Tag Archives: highland cows

Friendly as a Cow

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They came charging down from the far side of the field, all looking very excited, heads up, faces tight, eyes wide. I stopped, curious if it was really me they were coming to see. They surged up to the stone wall, the bravest and blackest at the front, their shiny noses out. “I don’t have any food.” I held my hands up for them to see. “See? Nothing.” They gazed back, their excitement intensified.

Maybe I was the first person they had seen in days. Maybe they were just lonely. “Beautiful day, isn’t it? The sun might even come out.” They were affixed on me, amazed at everything I said and did. “You must be very content here, knowing there is no abattoir on the island.” They waited, bunching up closer. “The key is to always stay here. Right?”

I approached, and the nearest wheeled back, causing a mass but brief wave of panic. I had my hands in the air again. “It’s fine. I promise. Just a nose scratch.” I tried again, and they moved back again, the nearest jumping back and forth between his fore and hind legs like a toy. I waited and they waited too, some looking off, perhaps thinking another better of me might arrive soon. I offered my hand and they bounced back again. “Well, then…”

I continued my walk alongside their wall, and they followed until they came to the corner of their field and huddled there in a great mass. I stopped and waved. “I’ll see you soon.” They stared back as I continued along, both of us a little lonelier, and then I met the pigs.

Anything But What I Have To Write

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I will clean and organize. I will rearrange again. I will watch the cows intently and see if they are grazing or lying down. I will think about what it must be like to have only those choices. I will clean and organize again.

I will look at the clouds and seek out brightness on the horizon. I will plan the rest of my day and the days to come. I will think of what it is I must do except for the thing I must do.

I will write other things. I will work on bits of dialogue. I will outline a new idea. I will edit that. I will write this thing. I will do anything if it’s to keep me from the thing I know I have to do.

And then I will strike in a moment! My confidence will be true. But brief. I will look at the cows again. I will organize again. I will realize all of the things I could have done if I had only known better. I will realize I am too tired to get it into now and wait for the coming day.

I will be fresh then. I will be ready to really go at it. Of that I am certain.

No One Ever Drives to a Distillery

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I joined a tour at a Single Malt Distillery in Scotland and made the mistake of admitting that I was driving. The young woman looked at me queerly and repeated the question. “Are you the driver?” I admitted that I was and was informed that I could not partake in the tasting at the end of the tour. Instead, they would give me the to-go kit.

The tour was the same as all tours, something about boiling barley and putting that into kegs for a while, and the tasting began, just me and two couples, none of whom were apparently driving, which was confounding given that the distillery was in the middle of the nowhere.

The young woman, our tasting host, had gone to prepare my to-go kit, and I looked around at the others and realized how silly and naïve I was in that moment. More than that, I realized that I always oscillated from being silly and naïve, like now, to being the very opposite, whatever that was. It was an essential character trait of some kind.

The girl returned with the little bag. “I changed my mind,” I told her. She looked at me quizzically. “You’re not driving now?” “No, I’m not.” She paused, presenting her naïve and beautiful self as she had learned to do. “As long as I don’t know about it.”

I drank all of the tasters and they were delicious. “Goodbye, everyone.” I stood up before the others had finished. “I’ve got to catch the bus.” There was a collective laugh – I was oscillating now – and bought a bottle of special wine cask 15-year-old and took a couple of pictures of highland cows.

It was a lovely evening, some sun flashing out from the clouds at times. The road wound idyllically through the rolling hills, and I came around a corner, maybe a little fast, and saw two round balls in the middle of the road. I pulled to a neat stop and squatted down to examine the hedgehogs, the pair just sitting as they were. I tapped one with my shoe, making it scurry off.

The other wouldn’t move, but balled up where it was, and so I rolled it to the side of the road and continued on to my hotel.