CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Well, Shep’s got the best of both worlds at the moment,” I laughed. “A happy place to work in, and a happy home to go back to at night. He sounds like a very contented and lucky dog to me. I’d leave things as they are for the time being.”

  “We’ll do that, Nick. Shep’ll let us know when it’s time to retire.”

  I could easily understand that a dog of his calibre would dictate his own terms and make his wishes fully known, and then I wondered if Shep would teach his understudy how to catch buses.

  * * *

  From time to time, the police had rather unpleasant dealings with farm animals, such as when outbreaks of contagious diseases occurred or when some owners displayed cruelty to their beasts.

  But I think the worst was when police marksmen had to shoot bullocks or cows which somehow managed to escape while being delivered to the slaughterhouse. Although these escapes could not be regarded as frequent, they were not unusual because several occurred during the course of a year in most towns where a slaughterhouse was located. The pattern was surprisingly similar in all cases. Just as the animal was being persuaded to leave the cattle truck within the grounds of the slaughterhouse to which it had been taken, it seemed to realise what was about to happen and made a spirited bid for freedom. With a series of hefty kicks of their hind legs, accompanied by head butts and general leaping up and down, they managed to break free from their handlers to make a dash for the nearest open space. Inevitably, this was done with one or more slaughterhouse staff in hot pursuit, an action which often served only to make the escapee run faster and further. As many deliveries to the local slaughterhouses occurred in the morning hours, it was usually the case that a fleeing bullock or cow was on the run just as the nearby towns were coming to life and the morning traffic was building up.

  We had reports of cows galloping along main roads, through shopping centres, into crowded railway stations and bus stations and even into the bewildering maze of deepest suburbia where their hooves wreaked havoc on lawns and gardens. In most cases, the bewildered and terrified animals were rounded up very quickly by the slaughterhouse staff with some help from the public or police. From time to time, however, an animal would evade its hunters with amazing skill and speed and somehow get itself into the town centre where it created spectacular mayhem among the traffic and shoppers. Much of this was due to sheer terror in the unfortunate animal — bullocks are accustomed to fields and the presence of other farm animals, not streets, cars and alarmed people waving arms and shouting at them. On one memorable occasion, a fleeing bullock galloped into the centre of Ashfordly and went straight into a department store whose doors were standing wide open. The resultant devastation of crockery, china, kitchenware and cut glass had to be seen to be believed — to say nothing of the gigantic cow pats which appeared on the lush carpets.

  Once the animal was cornered, it was allowed to calm down and then, in most cases, driven on foot back to the slaughterhouse, or perhaps led with a halter. From time to time, however, a bullock or cow would escape in circumstances which made its live capture impossible. Such beasts seemed to go mad and would attack humans, dogs, other animals and even their own reflections in shop windows or in a car’s polished paintwork — and the only way to stop them was to call out police marksmen. These would stalk the animal and shoot it — a sad end but a necessary one when the public was in danger from a mad, rampaging bull, bullock or cow.

  In witnessing some of these dramatic chases and recoveries, I wondered whether the fleeing animals escaped because they knew they were doomed to be executed within a very short time, perhaps recognising the scent of blood from afar?

  But Seamus Mulligan’s cow differed from those unhappy creatures in several ways. For one thing, she was a truly beautiful animal who was the sole cow kept by Seamus, a man who hailed from Ireland and who had settled on a smallholding in Elsinby many years ago.

  Seamus kept just the one cow — Amelinda — and she lived in a lush paddock beside his cottage. It was well equipped with fresh spring water which flowed into a stone trough, and she had a stone-built barn in which to take shelter from the elements. Seamus kept her for her milk — she produced enough for himself and his family, with a little extra for sale. The pub liked to buy her Jersey milk to add to meals organised for special occasions and the villagers would do likewise for parties and formal dinners. Amelinda was therefore favoured greatly by the people of Elsinby.

  She was a large-eyed Jersey cow in the prettiest of fawn colours, with just a hint of white on her forelock between two small horns. Slender and delicate, she looked like a dainty picture of a picture-book cow; she walked like a lady, behaved like an aristocrat and produced milk that was the creamiest and most delicious anywhere within a radius of ninety miles. Some said the richness of her milk was due to the quality of the pure spring water which she drank in copious quantities from her own trough.

  The second difference was that although Amelinda had a tendency to escape from Seamus’s smallholding to go for long walks by herself, she was not trying to avoid death in the slaughterhouse. It seemed she escaped for no reason other than the fact she liked to go for a walk. Whenever she did escape, however, the alarm was quickly raised either by Seamus or by someone who encountered her on her perambulations.

  Inevitably, Amelinda was speedily recovered and returned to the paddock where she lived. She never objected to being escorted back to Seamus’s smallholding at Beck Garth, with or without a halter. She was such a delightful animal that everyone liked her and virtually anyone who came across her wandering along the lane could approach her, turn her head back towards home, and encourage her to walk by giving her a quick slap on the rump. And she would walk contentedly by the side of the postman, policeman, schoolteacher or anyone else who happened to know her and who was willing to walk her home. She seemed to enjoy being escorted back to her paddock and never tried to avoid those returns. To my knowledge, she never caused any damage, she never invaded anyone’s garden or private premises, never damaged a motor vehicle by kicking it or bumping it, and she never broke into a trot or a gallop. She enjoyed a very sedate and ladylike walk but the odd thing was that she always chose the same route.

  The chief puzzle, however, was how she managed to escape. I don’t think anyone was deliberately letting her out but she seemed to sense when the gate was insecure and capable of being pushed wide open. It was just conceivable that she had learned to open the gate herself. That was one suggestion. The gate’s latch was of the type known as a hunter’s sneck, hanging from the top bar of the five-bar gate, it comprised a length of wood which swung loose on two chains and which was deeply serrated to provide a kind of tooth. When the gate was closed, this sneck fitted into a catch on the gatepost and was held in place by the tooth-like projection.

  It was a very dependable means of securing a gate, but when huntsmen were riding through, they could lean forward from their mounts, press the side of the latch with the end of their whip and it would open with the slightest of pressure. The horse could then breast its way through the gate; once the horse was through, the gate then swung shut with its own weight, and the latch clicked back into the closed position. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that Amelinda had learned to depress the latch with her nose and then push open the gate, although the general feeling was that she knew when the gate was not fully latched. Visitors, children, and even Seamus himself might inadvertently leave it in a vulnerable position.

  Whatever means she used to escape, however, no one knew why Amelinda continued to stage these escapes and there did not seem to be any pattern to her sudden desire to go for a walk. It did not happen at regular intervals such as the full moon or every Wednesday or when the weather was doing particular things — it seemed as if something suddenly prompted Amelinda to break out of her paddock and head along the lane towards Ploatby. That was always the route she took but, of course, she had never been allowed to complete her outward journey.

  One morning I
received a call from the telephone kiosk in Ploatby. It was a passing motorist who rang to tell me he’d seen a cow wandering along the lane from Elsinby towards Ploatby, and thought I should deal with it. I assured him the matter would have my immediate attention. I jumped into my van and headed for Elsinby — I had to pass through Elsinby to reach Ploatby — but my first stop was at Beck Garth where I hoped I would find Seamus.

  The moment my van eased to a halt outside his back door, he emerged with a big grin and said, “She’s gone again, has she, Mr Rhea?”

  “She has, Seamus,” I sighed. “A motorist has just called me.”

  “Same place?”

  “Ploatby Lane,” I said. “Come along, Seamus, hop in and we’ll go and find her.”

  As we drove along the lane, without any great urgency because we both knew how Amelinda would behave, he said, “I’ve been thinking I should change the sneck on her gate, Mr Rhea. I think she’s learned how to open it.”

  “But that would defeat the purpose of the hunter’s sneck, riders won’t be able to open the gate so easily — and there is a bridleway through that paddock, isn’t there? Horses do need to be able to pass and re-pass, so you can’t lock the gate.”

  “Yes, that’s true, Mr Rhea. It might be riders not securing the gate properly, or the gate not closing itself as it should — but I’ve thought of all those possibilities, everything does seem to work properly.”

  “I shouldn’t worry too much. Amelinda never gets very far, someone always recognises her and makes sure she gets home. But where does she go, Seamus? She always uses the same route.”

  “No idea, Mr Rhea. She just sets off and heads along this lane. Sometimes she looks as if she knows where she’s going, but she’s always been turned back before getting too far.”

  In dealing with his matter, I had no intention of threatening Seamus with the offence of allowing livestock to stray onto the highway; it carried a fine of only five shillings (25p) and besides, our usual action was to take any such straying animal to the pound where it remained until collected by the owner — at a small cost. It was a regular thing for animals to stray on country roads — on the open moors, of course, the sheep were always wandering across the roads because they were not fenced in. It seemed silly to penalise one man for something that happened without penalty among others nearby. The truth was that court cases and fines were rarely, if ever, resorted to on these occasions unless there were some fairly strong aggravating circumstances, such as a farmer failing to maintain his fences and hedges after several warnings. And it was as easy to take Amelinda the half-mile or so back home as it was to find the nearest animal pound — easier in fact, because the pound was about four miles away. If she was a danger on the road for her usual half-mile or so (which she was not), then she would be more of a danger on a four-mile trek. In rural areas, one had to apply the law with common sense.

  On this occasion, we found ourselves behind Amelinda within a couple of minutes. She was plodding with some determination along the verge, sometimes halting to plunge her nose into the vegetation and sometimes chewing succulent titbits from the hedgerow. But, very quickly, we were at her side. Seamus got out of my van and I followed.

  “Come along, Amelinda,” he said gently. “Time to go home.”

  Amelinda made a light mooing noise, tossed her head and turned around at the sound of his voice. She was like a well-trained dog, she required no force or bullying in order to persuade her to return. I watched and then, on the spur of the moment, said, “Would it be useful to find out where she was going, Seamus?”

  “Let her go, you mean? And us follow?”

  “I’ve the time if you have,” I said. “And it might solve a problem for you — and for her. And I suppose, for me.”

  “Well, suppose she goes on for mile after mile — we’ll finish up on Scarborough seafront if we’re not careful, and that would cause a rumpus! Holidaymakers don’t like cows wandering among them.”

  “She might be going only as far as Ploatby,” I said. “It’s only a mile from here.”

  “Tell you what,” he said, “if you’re agreeable, we’ll follow her for a little while, maybe as far as Ploatby if she gets that far, just to see where she’s heading.”

  “Right,” I said. “And I’ll leave my van here; it’ll come to no harm. The walk will do me good.”

  And so the pair of us decided to accompany the cow on her walk. Or, to be very precise, we decided to follow Amelinda as she went upon her mission — we did not wish to distract her by walking too close to her head. The patient cow, having been prepared to return to Elsinby, registered some surprise as Seamus persuaded her to turn around once again and to continue her walk in the original direction. But once she realised she was free to pursue that route, she set off at a medium pace and we fell into step behind her.

  She moved steadily along the wide grass verge with her wide and beautiful eyes sometimes turning towards us as if to say she was pleased we were allowing her such freedom. We continued towards Ploatby, a strange sight I am sure, and then quite suddenly she turned right. There was a narrow green lane leading off our route; it ran between two dry stone walls and was little more than the width of a cart. Years ago, it had been a route over the hills, often used by drovers and their herds of cattle, but in recent times, through lack of use, it was no longer considered a road. I knew it led high into the hills, through forests on the slopes behind Ploatby, and then across the heights before descending, four or five miles away, into the Plain of York. In modern times, the green lane was used as a bridleway by horse riders and as a footpath by ramblers and hikers, but it was not a busy route. However, for reasons which we did not yet understand, Amelinda turned up that lane.

  “She’s not going all the way to York, is she?” muttered Seamus in some concern.

  “This used to be a drovers’ road,” I told him. “Over two hundred years ago, that would be. I wonder if she knows that? Maybe she’s got a sixth sense about this route? Perhaps her ancestors came this way — it was the Vikings who brought Jersey cows to this country,” I added.

  “Well, she’s getting excited about something,” he said. “She’s going faster now . . .” I wondered if I should persuade him to turn Amelinda around and head for home for I had no wish to finish my walk in distant York, but Seamus said, “There’s no stopping her now . . . look, she’s got her head down and she’s off!”

  And she was. Amelinda had accelerated her pace and was almost trotting now as we increased our speed behind her. The lane was rising quite steeply at this point and I began to find myself panting and perspiring in my uniform as the cow maintained her steady pace; Seamus, made fit by his outdoor life and manual work, had no trouble keeping up with his cow and then she reached a patch of level ground. There was a gap in the wall — a narrow gap — but it was not due to damage. Amelinda stopped there. She pushed her head through the gap which was not wide enough for her entire body and I realised she was drinking deeply. She had found a well.

  It was a deep pool of cool, clear water which must have risen from a spring in the ground because there was no inlet stream; there was an outlet, however, where the overflow vanished down a hole in the ground. A small retaining wall of stone had been built around the well — it was circular, about five feet in diameter, and this was clearly the reason for the gap in the wall. People and animals used this ancient route and could still halt here for a drink, just as they had done in centuries past because the well was in a very good state of repair and was functioning perfectly.

  Amelinda stood for a long time, drinking deeply from the cool water and then she emerged, looked at both of us with those soft brown eyes, and then walked back in the direction from which she had come.

  “She’s going home!” cried Seamus. “Would you believe that? She’s come all this way for a drink of water, and now she’s going home! How did she know where to come? She’s never been here before!”

  The cow was now moving steadily back down the hill
with the pair of us following hard behind, and when she reached the surfaced lane, she turned left and headed back towards Elsinby.

  “What do you think about that, Mr Rhea?” asked Seamus.

  “One thought crosses my mind,” I said. “I wonder if that well is the source of the water in her paddock back home? It’s high enough in the hills for the water to find its way into your trough.”

  “You mean she might have smelled her way here, followed its underground route, so to speak?”

  “I’ve no idea whether cows are capable of that, but what other explanation is there?” I asked. “She’s never been here before, so you said.”

  “That’s right . . . it’s all very odd, Mr Rhea . . . very odd indeed.”

  When we reached my waiting van, I bade farewell to Seamus and Amelinda and she continued to plod her way home without a backward glance. Later, Seamus told me she had gone to her gate but could not let herself in. He had opened it for her and she had gone into her paddock where she immediately crossed to her trough to take a sniff at the water and then, as if satisfied with her day’s exploration, settled down to graze.

  The funny thing was that Seamus did nothing extra to secure his gate but Amelinda never escaped again. And that charming little well in the hills above Ploatby continues to produce an endless supply of cool, fresh water.

  * * *

  Lots of smallholders and other men in Yorkshire like to breed racing or homing pigeons and others enjoy bee keeping, particularly when the latter results in jars of delicious honey produced from the moorland heather. One would rarely expect antagonism or rivalry between followers of these quite distinct and separate interests, but that is what happened one summer in Aidensfield.

  One Sunday lunchtime, when I was off duty, I decided to visit the local inn for a pint of beer before my meal. This was one lunchtime during the week when the bar was packed with local people all of similar mind and whose wives preferred them out of the house while the meal was being prepared. It was always a jolly occasion with lots of good-natured banter. Lots of local business was initiated and conducted at these gatherings, lots of news was exchanged and, of course, lots of leg-pulling went on too.