely in my arms. Lamb secured.
*
We left the bar, pint of Monte Carlo and a pink gin and lemonade in hand and headed out into the garden. We chose a table on the patio and sat side-by-side, looking out across the High Weald. A couple of fields away, we could see a herd of cows which we knew to be friendly. Satisfied that I had now done all that I could for my hand, and that whatever would be would now be, I sipped at my pint and inspected the damage to my leg. Much to my surprise, I found a series of thick, scabbed, red cuts just above my ankle, where the thorns had attacked. We enjoyed our drinks as the sun warmed our backs, and reflected on what had been quite the eventful day.
*
There were so many of them – so, so, many. Grey was right at the centre, intention in her eyes. Fortunately, they were behind an equally new and secure fence to the one I had just hopped! I went back to tell Beth what I thought was excellent news. Unfortunately, Beth had been operating at high anxiety during the whole affair, and now faced the task of getting herself over a tricky fence. I had just about managed, but it was too tall for Beth to simply hop. She grew increasingly flustered as we tried different methods. Method one involved me kneeling down on hands and knees as a stall for her to step on. This was unsuccessful. Method two involved me providing a sort of leg-up with my hands. This did not work either. Just as Beth was about ready to declare that she would be remaining in the field forever, did it occur to me that we could simply move the barbed wire and fence wire apart just enough for her to slip through the middle – disaster averted, and Beth put her boots back on, which she had kindly taken off when she climbed on my back. We rounded the corner to come face-to-face with our defeated enemy. Intimidating enough had been the half-dozen on the brow of the hill, yet this had given no indication of their true number. They lined up against the fence, continuing to move alongside us. Normally, I would take this opportunity of a fence and big metal gate to go up and say a closer hello, but not today. That was a lot of agitated steak on the other side, and I did not want to piss fate off further. We instead paused to look from a respectful distance, before turning back to the route, at which point Beth suggested that maybe we should contact the council.
*
Obviously, I was chuffed. I was over the moon. I was living the dream. I was cuddling a lamb. This was the best. Once I had picked him up, he soon resigned to his fate and settled down. I could feel his heart through his chest, which beat quickly at first but began to slow. Beth came to say hello, and he gave her face an interested sniff, before we turned back to his field. Lambs were still gathered on the other side, wondering what would happen next. I walked over and, as carefully as I could, lowered the lamb back down. As soon as he returned to the ground, he ran away to find some well-deserved milk. Meanwhile, my attention was drawn to the growing crowd of lambs at the fence, who did not seem at all scared of our presence. In fact, they were positively ponderous. As more and more ran over, I did my best to pet every one. I put my hand out for them to sniff, and instead they instinctively began to suckle. I was having the time of my life. Then, I pointed out to Beth that one had some nasty scabs around its mouth. I realised then what I had just said, just as Beth asked, “Is that not that horrible thing?”
“Yes, very possibly”.
I drew my hand back through the fence, hastily.
*
I probably didn’t, but if I did, the above is the account of how I contracted Orf.
Matthew G. Huggins 