The Bull by Ron Trill

One warm Sunday in August last year, Jean and I were looking for picnic spot in the Tarrant valley. Some years before we had picnicked at the bottom of the "Cut", which when coming down the valley from Tarrant Monkton rises steeply in front where the metalled road turns right to Tarrant Keyneston; a deep cutting in a chalk hill used by cyclists as a short cut ( no pun intended this time) to Witchampton. However, we found it rather overgrown for a picnic, so pushed our bikes up the steep and apparently rarely used track, disturbing countless butterflies. There were small skippers, meadow browns, painted ladies, red admirals and many more. The top of the hill was not reallly suitable, either, so we went on for maybe 200 yards until we found a broad green patch to our left. In front, beyond a gravel road, was a field behind a low straggly hedge. Trees to our left and in the field a herd of cows browsing quietly. Our track carried on to the right of the field to join the road to Witchampton. All in all a pleasantly rural scene.

Enter one bull. It was a largish yellowish old bull and had been there all the time, actually, cocealed by the herd, but when the rest of the herd moved away to a water trough, the bull stood alone in the centre of the field - and saw us. Slowly and sedately he moved across the field up to the fence along side the track, about 150 yards away, bellowing softly at us. Compared with the bellow of a normal bull, this was a mere whisper. We did not move, as th e bull walked slowly towards us until it came to a stout metal gate a few yards from where we were sitting, still bellowing softly. We sat very still. From the bull's point of view, there was something wrong here. Bovine philosophy told him that we were not taking a blind bit of notice of him. So he moved along the hedge to be more directly in front of us, and suddenly that hedge looked very frail. We sat very very still. After several lifetimes, which in fact amounted to 10-20 seconds, the bull decided that we were not a menace to himself or the herd, and turned away to graze, first scratching his stomach with a hind leg. He did not shrug his shoulders. We resumed our picnic.

It must have noticed my bright yellow cycling top, a patch of colour where everything should have been green. Instinct told it to investigate.

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