Bullied by Bullocks

Bullocks with attitude 

(Or maybe bulls? I can't tell.)

Bullocks are what we Brits call castrated male cattle, bred for beef. They may lack gonads, but they seem to have a good deal more testosterone than the females of the species.

I am not afraid of cattle as such, since I was raised in a dairy farming area; so I got used to repelling Frisians, when they were in my way. As a rule, a confident shout and waving the arms is easily adequate to disperse herds of cows. 

But bullocks are a different matter. They resist intimidation until one is almost on top of them, and even then glare at you, and only step back a couple of reluctant paces. After which they work together, and crowd around, with apparent intent to...

Well, I don't really know what bullocks are trying to do. I have never hung around to find out. 

They clearly want to surround - but to what purpose, exactly? 

They, after all, are herbivores; so presumably it isn't to devour; but maybe to stampede into pulp? 

So far, I have managed to get to a gate in time; unlike a friend of mine who was corralled by bullocks into a stream with steep banks in order to escape their attention. But as he stood shivering, up to his thighs in cold water; the evil beasts just continued to loom over him, refusing to go away. He was eventually compelled to wade half a mile downstream in search of a fenced-off field that would be safe. 

*

This is topical, because yesterday we were menaced by black bullocks, twice - when in Northumberland en route to the site of Stagshaw Bank Fair.

This once famous festival was founded in Anglo Saxon times, and for many years it was the largest fair in Britain; with people coming from all around the north of England and south of Scotland to sell livestock, have a wild time, and make an incredible mess. 

So that "like Stagshaw Fair" became a local term for anything in a state of chaos. The event was eventually closed down by the British government in the 1920s, after about a millennium of drunken disorder.

But now, like Shelley's Ozymandias, nothing much remains, except a bleak, tussocky wasteland, boundless and bare, stretching far away; enlivened only by some electrical pylons.

Not really worth the risk of death by hooves. 

   

Note: To the right of the pylon, you can see a whitish line - which is a shallow bog consisting of farmyard slurry (liquid manure mixed with urine), laced with diesel oil contamination. Our path consisted of large stone slabs, carefully laid a few inches under the surface of this poisonous morass (despite being an official public right-of-way). That was when I discovered that my waterproof walking boots had sprung several leaks.